Last Tuesday I was at work. As I left the Tim Horton’s next door and walked back to our building, a coyote trotted across the parking lot right in front of me. It took my brain a second to reconcile the fact that I was seeing a coyote outside a Mississauga office building.
I guess that’s what happens with so much urban sprawl.
We finally got our bivalent boosters on Friday. We were scheduled to get them back in October, but then we got COVID again so we had to wait six months for this. I felt relatively okay Friday night and even first thing Saturday morning, but by noon I felt gross. By mid-afternoon I felt sick. By evening I felt real sick. A good measure of how sick I am is how much work/puttering I did that day (absolutely nothing) and how much wine I drank (absolutely nothing). I was flat out on either a couch or a bed the whole day, watching most of season 2 of Borgen and all of season 1 of The Good Place.
Today I’m feeling somewhat better — I’ve already cleaned up a disastrous kitchen, done some laundry, gone to Shopper’s Drug Mart, and answered a dozen emails; I’m also pretty sure there’ll be wine later — but ended up not driving down to Hidden Bench for their wine club release day. Couldn’t handle the idea of the drive, let alone lose another ~3 hours.
The brief spate of summer-like weather seems like a fever dream now, as the turn from April into May appears to be mired in a forecast of cold & rain. Things may turn again by the middle of next week, but until then we’re mostly sheltering in place, watching TV.
Of course, with neither the Canadiens nor the Raptors making the playoffs (the first time since 2012 that’s happened) my spring evenings have been relatively sports-free. I’ve been filling them, and rainy days like this one, watching Ted Lasso and The Diplomat and Single Drunk Female and Borgen.
I kind of forget that in recent months we also watched a few more movies — Nope (very good), Blue Jasmine (also very good), and The French Dispatch (excellent).
I know some day the weather will turn nice again and I’ll detach myself from the TV. But today is not that day.
Last night, after many foiled attempts, we had dinner out with M+LK at old neighbourhood haunt Carisma. It was a nice little catch-up, with excellent service (including a discovery that our server was an active birder who also just got back from Costa Rica, like M+L) and very-nearly-too-much delicious food.
After some cocktails and a glass of Falanghina for me, we dug into the burrata special, some pan seared scallops, and hand-rolled ricotta gnocchi in a four cheese sauce. Our mains were lamb, tuna, truffle pasta, and a ribeye special — the latter being mine, and being superb. We washed it down with an excellent bottle of Sangiovese.
We somehow managed dessert, which came to us just as a cheer went up from the bar as the Leafs scored to tie their game late. Lindsay and I had affogato; the others went for strudel and cheesecake. Three of us got a little sip of Vin Santo; Lindsay got a glass of Brunello.
No surprises expected, none delivered. Just a fantastic meal with old friends.
It has been — and continues to be — a week of visitors. Petite mainstay friend N (sans J, this time) is in from Montreal and has hung out with us a few times. Then Lindsay’s brother and his girlfriend arrived Friday. The five of us had a later dinner around the corner at Frankie’s, our first time back there in yonks. Their servers did yeoman duty, bravely surviving a lot more traffic than they expected, and helped us through a menu in transition for our first patio meal of the year. Felt nice.
The next day was another lovely one, so after dealing with a minor plumbing emergency, we walked to Eastbound for brunch, then took a streetcar up to Riverdale Park east where half the city seemed to be gathered. We sat under a tree and drank beers & pet nat. I got to throw a ball with a cute dog a few times.
Today was a bit more sedate — I did contemplate a Jays game but had too much to catch up on, so watching on TV sufficed — but we did squeeze in a late dinner at Richmond Station:
It’s been exciting to get some decent meals scheduled again. A few weeks ago I had a work dinner at George:
On Friday Lindsay’s friend K came over and make a lemony pasta for lunch. We provided the wine.
Then last night, after having to defer it a few times, we returned to Greta Solomon’s for dinner. Our table had not yet been cleared, so we squeezed into a corner and made ourselves as unobtrusive in the tiny space as we could while the lingering patrons…just sat there, basically. Anyway, we eventually got to sit, and eat a delicious dinner:
I know, I know, it’s Canada and it’s still March. I have no right to expect warm weather, or even decent weather. But usually by the time Spring has officially sprung things have started to turn to the brighter & warmer. This year, though — nyet. Rainy, grey, cold.
