Butter, sugar, eggs and extracts.
After being led to a semi-circle of rearranged dining room chairs, where a dozen or more other people look up with a mixture of real and pasted-on smiles, I’m worried.
At first, when the room begins to spin, I tell myself there’s nothing wrong. I stood up too fast.
It wasn’t an easy decision when Sam and Ellie decided, along with Sam’s mother, that the best thing for all of them would be to buy a house with a granny flat.
One of the things I like best about my house is the way it looks at night.
The plan, back then, was simple enough.
I do, after all, have generations of farming in my blood. So, equipped with a plastic sand bucket stuffed with a bundle of dollar store garden tools (our entire budget of $12), plus a weary hand-me-down spade, Chefhusband and I stood upon the earth in the backyard of our first ever rental house. And there, we began to plan our first ever corn patch.
As I spelunk in and out of shop doors on Bloor Street in Toronto, I look like a tourist.
It was easier when I didn’t know the difference between good coffee and bad.