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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
Not a long post today, nor a funny one. Just wishing Ivaan many happy returns of the day on his 80th birthday and hoping all is well in his new life. I woke up to supportive messages from good friends, and I have a busy day ahead, which will include going to the cemetery with some birthday cake for the birds and squirrels.
The earth would have been a lot different, Ivaan, without your bright light shining on it, illuminating all the beauty and casting shadows at times, just for contrast.
Thank you, Ivaan. You illuminated my life and encouraged me to make it gorgeous.
Vichnaya Pam'yat.
It must have been close to 20 years ago when Sophie first came to our house. She was tiny and shy, and she soon retreated to the safest place she could find to hide: underneath my little grand piano. The details are a little fuzzy, but I remember I couldn't lure her out, so eventually I took a plate of berries - raspberries? strawberries? No clue - and a little dish of sugar to dip them in, and I joined her there, while her parents negotiated the purchase of a gold ring with Ivaan.
The next time I saw Sophie was 2008, and we'd sold the house and moved to an open concept condo. Sophie remembered the piano, and was soon under it again, but at age four she was a bit taller and more sure of herself. This time she brought just dad along for a visit, as her mum was busy at home with a new baby, a sister named Beatrice.
Some busy years followed. Their mum and I stayed in touch, as I moved around from place to place, and as the girls got older and developed interests of their own. Both girls were active in team sports, and weekends must have been a blur for their family, shuttling them to and from hockey tournaments and other competitive events. One place, however, was free from competition, and that was their home. Sophie was unendingly supportive of her younger sister, and Bea looked up to, and emulated Sophie.
There's a magic number of years that siblings should be separated in age, and I think it must be four. These girls liked and respected one another. They shared a quick and easy repartee. I remember an occasion where Bea and her mum visited Atelier Ivaan just before I closed the shop for good. Bea selected a handful of silver rings for herself while her mum and I chatted about my plans for the future.
I'd mentioned I wanted to take a real risk, and not do something safe or timid for the next phase of my life.
So when Sophie inquired, that evening, what I was planning to do with my newfound freedom, Bea replied, "She wants to have something to regret". Sophie quipped, "Well, then, why doesn't she just come here for dinner?" I still laugh about that.
Some of Sophie's stash of Ivaan rings accompanied her to McGill University a few years ago, and the three rings she wears daily went with her on an exchange to the University of Edinburgh last January, then accompanied her on her travels to Norway, Portugal, Spain and Greece. On returning home, she rediscovered Ivaan's more flamboyant rings and fell in love with them all over again.
That did it. I sent their mum a photo of the Traffic Stopper ring, which I still had in two adjacent sizes, and both Sophie and Bea loved it. Luckily, hockey gives you big fingers, so Bea got the larger ring and Dr. Sophie got the slightly smaller one. And they both lived happily ever after.
The End
