My Not-Yet Adopted Sons

It's a wonder I haven't adopted The Boy's friends for my own. Their school is holding auditions tomorrow for grade nine admission so there are no classes for them. The Boy invited Butterfly Boy and Handsome Dancer home for a sleepover.

The Boy and Butterfly Boy were already home when I got back. Shortly after, the phone rang. It was a collect call. The recording asked if we would accepted the charges. The Man said, Yes. Then in a hurried, muffled voice, Handsome Dancer said - I'm getting on the subway and will be there in a few minutes. Click.

Apparently, this is what the boys do to communicate. Because Handsome Dancer hadn't identified himself, we don't get charged for the call. I don't quite get this, because we said yes to the accepting the charges, and we don't mind paying for the call. But the boys said they don't want to burden their friends' parents with extra cost.

The Boy and Butterfly Boy then bundled up to go out. It's -14C out, -23C with the wind chill. But they insist on going out to meet Handsome Dancer at the bus stop. It's their duty they said, because it's dark out and Handsome Dancer is travelling alone.

As soon as he got in, Handsome Dancer phoned his mom to let her know he arrived at our house. As they prepared snacks in the kitchen, he said to me - So how are you guys? I haven't talked to you forever.

I said - We've been fine. How's school?

He said - We just did a call back (that's being called back for a second audition for a spring dance production).

- Think you'll get in?

- Hard to say. The teachers are so unpredictable. But it's still important to try out.

- You always get in. You've been in every show I've ever seen.

He gave me a big grin, and I marvelled again at how these boys strike up conversation with us and volunteer information about themselves.

Later, Butterfly Boy came upstairs, waving a glass emptied of chocolate milk and said - Do you mind if I have another drink?

Surprised that he's asking for permission first, I said - Well, just give me ten minutes so I can think about it.

We looked at each other smirking and I said - Yeah, yeah, just help yourself.

Then he said - And do you have any bourbon?

And we both laughed and he went to the fridge to get some more chocolate milk.

They are such nice boys, and so easy to talk to. The Man said, You don't know that they are not doing drugs, robbing banks, and killing cats when you are not with them.

True. I don't know that. But if they are doing those things, at least they would be polite while doing them.

Timelessness

I feel liberated. I am freed from the snare of Chin P'ing Mei. I finished the three inches of book, all 863 pages in 10 point print. The plum blossom has been plucked.

Yet, I feel unanchored, like I've been cast out of the cruel corruptions and petty fights of Ming Dynasty China, no longer privy to the secrets and trysts of Hsi Men's household and its inhabitants. Never mind that they all died at the end of the melodrama.

Day time soaps have nothing on these people and their intrigues for money, power, loyalty and sex.

In my world, there are not so much as secrets but known things that we choose not to say to each other. For example, sometimes I would like to go to my pilates class on my own and not have go with my two friends each time. My friends must feel the same way, but we don't tell each other that. Every once in a while, we somehow just show up to class by ourselves.

In my world, some things are not so different from 16th Century China. Fortunes are made and lost overnight depending on who supports you and who's against you. Ever worked for someone who is determined they don't want you in their office? Ever worked in a company where the director likes you and promotes you to all kinds of positions?

Everyone has their own rationales and reasons, and some people resort to deceit or self-delusional honesty to get what they want. Why else is Bush increasing forces in Iraq?

I guess that's why the Bible, Shakespeare, Dickens and Rumi are still so popular. There are just some universal truths about the human spirit and condition that transcend time and culture.

I am now going to tackle The Three Kingdoms and All Men Are Brothers. Which to read first? They are both waiting for me on my book shelf. Hey, when I am done with these, I will be like a Chinese scholar, having read all five classics.

Painted Flowers

For the past two weeks, I've been absorbed in a book called Chin P'ing Mei, literally meaning "metal vase plum blossom". It is a book of manners, where the writer describes in detail the social rituals and etiquette of births, marriages, ranks and promotions, death, justice, revenge and retribution, and bribery in ancient China. It is also the story of a wealthy merchant and his six wives and their sexual exploits. For that reason, the book was banned in China until the 20th Century. China touts four great works of classical literature. Chin P'ing Mei is often considered the fifth.

