SUMMERTIME AT MOSS BANK: The Birthday Gift

 My sister, Lisl, is a textile artist. She has a good eye, and. she captures the small details of things I don’t notice….until they’re right in front of my face.

In today’s mail, I received a small package addressed in her handwriting. Here’s what was inside:

 Postcard-size, it’s just the sort of thing I like, not only for her skill, but because she instinctively knows the things that are important to me. 

When I moved to the country, I didn’t even know Moss Bank existed.  At the time, it was a very derelict little building that looked like a crime scene in a low-grade movie. Eventually, I worked up the courage to go into it, and once I’d been inside, all I wanted to do was tear it down.

Toronto politician Adam Vaughan persuaded me not to, arguing that not only was I sending all those building materials to the landfill, I was disrespecting all the labour that had gone into building it. Made sense, so I named it The Adam Vaughan.

Then, Adam went over to the political Dark Side. It happens sometimes.  By that time, The Adam Vaughan was pretty much rebuilt. But it needed a new name. Moss Bank came to mind. My nephew Ivor suggested I finish it in yellow, with a forest green metal roof, and a sweet name, as if it were a house in a Beatrix Potter story.

I posted this photo on my blog:

And that’s how I know that somebody reads this blog. 

Thank you, Lisl.

HITTING THE BOOKS AGAIN

 This September, I’ll be diving back into academia. I’ve applied to do my Master’s, in the Department of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto, and for some odd reason they’ve decided to accept me. It’ll be weird: almost all the people I knew there are either retired or deceased, so there will be a whole new crew to deal with. I’m lucky to be friends still with M: a fabulous prof who taught me Translation and some Literature courses in undergrad, and who insists on speaking only Italian to me, just to keep me on my toes.

Then there’s B,  my very engaging prof from first year who was so encouraging and had me laughing on even my worst days. I remember taking my nephew Ivor to class with me when he was about nine. He loved it, because of  “Monsieur qui crie tout le temps”.

I’ll be studying the poetry of an Italian American poet who is now in her mid 80s, whose writing was influenced by the New York Beat poets, who in turn were influenced by her experience and writing.

In between now and then, I’ll be moving to a new address, so it will be a busy summer.  I’ll be getting used to taking transit to class, because it’s too far to walk, but maybe as a treat I’ll take the car now and again.

CINQ À SEPT FROM THREE TO SIX

 This is the first fête I’m hosting at The Rabbit Warren: just half a dozen nice neighbours dropping in for a snack and a chat and a drink on a Sunday afternoon. I’m all ready for the onslaught, with an hour to spare.

Apple cider’s warming on the stove, coffee’s on, and a pot of Hibiscus tea for colour. Non alcoholic Prosecco for the Dry January crowd. Real Prosecco for the Late Adopters.  And now,  the important question: should the host wear shoes or slippers?

And because I have these new red shoes that I bought seven years ago (before farm life) and never wore, I guess it’s shoes for the win.

Roll the Credits: Cranberry Cashew Cheese Ball recipe by Sam Turnbull @bonappetegan.  Chocolate cake by Dufflet’s Bakery.  (It’s vegan). Cherries and Carrot Sticks by Mother Nature. Hot Punjabi Mix by … well, whoever makes chevdo out in B.C.

NOVEMBER 15, 2004 - NOVEMBER 15, 2024

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OUT ON THE TOWN: (I May Not Know Art, But I Know What I Like)

 I was going westbound along Dupont Street a few weeks ago when I nearly drove off the road. An art gallery had just opened, named Caviar20, and in the window I saw a piece of....well, art.  Pretty much the only way I buy anything is because I've seen it in a shop window and I feel such a strong magnetic pull to it that I can't think of anything else.  (This may explain why I don't have a lot of stuff, because I clearly don't look in shop windows enough).  

Life is busy and I had to wait two weeks till I was again headed westbound on Dupont.  The same piece was in the window.  I went online that night, looked for the gallery's website, and on it was the same piece of art. Heart pounding, I drove back to the vicinity of the gallery, and the piece in the window was gone.  I made an immediate plan to go into the gallery, find out the name and address of the buyer, kill them, and slip out the door with the piece of art (it was a lithograph) under my arm.

Luckily, I didn't have to follow through, because the gallery owner had merely changed the window display, and my piece was framed and carefully wrapped in vapour barrier (that's how I know Troy Seidman and I can be friends, because I like vapour barrier too) on the lower level of the gallery.

It's the centenary of the birth of Harold Town, and this is one of a series of Town paintings and lithographs from the very early 1970s.  There was no hesitation in my mind as to where I'd hang it. That it worked perfectly on that wall goes without saying.  I'm very mindful of the fact that I now occupy a tiny co-own in a gritty part of town (okay, I lied.  The only thing gritty about my new address is the ongoing construction of several nine-million-dollar houses on the next street over).  Be that as it may, I live a spare life.  I don't even buy a cabbage till I desperately need one.

I had a quick look around the gallery while Troy was doing the paperwork, and I saw some quite excellent artwork on the walls.  Galleries are like icebergs: 90% of the beauty is not available to the eye.  Caviar20 is an exception.  I'd have stayed longer, but I was desperate to get Blue Raspberry Stretch onto my wall.

If you're in Toronto on a Saturday and you want something to fill up your eyes, you might want to stop in at 647 Dupont.  Tell Troy I sent you.

