Top tips to get you asked out by teenagers

I’m a twenty-seven year old gal who’s had more teenagers (or those freshly out of their teens) ask her out in the past six years years than, well, the entire time I spent as a teenager.

Now, in the sake of full disclosure, I was a pretty unfortunate looking person for a good chunk of my adolescent years – but even after I got hot as hell, I was still the one making the first move at the beginning of my relationships.

(This, I’m sure, is because people were so amazed by my overall transformation, that they were unsure as to whether or not I was the same person they used to know.)

I kid.

Kind of.

For serious, had I not had ovaries the size of basketballs, I would still be languishing in a sea of unrequited crushes, being tossed about by white-capped waves of sexual frustration.

I was a champ at asking people out (the two times I did it.)

Now, since I wrote earlier this week about how a twenty year old boy asked me out on skytrain last Saturday night, I’ve had quite a few friends ask me what exactly it is that I am doing to have this be a semi-regular occurrence in my life.

I didn’t have a coherent, non-self-deprecating answer at the ready, so over the past few days I’ve given this query some thought, and think I may come up with a probable (but perhaps totally erroneous)  hypothesis.

However, in the spirit of science, I’m forging ahead.

Ladies and gentleman, (but really ladies, because, well, I am one of you) may I present: 

Top tips to get you asked out by teenagers*.

*or those in their early twenties.

1.)    Ride public transit. Ride public transit all the live long day. Not once or twice a week – we’re talking multiple times a day here (and weekends too). Teenagers, for the most part, don’t have a ton of money, so if they need to go anywhere, they take the bus, or the skytrain, or subway, or streetcar, or what have you.

Duh, duh, duh, another rides the bus...

I ride transit all the damn time, so it’s inevitable that I’ll find myself sitting next to someone whom I could have babysat ten years ago, had I not  instead chosen the high school career of Safeway cashier. And because of this inevitability, it is in fact unavoidable that at some point one of them will strike up a conversation with me, and before I know it – BAM!

They want to take you me out to coffee (at bloody 7:45 in the morning.)

2.)    Wear quite a bit of colourful clothing. I notice more and more just how varied in hue and tone my wardrobe is compared to most of the other people who work down town. When I exit the train every morning, and the station is flooded by a stream of black, grey and brown, I am the bright red life boat, carried along by the push and pull of the tide.

1 coat, 2 coat, red coat...

I don’t necessary think that it’s my clothing per say that’s getting me asked out, but since I’m not afraid to experiment with, and wear a ton of colour – in addition to taking different risks with my outfits (wearing traditional mens clothing, and mixing formal with casual pieces) – my style seems to attract a younger demographic.

Teenagers in general like to make comment on my choice in clothing and, or colour palette.

Animal print and stripes.

Then they want to take me out to coffee to talk more about my fashion sense.

3.)    Read science fiction and/or fantasy books. My only caveat being – please, please for the love of pete, read good science fiction and/ or fantasy. None of this Sword of Truth/Sword of Shannara bullshazzle.

That will get you disqualified right out of the gate.

(However you’ll gain ten points if you read your sci-fi books on the bus.)

But to get back on topic: teenagers always want to talk me up about the books that I’m reading, but particularly if they are of these two genres. They want to talk to me about A Song of Ice and Fire (even back before it got all HBO-ed and coolified); they want to talk to me about Terry Pratchett; they want to talk to me about Richard Matheson. (Okay, so that last one’s more horror that anything else, but we’ll have to let that slide.)

Even Mr. Penguin wants to talk about Game of Thrones.

They want to talk to me about books and then take me out to coffee to talk about books some more.

4.)    Laugh to yourself. Whether you’re walking down the street, riding transit (seriously, RIDE IT!), sitting in a coffee shop, or waiting in line at the grocery store, be so completely lost in your own thoughts that you bust up your own gut like a busting thing.

I love to laugh. ALL THE TIME.

Older people will think your completely bonkers (and rightfully so) but teenagers want to know what’s so funny.

And they’ll want to take you out for coffee.

5.)    Quote the crap out of movies and TV shows. I was on transit once (did I mention that you should probably ride transit?), talking on my mobile, TO MY HUSBAND when I said, “that’s, just like, uh, your opinion…man” and the fella sitting to my right, spoke up literally, the second that I  hung up, wanting to talk more about the Big Lebowski (aka re-enact the whole movie for the remainder of our ride.)

And then he wanted to go to a coffee shop, to re-enact our re-enactment – just in case we missed a part!


