Every second Thursday, for the last two years, I await the text to let me know Foodshare has delivered their “Good Food Box, Produce, Small” to my porch. My heart is hardly pounding with excitement about it - it’s not Culinary Adventure Tours, my favourite gourmet food delivery service with boxes curated for every occasion. No, the Good Food Box (GFB) is as about as basic as you can get. Not organic, not necessarily local, but inexpensive, good produce from which I can make inexpensive, good healthy, food. Among many COVID games I play - wordle quordle octordle canuckle banagrams and so on - is using the GFB without letting it go bad (or going crazy from the monotony). I’ve amped this up in the last few months as food prices have risen dramatically.

I had the nicest text from a former articling student*. A lawyer, young in both in lawyer years and human years. (yes, lawyers think of themselves according to the number of years since their call to the bar, like the call itself is some kind of rebirth) She told me how she’d been writing something that called on skills she’d developed while she and I had worked together. She said she was grateful for the stuff I’d coached on her - you know, seemingly dumb stuff like how to format a letter but also

“Jack, check this out!” I call from across the shop. We’re in the store attached to the main cathedral in the old city in Wrocław, Poland. This is not a tourist destination - no, this is where Roman Catholics come to get books and other religious items. Mooching around the back aisles, I have found the most bizarre items: chickens made from white and golden

“I hope we can do that for each other one day,” Jack said.

“Yes, but the law has to change first.”

We were leaving the vet, one fewer than when we’d arrived an hour earlier. Jack’s beloved boxer, Kora, had failed badly in the previous few weeks and that morning, we knew we’d have to make the decision every pet owner dreads. Pet euthanasia dates back centuries - in ancient Egypt, some had their pets killed at the time of their death so they could be reunited in the afterlife.

Remember when I ate a meal in a restaurant with another human a few weeks ago? Well, I did another crazy thing - I watched a movie! In a movie theatre! Regular readers of my blog and watchers of my videos will know COVID has not been easy for me. Not the isolation. That’s been just fine. Seems I can be alone forever. Never bored. Not lonely. Just alone.

“Stanley has agreed to meet you,” Jack says as he motions for the waiter so he can order bacon, eggs, and coffee for two. We sit side-by-side, French café style in a banquette at the diner down the street from my condo.

“Really?” My heart swells a little with acceptance. In our year-plus of dating, Jack speaks often and proudly about his uncle and how, despite our political differences, Stanley and I are similar - we both have the same strong sense of right and wrong and the confidence to share our views. But there’s been resistance to meeting me. With Jack’s two marriages behind him, Stanley’s reportedly skeptical about the chances of Jack meeting someone worth investment of his - Stanley’s - time. “Why do you think he’s finally said yes?”

I was, however, abysmal at phys ed where it seemed the approach was even more geared to attaining perfect. From my earliest memory of gym class, I stuck close to a few other academically inclined uncoordinated weaklings. We jockeyed for last position in the lineup to be at bat, mocking but secretly envying the keenness of those who wanted to show off first.  It was an entirely unattainable goal to make that bat make contact with that baseball.  (I see the same defeat in the eyes of my own dog, Molly, as I throw a treat at her and she looks at the ground waiting for it to land instead of trying for the catch.)  We stood there secretly hoping for others ahead of us in line to strike out so we

“Can I have it tonight? I live close,” she messaged me, as though getting a secondhand wine rack with eight basic wine glasses is an emergency at 9:45 on a Saturday night.

“I was just going to bed,” I responded.

“Be there in 10 minutes.”

“OK but I can’t leave it on my porch all night.”

“This won’t work,” I say dismissively as we enter the living room. “The walls are red and my sofa is pink, purple, and green.” I’ve decided to hate this place. We’re going to buy that little house two streets over with the concrete in the backyard and the questionable basement tenant. I don’t love it, but over the last two nights, Jack’s convinced me we can make it cute. He’s promised he’ll tear up the concrete so we can have a garden. Jack’s very persuasive and it’s the first place we’ve seen that even comes close to ticking all the boxes. I was about to put in an offer on it tonight until Bill, our realtor, mentioned this place on Joseph.