Letters from Rona / Pleasures / Sort by date

Every year around this time, as winter tightens its grip on Toronto, my husband pointedly draws my attention to the various people we know who've decamped for condos in Florida and won't be back until the crocuses sprout. "I like my routines here at home," I've always said. "Besides, winter in Toronto is pretty tame stuff. Think we've got it bad? You should see winter where I come from!" [more]

I guess the time has finally come to give the birthday festivities a rest. Who knew that turning 60 is like eating dessert in a Burgundian shrine to gastronomy---first the buttery, beautiful avant dessert, compliments of the chef; then the impossibly exquisite confection you ordered; then the apres-dessert, petits-fours borne on a platter that would not be out of place at Versailles? [more]

I marvel that I once saw shopping as balm for my spirit. All it offered was distraction and the fleeting promise of care by a bevy of minions better groomed than I would ever be. Yet I remain a firm believer in the power of clothes to express both who I am and who I might become. So when a longtime reader e-mailed me the story of her "happy hat," I recognized a kindred spirit. [more]

Our son was still in day care the first time we drove to New Hampshire, my home state, for a summer vacation on the cheap. Like every day care, Ben's kept a hamster. Like every preschooler, Ben had a vague grasp of language: he heard what made sense to him, and this didn't always coincide with what we actually said. He thought we were bound for New Hamster, and New Hamster it has been ever since to my husband and me. [more]

If I am ever rushed on a gurney to Emerg, with a tube up my nose and a throng of doctors yelling orders in my wake, I want the first face I see to be Nurse Jackie's. Nothing stands between TV's stalwart nurse and her patient---not meddlesome relatives, not by-the-book hospital brass, not MDs determined to be heroes no matter what the cost. And certainly not her own limits. [more]

We wanted an elegant English toilet for our one and only bathroom. On the throne of our choice, you could complete the most challenging of crosswords in comfort. We were so proud of our champagne-coloured Twyford toilet---until the day it stopped flushing. Then I found myself searching far and wide for a Twyford ball cock, and nothing on earth seemed more precious. [more]

When I was climbing out of chronic depression more than 20 years ago, I read somewhere about a bedtime ritual that was said to nudge the weariest of hearts toward hope. You were to lie in the dark and give thanks to whatever gods there be for the best moment of your day. How simplistic, I thought. How impossibly naive. What about all the days when nothing good happened? [more]

Let's hear it for Mother's Day---and I mean that literally. I've gathered a bright but thorny garland of songs to express the many moods of having or being a mother: the starry-eyed admiration of childhood, the guns-blazing rebellion of adolescence, the oceanic missing that follows a mother's death. We've all yearned for a mother who is boundlessly empathic and consoling. But real-world mothers have their quirks and complications, as songwriters have known since the heyday of Anonymous. [more]

I have been the jaded owner of every kitchen gadget that ever buzzed, flashed or inspired a slew of cookbooks. These gizmos have their uses but they all involve chopping and fussing. Besides, they won't give you any comfort when you've just schlepped home from the airport at midnight with a suitcase full of laundry. For comfort, you need a toaster---100 years old this year and still the key to simple but soulful meals. [more]

There's a bafflement that softens men's faces when they have to make a purchase outside their comfort zone. They need a woman to answer their questions: "Is this parsley?" "Which one of these mops is best? And, most touching of all, "Should I get these flowers or the ones over there?" [more]

I love my grandson dearly but I can't bear to cook for him. The way I see it, every meal could use a jolt of flavour from at least one of the following: anchovies, avocadoes, mushrooms, pesto, olives, onions, assertive cheese, fresh herbs (bring on the cilantro!), green veg (the more pungent, the better) and a generous quantity of garlic. My grandson, age 12, will eat nothing on my hit parade. [more]

Once upon a time, when I played with paper dolls and wore Mary Janes, I wanted to be a ballerina. I thought I was the star of my Saturday morning ballet class, pirouetting with more enthusiasm than grace. I didn't know that my short waist, knock knees and crooked spine disqualified me from the tutu'd elite. When I danced, I felt beautiful. [more]