He was pretty surprised when I declined, citing the fact that I was, you know, a married woman.

Which brings me to my last point:

6.)    Wear a wedding ring. First, teenagers don’t look for wedding rings, so they are basically a moot point. Second, the longer I remain married, the more teenagers ask me out. And third, most of the teenagers who’ve asked me out haven’t cared when I told them that I am forever removed from the dating scene.

Ring around the rosie...

They all want to convince me of the reasons why I should no longer be married.

Over coffee, of course.

So there you have it ladies – six, very simple tips on how to increase the number of your youthful suitors.

But, let me finish off by saying this. Don’t wait around for someone else to make the first move. If you like somebody, go-go-gopher it.

It’s always better to know, and heck, if they like you back? Well, there’s no better feeling in the world.

Seriously, I’ll tell you more about it.

Tea anyone?

Strange things I have done, seen, and want to do this week

DID: Washed my hair in the kitchen sink.

Okay, some background.

This is what my dining room looked like last night:


And this is what was going on in my living room:

More stuff.

Mr. M is currently Mr. Fix-it, which means we have no bathroom in our bathroom, and most things that will end up going in our new bathroom are sitting, or strewn about, where we normally eat dinner.


And because I am incapable of operating at a normal level without washing my hair every day (because, dear readers, it is so very thin and so very fine, and because of how much I exercise , I cannot live without a daily shampooing) and because we had no tub – I washed my hair in the sink, where thirty minutes prior I had scrubbed two frying pans, a colander, two soup bowls and a spatula.


Needless to say, before I got down to business, the side of the sink that I used to wash my locks was scrubbed to an inch of its life.

(And because I’m lazy, I left the other side the way it was, with a dirty knife and spoon lying next to the scrub brush.)



No joke I nearly broke my back and cricked my neck for all of Canada as I limbo-ed my way to clean hair.

Also, it is dang hard trying to get all the conditioner rinsed away, when your giant five foot ten body is unable to manoeuvre itself to allow for your stupid head to rest directly under the water stream.


Also, it’s at times like this that I realize just how long my hair actually is (when I dye my hair from a box is also another great reminder of this.)

I might not have a lot of it, but it’s getting to the length where I start to feel like a mermaid when I get out of the shower.

Speaking of which, today I did something shower related I’ve never done before – for the first time I brought a change of clothes with me to the gym and showered as soon as I’ve finished working out.

I was a little nervous to check out the state of its facilities, what with how dodgy the place is overall.

But despite the exposed pipes, and broken fan, I have to say I was pleasantly surprised.

It was very clean, with good water pressure, and honestly, quite a large stall.

I don’t know if I’m going to start pulling this stunt on a daily basis, but during the time that I’m living in a house without resources for bathing (kitchen sink not included) it’s a good reserve to fall back on.

The only fly in the ointment being that between my regular gym gear that I schlep with me to work, and the extra shower stuff I had to add to my kit, today I was (and tomorrow I will be) a bag lady and a half.

And a half!

Alas, t’is the price you pay for cleanliness.

SAW: These Air Canada Ads

Okay, a while back I wrote a post about the first generation of these Air Canada ads, focusing on (what I thought to be) a very white-washed advertising campaign.


Here you are, marketing flights to large, Asian cities (each one, need I point out, very different from the other) and you have an all white cast, some of which are dressed in non-descript “Asian” dress, or holding chopsticks, or, what is that, practicing some kind of martial art?


Jeeze Louise.

It’s painful just looking at them.

Seriously, has one person who worked on this campaign done any of the following?

  1. Gone to Hong Kong/Beijing/Seoul
  2. Looked at the majority of individuals flying back and forth between Vancouver and these cities, and then bothered to notice what they looked like.
  3. Gone out anywhere in the Lower Mainland and registered that its population is incredibly diverse, and not in fact racially homogenous.

It just boggles my mind (and also makes me laugh, because believe-you-me folks, I used to work at the airport and I’m very well versed will all of these Air Canada flights, and I know who is travelling on them, and it doesn’t matter if they are Canadian, Chinese, or Korean, but the average traveller does not look like this:


And I’m not saying that they cannot use white models in their campaign, but a little variety wouldn’t kill them either.

At the very least it wouldn’t make them look so casually racist, and overwhelmingly tone deaf.


WANT TO DO: Make out with Richard Hammond.

