Lifestyle

With Thanksgiving coming up on Monday, I feel my craving for the stuffed beast and pumpkin pie escalating.

I try just about everything to organize a Thanksgiving dinner, but there are no takers. My brother says he “doesn’t do the whole turkey thing”, my sister’s busy entertaining her own brood, and I am childless, with my youngest just having gone off to college in the U.S.

I drop my not-so-subtle hints to friends like” Boy, do I love turkey”, or “Save me a leg if you can” but that doesn’t seem to work.

At Loblaws, I lament to a complete stranger about my empty grocery cart while he hoists his 70-pound turkey on the conveyor belt beside my two apples, quart of milk and single Turkey breast -bone out. I’ve even considered standing at the corner of Yonge and Bloor to hand out leaflets with a request for dinner or at the very least, dinner guests.

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Feeling Dirty Finally

Caressing my friend, Jeff’s, muscular calves, touching the flickers of his brown leg hairs peeking through torn fishnets, confirmed my suspicions last Monday night.

Not that Jeff is a closet transvestite, or cross dresser who has always longed to wear women’s corsets or high-heeled leopard pumps. Or that he is practicing to strut his stuff as the next contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Queen Race hit reality show.

But it was apparent that Jeff was having way too much fun playing “Brad” on stage in a community theatre production of the “Rocky Horror Show” a tribute to science fiction and horror B movies, that swept most of the audience back in time to the 1970’s.

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Feeling the glow after meeting up with my always witty friend, Mary, in Kensington Market last week, I took my time, pulling out of the Green P parking lot, smiling and reflecting on how much great stuff we can pack into our one hour visits but it’s never enough time.

As I drove past the eclectic food and clothing stores, I’m not sure why, but I noticed her. This woman dressed in a long black winter coat, a grey woolen scarf wrapped around her neck to just below her nostrils, her big brown eyes peeking out, and two distinct grey braids cascading down past her shoulders, framing her oval face. Perhaps, it was the way she walked, her body perfectly erect, that made me glance again. Then it hit me, “That’s my grade 4 teacher, Ms. Tadman from Snowcrest Public School,” the sexy red-headed woman who undressed down to her lacy black brassiere in front of us to change for gym. The very same woman who inspired us 9 year-old girls to be feminists, to be proud of our sprouting breasts, maybe even forfeit our bras, and to stand up for Aboriginal rights.

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Spicy and Sweet

As my top lip skims my sazerac, a sweet spicy alcoholic drink made of bitters, rye whiskey, absinthe and simple syrup, unexpected flavours curl my tongue.

I am lost in the 20’s and 30’s, like Woody Allen’s starved-for-nostalgia character from “Midnight in Paris,” played by Owen Wilson. But I’m definitely not Owen and this isn’t Paris.

It’s my first night in New Orleans, and I’m devouring a savory Chicken and Andouille Gumbo (rich Cajun soupy dark roux which can also be made with shellfish) while listening to a trio of seasoned jazz musicians sing “What a Wonderful World” to our table at Arnaud’s Jazz Bistro off Bourbon Street in the heart of the French Quarter.

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