The Secret Ingredient

I've never thought of myself as much of a romantic. But when I was transcribing interviews this week, I kept getting coming back to this one quote from Mel (who was kind enough to let me interview her for one of my upcoming stories): 

"Food is a huge tenant of how I express love, how I move socially. And when I care about someone, I want to cook for them and nourish them," she told me. "I really do believe in food that is grown with love. People who really care about our land and how they treat the environment and the growth of that food permeates through the food, to the dish that I make, to the person who eats is." 

This? This is something of love. 

Slowly, surely, I'm starting to remember, that yes, I too believe in something of love. And every morning, as I stand barefoot in the kitchen, measuring out the coffee grounds and eagerly waiting for the kettle to perk, I remember that I too, know what it means to be cared for and to care for someone. 

As long as there's coffee and whiskey and pie in my life, there will be love.  

Wandering Ways

I've only been back in Toronto for a month and I'm already getting restless.

I doubt that's ever going to change. (More on my adventures in Honduras are now on my travel blog.) 

Something of Love

For nearly 12 seasons, I watched the top branches of the tree bloom and die and become reborn again. 

From the window of the loft, it was the only visible sign of life outside, peeking carefully over the rooftops—the brick walls of our neighbour's house obstructed everything else from view. For three years, that tree was my only cue.

Dropping Brock off today, after our sanctioned time together was up, I paused for a moment in the doorway and looked out the window. Three seasons have passed since I last watched buds form on the branches of that tree.

It doesn't seem so long ago.

Against my better judgement, I'm starting to believe again. I'm starting to believe that yes, not only am I deserving of love, but I may just be capable of loving, too. I'm starting to place faith in impracticalities and impossibilities. I'm starting to remember that despite my pragmatic nature, it's the impulsive gut decisions that have always brought me the most happiness.

And above all, I have reason to believe that there's nothing that the perfect yellow vintage dress cannot solve. This, if nothing else, is something of love.