It’s midnight when I begin to clean the kitchen.
The scene is a charming townhouse bordering a family park. It’s Sunday morning, just before noon, and friends and family are gathered around the table, tuned into CBC Radio. It’s almost time for Stuart McLean and the Vinyl Cafe.
Fact No. 1: Stage 2 combustion of wood occurs at 540 degrees Fahrenheit.
Besides steel-cut oats to make second and third batches of Overnight Apple Cinnamon Oatmeal, the only other item on my grocery list today is freshly-ground honey-roasted peanut butter.
In my recurring nightmare, I’m standing over a garbage can in a restaurant service area, scraping English muffin rinds and congealed Hollandaise sauce onto a heap of pancake and waffle scraps.
Believe me when I tell you, I cannot draw.
It always happens this time of year.
At first, when the room begins to spin, I tell myself there’s nothing wrong.
It was true. In the seven years since they’d been married, Valentine’s Day had become synonymous with romantic folly, yielding the kinds of stories that, at dinner parties, kept friends laughing, helplessly, until someone finally snorted a green pea out their nose.