Home

A group of my girlfriends and I have a group chat, where we chat a lot. Most days: photos are shared, social outings are scheduled, laughs are had, and a wide variety of topics are discussed.

I read somewhere that women speak an average of 20,000 words a day, while men utter a mere 7,000. Seeing as typing isn’t included in the count, we are blowing those numbers out of the water!

Covid has certainly been the topic that has consumed a lot of the screen in recent months. What does home schooling look like? How are you doing with your kids? Do you have any meal ideas? How much wine did you drink this week? How much is your husband annoying you?

Probably the most talked about subject is home and the desire to get here.

Many of the girls are from Nova Scotia, one is from Newfoundland and a few others went to university here, so they understand the desire.

Once upon a moon, after university, we all migrated to Toronto in search of jobs, high heels and, of course, sexy men.

I found a job and high heels, but not a man – I migrated back.

Ally also made her way back.

Many of the other girls met their partners and have stayed in the Toronto area. But as we all know, East Coasters only live in other places, but they are always from the East Coast.

Sarah had a baby just weeks before Covid started. Louise started her life in lockdown.

Three of us turned 40 in May. Our plans for getaways were cancelled.

Heartbreakingly, Alexis lost her wonderful father on Canada Day. He lived on Prince Edward Island, and so they were unable to come home or have a service right away.

Kelly had a baby just a few weeks ago.

Everyone is literally itching to get home to see their families. To see each other.

This past weekend I made my way to beautiful Cape Breton. My Dad is from Margaree Forks, so we decided to rent a cottage at Whale Cove. One hundred dollars a night for a million-dollar view!

I had plans of touring around The Cabot Trail, followed by some good old-fashioned “drop-ins”.

As you would expect, we made a stop in Cheticamp for a coffee on our way to the trail, where we ran into my uncle Theodore. You’re not safe anywhere!

He has five children, and all but one of them live away from Cape Breton. Like everyone else he is longing to see his kids, and of course, his beautiful grandchildren.

I told him a poem that one of his daughters wrote had come to my mind in recent days.

When I lived in Toronto, Mom sent it to me and I recall longing for home when I read it.

I knew that I had saved it but couldn’t remember where. A quick search of my Yahoo mail . . . presto! There it was in an email from 2006.

I had already reread it a few times but decided to read it aloud to him that morning:

 

Where Am I?

I wave at the gas attendant, smile at the clerk

I saunter down the aisles of the store where I used to work

I wave to everyone . . . don’t know them? So what!

I drive up the driveway, with one too many a rut.

I sleep like a baby, though the house is creaky and old

I’ve finally found a place where I can be loud, silly and bold

My laundry’s done, accommodations and food are free!

Sounds of children laughing, doors slamming and good ol’ CBC

Fresh berries on the counter, picked by patient aunts

Dad enters from the garden, bug bitten with soiled pants

An aroma of salt, sunscreen, barbecue and bread

Mom scurries around the kitchen, preparing another spread

Miles from Wal-Mart yet sometimes busier than one

Phones ringing, people planning and kids are on the run

A place where houses are left unlocked, keys are left in cars

Where the midnight sky is littered with thousands of beautiful stars

Dirt roads, no traffic lights, but the scenery is so fair!

It’s a wonder I survived this long, since heart was pumping there

I barely got through it, and he was crying too. Maybe we will make it in the Inverness Oran for crying in the parking lot of L’Abri Café and Restaurant.

Covid has certainly created that longing for home for a lot of people.

Home is so much more than the house you live in or the city where you live your life.

Home is a place a where you feel comfortable.

Home is a place where you have memories.

Home is a place where people know who you are.

Home is a place where you can relax.

Home is a place where you can laugh.

Home is a place where you can see old friends.

Home is a place where you can tell funny stories.

Home is a place where you can be yourself.

Home is a place where you can drop in.

Home is a place where you see family.

Home is a sense of freedom.

Home is a place that makes you feel at ease.

The East Coast is a place where people feel all of that.

One thing Covid has certainly done is make people realize the importance of home and how much you crave how it makes you feel when you can’t be there.

Settling In. Not Settling Down.

I’ve always been someone who values freedom greatly.

Myers Briggs, True Colours, Ennegram Test or almost any personality quiz I’ve ever taken has had the same results – I’m spontaneous, fluid, don’t want to be locked down, always on the go, seek out excitement, fun-loving and focused on immediate pleasures.

As part of my ‘want to be free’ personality, I’ve avoided making purchases that tie me down. Like a house.

