Hard Few Days

 

Everybody knows the boat is leaking. Everybody knows the captain lied. 

I’m having a hard time. I’m listening to my lyrical hero: Leonard Cohen. He reminds me of Bourdain. I’m still not over his suicide. It made sense. All smart people are depressed. I’m drinking expensive white wine and diluting it with club soda - because it’s noon and a spritzer doesn’t seem as shameful. 

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I never used to drink, but that was because I lived with an alcoholic. Now that he’s gone, I drink (not usually during the day, but I have been drinking every day for a while now). It always feels like a treat, and that’s how he thought of it too. I am trying to be careful not to have more than 3 a night. Three is still too many. I’m not bored but I am lonely. I am busy and I fill my time so that all day, every day, there is something to get done. I miss the distraction of a partner.  I miss his playlist. I miss the constant presence of a silent partner. I miss being able to blame someone. I miss planning a future. I miss the prospect of children. 

The other day, I overheard someone ask a friend, “ what’s the first thing that comes to your mind when I say: marriage”. Immediately the word confinement came to me. I’ve been thinking about that since. It makes me kind of upset that I didn’t think of ‘love’ or anything remotely typical. I know I am weird and different. I am a loner. I am happy alone. 

There are times when I cry because I am lonely, and because I am conflicted: I want my independence. I don’t want to answer to anyone or compromise my time, my wants or my needs. However, there are times when I just want a friend to stop by and give me a hug, bring me a bottle of wine to share and drink together, mull over the world, and life. 

When I have a shitty day, that’s when I realize I need friends. Many of them are far away and busy. I blame my social media. I over-post and infiltrate all streams. People see my every move, and every meal. They think they know how I am doing and what I am up to. Those posts are begging for attention. I try to keep this in mind when I see friends postings and I try to reach out regularly. I don’t do a good job. 

Today my post garnered the attention of one good friend and one new friend. Afterwards, I made some art. It’s a better way to communicate than instagram. I am writing. I feel a little better. I have also had three glasses of white wine spritzers and it’s 1:30pm. 

It’s my first day off since April. 

Two Sheds, Bread and Chocolate Truffle Pie

I painted two small sheds yesterday. I had been hired to do this project a month back but I am a novice and went too slow. The weather changed before I could finish painting all the grooves. Yesterday was warm, possibly 15 degrees Celsius, and I finished painting after 4 hours. 

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It was windy when I walked home. It seems my days usually end around 3pm; That's when the sun starts going down. That's when the weather changes. I realized I hadn't been thinking about anything all day. I was focused on painting and my mind was blank. It felt like my brain was calm water lapping inside my head. 

I slept at 9 and woke at midnight to start the arduous but incredibly pleasurable task of making a mass batch of bread. It doesn't take too much effort, but it does take time and attention. I talk to the dough. It helps. I'm sure of it. 

By 7 in the morning, the bread was out and cooling and I crept back upstairs to bed for a few hours.

Just after 11, I flew out the door, late for work, holding the earrings I intended on wearing. As I descended the stairs, I prodded my ear lobe with the hook and hit something. I was already wearing earrings.  

This evening, I made a chocolate pie from scratch and with no recipe. I am mourning the closure of Bar Italia. It was a restaurant - until a few months ago - on College Street in Toronto. My parents took us there before they divorced. It was simply where our family went if we were going out for supper.  Everyone always got the same thing except Mom, who always had a hard time deciding.  

There was a chocolate truffle cake on the menu. It could hardly be called a cake. I don't think it was baked and I don't think it had flour or leavening agents. It was always the same: perfect and insanely rich. The slice was only an inch thick and maybe 5 inches long. It sat on a plate alone or there may have been a raspberry coulis underneath. Our family shared that one dessert every time. 

I went on my first date there, with a guy who would eventually propose to me when I was 16. We both used fake i.d. I don't remember what I ate, but I know where we sat and the view I had of that room. That room is etched in my memory forever. 

Later, I got a job as a cook there. It was my third job ever. I never saw anyone make the chocolate truffle cake. Someone did it upstairs but I never saw who or when they made it. 

Tonight, I channelled Bar Italia and what I have learned about cooking since and I prepared two mini chocolate truffle pies. They are in a pie shells only because I had left over pie pastry. 

I cannot eat this pie, but I will savour the memories it holds. Tomorrow, I will give it to my mom and her partner, my stepdad, Trevor.