Because I am an ENFJ (extrovert, intuitive, feeling, and judging) on the Myers Briggs personality test, change to my regular routine is something I try to avoid at all costs. So as you can imagine, when I’m confronted by minor disturbances (such as having no working bathtub) my rabid need to control everything (and then not being able to do so) drives me a bit batty.

But just a bit.

In an attempt to help me calm down, I have been watching episodes of Top Gear on Netflix, drinking hot chocolate, and eating thousands of mini marshmallows.

I just started watching the show last week, and oh boy is it funny.

It hilarious and entertaining, and I enjoy Jeremy Clarkson’s acerbic wit, and it would be pretty fab to have the chance to play checkers against James May, sitting out on a lanai somewhere on Oahu’s North coast (in my imagination).

But mostly more than anything, I want to have a good old fashioned snog fest (in the parlance of his country) with Mr. Hammond (also in my imagination.)

Yes I did take this photo off of my tv. I have no shame.

He’s cute as hell, plus I get a kick out of the idea that in work shoes I’d be over half a foot taller than him. It would be just like every single high school dance I ever went to. Throw in some Mario Kart, late night McDonald’s runs, and a ton of laugh-fuelled bumbling and fumbling, and you pretty much have my grade eleven relationship down to a tee.

Plus – he’s from Brum, the city that owns a good chunk of my heart.

(And in terms of famous people who’ve come out of Birmingham, I’d definitely choose him over Frank Skinner and Ozzy Osborne.)

So there you have it folks.


And to finish off, if may ask, what are some weird things you’ve been up to this week? Seen anything barmy in the extreme? And who are you jonesing for a sweet, sweet lip-lock (if too, only in your imagination)?

Let me know, and I’ll think about it the next time I’m washing my hair (in or outside of my kitchen.)

An A for effort

Two years ago I was in writing hell.

I was in the process of finishing up my master’s thesis, and as such, was spending upwards of thirteen hours a day sitting in front my computer (and I use the term sitting pretty liberally, because for much of the time, I just contorted myself into the most back breaking positions imaginable to human kind – so much so that it’s really quite amazing I didn’t rework the entire curvature of my spine) writing a path dependent analysis of British and Canadian immigration policies and immigrant integration schemes, post-1945.

Nymeria was pretty much the best study partner I could have asked for.

Overall, I loved writing on the subject matter, loved my research (carried out both here in Canada and over in the UK), and very much loved the finished product.

Of course the million dollar question is, would have I said all this to you then?


Probably not.

What most likely would have happened instead, was that sometime during our conversation on the matter I would have either burst into tears, or begged you to go out and buy me a 7/11 apple fritter.

(Had you said either yes, or no, I probably still would have cried. From either disappointment or happiness – believe you me, those fat, salty sobs would have flowed.)

Sitting here, writing this today, with so much perspective on this event, it is pretty darn easy to talk about how great the whole experience was.

Nymeria is also here to remind me not to get completely delusional. She would like me to remember that at the time I was completely knackered. PLUS: Animal Print.

However at the time, I was a miserable wreck; as previously noted, my life was rife with high-drama crying fits, poor nutritional choices, and completely cringe-worthy, totally horrifying fashion statements.

If I only had one word to describe my dress sense for the first four months of 2010, it would be BRUTAL.

Just brutal.

I am disclosing this today, because I want to provide a different perspective (or palate cleanser if you will) from last Friday’s post.

I feel compelled point out that there have been times in my life where I have, on a daily basis, fashioned outfits that would have propelled me to the top of any worst dressed list out there.

Sometimes when I look at old photos, particularly of the early years Mr. M and I spent together as a couple, I often repeat to him, “Thank you so much for staying with me despite all the times I looked absolutely deranged.”

He normally just smiles, and dismisses my claims.

(Although, to be real here folks, if you take a second at the photos, he may be thinking along the same lines. We are a match made in (crazily dressed) heaven.)

But getting back to Thesisgate, 2010.

By the end of my scholarly run, things had gotten pretty darn bad.

Indeed, my closet had pretty much devolved into the following two outfits:

The first?

My pajamas.

The words on this sweater "who gives a hoot?" eventually became a short-lived life motto of mine.

Each morning I would wake up, and immediately begin writing. No shower. No bath. I would type away until about one o’clock, at which point I would eat a banana completely slathered in peanut butter, drink a pot of tea, and then have a massive, massive sweat-and-panic attack. To combat my massively rising anxiety, I would throw myself into different feats of strength, which sometimes meant push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, but other times meant episodes of Gossip Girl.

