the cheese chronicles

Was awakened at six by a scrabbling sound right outside my bedroom window. What the ... I opened my window and was face to face with a raccoon, obviously thwarted by the freshly-laid axle grease on his usual downspout, climbing up the other downspout next to my bedroom. As I said, the beasts are invincible. Today I bought a fresh supply of axle grease for the creature's new highway. The man in the hardware store tried to sell me $50 worth of spikey things, but when he heard my simple and inexpensive plan, said he was going to recommend the grease solution to others. Let's hear it for axle grease. Mind you, after this post, I'm Googling "How to remove axle grease from clothing."

After the hardware store I went to the little deli the Epicure on Parliament Street for bread, and wandered over to their cheese display, which I usually ignore. Well bless my buttons - not bad at all. I bought a Morbier, a chevre and some Canadian Oka and had them, nicely softened, after lunch. Forget all that about not bothering to buy and eat cheese - that was a brief moment of discouragement and madness. There will be cheese. A friend just told me about a great cheese shop, specialising in Quebecois cheeses, on Church Street, not far from here. There's good cheese everywhere in Toronto, I just wasn't looking in the right places.

Lunch, by the way, after a grocery shop at No Frills, was three of of North America's greatest contributions to world cuisine: grilled hamburger with ketchup and fresh corn. I have missed corn, and, yes, ketchup. Yum.

Before that I went for my usual half-hearted, meandering jogette down our side of Riverdale Park and up the other side, to Riverdale Hill, where there's an extraordinary view of the high rise towers of downtown Toronto. What I do miss and need is the open sky, so cherish places where it's visible, that comforting canopy. The other side of the park is one.

This morning, I woke to an almost silent city. It's the Sunday of a long weekend, a hot, sunny long weekend when most of the city is at the cottage and the Don Valley Parkway nearby, for once, is nearly quiet. Oh my friends, despite the raccoon outside my window, despite the chaos here, the mountains of clothes to give away or sell, the rotting basement, the overgrown garden, the lack of sky - it is unbelievably good to be home.

Friend Bruce called this afternoon, to tell me he and his brother Stan and sister-in-law Carolyn are still following this blog faithfully. I thought that now there are no exciting overseas adventures and great art to note, my readers would vanish. But perhaps, a bit of ordinary chronicling isn't too dull. A lifelong diarist, I no longer keep a diary, I keep a blog, so it's still is important to me, despite the time it takes, to keep track of the day to day in this public way.

Stan, Carolyn, Bruce and whoever else is out there, if you're still up for reading, I'm still up for writing.

For now.

settling in and munching

Already Canadian-ness is setting in. I find myself nibbling all day long, eating at any old hour in any old order. Soon it'll be back to grilled cheese sandwiches as my hot cooked meal. Well, perhaps not, but I'm certainly backsliding. It also has to do, of course, with living alone. Who can be bothered to get the cheese out to warm before the meal, just for oneself? For that matter, who can be bothered to buy a lot of great cheeses when you're going to be enjoying them alone?

I'm not complaining. As you have gathered by now, solitude is vital to my well-being. But it does affect my eating habits, whereas on my travels, I was either with others, in England and in Gordes, or alone in France able to buy delicious food already prepared. Here, it's back to the labour of planning, shopping, cooking; back to not being interested.

Which is a shame, because I'm still throwing out clothes, and one reason I'm doing so is that I lost a bit of weight in France and am getting rid of my droopier things. I didn't believe it either, kept getting on and off the scales at the Y to be sure - but I lost at least a kilo on the French cheese/chocolate/rosé diet. I guess the loss came from eating with care and relish and also much walking, weeding and worrying. A kilo was probably sweated off the day I left my bag on the train, and never returned.

But now - not so much care and relish, weeding and walking - (the same amount of worrying, but about different things). So perhaps I shouldn't be tossing quite so many clothes, as I'm sure to regain what vanished in France, especially as winter approaches, fresh fruit becomes harder to find or afford, and exercise, except for shovelling, is more elusive too. Oh well. For a few brief shining moments, I was at my ideal weight, thanks to smelly cheese and marching about.

The Toronto Film Festival is about to open, and the Palestinian film I saw in Montpellier, The time that remains, plus the new Almadovor, neither of which I liked much, are going to open here. So we'll see what the Canadian critics, or you, say.

