Ask, and truth-telling women will admit that there’s just something about a man in uniform.
Chefhusband and I step in off the street and to a French bistro that’s warm with the aromas of cooking.
Lately, I learned something I thought I knew.
“Go ahead and take them home. If you don’t, they’ll just go to waste.”
How easily half a Monday is spent trudging in and out of shops in the mall. Easy, too, for money to disappear, replaced by hand-dipped chocolates and syrup bottles from Summerland Sweets, stuffed into store bags that dangle from my fingers like miniature hangman’s nooses.
When I arrive for my reservation, I’m led to what is arguably the best seat in the house.
Having broken the eggs, you must make the omelette.
If nagging is responsible for so many failed relationships, I wonder what the designers of my hood vent/microwave had in mind when they hardwired a nag feature into the appliance?
Twenty storeys above sea level, a Pacific sun sinks though clouds that caramelize into ribbons the colours of tropical fruit salad.
It seems everywhere I go these days, I can’t throw a ham hock without hitting one kindred or another.