Unexpected
As a bit of a colour fiend, I always have my eye open for singing combinations. Like this one: an unexpected pairing of deep navy, coral, orange sherbet and buttercup playing off milky white accents. So, so good.

Being alone

Depending on the season, my little self was more often than not curled up on the couch reading – or in the industrial kitchen at my parents’ restaurant, burning the pads off my tiny fingers – or standing in pouring rain under the broken eaves-trough at Uncle Ron’ s ramshackle house – or maybe tucked neatly into our backyard zucchini patch inspecting the specimens.
Most people are surprised to learn just how introverted I am. That I can stow away in my apartment for whole long weekends in the quiet, maybe venturing out for a walk or market trip or book and coffee, but often not even. I like to see movies alone, and lunch as one in a pretty dress, and sit in the park on a blanket making up love stories for the squirrels. I’m a lot like my little self, actually, who went about things deliberately and quietly and alone.
Time and time as one has been in my thoughts quite a bit of late.
My sister moved out recently, but a point of contention when we lived together was my need for silence and space. It was difficult for us both to deal with this – she wanting to dive into our days as I walked through the door, me seeking a few minutes space before dinner as repos. I get her frustration – I probably would be, too. Trying to articulate to someone you love that you just need time alone after a day spent in constant communication seems selfish, and perhaps it is.
I love cooking whole dinner parties, but there’s something special about a meal for one. I have a well-thumbed anthology of essays called “Alone in the Kitchen with Eggplant” that documents the act of dining in solitude. Some folks are totally averse to the idea: Laura Calder goes so far as to say one should never ever eat alone if it can be avoided. But I find great comfort in cooking for one – knowing what I prepare is exactly what I want, no compromises or fretting because I’m eating avocado on toast for the fifth night in a row. Setting the table – one spoon, one fork, one knife, one pretty napkin, one tealight – has a nice ritualistic sensibility about it.
At big gatherings, my family is used to their niece/daughter/granddaughter/cousin who slips out to the porch or up to a spare bedroom or away to the kitchen to methodically rinse dishes. A friend suggested to me that this isn’t introversion at all – just sensitivity to loud voices and noises, but I think the two are inextricable. Space, to someone who seeks solitude, is necessary, sacred – and can be invaded in many ways. My Greek relatives live loudly and tactilely, ruffling hair and pinching cheeks and clinking glasses and sparring about politics – and I love this. But it’s life lived without a space barrier, be it physical or acoustic or imagined.
There are exceptions, sure: I love spending one-on-one time with a close friend. Dinners in and out, exploring, long walks, conversations on the couch with glasses of wine or steaming mugs of tea. The best company in the world, I think, is sitting in an armchair reading, with a favourite person close-by – each of us doing our own thing – occasionally looking up to smile or share a passage. The welcome being of quiet company. Feeling someone around without words, indulging in the reverent dead air.
“In solitude, where we are least alone.”
I realize – and I grapple with the idea – that I’ll never be able to force myself to be happily busy-bodied or to embrace a packed schedule. Nine of ten times, I am heading home after work to my pyjamas over dinner and drinks. I’ll always need a little space when I walk through the front door on a weekday night. Surely there are more of me out there, who embrace this idea of being together, alone. Or sometimes just alone.
[photo via]
Pops of chartreuse
Alberta Ferretti, I will happily wear most of your Resort 2010 collection. Preferably riding on the back of a scooter through the Italian countryside with my hair flying behind me. Pops of chartreuse, just enough structure, whimsical but classic prints, perfect styling (those shoes!). Gorgeous.

Sea asparagus
When I was a little girl, nothing made me happier than a heaping plate of horta – a Greek peasant dish of boiled dandelion greens dressed with lemon and olive oil and salt. A funny sight, I’m sure, a six-year-old reverently diving into a plate of weeds, but I can’t help it. I love green vegetables.
(I suppose people have worse affections.)
My fridge keeps the usual suspects: a head of kale, containers of spinach and baby greens, and bunches of mustard greens and butter lettuce.

Tonight’s Tuesday visit to Riverdale made me squeal delightfully, though – sea asparagus! A salt-loving wild green harvested seasonally along British Columbia’s coast, it’s like a tiny-fingered green bean that’s been injected with saline. Crisp and surprising and fleeting, and completely the kind of vegetable you scoop up when it makes a market appearance.
I knew its fate straight away: used in place of salt in a simple kale salad, massaged with ripe avocado and lemon juice. Kale – surprisingly enough – is delicious raw, but it benefits from a bit of coaxing with some lemon juice to soften the hardy leaves. Against the salty, crunchy sea asparagus and dressed with avocado, it was a perfect summer dinner.
Kale salad
(makes two servings)
Massaging kale sounds kind of silly, but it’s actually very therapeutic and makes a big difference in the salad’s texture. Get your hands right in the bowl and give it a rub – plus it makes for really soft hands, between the lemon and avocado!

Ingredients
1 bunch kale (curly or Tuscan or lacinato or dinosaur – whatever’s prettiest that day)
1 small very ripe avocado, roughly diced
juice of 1 lemon
sea salt to taste (or 1/2c sea asparagus, blanched lightly and chopped finely)
Tear or cut the kale into bite-size pieces, discarding the tough stems. Combine all ingredients in a bowl and give them a good smoosh with the kale until the avocado and lemon become a creamy dressing. Taste a piece of kale for texture – it should be crisp but yielding – and add salt, if needed. Plate and serve.
God help the girl
Belle & Sebastian make me think of my little sisters – all three of them – sweetly belting out tunes in our backyard. Niki, Mel and Leni have been fans for longer than I can remember, though 2006’s The Life Pursuit was my first real introduction.
God Help the Girl is a new three-woman group courtesy of their frontman, Stuart Murdoch. The first two songs – a cover of Belle & Sebastian’s own Funny Little Frog and an original number titled Come Monday Night – are sweet and brimming with lovely voices and remind me of old photographs of my mom.
The album comes out this Monday, June 22.
Funny Little Frog
Come Monday Night
[via A Cup of Jo]
Stripes sunshine smile
Yesterday I walked to work through the garden and the sun was shining and I wore stripes and toted an incredible bag sent to me by an incredible person. And I stuck my toes in the grass and the flowers and looked to the sky and smiled because the world felt so good.

Rainbows

“All this to say. There are rainbows. Reminders … With rainbows we weather rough storms, I realize.”
“Thank you for letting me be your rainbow when you need one. Sorry if my colors fade from time to time, but I’ll be your rainbow any time, because you are my sunshine, and rainbows are nothing but reflections of their sunshine through the rain.”
It’s always the simplest shared words with a dear friend that make things okay.
[photo via]














