Alors, les amis – I’m still sixty. Haven’t had a chance to digest my new mature state yet, though – my friends Lynn and Denis came back from their camping trip in Algonquin Park on Thursday and are staying with me till next Thursday, which is why I haven’t been passing on my nuggets of wisdom about aging – I’ve been drinking wine, shopping for food, cooking, and organizing sightseeing expeditions. And talking, talking non-stop, to the point that yesterday evening, I said, I have to stop talking now, and was silent for an hour. And then we started talking again.
Right now Denis is cooking quails. Yes, quails, for us and our friend Ken who’s coming for dinner. Last night we had arctic char cooking on a cedar plank, after a method taught us by a young man at the fish shop in St. Lawrence Market. Today, we went with Ken to Kleinburg to see the Group of Seven in that beautiful gallery, and then had a smoked meat sandwich at Caplansky’s and walked around Kensington Market. The other night, while I had dinner with a friend, they went to a fantastic free evening of music at Harbourfront and walked along the water. The city is doing us all proud, my fellow Torontonians.
But now I have to go and help cook the quail and open, yes, a bottle of wine. Sorry. Haven’t even had a chance to talk about Paul McCartney, who’s in town about to start his first concert right at this moment. EEEEEEE! I’ll be there tomorrow. Even at a wise and mature sixty, the little heart goes pitter pat.