The main character, Hsi Men, sleeps regularly with his six wives, four of their maids, and two of their servant's wives. He keeps mistresses in town and visits brothels. In the book, these brothels are referred to as "houses of joy" or "flower gardens". The women who work in them are referred to as "painted flowers".

Last night, The Man brought home a bouquet of flowers for me. He's just like that. The flowers were brilliantly coloured. I have never seen flowers with a yellow centre and orange petals. Of particular interest were two clusters of fuchsia daisies with white stripes through them.

I trimmed the flowers and arranged them in a vase. When I finished, I noticed that my fingertips were fuchsia, the same colour as the unusual daisies. Hah. Real painted flowers.

A Blathering

I can't say that I enjoyed reading French Women Don't Get Fat. The gist of the book is, eat anything you want, but eat only one bite, and the author saying, I'm skinny because I'm French. I know, the title of the book kind of gave that away. But it's disconcerting to find that really is what she's saying.

But there is one thing in the book I liked. And that is eat nothing but leek soup for a whole weekend. Not vichyssoise. Just leeks cooked in water. I like this soup. I have this brilliant idea that I should try to eat this soup every weekend and not fuss too much about what I eat during the week. I guess it's this kind of lazy dieting that gained me 10 lbs over the holidays. Maybe I'll throw in some exercise if I have to. And the entertaining every weekend has got to stop. After next weekend.

The Boy came home last night after all. I dropped him off at Drummer Friend's for the night on Thursday. They were practising for their Friday exam. After the exam, he was going to hook up with Butterfly Boy and spend the night at his house in celebration of the end of exams. Friday night, I was hosting my book club meeting, The Man was having dinner with Architect. We were settled for the night.

During our book club dinner, The Boy checked in. He said he ended up at Singinggirl's where Butterfly Boy and others was spending the day. He wasn't sure if he was going to Butterfly Boy's for the night and may just come home. One of my friends said, So he's carrying his overnight pack around the city and looking for a place to crash?

I guess that's what in effect happened. But bless The Boy, he took my cell phone with him so I could get in touch with him, and he checks in regularly.

Over dinner, the book club members insist that every teenager by the time they reach 16, has tried smoking pot. I wasn't sure if The Boy had. So when he got home, I asked him. He said yes! He tried it last year. Whoa. Why am I so surprised? Neither The Man nor I made a fuss. Then The Boy said he and his friends are not smokers or drinkers, mainly because no one supplies drugs and alcohol and they are simply not into it. But there was an opportunity to try pot last year and he did out of curiosity. That was all.

I've been sleeping better the last few nights. I think the secret for me is separate blankets. Two bodies get really hot under a down duvet. I wake up from sweat a few times a night. Now I have my own silk padded comforter. It breathes. I sleep through the night.

Now I am being harassed to get ready to go to a restaurant supply store. I have no idea what The Man wants to get there. It's not like we operate a restaurant.

The Things I Do

The Boy is in exams this week. This morning, he ran off to his friend's to practise their drumming. Their band exam is tomorrow.

At 2 pm, he phoned. Neither he nor Friend has money, no one is home at Friend's, they have no instant food in the house, and they don't know how to nor do they want to cook. Not only that, but they want to have sushi at the restaurant we frequent. The restaurant is right by Friend's house so could I drive down to Friend's to give them money. This is after he closed his bedroom door and put up a sign that says "Off Limits, Mom!"

I said no, I can't come down, I am busy right now.

But these are young guys in their teen years, in need of more sleep and more mindless than the rest of the population. So I did my mom thing.

I phoned the restaurant and asked if they would take my Visa number and charge the boys' meal to it. They said yes. So that's how I fed the boys from a distance.

Abort, Abort Mission

Last night was one of those rare nights The Man and I both felt friendly at the same time. We were under the covers and friendly to a state of complete undress. The Man leaned over me.

