how to get rid of a week like that

2 August 2009

It was one of those weeks.  I’ve been having a lot of those lately. 

Friday afternoon comes, and I’m finally presented with that longed-for three-day weekend which I recieve as if it’s a bundle of new line-dried sheets. And I haven’t even left the office yet when my sister sends me a text:

“What are you doing?  Want to do something?”

Heavens me, of COURSE I want to do something!

Before I catch the bus to go home, it’s decided.  Cathy will come into town and stay over and we’ll have a sister night. 

Not long after she arrives, we step out into my immediate neighbourhood and pick up two bottles of Zinfandel, a pizza from the little Italian restaurant around the corner, and have a glass of wine on their patio while we wait for it.  On the way back we pick up a movie I’ve been wanting her to see, and stroll back with all the goods and enjoy the sisterly gab that goes with it.  By three in the morning, the week that has preceded all this has melted away and we’re crawling off to find sleep.

Saturday morning, we wake to sunshine and August 1st (Lammas) breezes.  I make us coffee and more sisterly chat goes down over checking email and sharing news.  We get dressed and stroll into the Beaches to get us a pedicure.  While sipping more coffee, Cathy gets a light summery red polish and I get fuschia.  We enjoy foot scrubbing and leg massages and warm towels and silly magazines.  Over the walk back we admire our good lookin’ feet (thanks Mom) and Cathy soon heads back home and to her family.

I’m not in the door five minutes when Mia calls and asks, do I want to have dinner some time this weekend?  Because she’s just been to the market and has bought new corn and field tomatoes and peaches and cherries and and a big fat steak.  I say why not today because it’s luscious and sunny and given this particular summer we can’t count on this sunshine again tomorrow. 

Later I get myself together and pick up a couple of Scottish beers and a bottle of chilled Italian white at the LCBO and go to Meem’s.

She’s making homemade cherry pie when I get there.  We have the beers and more familial catching up and move outside and then switch to white wine.  Her garden is lush and green and overgrown and showing all the benefits of this rainy summer.  I envy that she’s got bedding hanging out there. 

She hands me a tablecloth…

Mission Hill ChardonnaycroppedWebSize

 Little bit of heavenWebSize

 homemade cherry pieCompressedCroppedWebsize

Wanna talk about the perfect summer meal?  Fresh corn on the cob.  (The kind that makes you go “mmmmmm” with every bite.  Field tomatoes.  (Sprinkled with fresh basil and drizzled with olive oil doesn’t hurt them either.)  Barbequed steak, medium rare, over a big plate of arugula, which you drizzle with olive oil and squeeze a wedge of lemon.  Salt and pepper. 

Mia comes from the part of the family that makes homemade pie.  (So does my mother.)  (I don’t.)

Homemade cherry pie.

We ask ourselves several times: could there be a more perfect meal?  (We decide no, and toast again.)

I take the streetcar home, which takes longer than the subway, but it’s above ground. 

And it’s summer.  And all is well again.

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