Back in February, when I was lamenting this particular winter, I detailed how I was pushing myself to get up and out of the house. “Lord knows, I can’t keep drowning myself in TV,” I said. But then I proceeded to drown myself in TV.
Luckily, there remain plenty of TV shows of superlative quality. I finished both seasons of Slow Horses, the first season of The Last Of Us, and the second season of Only Murders In The Building. I’m in the midst of watching the latest seasons of The Bad Batch, The Mandalorian, Yellowjackets, Party Down, and You. The final season of Succession starts tomorrow, and we haven’t even started the new season of Ted Lasso yet.
And in a purchase that combines two of my other favourite media (movies, books) I recently picked up Heat 2 (amazon) which apparently covers both the period immediately after the movie Heat concludes, and some origin story behind the movie’s characters. I’m pretty excited to read it.
We spent the past four days in New York City, my first time back there in years, and even longer for Lindsay. We were there for a couple of Lindsay’s research visits, but decided to extend it a bit and have some fun.
We were up early and out the door two hours later. At the airport in plenty of time, no issues at security, had an easy flight, practically sailed through Newark Airport…but our luck ran out when we tried to get into the city. The St. Patrick’s Day parade runs down 5th, right around the time we were arriving, and bisected the city. Our cabbie didn’t know about it, so we got caught circling the upper west side until I just told him where to go. What should have been 45 minutes turned into 2+ hours.
By then we had no time to get to the hotel and eat lunch, so we dropped Lindsay at her first appointment and I took the bags to the hotel in the ricketiest Uber that ever there was. I unpacked our suitcases, drank a beer, and ate some cookies. We were here.
We stayed at The Mark Hotel on the upper east side (near Lindsay’s two research appointments). It’s a very chic hotel, probably too cool for the likes of us. The room was big by NYC standards, even if the description of a “courtyard view” was a massive stretch.
[UPDATE: whilst watching the season opener of Succession Lindsay noticed that Tom was having a drink at The Mark. We then felt even fancier, and possibly more douchebaggy.]
So while it wasn’t the smoothest entry, at least the weather was nice: it was sunny and 14 degrees, so my walk all the way up 5th Ave to 103rd street – passing the dying remnants of the parade – was beautiful. I collected Lindsay and we walked slightly east, into East Harlem, to a wine bar called Alison. We were early so we circled the block and took a load off for a bit, before taking one of their patio seats and taking advantage of happy hour.
Considering we hadn’t eaten all day, we were pretty restrained. We ordered a dozen oysters & a bottle of Provençal rosé, lamb sliders, and some Old Bay fries before wrapping up with glasses of Rioja and Minervois. The food was good and the vibe was chill, but we had dinner reservations elsewhere. As it turned out, we would have done better to stay put.
After stopping in briefly at the hotel to recharge, we walked down to a restaurant called August, which we’d identified earlier in the day. The menu sounded good. The vibe sounded good. We were excited. But we were pretty quickly disappointed – we waited 25 minutes for our cocktails, which were both rubbish. (Like…how do you screw up a Negroni?)
Our apps were decent – charred octopus w/ fennel-herb salad, crispy potatoes & preserved lemon caper dressing and tuna tartare w/ avocado, waffle potato chips & soy ginger dressing, with which we ordered glasses of Gruner Veltliner & Chardonnay – but when the apps came we were told the kitchen was closing soon. So much for the city that never sleeps, I guess. So we walked home, still a tad hungry.
We slept right the hell in, we did. It was a long couple weeks.
We finally mobilized around noon. We got coffee from Handcraft and tried to eat lunch at Pastrami Queen but it was too busy. This city did not want us to eat. Frustrated, we decided to eat whatever we could find at the café at the Cooper Hewitt Design Museum, Lindsay’s second site visit. We ate prosciutto sandwiches and drank glasses of wine and gathered ourselves. We took in a few exhibits; my favourites were Design And Healing: Creative Responses To Epidemics, Deconstructing Power: W. E. B. Du Bois At The 1900 World’s Fair, Hector Guimard: How Paris Got Its Curves, and Designing Peace.
After leaving there we walked across 91st for an early dinner at Kaia, a South African wine bar. And there, we had the kind of meal we’d been seeking in NYC since we landed. The wine, the food, the vibe, the staff: all exceptional. We felt like we bonded with our server Ayo. At the end of our meal we brought us glasses of Amarula, which I haven’t had since I was in Botswana ten years ago.