Suddenly, The Boy burst into our room clutching his head, moaning, No...no. Then he plopped himself on our bed and pulled the covers over him.

It happened in a blink. In that second, The Man and I separated and I tucked the duvet around The Boy. Under the pretext of rearranging and fluffing up the duvet, I slipped my pajamas back on. The Man got up, pulled his pants on, and got some water for The Boy.

Then The Boy went back to his bed, leaving his bedroom door open.

The Man also left our door open in case The Boy has another nightmare. Then we settled back into bed eyes wide. He said, Let's just go to sleep. I said, Yes, let's. He fell asleep. I went downstairs and read for a couple of hours. I am exhausted this morning.

My Men

We went for coffee with our neighbour, Architect, today. When we are out together and we run into people we know, I sometimes tell them one is my husband, the other is my boyfriend.

Architect is always neatly groomed. I think he preens though he would never admit it. The Man generally looks good, though depending on his mood, he can look like a boorish jerk to sophisticated dandy. But when The Man and Architect go out together, they are often mistaken as gay men.

We walked along Queen Street today. I noticed other men looking at them. I stood back to take in the effect. Architect looked dashing, with a black leather jacket, jeans, and pointy cowboy boots. The Man looked intellectual and outdoorsy, with a thick red sweater, jeans, muckers, and hair flying in the wind. Two grey-haired, bearded men walking side by side, enjoying each other's company.

It made me laugh, and I had an urge to pimp them.

And how did I fit in with them? I didn't. I was invisible beside them, looking like I was not associated with them at all. And besides, I was feeling like the dog's breakfast that the cat spat out. Serves me right for not showering this morning.

Eyeing For A Daughter

Sometimes I wonder what The Boy will be like on a date. Thing is, he's smart and good looking, has wit and talent. At 16, he could pass for 13, so he's innocent looking too. Little kids adore him, older people find him charming. He's respectful but is driven by the need to have a good time and be cool.

When he spends time with male friends, he often books them back to back, giving nary a thought to homework, sleep or his parents. He thinks I'm strict because I insist he phones home regularly when he's out. But that's okay. He has friends whose parents require the same of them.

So yesterday, he went to Dancegirl 1's to study for Biology. That's the course he's not doing well in. Dancegirl 1 is a straight A student, got 96 in Biology. The Boy has picked a good partner to study with. Only, he made tentative plans to go from Dancegirl 1's straight to Singinggirl 1's after studying.

At 4 pm, Singinggirl 1 and her best friend, Singinggirl 2 phoned to confirm their plans. I told them I would pass on their message. Curly and Butterfly Boy also phoned to see what The Boy's doing. At 6 pm, The Boy phoned to say he's staying at Dancegirl 1's for dinner, then heading to her best friend's, Dancegirl 2, to continue studying. I relayed all his messages.

I know teenagers do things in groups, are casual about getting together, and change plans last minute. I know I see the convolution because I insist on knowing where The Boy is and who he's with.

But here's where the mother in me kicks in. I like Dancinggirl 1, even though I have never met her. I like that she's a dance major, I like that she gets good grades. I like that The Boy travels to the subway stop near her house and she and her mom pick him up. I like that Dancegirl's dad was going to surprise her mom with dinner by ordering in pizza and wings, over orders, and asks The Boy to stay. I like that he studies with the Dancegirls. I like that he phoned home when he left their house, that they drove him to the subway, and he got home by 11 pm as promised.

I now also know I am scrutinizing for daughter-in-law prospects.

Gruffy Guy

Last month, The Man and I tried out a new steakhouse on St. Clair. To promote the restaurant, the owners had a game where at the end of the meal, you get to pick a card. Each card represents an item on the menu. The Man won a 12 0z filet mignon, valued at $25.95.

Tonight, we went back to the restaurant for dinner so we could use up the voucher before it expires. At the restaurant, we ran into Gruffy Guy, a friend The Man knows in the hood. They met when they protested against McDonald's trying to put in a drive-thru at St. Clair and Christie.