After these exercises (in self-loathing), my garb would be sufficiently grodtastic, so I would take everything off, wash them, dry them, wash myself, dry myself, and then put the whole thing on again.

At the height of my efficiency, I probably had about three different sleeping ensembles on the go, none of which (I promise you) had a best before date that outlasted my defense date.


Outfit number two was my “Going Out Outfit.”

Now, at the beginning of January, this setup was at least a “semi-normal” ranking, on a scale from plain jane to absolutely barmy.

It mostly consisted of a pair of thick, comfortable leggings, a cute (albeit short) summer dress (it pretty much covered my bum and that was it) and a rotating duo of cardigans.

Unfortunately, before I really knew what was happening, I started adding soccer socks (on top of the leggings), big doc marten boots, chunky mens sweaters, and really outrageous scarves to the whole shebang.

I looked a bit like a cross between Daria, Blossom, and Claudia from the Babysitter’s Club.

The only thing missing was a giant hat with a bunch of fake flowers stuck to it. I mostly just wore old-school Canuck’s toques and a pink beret.

In my opinion, (and to the many, wide-eyed, confused individuals, who saw me wearing this in public places)- this is not a very good look.

For anyone.

(Or at least not anyone over the age of fourteen. In 1992.)

The day after I defended, Mr. M (ever the gentleman) very politely asked if I could never , ever, wear any one version of the getup ever again for the rest of my life.

I very respectfully (not to mention eagerly) agreed to do so.

I’ve also stopped eating 7/11 baked goods.

( But you can pry my penny candy from my cold dead hands.)

So there you have it my darlings. A (very bleak) fashion confession from yours truly.

Okay, so I have scoured my archives for a digital copy of my "going out outfit" and couldn't find one (good thinking on my part it would seem.) So please accept this as evidence of some of the silly things I do like take photos of my hairdo before going to work so I know what it looks like.

And I would like to make it very clear that when I do offer critiques on this here blog spot, they are never done with any malicious intent, or mean spiritedness. It is a way for me to deconstruct my relationship with the fashion industry, and how both my choices as a consumer, and my (evolving) taste aesthetic inform not only my perspective of the industry, but also of myself.

I spent a lovely afternoon with my sister in-law V on Sunday, and she remarked that she thinks there are lots of people out in the world who probably wish they could try on some of the more, well, unique outfits available for purchase at different stores, but never have the nerve or gall to follow through.

(To which I say (of course) is: GO FOR IT DUDES! It’s a TON of fun!

She also remarked that the salespeople probably spend quite a while speculating on who will even purchase the store’s crazier merchandise when its shows up at the store.

And just like them, I so desperately want to know who, if anyone, is out there is purchasing the strange apparel I’ve come across in downtown Vancouver.

And if I find out, I won’t have the heart to pass judgment.

After all, they’re probably just in the midst of finishing their PhD.

And their pajamas are still in the wash.

Tie a yellow ribbon

Today the sun came out.

This was truly brilliant.

Although I spent the majority of my day running around like a chicken with her head cut off, bopping around the city in taxi cabs, driven by semi-mad (and generally intolerant of all other motorists on the road) middle aged men, or otherwise glued to my computer screen sending out fourteen (give or take) different types of invitations to a 2,000 person gala event I am in the midst of organizing – just seeing those magnificent rays breaking through the ever-present cloud cover was downright magical.

Hello friends! It's been so long.

I am also happy to report that over the last two days I have felt a real shift in the air.

The cold in the mornings is less biting, less sharp. I can hear chickadees calling out to one another, echoing off the dew dappled branches, in harmony with the early hum, and buzz, of the world waking to a new day.

The air smells a little sweeter.

The wind blows a little warmer.

I can sense the cherry blossoms waiting to emerge from their long winter rest, and I can almost imagine a time where I can run about in sundresses and pedal pushers, ride my bike in flip-flops, and wear sunglasses at least every other day.

I am aware that I may be jumping the gun here, but I am so ready to herald the arrive of spring, I become giddy at the mere thought of any day where the temperature moves into double digit territory.

A girl can dream, right?

It was this giddiness that brought me back to H&M on Thursday to try on a few of the pieces that had caught my attention last Friday, and of course – the newly arrived merchandise.

This activity alone led to a full on laugh attack smack dab in the middle of my change room.

Seriously, I need to meet the principal buyer for this store, because based on their choices I wouldn’t know whether to shake their hand or send them to the loony bin.

Do not pass go. Do not ever work in the clothing industry again.