On this glorious hot sunny Saturday, I did an unpleasant chore - I smeared axel grease on my downspouts and picked up raccoon waste. Every morning I've been doing battle with the one raccoon, or sometimes the three, who sleep huddled in a corner of my upstairs deck; now I'm trying to make it impossible for them to climb up - and relieve themselves - there. The spout they use as a ladder is covered with thick grey grease. Take that, raccoons! But they're smart and stubborn. Don't bet too much on the human being.

Then I rode my bike down to the lake to visit Ben, the husband of my dear friend Sarah who died while I was in France. This is a man who has been through a nearly unbearable ordeal this last while, and all I could think to do was offer to take him out in the sun in his brand new wheelchair. Vigourous Ben lost not only his wife of 62 years, but shortly before, to fight his own cancer, he had his right arm amputated and almost lost the use of his legs because of the chemo he endured. We went along the waterfront, enjoying the crowds, heat and breeze though not the deafening American jets flying above, performing for the Canadian public. We sat in silence and then talked a bit about Sarah. Ben is a brilliant man of dignity, energy and pride. I cannot imagine spending an entire lifetime, from adolescence, with a helpmate and soulmate at work as well as at home, and then to lose her and independence and mobility too. They were a couple who argued only once in my hearing, about the amount of sugar to put in the jam they were making. "We almost never fought," Ben said today. A true partnership and a most happy marriage.

My heart is with him.

feeling free

Sitting on the deck in the hot late afternoon sun, swatting at wasps, listening to the cardinal make his rounds, smelling the mildewed bedding roast. A glass of red, a big ratatouille in the fridge - one happy woman.

What a fine country this is, even with the cold and calculating Stephen Harper running it. Toronto is so big! There's so much space, so much air, a sense of freedom. Yes, most streets of this city are ugly, but I love the casualness of life here. Imagine trying to tell a Canadian that there's a right and wrong way to cut his cheddar. He'd think you're mad.

All this to say - regular visits to Europe are I believe a necessity for the soul, to spend time in countries where what human beings have wrought through the centuries is both beautiful and respected. I have come home nourished to my very core. But I'm also glad to live in a country so open to the future, unbound by the past. It just feels unfettered and free.

And - be still my beating heart - my neighbour's son has just told me he's running a gourmet cheese shop which specialises in French cheeses. I may never leave home again.

I've spent a gruelling day beginning the great throw-out, and at this point I am thoroughly disgusted with myself. Friends kindly called me a packrat, but I was a hoarder, a sick person piling up stuff. Going to the Goodwill and then the Doubletake second-hand store around the corner was one of my daily treats, my hobby. I just kept buying for years, for decades - vintage chachkas, clothing for me and all my friends, coffee table books, junk. And now it's all here and I've got to pile it up and get it out. The spare room is packed just with clothes to get rid of, much more to come. What use was all that stuff? It wasn't that I needed it, no - it was that I needed to collect it. Something new to look at, to fondle, to try on.

Well, I don't need it any more. OUT! Soon I will feel free not just in my city but in my closet.

homemaker's bliss

Lunch today: pork roast, broccoli and fresh new peas. Supper: just-made ratatouille followed by cheese with whole wheat sourdough bread from the Riverdale Farm farmer's market yesterday, with an Italian red. No one is here to say, "Elle est bonne, ta ratatouille." But she is.

Bet you didn't think I'd be reporting on culinary delights here in Canada. I spent half an hour today reading a thick, impressive magazine left here by my tenants, the 2009 Toronto Life Guide to Eating and Drinking, and it was an eye-opener. I've ignored all the foodie developments in this city, the chocolatiers, the bakeries, the cheese shops, not to mention the restaurants. Here I am moaning because I've left all that good stuff behind, when it's all here. Not as easy to find as in France, but all I have to do is make the effort to find it. And I will.

En plus, friends are showering me with goodies. This afternoon I opened the front door to find a tray of mangoes, with a note: "Welcome home - the mango lady." The mango lady is Bernie, a dear friend, who took me last year to Little India to buy the special mangoes that only come in at this time of year. Today, unfortunately, I had guests and had to share them, because I want to keep them all for myself. They're sublime.

I did not eat mangoes in France.