NEW KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL

 I've been heard to say (frequently and at great length) that the anticipation of an event is often more of a pleasure than the event itself.  And so it was with my tiny kitchen here at the Rabbit Warren.  I dreamed of it nightly for the three and a half long months it took to have it built.  I am no architect, God knows, but I have one absolute law about small spaces:  Go Big Or Go Home.

None of these tiny bar sinks for me.  

I want the polar opposite.  Who cares if I can't fit the fridge in alongside it?  (Actually, I can't, but that's a whole other story).  Just give me the biggest, whitest, shiniest sink there is.  I first saw this sink in the kitchen and bath department at the hardware store across from my former commercial building on Dupont.  And I bought it.  Well, I ordered it.  And waited....for weeks.  Finally, the manager of the store phoned me and tried to persuade me to buy a smaller sink.  He had lots of reasons:

#1  The price was going up.

#2  I might have to wait even longer.

#3  The price was going up.

#4  Customers weren't exactly falling over themselves to buy the sink, because it was huge and heavy.

#5  The price was going up.

#6  He was sure I wouldn't want the display model, would I now?

"Steve", I said, (because that was his name), "the heart knows what it wants".  Desperate, he offered me the display model, at a substantially discounted price, and threw in the metal grate at the bottom of the sink, free of charge.

I said yes.  I got in the car, drove right over, and we did the paperwork.  I got the display model, which was in brand new condition, plus I got three hardware store guys with strong backs to deliver it to the back of my car.  And I drove the sink directly to Fox Custom Woodworks, who were building my kitchen and needed the actual sink immediately to do precise measurements on it.

This was pretty brilliant thinking.  Let the Fox guys bring it to my new place!  Otherwise I'd have it in the back of my car for weeks. 

Right after Thanksgiving, my kitchen cabinets and sink were installed.  Two weeks later, the quartz countertops.  An electrician hooked up the dishwasher.  A plumber hooked up the faucet and sink.  An appliance installer hooked up the water and drain lines for the dishwasher.  And, just like that, I had a kitchen.

Of course, it's been so long since I cooked anything, I've forgotten what a kitchen is for. No worries.  This will be my show kitchen.  It's the display model.  And it's perfect.

Here's a photo taken just before the faucet was installed.

CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN

 I had an entirely discretionary day today.  I slept in until embarrassingly late in the morning and my only thought on waking was:  when I go out, do I take the lovely Bertha with me or not?  I opted to take her (okay, that's my car's name, and it's pronounced in the German manner, Bear-ta, but when I'm making a U  turn in her, I call her the Queen Mary because, like the luxury ocean liner,  she has such a wide turning radius).  I wanted to get the most out of my day.  

First stop was the Manulife Centre, to pick up a book chosen by my book club: The Tennis Partner, by Abraham Verghese.  They didn't have it in stock.  All right, I'll figure that out later, I told myself.  Next stop:  the Art Gallery of Ontario, to see the Pacita Abad exhibit.  She was a textile artist who lived in the Philippines during the Ferdinand Marcos regime and her artworks are huge, handsewn, colourful pieces, very brave politically.  One depicted Marcos and his henchmen eating plastic dolls, representing the ruthless corruption for which he was eventually deposed in, I think, 1976.  Another was a series of pennants sewn of fabrics, newer and older,  which she collected from all over the Philippines, sewn in a seemingly haphazard patchwork style.  Barriers were placed around the pieces, to prevent viewers getting too close and touching the pieces.  They were almost irresistible.

I never let myself view too many exhibits at one time.  It's really disorienting.  Oh!  I should mention that I wore my AGO shoes,  As Portuguesas brand. They were bought for the purpose of  going to galleries with unyielding floors.  They are red, boiled wool, and look a bit like hobbit shoes. 

 I wasn't the least bit tired after all that walking, but I was hungry and took myself down to the Members' Lounge in The Grange for a pot  of tea and a bowl of soup.

Refreshed, I went out and retrieved Bertha from her convenient parking spot on the west side of McCaul Street, headed east on Dundas, past Parliament, to my friend and former neighbour Sanghun Oh's dress shop on Queen Street East.   Having already visited GravityPope on Queen Street West for  a few pairs of shoes last week, I thought I'd be brave enough to try on clothes.  Sanghun's shop is called 290 Ion, but it's at 380 Queen Street East.  Every time I go there, I think I will never find anything, but Sang is just the right sort of shopkeeper for me:  not at all pushy.  I've found some brilliant things there, including the black wool coat dress by Icelandic designer Matthildur that I happened to be wearing today.  While we gabbed about mutual friends, I pawed through her racks, finally shedding my coat dress and standing there in my skivvies (okay, black leggings and t shirt) and tried on a few knit pieces.

Here's what I bought: a knit wool top with a print that suggests I was unsuccessfully feeding a baby an avocado…

…a blue wool cowlneck sweater and a generous light wool scarf…

…and a midnight blue silk-and-cotton knit jacket which (gazing modestly at herself in the mirror) looks fantastic on me.

Now, you may think that’s quite enough of a good day for anyone, but there’s more: when I got home, there was a package waiting outside my door with a brand new book inside, called The Tennis Partner, by Abraham Verghese. I have *no clue* who sent it to me, but a very big thank you to whichever nice person it was. 

This is about all the fall colour I can cope with, but it was my first time clothes shopping in about six years and it was time.