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.

Wednesday.

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.

 It’s midnight when I begin to clean the kitchen.