Gruffy Guy is a long-haired, bearded, over-weight, old hippie. He played bass in the 70's with a band called Southern Comfort. Apparently, they were quite big in North America. But right now, he's doing odd jobs here and there, including being sound technician (he was the The Boy's sound man at Zemra and other community gigs when The Boy was with the Green Jazzberries), cleaner at the karate studio, cross-walk guard, among other things.

Apparently, he doesn't need money, he just wants to keep busy. He's gruffy l0oking and is always in a plaid shirt, jeans and construction boots. He wears a short pony tail and has frayed white hair. You'd never think he was more than a street sweeper. But he's articulate and funny when you talk to him.

He was having dinner at the steakhouse also, so he came to our table to chat. He told us about what he's been doing. In the course of our conversation, he said two things that made our jaws drop. He said,

.... I was jamming with Peter Noones. He lives in Mississauga. (Noones is the lead singer of the Herman's Hermits. The Man and I went all the way to Casino Rama to see him two years ago.)

... I went to Prince's house for a party the other night. (The Man inquired about how Prince decorates his house and we got a description of it.)

The things you find out about people in the hood.

What The?

It's too weird.

I separated my male and female fish a few weeks ago. Two weeks after that, my red platy gave birth. I thought, okay, she got pregnant before I separated her.

It's been two weeks now since she had the last birth. There were seven baby platys. The male platys have been living in a separate tank.

Today, I found four new infant platys in the tank. She gave birth again? Where did those platys come from? They are definitely not from the birth two weeks ago. They are much smaller than those fry.

Can a fish give birth two weeks apart for the same pregnancy? Was there an immaculate conception? What are the fish doing?

Imaginary Suffering

"I've been through a lot in life, and some of those things actually happened." - Mark Twain

I like this quote by Mark Twain. The idea resonates so well in all my discussions with Dr. Noggins.

Today, I started to talk to him about my nightmares and what they may be telling me about why I'm not working. One thing led to another, he asked me about my relationship with my grandmother, I told him about my rescue syndrome, he said he felt my saying I didn't want my grandmother to feel her efforts had been in vain was significant, I said I think my paralysis has to do with my believing my options are either being a failure or being a fraud and I don't want neither.

It was a complicated session.

I still can't sort out what we were talking about and how we came to talk about it. But now I wonder, how much of what we feel is real? Is anything real? Rather than gaining insight into myself, I think I understand better what Buddhists mean when they say everything is transient. We suffer when we form attachment to the illusion of permanence.

New Leaf?

I almost applied for a job last week as returning officer in our ward for Elections Canada. It's a part time gig with a 10 year appointment. But as the date of the deadline drew near, I started having nightmares each night. Nightmares of being overwhelmed, of coming up against mysterious obstacles in things I normally excel at doing, of things falling through my hand and disappearing, of not fitting in. Nightmares that woke me in the middle of the night with a pounding heart that won't let me go back to sleep.

I don't know what that's about. They stopped when I decided I wouldn't apply for the job. Maybe it's not the kind of work I want. So now, what then? I feel I am ready to get back to work.

Maybe I need to take a couple of steps back and go through the process of evaluating what kind of work I want to do and what kind of work environment I want to work in. That'll be my main task for January.

I confess now I look forward to school starting tomorrow and having the house back to myself during the day. I've spent all week trying to organize The Boy to attend appointments while he is out of school. The Man has gone into some snit where he pretends I don't live here. This is an untouchable mood for me and I've learned to leave him there.

So I can't wait to have them both out of the house during the day and see if I can make better use of my time this year.

Tonight, She Flies!

Tonight, la Befana flies! January 6 is her night.

La Befana is Italy's Christmas witch. The story goes that la Befana was a little old lady who lived in a little cottage in the woods. She was an exceptional housekeeper and knew it. She also had magic powers and could talk to the animals and birds in the forest. A very self-satisfied queen of the forest, she was.

One day, three men knocked on her door. They said they were lost, looking for the baby Jesus. La Befana didn't know where the baby was but invited the three men to spend the night at her cottage. Such a gracious hostess she was, and kept such a clean and charming home.

