“Sushi? Are you sure?” I ask again.
My fourteen-year-old son looks determined, maybe even excited.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he says. His tone has a tint of finality. He does not want to be asked again.
“What about something easy?” I say. “Like pasta, or pizza, maybe soup with grill cheese sandwiches?”
“No, I want to make sushi,” he says.
“Okay,” I say doubtfully.
Continue readingIt is Thanksgiving, but my son and I aren’t celebrating. I recently started a new job, and he recently started kindergarten. We are both just happy to have a long weekend to relax.
I’m not going to make a turkey dinner for the two of us, but it is a long weekend, so maybe I’ll get something a little festive. As we walk up and down the grocery store aisles, I see the frozen tourtières. A tourtière is sort of festive, I guess. I put one in my cart.
It is easy to make. All I have to do is put the frozen meat pie in the oven and wait. My son and I enjoy our slightly festive dinner.
A week goes by. Temperatures are getting lower and the air is more refreshing. The trees look like they’re going to a festival with all of their bright leaves on display.
My son brings home an assignment that he had at school. The top of the sheet says, “Draw a picture of what you ate for Thanksgiving.”
My son has carefully drawn a brown circle. At the bottom, his teacher has written, “A little more detail next time, please.”
You can read the vignette presented in this video here.
The video includes my artwork, and also some footage from our more recent whale watching tour last week. This time we were armed with Gravol and we didn’t get sick.
Here is a gallery with some pictures from the tour and with the artwork from the video.
The door is open and my mother has one foot inside and one foot outside in the cold, October rain. The raindrops make tip-tapping noises on the fire escape.
“Please,” I beg, sobbing. “Please don’t leave.” I’m kneeling on the linoleum floor and clinging to her pant leg. My eyes are red from crying and I’m still in my pyjamas.
“I have to,” she insists. “I have to go back to work.”
“But I don’t know how to take care of a baby!” I cry some more. My week-old son sighs in his sleep in the other room. My mother gently pries my fingers open and drives back to Ontario.
Raccoon Brontosaurus 