Monday, May 29, 2017
The Silver Palate Cookbook
Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins
For her nineteenth birthday, Cath makes Tal a cookbook of all the recipes that she loved growing up. Cath’s still known around town as “Tal’s Mom”. She wonders when she’ll regain her one-ness, sometimes, when she runs into Rita and John at the IGA. “How’s Tal?” Rita says, putting hamburger meat into their basket. “She’s good! Really good.” Cath says. “Still playing basketball?” John strokes his grey goatee. “Yup, varsity,” Cath smiles. “You must miss her so much,” Rita shakes her head. “Girl that talented, you hope that she sticks around…”
Sunday November 15, 2015
from the Union Gospel Mission calendar
Karen sat patiently by the phone willing it to ring and wishing that it had already. She had, earlier that week, applied to be a member of Neighbourhood Watch and was told that all successful applicants would be contacted by Friday at the very latest. Karen didn’t have anything else particularly pressing to do since she fell ill two months back. She wanted to fill her time with meaningful activities since she wasn’t fit enough to return to the grocery store. Emirel said she might have overextended herself there anyway, coming into help stack and pack when she wasn’t even scheduled to work. Karen wanted to do something other than tend to the plants she had been growing in her laundry room. She didn’t think she’d have a very strong harvest the first time around, especially because she had been relying on various youtube videos to teach her how to grow a crop of marijuana properly. Karen got bored easily. She wanted to have at least two things to watch, if she could help it.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Overheard on Gerrard St.
“Twenty-seven fifty three, please,” I try not to yawn. The baby in her cart is screaming, his face turning purple, then blue. I cock my head sideways and stick out my tongue. Nothing. His mother is rifling around in her purse. “”OH MY GOD hurry up!” Hunt Wilson is three people behind her in line and I know why he’s grouchy. He’s run out of smokes. “Shut up, Hunt!” I call and then look behind me quickly to make sure that Kevin isn’t there. Safe. He’s taken me into his office before and said, between puffs on his e-cigarette, “Three strikes and you’re out, Christie!” I can’t count how many strikes I’ve had but Kev has a soft spot for me because he lost his virginity to my oldest sister Charlene. “Twenty-seven fifty three…” I say again. I meet her eyes, tears about to escape. “I only have twenty five,” she whispers, desperate. “No problem,” I take her bills and coins and bag her groceries. I add “$2.53” to my list beside the cash. I’ll top up the till before giving it to Kev at the end of my shift.
Sunday May 24, 2015
When I’m away
Marg died on Wednesday. I got the phone call when I was trying to decide which olive oil to buy, in the oil aisle at the IGA. “Hello?” It was Henry. “Hi Henry.” I looked at one bottle and then another and then another. “I’m so sorry to say, but Marg passed today.” “Passed?” “Passed on…” I opened a bottle and drank and drank and drank until I was sick. “Hello? Honey? Are you there?!” “NO ONE EVEN TOLD ME SHE WAS SICK!!!” “You two were out of touch.” “I would’ve liked the opportunity to say goodbye, Henry. Jesus.” And then, I puked, all over the oil aisle, a whole bottle of the stuff, a whole bottle. I dropped the phone and it shattered. So much for the fifty dollar case. I could hear Henry still, saying, “Honey?! Honey?!” A clerk came with a mop and a bucket, a kind face, “Honey is in Aisle Seven,” he said, quietly, to the disembodied voice. I lay down and pressed my face into the cool linoleum.
Tuesday March 24, 2015 at Great Dane Coffee
From Women In Clothes
Sheila Heti, Heidi Julavits, Leanne Shapton & 639 Others
When she moves she’s a dancer but
she’s not a dancer
in the proper sense of the word
She doesn’t glide across sprung floors to the beat of
a drum or
leap like a fawn from here to there
legs spread wide
She moves with grace down the aisle of the grocery store
stretching a long arm for a high placed bottle of low sodium soy sauce
Pushing her cart like it contains her first born daughter
A small watermelon
Some linguine noodles
A bag containing seven lemons
Friday Aug 8, 2014
Nothing about this place made her feel comfortable. But it wasn’t about that. “Are you in line?” “No. Nope. Sorry…” She went to the frozen food section and took out a bag of peas and held it on her sacrum. She’d been sore since May. She thought about lying down, the peas underneath her, bringing her icy relief, and then she worried that all the ladies in their trackpants and their sweater sets might miss her. “You’re quite forgettable, aren’t you Liz?” Her mother used to say. She imagined these women, toddlers crying, cell phones ringing, rolling right over her with their shopping carts.
Sunday April 13, 2014
A subway transfer
When Mama makes a grocery list, she uses a piece of stationary that she got in Chicago. She went with her second to last husband, William. He did lots of business in Chicago. William only wore clothes in the pastel palate, no matter what the season. William was from Georgia and sounded like a grandma, with a high pitched voice. “He gives me lots of TLC,” Mama would say with a wink. When Mama writes a grocery list, she uses that real nice stationary with the little blue birds. She parades it proudly in her hand as she marches the aisles of the Food Mart, her pumps clicking on the linoleum. Her lipstick is pink and her cardigan is tied around her shoulders. She might put it on in the frozen section, leaning into the freezer for peas and vanilla ice cream.
Thursday March 13, 2014
the Wikipedia page for Sarah Hudson
Sarah pauses before she steps. She carefully avoids the cracks. She keeps her eyes down and sometimes bumps in to people. “Sorry,” she whispers. It’s her favourite word. “Sorry.” Excuses bed corners and bad manners, a missed crumb and a missed meet-up with her mother at Starbucks. “Nice hat, Sarah,” says Mr. Chan, who owns the green grocer and once gave Sarah a free bunch of basil because she didn’t have enough cash. “On the house,” he said. “Oh,” she touched the baseball hat that she had borrowed from her father before he left for Yellowknife. “I like it too.” “Canucks a good team. A very good team.” “Yeah, I guess…” Sarah says. Truth is, she doesn’t know if it’s hockey or football or what. “Where’s the cauliflower, Mr. Chan?” She asks, sniffing a naval orange.