The next day, the three men resumed their journey and invited la Befana to join their search for the baby Jesus. But la Befana declined, saying she had too much work to do. After all, she had to clean up after her guests. The three wise men went on their way, la Befana cleaned up. She was a bit of a buffoon that way, hence her name, Befana.

Later, la Befana wondered if she had made the right choice. She decided she hadn't. This was her Epiphany. So she set off after the men in search of the baby Jesus. Alas, she could find no trace of the wise men. She decided she would look for the baby on her own. So she got on her broom and flew looking around.

La Befana flew down the chimney of every house where a child lived and left a present in the child's stocking, just in case that was the baby Jesus.

Over the years, her story evolved. She leaves behind candies and presents for children who had been good, and lumps of coal for children who had been bad.

That's right. La Befana is Italy's female Saint Nicholas, who was an old man with a walking stick and a sack before Coca Cola turned him into a jolly fat fellow in a red suit.

This year, our Befana hag choir was filmed by Omni TV during our preparation for Winter Solstice. Four of us were interviewed for an Italian news program. Tonight, being the night of la Befana, Omni TV aired the feature. I missed it. So Befana. But I am told I look great in it. I am told they dubbed me so Italian comes out of my mouth! I want to see whether they kept in the part where the interviewer called me the Chinese Befana.

Now we will use our magic to make the TV station to give us the news clip.

Being Strangers

It's been a week of people watching.

In a restaurant one day, I saw a tall man and a short girl get seated. At first, I thought they were father and daughter, the man was so much taller, the girl so short and young. But after they removed their coats, hats and scarves, there was no notable age differential on their faces, and seated, their height differential was unremarkable too. The father and daughter became a young couple in their twenties. The man was not old and bald, his head was fashionably shaven; the girl was not young, she was wearing a purple frilly scarf with a furry hat that I usually associate with little girls.

My bad. But evidently, I continued to stare and stare, because after a while, the man started to look self-conscious, like he knew he was being stared at, by me. It was that discomfort that made me realize why I was still staring at him. He looked like Paul Bernardo when Bernardo was arrested! Which explains why I was asking myself, Shouldn't he be in jail? Is she his next victim?

But no, of course it was not him. I forced myself to look away and wake up. It was just someone who looked like him. Maybe I was staring with guardedness, fear, curiosity, maybe even hostility. No wonder he looked uncomfortable.

The next person who caught my eye was in the subway. I still don't know if that person is male or female. What I saw was a tall, young, thin person with fragile features, close cropped hair, wearing a baggy parka, jeans and construction boots. S/he wore studs in both ears and had delicate hands, not indicative of gender these days. I looked for an Adam's apple. There wasn't one. I looked for breasts. There were none. I looked for feminine movements. None came. I looked for facial hair. I couldn't see any. Androgny never looked so real. No doubt I stared and stared at this person too and s/he might have noticed if s/he hadn't been so absorbed in affecting nonchalance.

Walking down the street one day, I saw a little guy wear a snug-fitting army jacket with the collar turned up, tight jeans, running shoes. He had a bit of a duck tail, if curly hair can be duck-tailed. With hands in his jean pockets, he swaggered! I swear the little guy was no more than ten-years-old.

And then there was the man I fell in love with. He was in a restaurant with two young boys. His sons maybe. He looked familiar. I kept staring at him, trying to decide if he's someone I used to work with, or if he's a TV anchor, now older. He's that well-groomed and handsome. Then he started to stare back. I know it's because I was staring at him and he was staring back to figure out why I was staring. It was very distracting and I could barely stay tuned to conversations with my companions. I decided I didn't know this man and I stared at him only because he was good looking.

His Own Person

This week, The Boy is applying for a new photo health card, a social insurance number, and a new passport. His identity is now completely separate from me.

Incredible.

Cleansing In The Rain

Those Japanese. They really know how to bring in the new year. They climb Mt. Fuji to greet the dawn. That means they climb a mountain in the middle of the night, in the dark, on the first night of the new year, to get to the summit by dawn.

