“Rip off the bandaid, and run,” is the advise we give new Mums on the first day of school. When I dropped off my eldest child at school for the first time I ran so fast that I didn’t even say goodbye. I’m not sure Iole noticed, to be honest. But I felt terribly. Tomorrow she starts a new school; 700 children versus the 100 she is used to; hair in a sensible low pony tail versus the giant red bow she wore on her first day in kindergarten; braces, knee high socks and a tie. And just like that, she’s a middle schooler. Rip off the bandaid, and run, my girl.
My new favourite household item is a wonderful vintage wash basin and jug that I brought home from a flea shop in Haliburton. The shop had dozens of them; Art Nouveau ones, Victorian ones, some white and utilitarian, others fancy and ornate. Ours is Art Deco, and made in Belgium. It was cheap as chips in comparison to others I see online. It came with a chamber pot, a portable toilet used before the advent of indoor plumbing and flushing toilets. My kids call it the poo pot and think I’m bonkers for buying one. It now sits on our kitchen counter, a relic from another world, where loos were adorned with flowers, birds and ribbons of yellow, pink and blue.
One of the things I love about travelling is coming home. There’s a growth that takes place when we’re away from home, a shift in perspective, that for a brief and beautiful moment both softens and sharpens the lens through which we see our everyday. When we return, we’re grateful for the comfort of our own bath towels. The handle on our favourite coffee mug feels sturdy and familiar. The street outside our window suddenly seems greener than it did when we last looked. We’re brimming with ideas, and the promise of new rhythms and routines. It’s fleeting this feeling, and we all know it. And so we cherish it.
I love the mix of natural and urban sounds in our garden; the street car in the distance, neighbours clinking glasses, dogs barking, birds chirping. August is quiet on our street, and sounds emanate. If we’re lucky, the tree crickets put on an evening concert for us. They’ve been more vocal of late, or maybe we’re just listening better.
A Horiatiki without tomatoes is like aCaldo Verdewithout potatoes. Tomato, tomato, potato, potato –– you may as well call the whole thing off. Tomatoes are the star ingredient in this classic Greek Salad. And with ones as juicy and sweet as those that grow all over Greece, why would anyone substitute them for a lowly pepper? Unless you’re me. I’ve hated tomatoes for as long as I can remember. As a child, I ate my own version of the salad –– peeled cucumbers, Kalamata olives, red onion, oregano, salt, pepper and olive olive oil –– while everyone else’s plates overflowed with plump tomatoes. On days when we’d eatGemista, there was always a single green pepper stuffed with rice for me, and a platter of stuffed tomatoes for everyone else at the table. To this day, I won’t go near a raw tomato for love or money. I picture summer dinners of beautiful, glossy tomatoes from the garden bathed in olive oil and basil I want to be sick. It’s such a bore, my scorn for tomatoes. All you tomato lovers will salivate over this exquisite ode to the noble fruit. It’s not for me, but it’s just too beautiful not to share.
