It was a rookie mistake to put my orange tree on the deck last June. I’d been caring for it all year, and I was eager to see it flourish under spring showers and sunshine. It seems so stupid now that I didn’t do it gradually. Of course the intensity of midday sun would bleach its verdant leaves acid yellow. And all that rainwater must have choked the poor thing. What was I thinking? I quickly brought it back in and crossed my fingers that it would convalesce in its original spot and bare fruit again in the coming months. No such luck. One by one its yellow leaves started to fall, despite my continued commitment. Then came the familiar quandary that all plant owners face, and why so many of us avoid buying them in the first place; do I ditch the plant and replace it with another one, or do I carry on taking care of an unhealthy one that may or may not thrive again in a year? “Pull it out of its pot, wash the roots and plant it in new soil with a helping or two of fertilizer,” was the advise of my green thumbed neighbour. “And then watch it for a year.” Gosh. On the day of the transplant, I walked past a beautiful orange tree potted in an amber planter in the window of a flower shop on Bloor Street that I’m sure the universe put there to tease me. “Take me home, forget the other one,” I heard it whisper. I nearly caved. I’m giving my little tree six months. I’ll need to see progress, even a tiny bit. Isn’t that what anyone needs to stay hopeful?

With a loo dating back 700 years, and diamond encrusted insects pinned to stone walls, Roberto Baciocchi’s Tuscan home is popping with wonder and whimsy. Gio Ponti chairs, vintage velvet sofas and graphic 80’s rugs all set within a beautifully restored 18th century house make for a surreal experience, indeed. It’s the wall colours –– ochre, terracotta and sage green –– that I love most. The painted art (below, and throughout) is so clever and unique.

I rode the subway yesterday for the first time in two years. I handed over my token at Spadina station, as I have a million times before, and walked down the escalator to catch my northbound train. I didn’t sit, but then again, I rarely do. My mum says that many Londoners on public transit defy mask rules. My train was filled with them. Surgical ones, cloth ones, butterflies, flowers and gingham. I never knew the trains were built in Thunder Bay. I noticed long, high-gloss acrylic nails on at least three other riders. And more people were reading books than staring into their phones. As we neared Davisville station, I thought about what lovely respite above ground corridors are, and how much I enjoy train travel. Today my daughter rides the subway on her own for the first time. Seven stops, three changes. I’m inside out at the thought. I’m excited for her, too. Oh, the places she’ll go.

Tea sandwiches are the best sandwiches.

Richard Avedon and Sophia Loren, 1966.

Found nature in origami boxes made from old books.

Menno Aden’s aerial room shots.

Maids of honour at the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II photographed by Cecil Beaton in 1953.

It’s been a big week, Toronto. My heart swelled as I watched kids making their way to school on bikes and skateboards. Parents gathered with coffee cups and backpacks to breath a collective sigh of relief. Hope and gratitude filled the crisp September air. It’s been a big week, Toronto. Let’s keep this spirit alive.

The surrealist paintings of Gertrude Abercrombie.

Crip and colourful porcelain pottery from The Granite.

“Be faithful to your own taste, because nothing you really like is ever out of style.” The work of Interior decorator, Billy Baldwin.

Pistachio, apricot and orange blossom cake.

Victor M. Alonso’s seascapes.

Sarolta Gyoker’s trees.

Lynette Yiadon-Boakye’s imaginary portraits.

Bosco Soldi‘s highly textured –– he paints with a mix of  sawdust, pigment, water and glue –– monochromatic canvases.

Cottage life.

Nigel Slater’s orecchiette and broad beans.

Martin Bogren’s glorious ocean scenes.

I love those summer weeks when we wake to thunder and lightning, only to eat lunch under a bright blue sky. By 5 p.m. the sky is bruised again, and the rain comes down for long enough to wash the chalk art off the pavement. When evening sets in, our gardens are lush and lilac-hued; we breathe in that beautiful petrichor like it’s a prayer. Drizzle, sun, deluge, thunder, drizzle, sun, lightning, deluge, sun. A million moods in a day. A million moods in a week.