Food:
The wine was obviously all South African, and we recognized a few – Raats Jasper, Kanonkop Kadette, HER Shiraz – and loved the rest of what we tried:
Anyway, we’d bought way too much food, and took the ribs back to the hotel for later.
We turned on our heels, and took an Uber to Broadway. Our driver made a heroic move that got us there on time. We were seeing A Doll’s House at The Hudson Theatre, and as we arrived Jessica Chastain was sitting, expressionless, on the stage as it slowly spun around. It was exceptional. Ibsen’s play, adapted for modern times, with a wonderfully stark and minimalist set, just chairs and shadows and that rotating floor. Jessica Chastain was her brilliant self; the remaining cast killed it as well. The ending was just the coolest thing. We left, Ubered home, and let our brains process it all.
We slept in again. Vacation! I’d accidentally frozen the ribs the night before, so that breakfast plan went out the window into the non-courtyard courtyard. We eventually left in search of food. It was much colder than the previous days, we we used sun and shelter strategically.
We decided we needed proper New York bagels, so after a bit of research we went to Bagel Shop on 3rd. We managed to get a table, and scarfed our enormous bagel sandwiches amongst the deli chaos. After that we decided to have a beer or three, so we crossed the street to the Third Avenue Alehouse. I ordered a Threes Brewing Volition Schwarzbier that was so flat I couldn’t drink it, but my Fifth Hammer Brewing Co. Smooth Jazzmin’ American Pale Ale, Aslin Beer Company Volcano Sauce Sour, and Who You Callin’ Old (Fashioned)? Cocktail w/ Old Forester Bourbon, cinnamon-rosemary maple syrup & cardamom bitters were all very good. Meanwhile Lindsay had a Delirium Tremens Belgian Strong Golden Ale, an Ever Grain Brewing Co. Vivify Red Ale, and a 3 Floyds Brewing Aggromaster Scottish Ale. Full of beer, we walked back to the hotel to chill (but also warm up) for a bit.
We decided we needed a reason to check out another neighbourhood, so we went to the Lower East Side. We were in search of a great pizza slice, and had heard Scarr’s was the best. We waited in line for about ten minutes and got a slice each and, yup. They were amazing. I want another one right now. Anyway, we scooted around the corner to a wine bar called Le Dive. We plopped ourselves at the end of the bar and split a bottle of Baga, then Raclette and some Bibb lettuce salad, then glasses of Barbera and Pineau d’Aunis – a new one for me. It was a cool little spot.
Back in the hotel room, we finally finished off the ribs from Kaia, and washed them down with some in-room cocktails.
One last thing on our must-do list: that sandwich from Pastrami Queen. They were, as advertised, delicious. We scarfed them down and packed up; after checking out Lindsay ran a half-errand, while I plopped myself in the hotel bar and held the fort until she came back. We drank our way through the by-the-glass list, gnoshed some fries, and Ubered to the airport. Security sucked; our flight was fine; our house was cold; we missed coming home to Kramer.
It was a tough week without Kramer. The sudden gut-punches still come, but each day is a little easier than the last. Now when I picture him curled up on the chair like a croissant, or remember him attacking my feet from under the bed, I can sense a little joy from the memory of his cuteness amidst all the sadness and loss.
I know that sense of happy memory will grow, as he joins all the other pets which live in my brain. I think about them all the time.
There was Bruno, the first dog I remember. He was a big husky/shepherd mix, and he died when I was around 4 or 5. I remember my mom telling my brothers and I.
Not long after that we got two cats, Snowflake and Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell didn’t live long, but we had Snowflake for a while. He was all white with a little grey patch on his head.
I remember when my Dad brought another puppy home from the SPCA. We named him Asterix, like the French comic. (Why we named him that and not Dogmatix, the actual dog in the comic, I’ll never know.) My dad took him because his paws were big, and he thought that meant Asterix would grow big too, but he was a goofy little 50-pound mutt. He was a loyal cutie, though.
After Snowflake died we got a kitten. I remember being there when we got him, though I’d not sure where we were…outside Amherst, maybe? I remember on the drive home in our Suburban he crawled up and went to sleep between my dad’s back and the car seat. We named him C.B., after Cresta Bear, which I think was some kind of soft drink mascot?
