Rewind.

Behold, my beautiful, lush garden.

The green sugar snap peas, purple moon cauliflowers, and bush green beans are well underway. The green lettuce, kale and butter lettuce are ready to be harvested. The Hungarian peppers are struggling, and the cherry tomatoes are taking their sweet time. The arugula has already bolted and were ripped out this morning, as were the radishes. In the previous two years, we grew the Cherriette variety of radishes, but this year we planted the Easter Egg II blend, named for its range of colours from white to burgundy. They went from seed to R.O.U.S. (radishes of unusual size) in just six weeks:

This is the largest intact radish from this morning’s harvest. There were larger ones, but they’d cracked, and bugs had worked their way into the crannies, so I discarded them in the compost bin. Even after getting rid of all those fissured radishes, the bounty is too large to be divided among two people, especially when just one radish is the size of an apple.

I’ve tried my hand at pickling:

Shredded on the left and thin slices on the right. Supermarket-purchased dill in both jars.

With new seeds in the soil, I’ll have three weeks to discover new ways to prepare radishes. Candied radishes? Caramel radish? Radish ice cream?*

Continue reading “Rewind.”

I will never listen to your voicemail. 

(I started writing this post yesterday.)

Happy International Women’s Day!

A lifetime of suffering, one day of celebration!

-Alexa

Once again, I empowered women by enriching their knowledge of bikes and letting them in on the secret that men generally overstate their bike maintenance know-how. Truly, I have yet to meet a non-bike mechanic whose skills match their claims. I’ve definitely been “well, ackshually’d” by these men the few times I’ve tried to give empirical advice.

Fine. Enjoy your garbage bike, you smug man.

As soon as I got home from the three-hour repair clinic, I scrubbed the grime from my fingernails, eager for a more ladylike diversion. My order of yarn from Denmark arrived while I was in Vancouver and passed through customs without incurring any duty fees.

There was only one thing stopping me from starting on my army of Koroks: this blog post. I can’t keep Zoée waiting for my recap of my extra-queer, birthday-flavoured trip to Vancouver.

Continue reading “I will never listen to your voicemail. “

Come for cookies.

I guess I’m going to start providing monthly updates on the ambient lighting at chez Zoée. Last Saturday, in an effort to make their living space more crafting-friendly for their nyctalopic (yes, I just learnt this word) pal, Zoée hung an extra lightbulb above the couch and urged me to take the corner space.

Before I left for the mainland last Friday, my lighting technician encouraged me to bring a crafting project to work on, as they were on a roll with their first-ever knitting project: a sweater.

Yes, a sweater!

When I got into knitting a decade ago, I would never have ventured to make a sweater, even after completing five toques and a scarf. Choosing a sweater as a first knitting project seems completely insane to me, but Zoée seems to be managing it well.

For our enchanted evening of entanglement, I packed two skeins of yarn. Rather than knit yet another toque, I wielded a crocheting hook to form the cap portion of my mushroom guy. Not only can Zoée make a sweater in a dimly lit room, but they can also follow the plot of Bridgerton while doing so. The only scene I caught was Daphne experiencing her first post-nut clarity.

I’d paid for my ride and lodging with jizz cookies and egg salad sandwiches.

Continue reading “Come for cookies.”

Assload of asses.

It’s not a good year for calendars.

2022 was the year of Peter Glazebrook.

2023’s calendar was a Where’s Waldo knockoff.

Moons were the star in 2024.

2025 featured axolotls.

December’s axolotl still adorns the wall next to the fridge. A week into 2026, I walked into Russel Books, expecting to buy a calendar at half price, just like I had the previous year, only to learn that the procrastinator’s discount had turned into a BOGO deal. When the cashier explained that I could grab a second calendar for “free”, I declined on the basis that I wasn’t leading a double life and begrudgingly paid full price for 12 large pictures of axolotls. This calendar turned out to be a dud. Instead of the weekend sandwiching the weekdays as usual, both weekends appeared as the last two columns, resulting in a year of showing up for appointments a day early and premature birthday greetings.

This year, Russel’s selection was limited to dog breeds and the works of Gustav Klimt, all at full price. BOGO was no go.

Whatever. I have a printer: there’s no need to limit myself to just one breed of dog for a whole year. I could transform every weekday into a Saturday or Sunday, which has become my reality as an unemployed person, not that I haven’t been keeping busy with personal projects, reading lists, and fitness ambitions.

The aspect of my life that has suffered the most during this sabbatical has been my social life. So, when Zoée left to be with her other chosen family on the 27th, I scrambled to make plans with the few folks I knew who hadn’t skipped town for the holidays, including my actual family.

Continue reading “Assload of asses.”

A run gone foul.

I’m opening this post with another seagull picture. It was refreshing to observe a kid who hasn’t lost a sense of awe towards the natural world. I was also tickled, as was the seagull, by the kid’s excellent fashion sense.

So, you like seagulls, kid? Wait until one of them steals your breaded oyster burger or shits on you, both of which I’ve experienced.

Life’s full of disappointments, and seagulls are one of them.

Continue reading “A run gone foul.”