While I was putting on my outfits I was literally shaking with laughter – hooting and snorting like some crazed owl-pig hybrid.

To paraphrase those dude bros from LMFAO, who put it ever so wisely: I’m sexy and I know it BUT I LOOK COMPLETELY BARMY.

Now, don’t misunderstand me here – I am completely aware that I am a bit of a jerk (and a half), repeatedly showing up at this store with the express intention of only trying on clothes (clothes that nobody in their right mind has the business of buying) and never purchasing anything.

I am always especially aware of this fact after I’ve just spent a good chunk of my time in the store, careening about the change room, blinded by laughter, while chronicling the entire escapade with my camera phone.

Also, that this is, for sure, the definition of weirdo, hands down, bar-none, I am sure.

And yet seriously folks, as much as I am aware of my complicity in this whole charade, it still unnerves me to think about how all this merchandise (expensive merchandise at that) does end up going somewhere (and that place certainly is not the Lower Mainland Goodwill), which then makes me think that I shouldn’t feel like such a wanker, because I am not the one buying all these incredibly strange, over-priced articles of clothing.

And what I really start to think about (once my laugther has died down) are what (I perceive to be) the pros and cons of the fashion industry, and what I’m finding more and more to be its overall transient, fickle, and seemingly arbitrary nature.

Despite, of course, my slightly-wavering love for (what my aesthetic dictates to be) beautiful, beautiful pieces.

(This is where the whole endeavor gets a little sticky, you see.)

Like Heidi Klum has said, hundreds and hundreds of times: One day you’re in, and the next day you’re out.

People will spend over one hundred dollars on a suit jacket that they may wear once, that will not be a style a week from Saturday, just because they can.

The privilege and excess that the entire industry is built on, is truly astounding.

Plus so much of the clothing is not only completely unflattering, but downright BIZARRE.

Okay, so you could argue that the really bizarre thing is going and trying on clothing and taking photos of yourself (headless at that.)

Yet, despite the fact that my own actions don’t exactly connote a healthy level of sanity (I am aware that all the young, dispassionate individuals working at the store probably hate my guts) I’m hoping that my commitment to an academic deconstruction of the women’s fashion world (or at least some in-depth selfrefleciton on my own relationship with the industry) will make my actions less objectionable.

Or at the very least be enough to keep both of my feet firmly planted in the “sane” swimming pool of life (which isn’t all that deep, let me tell you) and not swimming laps with the dudes who are purchasing this:


Or this:

Do my pants remind you of a race track finish flag?

Okay, let’s go back to the first one and take one more look at that shirt:

When I retire to Florida, I'll wear many shirts like this.

(P.S. I am definitely wearing pants in that photo despite the fact that it looks like I’m not. Dodgy stuff here folks!)

When I showed this snap to Mr. M he was so incredibly distressed at the idea of this piece of clothing even existing he was pretty much at a loss for words.

While I felt like a cross between a big band leader and a detective from Miami Vice (and maybe also an extra from a Janet Jackson video circa 1989), he just thought that I looked absolutely deranged.

“Who would possibly think that a flesh toned suit would look GOOD?”

Who indeed.

But more than that, I am still wondering about where all those pieces of clothing go. Who is purchasing them? And who is manufacturing them? And what about designing?

And how do I feel about asking all these questions, if I myself am purchasing other pieces of clothing from the store?

Case in point, I ended up purchasing this sweater:

Love, love, rainbow love!

Am I, at the root of it all, stifling creativity, both on a design end, and a consumer end, when I lampoon these pieces?

Should it matter at all to me what people spend their money on, and how they dress?

While taking part in this one-side dialectic makes for some interesting thought patterns, most of the time I just end up feeling like such a grumpy, old fool.

So then should I, a self-assessed (at times) stodgy, bad-tempered prat, just let the crazily-dressed kids play all they want on my lawn, especially if they are wearing lemon coloured suit jackets, with tapered, zippered pants, hounds-tooth leggings and sheer metal crop tops?

I don’t have the answer to that one, dear readers.

Not yet at least.

But come spring, I’ll be on the lookout for these outfits. And the answers they might provide.

And also chickadees.

I’ll be on the lookout for them too.

It’s just so appealing

Hi friends!

I’m not sure what the temperatures are like where you find yourself bopping about, but as of late it has been absolutely blinkin’ freezing around these parts. Currently, there is wet, wet snow, whirling its way around the downtown core and the majority of men and women scurrying about on the sidewalks look, at best, downright miserable.