I believe we still had C.B. when we also got Skitter, another little black kitten. We named her that because she skittered and scampered all over the house. One night, when my brother and I were the only ones home, she got in Asterix’ face while he was sleeping, and he bit her. He bit the inside of her mouth, and when we came downstairs she was dripping blood. I was so scared, and mom and dad weren’t there. I called my grandparents who, god bless them, got dressed and drove to our house until mom and dad got home. Anyway, she survived, but not long after when my mom took her to get spayed she got an infection, and she didn’t come home. I remember mom having to tell us, and I remember crying on my bed. She was too young, and it didn’t feel fair.
Some time after that — I think for my 12th birthday? — we saw in the local paper that the SPCA had a litter of new kittens, and my mom called. They asked us if we could take the mother too, as all the other kittens had been adopted. We named the little orange kitten Tigger, and called the mama cat…uh, Mama. Not very inventive, I know. Tigger became my best bud — he let me carry him around on my shoulder, and he loved to squeeze himself into boxes and fruit baskets. He was a prolific hunter — he caught a rabbit once. He even caught an owl, for chrissakes. He was a chill dude. Mama, meanwhile, was tentative at first because she’d been badly abused by her previous owners, but she became a super-snuggly cat. She especially loved my dad, and would crawl onto his lap as he reclined in his living room chair, and knead his chest — with her claws — for hours. He would, of course, let her.
At some point a stray kitten showed up on our doorstep. I named him Patrick, after Patrick Roy. I don’t remember what happened to him. I don’t think we ever let him in the house. But he was there long enough that Mama didn’t take kindly to it, and she ran away.
Not long after I went to university mom told me that Asterix was gone. He’d lived a long life, and one morning he just couldn’t stand up, so she laid down with him on his mat and held him. He was our good boy for a long, long time.
Kind of in that same timeframe — my first few years at University — I got a call that Mama had come home. She’d come bounding across the field in front of our house, practically jumping into my dad’s arms. We never knew where she went for all those months, but she came back to us for her final few years.
My parents were never long without a dog, so around the end of my third year university they went to a breeder for a big rough Collie named Desi Maple Pride, who we called Stryder. Like Strider from Lord of the Rings, but with a twist. My mom picked him up from the breeder the day she drove me home to the farm, before I left for my third work term in Ottawa. I remember he whimpered a lot through the nights downstairs in the kitchen, until I turned on the radio for him so he didn’t feel as alone. I remember calling home from my brother’s place in Ottawa the next day, and leaving a message on the answering machine where I called to him so he wouldn’t feel alone. Mom said when she got home and listened to it that Stryder’s ears perked right up. He was always a scaredy-boy though — anytime there was a thunderstorm he’d sneak upstairs to my parents’ room. I remember that when we’d visit he’d get fired up and run circles around the kitchen table, knocking chairs over in the process, so we called him Circle Dog. He and Tigger had a hilarious and special friendship too — I think Stryder thought Tigger was his mom. Tigger tried to teach him how to hunt. Stryder would lick Tigger so hard he could barely stand up. Tigger would then grab Stryder behind the eyes, sink his claws into Stryder to hold him still, and then lick the dog’s whole face to clean it.
Around 2002 Tigger, who’d lived a long life, just didn’t come home — that was pretty typical on the farm. Cats would be caught by some other animal, or just crawl under a bush to die when they felt sick enough. Seven years later Stryder would also be gone, but by then my brother and his family had moved next door with their dog Riley, and then Ayce, and eventually Aly — all of whom would become dear to me too — and neighbour dogs suited my parents just fine, so Stryder was their last.
By then, Nellie and I had adopted Sonny and Michael from the Toronto Humane Society. They were giant fluffballs who stole our hearts. Sonny swung from the 10/10 affection to utter indifference. Michael was just stuck on 10, and would literally stay on the bed purring and kneading all night if we’d let him. We had them for ten great years. Sonny died after years of kidney complications; Michael died not long after, ostensibly from cancer, but in my opinion from a broken heart from losing his half-brother. Losing them was hard; farm cats only half live with you (Tigger would disappear for days at a time, and was never supper-snuggly) and it was the first time I’d had to make or co-make the decision to put a pet to sleep. It took me a long time to feel strong enough to adopt another pet. That pet was Kramer, when Lindsay showed me a picture of him being a dandy that melted my heart.
And so, as this haze of grief and loss dissipates, Kramer will take his place in my heart with all the beautiful, snuggly, silly boys and girls I’ve gotten to know over the last 45 years. I’m sad he had to go there so soon, but I feel so lucky it’s this full.
Skirl | Dan Dickinson 