And here's our ridiculously sparse living room. (Spareness is the product of two people from western Canada, who could only bring two suitcases on the plane, living together.) It leads into a solarium, which Natty is currently using as her office. It's comparable in size to Brie's room at China, and we could legimately have a third roomate if it wasn't for the fact that the sunroom reaches subzero temperatures in the winter. (All I want in life right now is a big comfy, overstuffed armchair to put in the solarium. I'd live in it, with a cup of coffee in hand and a thick book for company.)
This is on the main level, where we also have a half bathroom. On the right are stairs leading to the second level, where we have a full bathroom, our bedrooms, a washer & dryer and a balcony off of Natty's room.
I spent all weekend in bed with pink eye, interspered by leaning off the balcony and gazing at passerbys with their clean, white eyeballs. Lucky devils.
On Monday, after baking pumpkin pie and preparing a raspberry blueberry crisp, fall favourites sure to fill you up and warm your insides on a cool autumn day, we headed over to Carla & Gill's for Thanksgiving dinner.
It's too bad it was far from a cool autumn day, with the temperatures hitting nearly 40 degrees on the humidex. Cooking in the heat was unbearable. (Dear Toronto, here's a memo for you: It's October. We can't complain about the heat wave, but this is a little excessive, don't you think?)
And failed miserably.
It was a Thanksgiving potluck. Adding to my desserts, Natty made mashed potatoes and carrots, and everyone else brought the sweet potatoes, rice, salad and wine. For the meat lovers, Gill and Carla cooked up what I'm sure was a delicious turkey. Unfortunately, out of the roughly 10 attendees, no one had ever carved a turkey before. Jesse valiently made the first attempt.
The night was blissfully free of journalism shop-talk. Instead, we focused on food, Lord David Attenborough, etymology, international development agencies and whether being obsessed with the weather is a product of growing up in Western Canada. It was, after all, an orphan dinner, with most of the attendees hailing from west of the Saskatchewan border (plus one token guest from Brazil). However, I think we concluded that talking about the weather is something we all do obsessively, irregardless of gender, age, or geographical location. In fact, after watching the interactions with the Brazilian, it seems that cross-cultural exchanges always focus on either food or weather.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Although, I'd rather discuss the former.