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confessions of a cheese junkie

A stunningly perfect day after a week of extreme heat and then constant rain, with a week of rain forecast for next week. So everyone was out today. I walked around the ‘hood, marvelling as I always do at our diversity; the park by Riverdale Farm was packed with families originally from all the nations of the earth, picnicking under the big trees, couples, old people, children, in one corner a big party of gay men… 

And then I walked in the tranquil Necropolis among the old dead and the recent dead, every gravestone a story. Stopped at the spot where I scattered the ashes of my parents and Uncle Edgar and told them I’m fine for now and glad to be alive. Very glad to be alive, walking in the sun and under the trees.

Had a great talk last night with my friend Stella Walker of the bright red hair, a most interesting woman, comedienne, singer, and artist who speaks Yiddish and Cree and is about to discover if she has Métis status. We’ve often helped each other with our work, though we rarely get together in person because she lives to the west and north of the city. At one point, I was telling her about my appendix and how vulnerable the hospital stay made me feel, how old I feel sometimes. And she said, “Stop that right now. People start talking about how old they are and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You can talk about how old you are when you’re 95 and not before!”

How right she is! Thank you, Stella. It’s just, as my same-age friend Judy and I were saying today, that 70 sounds so old. It simply does not compute that we are that age. And it’s true things have started to go wrong in a way they did not when I was 69. But then, as Stella pointed out, lots of young people have appendix attacks. It’s not because I’m old. 

I’m not old. 

On the other hand, I’m not yet my usual energetic self, have lost a lot of muscle, can feel it when I take a simple walk. Important work to be done to regain strength. Have not touched the piano for months, haven’t been at my desk for weeks, everything ground to a halt. Time – gradually – to gear up again. 

Brad sent me this, from Twitter, that I read as I nibbled a nice Brie: A 2015 study found that cheese can trigger a response in the same brain receptors activated by heroin. 

I knew it! A cheese junkie, that’s me.



2 Responses to “confessions of a cheese junkie”

  1. Theresa says:

    The other day I had a ploughman's lunch at the cidery in Sechelt (felt like I was in Somerset again, 1979) and the wedge of Brie was so perfect I almost cried…

  2. beth says:

    Funny 1979 was such a big year for us both. That was the year I spent months devouring cheese in France, especially Banon, from goats. Bread, cheese, wine – what else do we need? Ah – a good book. And a good friend.

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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Chris Walks
This blog evolves. It once was about travels. Now it’s a reason to be at the keyboard that I value.


Theresa Kishkan
Theresa Kishkan is a writer living on the Sechelt Peninsula on the west coast of Canada.


I walk on. With my feet, and in my mind as well.


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Wherever you’ve come from, wherever you’re going, consider this space a place for reflection and pause.


Juliet in Paris, Spain and Beyond
Juliet is a Canadian who’s lived for decades in Paris and writes about her travels and the many things that interest her.