I’ve watched my friends buy houses, and while I love design, décor, and the loveliness of owning a home, buying a lawnmower has never been high on my list of want-to-dos. Spending my weekends mowing a lawn hasn’t been high on my desire list. I’m more interested in attending lawn parties.

Seeing as I’ve been largely single – not only would the cost fall on me 100 per cent, but also all the upkeep, break downs, and maintenance.

Instead, I’ve opted for a cute flat downtown that allows me to come and go on a whim. I literally close my door and walk (or fly) away without a worry.

I’ve often thought of mortgage payments or housing costs in comparison to plane tickets. Spending $5,000 for a roof? OMG, that’s equal to a really fabulous trip. Or $800 for sod? That’s a ticket to London. A new toilet? I don’t need to compare that to anything to justify how lame it is.

By living downtown (and a short walk to my office), I’ve even avoided owning a car for the last number of years. No car payment, insurance, or the need to buy new winter tires. I’ve relied on my own two feet, a bike, taxis, shuttles, and car rentals.

I’m always thinking about time. How much of it will I have? I’d like to have kids – I can’t travel and be footloose and fancy-free with littles.

I value experiences and memories immensely. England, Ireland, France, Portugal, Spain, Italy, Germany, Czech Republic, Australia, Hawaii, Cuba, St. Lucia, Tanzania, New York City, Montreal, Boston – all of those experiences mean so much to me. I also can’t forget about the really fabulous shoes I’ve worn while exploring them. No Crocs or lawn-mowing sneakers for this gal. And there’s no way I can ever redo them when I retire, as banking commercials lead you to believe.

In recent months, I have been feeling a bit of an interest in real estate creep into my psyche. COVID, it seems, has grounded me in more ways than one. For sale signs have turned my head.

Another contributing factor to this interest is that my organization has decided to close our regional offices. Moving forward, I will be working from home. When I imagined what that scenario would look like, my place suddenly felt very cramped.

A random look on Viewpoint and an email to a real estate agent I know brought me into the market of ‘looking’. A short while later (like a week), I had an email saying, ‘there is a property coming onto the market and I think you will really like it. It’s unique, can be updated to your tastes and it has an apartment for income. Interested?’

‘When is it coming onto the market?’

‘Next week’.

Oh.

Deep breath.

‘I think it will sell right away. You really should look at it.’

OK.

I looked. It was very cool and has so much potential. My brother, who is a real estate aficionado of sorts, videoed in and asked a lot of questions (which I, in all honesty, would never have thought of).

By the time I got home from looking at the house, he had sent me an email with a list of ‘have to do right now’ renovations and a second list of ‘need to do’s and want to do’s’ with estimated costs of each. He also had a spreadsheet of laying out income potential, equity gains, mortgage and down payment graphs.

Thank God for him… I was stuck at ‘I really like it.’

I put an offer in and it was accepted.

Dear God.

Bank discussions. Home inspection. Insurability. Rental codes.

The home inspector told me I should investigate the boiler to see how old it is. I called the company who services it. The wonderfully friendly technician jumped between calling it a boiler and a furnace.

I said, ‘Wait, the boiler is the furnace? I had assumed it was something to do with hot water.’

He burst out laughing.

I said, ‘Please forgive me, I’m better at red lipstick and stilettoes topics than I am at furnace chat.’

In my defence, before you judge me too harshly, I’ve never lived in a house with oil heat.

Quotes from an electrician, a painter, a carpenter. Load bearing, electric panel, wiring, asbestos, plaster, drywall, window measurements, door sizes, heat pumps… I need a glass of wine just thinking of all the questions and decisions.

A strong learning curve is happening here. I more enjoy the discussion about paint colours.

I’m also someone who really pays attention to my intuition. Well, except for that time when I dated a guy who wore a pukka shell necklace and bad khakis. I really should have listened to my intuition more on that one. My intuition and energies are telling me that this is indeed a good decision.

So, it seems my travel money is instead going to be spent on not-so-sexy house-related expenses. I’ll be making memories renovating a house and becoming a landlady, rather than jetting off to a foreign land. I’ll be spending my time trimming trees, painting, repurposing, pressure washing, and perhaps even mowing a lawn.

Eventually, I’ll be doing the fun stuff like decorating and hosting dinner parties where I can wear my red lipstick and heels. I’m not settling down – I’m settling into something new.

 

People Who Love to Eat Are the Best Kind of People.

