I'm sure you're at the edge of your seats wondering what I ate for breakfast, as you should be, for it was a bowl composed of feshly cooked quinoa, a sliced melt-in-your-mouth local peach, a kick of cinnamon, chopped walnuts, a drizzle of honey, and soy milk. Hello, heaven. I'm generally an eggs kind of girl, but I'll admit, even I swooned a little.
My swooning tends to border on the obscene at times.
I walked my way down to the St. Lawrence Market, through St. James Park as I'm known to do,
and exchanged hellos with the man who stands by the front door of the market each week, welcoming incomers.
There was rhubarb and giant strawberries and golden raspberries, hot peppers and artichokes and fresh herbs, massive heads of lettuce and sweet smelling melons and wild blueberries. There's a chocolatier who makes truffles and single servings of chocolate mousse, and a baker who sells salted caramel macarons, oui oui. Sometimes I wonder why I put myself through the sadness that is staring at a giant cart of cheese and having to leave it all behind. If I had scads of money I would've brought home that Burrata, a miraculous, oozy mozzarella di bufala stuffed with cream (!), tossed it with coarse salt and promptly slathered it on some of the crusty bread I have sitting in my freezer from my favourite Windsor bakery. Please, if you're ever fortunate enough to come across the amazing dairy product that is Burrata, snatch it up and keep it a secret from everyone else.
I, unfortunately, did not come home with Burrata. I returned to my little abode with three poblano peppers, a large head of Romaine, two red hot chili peppers, good-quality feta, a dozen eggs, an English cucumber, and a pound of Montmorency cherries.
It seems Montmorency cherries, more commonly known as sour cherries, are little gems in Toronto; they are ridiculously difficult to track down. A couple summers ago while I was still living in Windsor, sour cherries were plentiful -- in fact, I remember hitting the Ottawa St. market, picking up a 3L basket of them and throwing them impulsively in my mouth until my stomach grumbled and my tongue went numb. I digress. Job or no job, I will have my Montmorency cherries! (But the Burrata will have to wait.)
Tonight, I am making tomato sauce and going on a date with my boyfriend.
Yes. He is very rugged and handsome, dashing and witty, hopelessly obstinate and quite the romantic. He's also still in high school, and I graciously share him with many other women; the measures a girl's willing to take in the name of love. Oh, Pacey Whitter, you are so sexy!
My friend Andrea and I are beginning a new tradition, one where I take the subway to her house in the suburbs on Saturdays and we watch hours of Dawson's Creek. I've been waiting in suspense all week to see if Joey Potter will come around, and I think tonight, she just might.
I enjoy that I can re-live my youth vicariously through my former favourite television show. It's not that I have any desire to return to my days as an awkward and insecure sixteen-year-old, oh non, non, non, but I do miss the innocent puppy love that accompanies inexperience (have I just dated myself? I believe I have.)
I remember anxiously awaiting my first kiss, an event that wouldn't occur until months after 9/11, in the springtime, just before the war broke out. I was standing in front of the door to my room at a hotel in Avignon, France, and he tasted like green apple Mentos. Ohh, the excitement! The anxiety! I may have swapped green apple kisses for quinoa and cherries, Avignon for Toronto, but my palate, she's as sharp as ever.