I heard this from my father every time there was any hint of anyone dodging taxes. It offended his very strong sense of duty and fairness to think that others were not making their contribution to the system that we’d agreed on as a society.

I agree with him.

Canada’s underground economy in 2021 (the last year Stats Can data are available) was estimated at $68.5 billion, or 2.7% of GDP. The residential construction industry was estimated to account for a whopping 35% of the economic activities that escape measurement because of their hidden, illegal, or informal nature.* This doesn’t particularly surprise me. I think of various home repairs I’ve had done, and almost always there’s been a casual offer for me to pay less if it’s a cash deal, a way to avoid sales tax for me, and income tax, for the service provider. I decline of course, often telling them that I am perfectly happy to pay my share. I’d also be worried that the work would be done shoddily and I’d have no proof of the relationship down the road. Such an offer just doesn’t instil confidence.

The Simpsons, of course, is not pitched to the nonagenarian. Indeed, some have written about the way it skirts the line on ageism, especially its portrayal of Grandpa Simpson as entirely useless awaiting death. But perhaps that’s just a feature of the way the show delights in taking the mickey out of men. Mom seems to have turned a blind-eye to its age-related ribbing just as she does to some of the cultural references - they being pitched squarely to the GenX watcher. She does, however, appreciate its social commentary. How lucky for her too - she’s got decades of episodes to catch up on. I’m tempted to go on a binge for it myself, just to prepare for our phone chats.

You take me back to my childhood on the farm. You remind me of the house my parents retired to. You accompanied me through seven years with my husband. And you’re with me still, in the house I’ve built just for me.

Of the many things my mother offered up when she shifted to retirement home living, you were the sole item requiring a lottery for dispersal. My sisters and I each eyed you hungrily, wanting to feel the weight of your metal so lovingly cared for; coveting that weight for ourselves; knowing if we acquired you new now, we’d die before we achieved what mom had accomplished in her 60 years with you.

f you’re a regular reader, you’ll know I grew up on a dairy farm. My father was the outlier in his family - the son of a doctor in southeast London, he fantasized as a kid about becoming a farmer and after the war things were not great in England. So he packed himself up and came to Canada to be a farm hand. Those were the days when you arrived at Toronto’s Union Station after your weeks’ long boat trip and farmers would be there to hire you. He met mom in the next couple of years and by the time I was born, 15 years and 5 children into their marriage, they owned a 200 acre dairy farm near Wingham, in southwestern Ontario.

Last week I gave you some reflections on my life in the last year after giving up my licence to practise law. This week, the remaining entries on the list.

One year ago today,* I stowed my court robes and rollie-bag in a far closet and closed the door. OK, truth is I wasn’t really that kind of lawyer any more so what I actually did was check the ‘not practising’ box on the law society portal and turn in my office elevator pass. I’ve had a year to think about the 17 year experience of lawyering and what it’s like to move on to something else in (late) middle-age. Here are some reflections.

Cooking makes my mood soar, but not if it’s turkey dinner. I prefer meals where I can do a short flight each evening for a couple of days beforehand. Then on the day-of, gently ascend, spend a few hours at cruising altitude, perform a loop or two, enjoy an inflight drink, and land it gently. The time I roasted turkey, I couldn’t find my helicopter setting and deputized two passengers to avoid splatting on the runway. Failure.

I love vegetables. But I love them best when they’re pureed into a sumptuous broth, served up in a beautiful bowl, and slurped up like a cat with cream - well, not quite, I’ll use a spoon.

I came by my love for soup after I left home. Contrary to other farmwives, although mom would have rather skipped vacuuming for a day than buy a frozen pie crust, Campbell’s was her go-to every Sunday lunch. I don’t blame her - hers was a 21-hot-meal-a-week job. Those over-salted soups, however, diluted as they were from concentrate, were not a way to develop my young palate.

I bought my first soup-pot in my 30s and was at the apex of my soup-making life five years ago when I catered a wedding for my step-daughter, Alexa. Sixty-five people sampled two soups from crockpots set up in my backyard, with the main course served from my basement bar. The first, Woodsy Wild Mushroom Soup, is a recipe from the recipe book published by Rebar Modern Food in Victoria BC. It’s a mix of dried and farmed mushrooms, and is always a hit. And I love it.

There I was, 90 minutes early - cutting it close for me - for an afternoon speaking engagement at Barrie City Hall. Barrie’s one of those small cities Torontonians whiz past on Fridays, escaping to cottage country. Oh sure, they might grab one last Starbucks at the Enroute but there’s no need to venture into its interior to explore its restaurants. They’re bringing big-city food with them in their coolers. As a non-cottager, I am as unlikely to be looking for lunch in Barrie as Britain’s Prince Andrew was to be eating at the Woking Pizza Express. But yet I was.