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.

Back in the day (circa: 1980-1999), if someone’s mothers’ spice cupboard contained more than a few jars, they were considered exotic.

Butter, sugar, eggs and extracts.

Beer, wine, bread, cheese. Beer, wine, bread, cheese.

On Elsie’s first morning on Mayne Island, having woken late, she found Husband had already been up since, oh, 6 a.m. or so.

If the rules of Finders-Keepers apply to crab apple branches that reach out over a public sidewalk, I call dibs.

There were the pair of cottage cheese container lids snipped into spoked wheels and  tinseled with kitchen foil.

It’s our worst nightmare.

I am a cat whisperer. As a girl, on weekends when I’d visit my grandparents’ farm in southwest Sask., I often wandered across the lane to my aunt and uncle’s house.

It had been her grandmother's idea.