Some months are quiet. They appear sheepishly at your doorstep and wander around for a while, getting comfortable before showing themselves out after coffee. Other months, like June, are loud. They begin, not with a stir, but a ferocious tumble. Loud bass in your apartment, pots shaking against the door they are hung on. Local strawberries that ignite in your mouth, oozing sweetness. You throw a few stalks of Ontario asparagus into a frittata, into pasta, savouring its innate earthiness as it sizzles in the pan.
Things I have loved about June – the hitlist:
-A cottage weekend spent kayaking, reading and drinking strong coffee in bed while watching the sun come up over the lake, eating chicken kabobs and bacon-wrapped beef tenderloin, cocktails, an art gallery full of Canada’s finest hidden away, a wine tasting, a drive back into the city listening to new records;
-Pints of local strawberries lining the sidewalks, and eating them until my belly grew sick with the sweetness during a torrential downpour;
-Ending the day over a phone conversation with my mother;
-Frequenting the farmer’s markets again, and tasting watermelon honey for the first time;
-An Alice in Wonderland party with the most phenomenal attention to detail;
-Weddings, both lavish and tacky and sweet and simple;
-Plotting for a New York City weekend next month;
-Dinner enjoyed al fresco with friends;
-A weekend of good laughter and more unforgettable memories with old friends;
-Listening to blossoming romances between some of the strongest, most wonderful women I’ve met and their new beaus over coffee;
-A beautiful new pair of sandals for my tired feet;
-Yellow peonies in clear mason jars;
-Conversations at midnight, new things to dream to.
I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of springtime. I don’t remember the last time I felt this happy and satisfied, or felt more loved, and I think one has a lot to do with the other.