It had been a very long time since we had stayed anywhere very long. Time itself felt like a compilation of unpredictable shortcuts that never seem to turn out quite right. Nighttime in particular felt merely like an extension of things unsaid and undone in the heat of daylight.
Generally on the car ride back to the hotel after the holiday meal, they prefer not to talk. They're content slouching in their seats, belts unbuckled, listening to talk radio. The two of them do the Winnipeg family tour every Thanksgiving weekend; it's three days of gluttony and then a three-hour flight back to Toronto.
It's Saturday night on The Main and I'm leaning up against Bain Schubert as some friends chat on the street. To my right, a few meters down the wall, there's a young guy smiling to himself and glancing my way every now and then. I'm sort of digging his dirty, unpretentious hipster look and as I am picturing our grungy bodies smashed up against the building lost in a frothy makeout session, he looks over to me and says, "I am Jesus.
Grill that cheese. Grill it. Flip that bread, just right, and don't let the cheese melt and burn to the pan. He to tends the midnight meal and fixes her tea, exactly as she likes it: Irish breakfast (in the green little pouch) with milk and honey, for his honey.
Nightingale: My voice is locked out. I thrill in my pale hum. As rays of song emerge, they return as golden arrows from the glass. One shaft reaches me, undoes my tongue, leaves me outside and silent. She caresses drawers in and out and in, with lisp of hands by open forms and closed.
The man met his mother at the train station. He hugged her but could say nothing. On the way home she talked to him about how things were at home. Idle chatter had never interested him. His distaste showed on his face if never in his voice. He let her talk, as he always did on the phone.
Falling, he held her. The door reeled, their steps unstable, tittering as they tear shirts and skirts. Their lips were introduced as were their bodies to the floor. He heard it was her first, the alcohol never lying. It was easy, he'll tell the boys tomorrow.
One year in, this unique rice pudding bar is going strong
Riz en Folie, Montreal's first rice pudding bar, opened in July 2008, and its popularity keeps growing. This unique concept was first developed in New York at a restaurant called Rice to Riches, which is where Riz en Folie's owners, siblings Nathalie and Dave Dubé, got their inspiration.
I've eaten turkey on every American Thanksgiving for the past 20 years, excluding '04, when I was a strict vegetarian. Each time, I gorge myself full of turkey, stuffing, brussels sprouts, string beans, and mashed potatoes and then sleep off my food coma on the couch with football - or, in one of the weird Levine family traditions, The Color Purple - blasting in the background.