For those of you who've been following the ups and downs of the last months, an update: Jerry the plumber came today. No disastrous scenario, digging down into the basement, major excavation, no - I needed a new sump pump and because of the flood, will need to lay a new basement floor. And that's all. Quel relief. Unfortunately, anything stored down there is now powdered with mildew, so there are about fifteen loads of laundry to be done. On the list.

My daughter and her friend Holly who's setting up and opening her own daycare in a few weeks came over to help unpack and sort. Eventually a friend of my son's hauled a whole truck's worth across town for the girls - a chair, a bed, some shelves, bags and bags of other stuff. The great get-rid-of has begun. God, it feels good. Get this stuff OUT OF HERE! Give it to someone who needs it!

Dave who helps with the garden materialised early this morning to bag the yard waste and put it out for pickup. Bill the toothless homeless man with long grey hair came by to wash my windows and clean out the eavestroughs. The household staff are back at work. And tomorrow I see my bank manager to figure out how to pay for all this, and five months in Europe besides.

Cycle Solutions pumped up my bike tires and I had a ride around the neighbourhood. There's a new caution in the air because of the fatal motorist/cyclist confrontation last night downtown. I'll be careful - but I've got my wheels. Wheels, ratatouille, no yard waste and sparkling windows - who could ask for anything more?

P.S. Meant to report - I saw Julie and Julia in Ottawa with my mother and aunt, and we all loved it. Meryl Street is heavenly (brave is the young actress who take on the job of the story parallel to hers) and so is the film, which is about love and companionship, determination and courage more than it is about food. But there's lots of great food. One of the things I liked best is that there is absolutely no mention of Julia Child's size. She's a big woman and very tall, her husband is thin and shorter, and this is a matter of absolutely no significance to them or anyone else. Ah, the good old days, before cadaverous models were foisted on us as beauty.

Beauty is Meryl Streep as Julia Child tasting food in France.

more home

This morning, after a deep sleep, I awoke at 7 to hear the sparrows singing in the ivy outside. From bed, I pushed back the curtain to watch them flitting from branch to branch, to see the sun rising, the tops of the trees. I am in my own bed, I keep repeating; those sparrows live in my garden. This is my house.

Downstairs to make coffee and breakfast in my own kitchen, as the sun streams in the back door. At the moment, with no tenant either above or below, all is quiet and solitary here. Still woozy with jet lag, I've managed to unpack the bags from France and begin to pay bills, make lists, get organised; my wonderful cleaning lady came yesterday and we got things shining and in order. When the phone rings, it's for me. I know where things are; when I sat down on the sofa with the newspaper, my reading glasses were right where I'd left them five months ago. Every time I venture outside, someone stops me to say, "Welcome back!"

Bit by bit, I'll begin to figure out what's different. Food, for one thing: I made a pork roast yesterday, cooked some broccoli, sat down to a proper meal, which I certainly would not have done before France. There's new confidence in my physical self, my clothes - not that I am wearing trendy French things, the opposite - what I learned there is that if your clothes make you feel good, if they're more or less the right colour and cut for you, if you present yourself with ease and confidence, you'll look good no matter what you actually put on your body. That's new, too.

I'm appalled by the amount of stuff here, way, way too much of everything; my goal is to get rid of half of it. Perhaps having stuff around was a kind of security, like taking too much stuff to France - what if I need this? Don't need it.

But mostly, right now, I appreciate every aspect of my life here, the simplest things - the CBC, which seems now to be entirely young men playing soft rock or folk; opening the front door to find the Star and the Globe; the streetcars, filthy as they are (are they not cleaned at night?); my street and neighbours, internet connection, telephone, shower - my own shower, with its notable absence of water pressure - just the same. The desk I'm writing on right now, with the morning sun pouring through the window, the flickering shadow of leaves on the computer keys. The weather has been a gift - perfect early fall days, sun with a hint of chill.

Most importantly, last night my son organised a celebration of his dead friend; they planted a tree in D.'s honour and gathered to toast him. In the middle, he called me to say how hard it has been for him recently; he was in shock for so long and now is truly feeling his friend's death, the fact that they were asleep in the same room when D. died. He is in terrible pain, he called me, I answered. I am in the same town, at the end of the telephone line, able to say, I know how you must be feeling, I'm so sorry to hear that.

I love you very much, I said.

I love you too, he said. Talk to you tomorrow.

I will go away again and come back again. But of all the joys of my return, being close to my children is what matters most.