I’ve always had a love affair with food. I think it stems from the fact that, as my dad says, my mother is “powerful in the kitchen”. My taste buds were graced with grand culinary delights from a young age.

Think of it. Food has so many wonderful components to it: nostalgia, culture, connection, health, community and who can forget pleasure!

Now that COVID restrictions have been loosened, over the weekend I did one of my most favourite things – I attended a dinner party.

A few months ago BC (that’s Before COVID), I traveled to Portugal with two dear friends of mine. Our adventure brought us so much greatness: beautiful sights, conversation with wonderful people, mouth-watering food, delicious wine, and, of course, when in Portugal you must drink port! So. Much. Port. I never knew how much I could love port. Oh, and my two friends fell in love – with each other.

During our trip, we executed what we called Project Love. If we met someone who impacted us in some way, we secretly left behind a love note telling them how much we appreciated them. Servers in restaurants, café owners, wine makers, Airbnb hosts and a wonderful couple from Chicago we met at our Quinta were a few of the recipients. We left behind our Instagram handle on the notes and most of the recipients looked us up after finding their note, heart warmed and touched by the gesture.

The dinner party this past weekend was a belated love note to say thank you to my friends’ colleague, a Sommelier who set us up with some fantastic wine and port tastings while we were there.  

We decided to do a re-enactment of some of our favourite dishes we ate while in Portugal.

The table was gorgeous! Green salad, octopus salad, chickpea herb spread, spicy shrimp, marinated fish, potatoes with tomatoes and onions and grilled bread. And the piece de resistance was the dessert, Pastel de Nata.

We poured bubbly – a fantastic bottle of white wine from our trip – and a bottle of 1988 red that Mark –the aforementioned Sommelier – brought with him to dinner.

As the food hit our taste buds, we moaned with delight, conversation flowed and Fado music was played.

For those of you who might not know what Fado is, a Portuguese Fado is equivalent to an East Coast kitchen party. Traditional instruments and songs are sung.

Upon meeting the couple from Chicago who we left a love note for during our recent trip, they (well she) instructed that we MUST attend a certain Fado show in Porto. The recommendation was given to us because Ally described the lead man in the Fado as being a “Portuguese Richard Gere”.

We got the contact info and sent Ricardo a text. He responded, we laughed and we confirmed three tickets.

We had been dressing rather casually for most of the trip, but on this evening, we decided to get gussied up – just in case Richard Gere was looking.

Before going to the show we went to a special little restaurant where we ate cheese, meat, cheese, and, of course, sipped on wine.

As promised, Ricardo was indeed worth the price of admission. The music was impressive, but the visuals were even more so.

My female friend and I decided to rip out some of our East Coast charm and go meet Mr. Big.

After a conservative group shot, I said we needed something better, something memorable. Ricardo was up for the challenge. We both kissed him as our male friend snapped  – picture at top.

I’ve kept in touch with that gorgeous creature since we departed from Portugal. The Fado music we were listening to at dinner was sent to us by him that day. It made the food taste even better.

Over dinner, the seven of us discussed many important things. How was the octopus prepared? Where did you get the octopus? Did you know that an octopus actually shoots an “arm” out at a female octopus to mate and after he does so, he dies?

That topic brought me to telling stories about being on safari in Tanzania during mating season. I saw a male ostrich dance for his female prospect. At the time, black rhinoceros’s were on the brink of extinction in Tanzania, and we randomly saw two of them mating. A camera with a powerful zoom entertained us for an hour.

The rhino story brought me to Kilimanjaro stories, which led me to telling about how my hiking mate had a bad accident in her pants on the mountain, and how I had to hide behind the only rock in sight in order to relieve myself of a potential disaster. Altitude really does a number on your body.

We roared with laughter.

New houses, COVID, relationships, wine, dogs, common connections, Trump – we covered so many topics as we dined.

We departed with plans to have another get together.

You see food isn’t just about the food; it’s more about the experience you have when sharing it with others.

As a single woman, I find that to be one of the most challenging parts. Cooking for one and eating alone certainly isn’t as gratifying as sharing it with others. Plus, if I buy cilantro, it means I must eat it for four days or it will go bad.

During COVID restrictions, I’ve been exercising my culinary talents as a means of passing time and I’ve also been enjoying my mother’s immense spreads as well.

We used to say you put on “Frosh 15” when you start university. I think “COVID 15” can be a new term.

I can burn off the extra pounds, but I will never forget the experiences I had while consuming the food that brought the jiggle.