The Bloody Doors Off

They’re playing doubles Pickle ball at the Y, as the harvest moon casts a tawny glow across Front Street.

But that’s not what this blog post is about.

Last Thursday, I bought a small deep-dish apple pie from Metro.

I’m pre-heating the oven and as it ticks up from 145 degrees Fahrenheit (Canada is metric because I don’t know why, we wanted to sit with the cool kids?).

I’m pre-heating the oven with my love’s help. She put the pan in the oven and set the timer, so technically she’s baking the pie.

And I think to myself.

It’s Saturday.

Saturday.

It’s not Sunday.

Because, growing up. My mum, dad and then step-father, my brothers. Doris and Bill, my maternal grandparents. We visited them most Sundays. It was always pot roast (which, because the English (they’re from England, came across by boat in World War II; I think there’s a story about a German torpedo hitting or nearly hitting the boat) and I’m German on my dad’s side, so imagine the constant war in my head, two sides unwilling to yield any real estate) anyway, made a conscious choice to cook it in a roasting pan WITH THE LID ON.

(Anyone catch if I missed a closed bracket in that preceding ramble? My copy editors broke for lunch ten minutes ago.)

But it’s not Sunday.

It’s Saturday. And I miss them. My mom. Doris. Bill. Kevin, Wayne and Donna & the kids. And other relatives I’ve lost over the years.

If only the tawny moon would grant one more family dinner. So I can tell them I love them. And to introduce them to my family. And while we don’t have traditional traditions revolving around meal time, we’re developing a few of our own.

The artificial Christmas tree was delivered Thursday.

Three cats. One anxious dog. Existing in the same space as a six foot five inch seductress.

With twinkly lights.

…

What have I done?