Here at home, the Toronto Buddhist Church sends monks to Ontario Place where they literally ring in the new year. The monks and guests ring Ontario Place's giant bell 108 times before midnight to signify...

curbing the 108 bonno (mortal desires) which, according to Buddhist belief, torment humankind. It is hoped that with each reverberation the bad experiences, wrong deeds, and ill luck of the past year will be wiped away. Thus, tolling heralds the start of a prosperous and joyous New Year.

So that's where we wanted to end up on New Year's Eve - at Ontario Place, for the tolling of the bell at 11:30 pm.

But we didn't make it.

We started the evening with friends, 13 of us, at The Second City Bird Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest. That is, "bird flu", and the "cuckoo's nest" being the city. The show was good, all the better because we were watching it with friends. It ended with a glass of champagne and a toast to the new year. As a parting gift, the theatre gave each patron a pair of champagne flutes in a red box.

Outside the theatre, it was spitting, and it was only 9:30. Someone had the idea we should walk to Harbourfront anyway for exercise, then drive to Ontario Place after. So nine of us set out, one with skates, one with a knapsack of champagne and glasses just in case.

The spitting turned to pouring. The less stout of heart may complain about the rain and the less sturdy of foot may whine about being wet, but I liked it. I've always liked walking in the rain, though maybe not with my winter wool coat on, and certainly with rain boots. One of the women had sandals on. Few of us had hats. We were like university students roaming the streets at night, and if we knew a gang of our children walked across muddy lawns in the rain at night, we would certainly chide them for doing so.

On the way to Harbourfront, we invaded the CBC building to use their washrooms. That's what happens when most of your travelling companions are over 50. We surprised the security guard, who sized us up and down to determine if we were trouble. I said, "No, we're not hoodlums. We're just over 50." And my friend said, "And we need to use the washroom."

Despite walking under awnings and ducking under a bridge, we got soaked. But god, it was refreshing. The skating rink at Harbourfront has an organic shape. That is, it's not square. It's more...lakey, with a bend that wraps around a balcony where on dry days, you can sit, drink hot chocolate, look down at the skaters, and look out to the lake.

It was quite enchanting actually, to stand on that balcony, under shallow roof peaks and look across dark waters at night on New Year's Eve. Two party boats with strands of lights glided across our view like apparitions in a dream. I couldn't help think of the little mermaid listening to music from the boat where the prince was hosting a dance. But I knew it was probably tacky on those boats in the Toronto harbour and I was glad The Man was with me.

On this wet night, our sole skater strapped his skates on and went for a few spins. We cheered from the balcony. If there weren't so many of us complaining and The Man being hungry, I might have rented skates too and joined him. Might have.

The rain abated and we walked back to our cars, a brisker walk this time, in anticipation of the rain reasserting itself. We agreed to meet at one of the women's house to bring in the new year. The four of us who came in the same car drove off. But The Man demanded burger and fries so we stopped at the only place where we could find parking - not too far from the Wheatsheaf Tavern on Bathurst where I used to go for ice tea and wings after rock climbing.

It started to pour again and we scrambled into the tavern noisy and dripping. There were only a few people in there, looking like lonely dejected souls watching TV and waiting for the new year to pass. Do bars always look so cliche on new year's eve? I have never seen the Wheatsheaf so empty. But hey, their menu said on Sunday nights, except when there is a special event, wings are half price.

"Not tonight," said the waiter, who looked like Kevin Federline.

"It's 11:00. What special event do you have here?"

"It's New Year's Eve."

I ordered wings any way for old time's sake.

At 11:35, we settled the bill and ran through the rain again back to the car. Mindful of the time, we tumbled through our friend's front door at 11:55. Her husband poured us each a glass of sparkling and we toasted to the new year at midnight. One of the women opened the front door to let out the old year and let in the new.

Then we went home, picking up The Boy at his friend's on the way.

That's how we didn't make it to the bell tolling. But surely, the rain cleansed us just as much.

Happy New Year!