A park close to our house. One word: BRRRR!

This morning as I walked to a conference I was attending (a hot topic of which just happened to be climate change – go figure!) I narrowly missed being walloped by a fellow pedestrian’s umbrella, as it tried to make up its mind whether to take flight, or just turn itself inside out.


This weather is just one giant yuck-hole.

In fact, the more that I think about it someone should totally wake up all those lying, bastard groundhogs and let them know that I (and probably the majority of the folks living here on the West Coast) are suitably unimpressed.

Early spring you say? Early spring my foot!

In an attempt to remind myself that life is so much more than just rain drops (there are of course, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens) may I present to you, dear readers, one of my favourite things:

(Edit: “Favorite things” can also be read as strange, idiosyncratic activities that fill me with more pleasure than they probably should. And I’m okay with this.)


Peeling vegetables/fruit.

For real, I LOVE doing this. I could peel yams or apples until the cows came home.

I’m not sure what it is about this activity that I find so fab – a lot of it probably has to do with my sense memory, and what I automatically associate with the peeling of potatoes, or peaches, or pumpkins, or pears. Peeling fruit and veg is, for me, a reminder of a holiday.I pine for this smell.

It is Thanksgiving; it is Christmas. Two celebrations that remind me of family, and fireplaces, of laughter and light; rooms that smell of rosemary and cinnamon, and spiced cider and cloves; it is Mr. M’s cranberry-kissed lips, and his gravy stained oven mitts; frosted windows, overlooking gardens, both green and white, from dustings of snow.

It is love (which is strange I know – but it is true!)

So today as I travelled home on skytrain, I thought about the different things I could make that would require me to peel, peel, peel (I have three different utensils to choose from when I take on this task), and many different kinds of veggies at that.

So I decided that the perfect antidote to both this soggy, sunless day and my now urgent need to, well, strip legumes of their skin, would be to make a frittata, Ethel-style (aka with sweet potatoes, instead of regular ol’ tubers, and two kinds of cheese!)

I was introduced to the frittata by the brilliant and hilarious Barefoot Contessa (Ina Garten – how good is that?) and while I have never quite yet achieved her level of fluffiness, it is something to which I aspire.

I picked up the goods that were required for the task (plus a few other treats, such as fresh strawberries and whipping cream) and Mr. M was lovely enough to pick me up at New West station, relieving me of the burden of walking up the (ridiculous) Eighth Avenue hill, in the rain, laden down with food stuffs.

Ready to rock! Chop! PEEL!

And they say chivalry is dead!

As soon as I got home, I put on my professional cooking outfit (my Dr. Seuss t-shirt and stripped pyjama pants.) This is after all, serious business.


The first thing I did was infuse my oil as it warmed up in my cast iron pan.

Bottle this scent and sell it!

I started doing this a couple of years ago, and it is a method that I highly recommend. I learned this from my genius chef-extraordinaire sister – I add garlic, salt, pepper, basil, and chilli powder and I promise you, as the oil heats up the smell of all the different herbs and spices coming together is something pretty special.

Also, it saves you the time from adding flavour later, and if I may so myself, it just always tastes better doing it this way.

Love these colours. They sure taste good too.

(But then again, this could just be a sensory reaction that I have, due to the awesome memory of cooking fried potatoes with my two sisters, three summers ago while we all vacationed in New York together. A late morning, after an even later night, spent sipping home brewed espressos and nibbling on fresh baguettes, slathered with nutella and peach preserves.)

But still, take my word for it and try it!

Green with hunger.

Sometimes I cannot believe how quickly time seems to be passing – a blink, a skip of a record needle, a missed alarm clock, or a late dinner date – three years have passed since that trip but I feel as though I just got off that plane yesterday.

A marriage made in taste heaven.

So I peel carrots and sweet potatoes, and chop onions, and grate cheese – because during this simple, self-satisfying activity, time slows. It doesn’t stop, but a lovely lethargy sets in, that allows the world to sit back, and breathe.


Time also slows when I dance about our kitchen, singing Rod Stewart, and Mr. M breaks it down in the living room, in front of the fireplace, his shadow looming large, flickering on the adjacent wall.

Nymeria, sits watching, intrigued by our antics, and perhaps perturbed (but not enough to move us from her line of vision.)


And so on this windy, wet Wednesday night, Mr. M and I will peel, and chop, and dance, and we will wrap ourselves in memories and time, rhythms and rhymes, eating a frittata, dreaming of spring.


A spring without umbrellas.