Ooooh boy.

I've been trying to write this entry for a week.

This was not the week I expected to have at all.

Excuses are for wimps and undergrads. But first there was the earthquake that rocked Japan and then the tsunami. The aftershocks came. A nuclear catastrophe erupted and a snowstorm hit. In the days that followed many were quick to point out that disasters happen each day to people around the globe, but I don't feel that's a fair comparison. I don't mean to say that those suffering in Japan are not worse off than anyone else, though that may very well be, because I'm not interested in writing up a veritable who's who of worldwide victims, and I'm not interested in measuring levels of agony or injustice if such measurements were even possible. I mean to say that media coverage of these Japanese events has totally saturated the airwaves, print mediums and social networks in a way that is so all-encompassing. I woke up Friday morning, ate my granola and yogurt, sipped on a mug of strong coffee, and watched the world shift and change irreparably yet again. And in a small way, insignificant to anyone else, those moments have woven themselves into my life, too.

After a large-scale natural disaster I tend to retreat a little, grow uneasy. Maybe you do the same thing, too. I lie low. Do you know what to do? I don't. I sit glued to my television listening to the news reports and the stories, and I read the articles and the quick write-ups. I can't imagine it yet it stares me in the face. Mostly it makes me feel sad and helpless, but it also serves as a reminder of how fragile we all are, how delicate our lives are, like intricately woven spiderwebs.

They -- epic natural disasters -- render me speechless. How do I wax on about the wonders of chickpeas tossed into a lemony, rosemary-spiked casserole when such despair looms? Toward the end of the week I fell ill with a wicked case of the "stomach flu", ie. sleep for eighteen hours straight and wake up promptly at 8am in search of orange popsicles and slurpees; walk across the street in barely-combed hair, Birkenstock clogs and baggy yoga pants to acquire said slurpee and an orange freezie (sorry, no popsicles.) I clearly spent most of Friday sleeping and all of Saturday propped up on the couch catching up on B-rated movies and connecting with a 2L bottle of warm 7-Up.

That brings us back here, to Monday. Have I mentioned that I hate Mondays? Probably. I've been sticking mainly to the basics -- bland recipes unworthy of writing down at all. But there is one thing I have fallen in love with for the first time. I know I'm slow -- hang with me. Eventually I catch up, you know.

Yes. Toast, butter, honey, and sea salt. Wild blueberry honey, if we're being specific, though your favourite honey will work just fine. It's basic and doesn't require a recipe, but I've been happily eating it all week for breakfast. Sometimes it's just what you need -- or what I needed. And while new recipes are all well and good, I think it's nice sometimes to revert to the classics, even just for a little while, even just to be reminded how satisfying they can be. I feel uncomfortable writing more than this, to be honest. Life goes on, certainly, but a pause does some good, too. I for one could use a long pause.

That, and a bite of toast.

A toast

This week has been lovely.

There was one very sweet cake.



French toast that was crispy at the edges, spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon.



And, although my moving around and traveling has transformed me into quite the light packer, I managed to bring back to my apartment twice as much as I brought. As one might suspect, this additional baggage took the form of some very tasty, luxurious treats: two chocolate bars; a trio of vinegars from Italy; a pound of Guatemala coffee; spices from the bulk store; canned chipotle peppers in adobo; and a loaf of multigrain bread. Transporting all of these goods along with my suitcase and belongings was certainly an adventure, but no one puts vinegar in the corner.

I finished this week of absolute indulgence by having roasted chicken for dinner with a bowl of a barely edible, overly salty boxed vegetable soup and a slice of bread slathered with butter, thinly sliced and peppery radish, and sea salt. In the name of transparency, the chicken was store-bought. I may or may not have had too much wine at last night's annual, international wine festival. I may have even had a couple glasses of exceptionally delicious sangria. I didn't intend for it to be this way, but I sometimes wonder why this blog isn't called Chronicles of the Year Sarah Drank a Lot of Wine and Wrote About It.

There wasn't just wine, though. I ate sweet potato fries served with a mayonnaise and BBQ sauce concoction, and they made excellent bedfellows. Immediately, that hit of BBQ sauce reminded me of being in the South, pulling at pork ribs with my teeth. A woman I attended grade school with has a restaurant and a catering company, and I got the opportunity to try very delicious beef kofta with a mint and coconut drizzle. I'm salivating just thinking about it.

I also managed to get together with my high school girlfriends over ice cream at The Waterfront. I missed them.

I'm back in the Big Smoke, watching Julia Roberts in Something to Talk About. It turns out that I, too, have something to talk about (other than food): I've unofficially found full-time employment. The contract's being drawn up as we speak. After searching for work for over a year, this news feels terribly anti-climactic. Instead of cheersing with a bottle of Cava, I am drinking hot green tea and thumbing through my new set of library books. I'm currently reading Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant by Jenni Ferrari-Adler and Vanishing and Other Stories by Deborah Willis, a book of short fiction penned by a Calgary writer. However, I think I might prefer this low-key celebrating.

The Toronto Public Library has fortunately decided to continue feeding my love of food memoirs (!), as I also have in hand Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, a book I've waited ten weeks for, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. And, to end a perfectly lovely day of train rides and books and food, I received a belated birthday gift from Anne. It might only be September 10th, but it may as well be autumn. I had to rummage through my closet for a sweater, for crying out loud. I'm not-so-secretly pining for a couple more weeks of warm weather -- just enough time to get my full share of summer squash and to squeeze in a breezy summer romance or two.