May your days be filled with good health, prosperity, beauty and wakeful joy!

Excess

I guess I didn't know when to stop.

I've been feeling tired. Yesterday, I wondered how I would get through the visit to SIL's in Hamilton, go out with friends on New Year's Eve, and host another party for my neighbours next week. Then I checked my horoscope. The silly thing said during this holiday season, I am prone to excess socializing, and that while I should enjoy myself, I should try not to overdo it so as not to over tax my health.

Excess? That's what I've been feeling. I'm ending the year with excess socializing.

I am glad I am also a procrastinator. That party for my neighbours? I actually haven't confirmed the date with them yet. I am relieved about that now. I think I will delay that party for a few weeks and not try to cram it in during the school break. It's also nice to get together for no reason in the middle of winter.

One Wakeful Moment

I remember an episode of Barney Miller years ago where Barney tried to support one of his officers through a difficult time. I noted how simple the exchange was and thought maybe men really do have a different way of communicating.

I think the exchange went something like this. The officer stayed late at work and Barney was surprised to see him still there. Knowing he was going through a difficult time, Barney said, "You okay?" The officer said, "Yeah." Barney said, "Umm, you want to grab a beer?" The office thought for a split sec and said, "Some other time." Barney gets his coat to leave, turns around and said, "Don't stay too late." The officer nods. As Barney is about to close the door, the officer calls out, "Hey Barney..." Barney stops and looks back. The officer said, "Thanks."

That was it. On the surface, an exchange that could have happened every night as fellow co-workers said goodnight to each other. Yet it was understood that exchange was meaningful to both Barney and the officer, and they would have no need to talk about it again. I've seen The Man communicate with his friends in similar, subtle ways. No show of emotion, condescension, or embarrassment. An intention of support that folded naturally in the unfolding of the day.

At my dinner party last night, I had a similar exchange with my friend who lost her husband. I asked her how her Christmas was. She said the usual, It was nice, spent it with extended family, had sleepovers. Then she said, I had this week off. After all the busyness of Christmas, I had time to go for coffee and do nothing. I guess I've intentionally kept busy. But with nothing to do, I felt Husband's absence.

I said, I thought about you often this Christmas. I know what a big event Christmas has been for you. You have the tree-trimming party and Husband and his band sing. I wondered how you were doing.

Then we were interrupted by new arrivals. After greeting my guests. I turned back to her, gave her a hug, and said, I'm glad you're here.

After that, we joked about this and that for the rest of the night as if we didn't have that exchange.

The Meals That Bind Us

It's not Thanksgiving, but there are a few things I am thankful for right now.

My mother-in-law made it out of the hospital and home for Christmas. We even visited her in Port Hope yesterday. She is weak and tires easily, but she is back to her old commanding self, which caused The Man to come home with a shoulder stress ache! She is a formidable woman that way.

Despite that, we had a nice visit because The Man loves his mom and I was let loose in the kitchen! At one point, I said to him, "Don't let your mother come into the kitchen. She will suffer great emotional stress if she sees how I am cooking." After dinner, I cleaned up and put everything away. She might have suspected, but she never saw the chaos in her kitchen. Yup, I spared her another hospitalization.

I am thankful for good friends. We had a splendid Boxing Day dinner with good friends. No one complained about the food despite my fudging with the recipes and coming up with dishes I will never be able to replicate. I enjoy the company of these friends, and I especially like how easily the adults talk to the teenagers to make them feel included and at ease. The Boy even managed to get everyone involved in a few games of Scatergories, much to his delight.

I am planning for tomorrow night's dinner with my book club and their families. This group of women and their spouses are a challenge to cook for. We can only serve gluten-free, lactose-free, seafood-free food. And no nuts or peaches. We can only drink sulphite-free wine, which we have determines is Australian wine. So what do you eat, The Boy asked. Meat and vegetables, in their most basic presentations.

But tomorrow, there is an added twist. Two of the guests are vegetarians. You know how difficult it is to cook vegetarian without wheat or dairy? Still, I'm up to the challenge. Wonder what I'll come up with.