Dear Young Person between the ages of 19 and 29,


I want to tell you something that was told to me at times in my life that I didn’t heed until the day I HAD to accept it . SLOW DOWN AND BREATHE. There’s no reason to rush and you can’t control an unpredictable future, so why not take life in stride and see what it presents to you? You will miss so much if you life your life by a plan laden with benchmarks and goals and if you pressure yourself because others have achieved something you haven’t yet. So, if this is you, an over-planning, over-achieving youngster, staring at life through eyes-only-on-the-prize glasses, please stop and read my words and understand that I know what I’m talking about.

When I was growing up, adults loved asking children what they wanted to be when they grew up. Considering it is the business of children to grow at their own pace without agenda, this is the most stupid question an adult could ask a child. How can someone who hasn’t spent much time on a planet filled with so much to discover and experience answer such a question? Some adults forget what being a child is like because they have lost the creativity of their childhood and don’t know what to ask kids. As a result, they come up with a question about something they can relate to — the soul-sucking world of work and highly regarded careers, thereby unconsciously tampering with the natural programming of being human where we learn with our senses, thereby sparking curiousity. Posing questions about the future to a child, infiltrates their mind with pointless benchmarks and a man-made need to have a life-plan bombarded with goals for success without failure.

When I reflect upon my my mother’s younger years, I can see she did the best she could with what she had, living by society’s rules. I remember she would coach me to give impressive answers to the what-I-wanted-to-be-when-I-grew-up questions. I was coached not to speak my truth of wanting to be a creative person but to say I wanted to be a linguist working at the United Nations headquarters, a lawyer or a doctor. When I was young, I wanted to be a nurse who was also a dancer who painted and wrote stories to read to her patients for fun in her spare time. While I was praised for dancing beautifully with incredible expressiveness, lauded for my ability to move people with my writing, or complimented on the impecable first aid I lent to others, I was also told that certain pursuits (mine) allowed only a chosen few to find success and that the rest of us (me) needed to pursue not what we loved but what was sensible(things that were considered lucrative). After a while, I believed that any compliment I received for anything creative I had done was a polite lie. Disenchanted, I started buying one liner greeting cards instead of filling blank ones with my heartfelt words. Writing wouldn’t make me any money, dancing would mean I was an academic failure and since I was the firstborn and had to “set a good example” for my sister, I set aside what the adults in my life saw as “fairy tale”dreams and forced myself to find a profession that would not make me become a disappointment in a world that was “not going to get any easier, you know”. It was so confusing being encouraged to put my mind to doing anything I wanted to do, so long as it was the sensible thing to do. I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life at eighteen, nineteen or twenty (I’m hard pressed to believe anyone does) and in my my haste to choose something to study at University, I choose to study for a career in Television and Radio like my father. And even while at the embassy applying for my student visa, my father, whose footsteps I was about to follow, told the man who was processing my application that he thought I was stupid to choose what I had because at sometime I would have to give it up when I had a family. Forgive my late father’s statement. I have. He was a product of his arrogant generation’s oppressive thinking and he also did the best he could with the tools that were available to him. I knew he loved me but I don’t think my father ever recognized when he hurt my feelings or made me feeel small. That’s just how fathers were then I suppose. To this day, to protect themselves (or rather be on the offensive), my family likes to brush off or pretend to forget the things they did wrong (because they are never wrong) and they all wish I would just let things go but I can’t. However, I use these things I can’t let go of not to be bitter towards them, but to be a better person and parent and offer better guidance to my sons and the young people I encounter.

There was only one adult in my life, a university professor, who made a statement about life and careers that stuck with me and perhaps my entire graduating class of 1992. He said, “Do what you love and the money will come later,”. If I could have my youth back, that is exactly what I would do, because success is not about titles or money earned but it is about soaking up what life offers us every day. Living is about experiencing moments, seeing things, meeeting people,trying new things, scary things, tasting new food and finding comfort in the familiar. It’s about helping people, feeling emotions, being selfless and inadvertently finding out who we are and what’s our purpose. Life provides experiences that fuel ideas and innovation and invention while art inspires and uplifts our souls and sometimes, we feel like we are soaring instead of sinking and it feels good, if only for just a moment. Life is short…even if you live to a hundred …life is short; too short to live by a plan or a ridgid schedule. It is okay to not know what you are doing tomorrow or next week, next month or next year. If you live life by a ridgid plan you will have more disappointments than achievements and you will not be happy. Now, let’s not mistake disappointment for failure. Failure is a reset button. Failure is the greatest teacher because you can’t improve or achieve anything great without the mistakes that lead to failure. Failure is the foundation and stepping stones to success. Failure is temporary, really, if you use it as impetus to try again. Disappointment tends to linger and sometimes never goes away.

I have learned that in life, (and to be successful you’ve got to believe this) you have to do what makes you happy and though sometimes you have to do what you have to do to get by, it does not mean you have to put aside or not do the thing that is the essence of who you are — the thing that comes from your soul. You also can’t find happiness if you hold on to regret. I suppose I could say I regret not doing this or that, but I realize I can still do some of those things now. I couldn’t when I was younger but I have the chance to re-visit some of the things I had postponed now. It’s up to me to do them. I have no reason or excuse not to. I had so many plans that were laid on a shakey foundation that consisted of what I was told would make me a successful. It was a plan laid on a foundation I made based on what other people had in mind for me — people in retrospect, who were not more intelligent than I was. It is quite surprising and a little unsettling when you realize you are far more intelligent and intuitive than the people that raised you — after all, they were supposed to know best and yet their guidance was often wrong. I know that nothing they did was malicious but rather were ideas that were formed out of fear because they could see the world changing, becoming harder and that human beings were becoming more ruthless and selfish and to protect us from being ravaged by the world, they felt they had to steer us to choose paths that would make us financially able to survive. After all, money has always made the world go round, but I see loopholes of hope. Having missed the opportunity to pursue my passions in my youth, I see that there are no age limits or rules that say I can’t at fifty four.

When I was in my twenties I had a life plan set on a time frame. By twenty-five I’d be working at this place earning this much. By twenty-seven I would own my first house in such and such a neighbourhood and I would be driving this specific car and be taking vacations in country X and Y. It was a tough, rigid, impossible plan, really. Back then, I didn’t have the extra tools like the internet or a smart phone to help out with these grandiose plans of mine but I was determined to stand out in any way that I could to get it all. And then, life happened and I became just like any other ordinary grunt out there. I wasn’t special, famous or succesful or financially rich. Life happened and I had a baby who would later be diagnosed with a life-long condition that would determine everything we would do, say, think or feel forever. And while I was suspecting something was worryingly different about him, I was pregnant with baby number two who, upon birth would be colicky for six months and susceptible to both bronchiolitis and bronchitis. Quickly, my life-plan was a vague speck of an idea created for some other woman from some other time. My husband and I bought a house much later than our peers, shared a very basic four-door sedan for a very long time and we spent more time worrying about the future of our one child while busting our asses to create a “normal” life for the other.We didn’t have a lot of money back then and when we did have extra life threw us major hiccups like a broken down furnace or kitchen appliance. We seemed to be perpetually climbing out of a very deep hole, shaking off the dirt that landed on our heads as life tried to bury us. Ours was a life set before a backdrop of constant chaos, constant change and movement, perpetual tiredness, brain straining days and nights of thinking outside the box to create the best environment in which to raise these two little boys while everyone our age in our neighbourhood was worrying about which tiles or hardwood they should buy to increase the value of their homes.

By the time I was thirty-six, my husband and I quietly understood that we had been placed in fixed roles. He would work outside the home and do other other lucritive work on the side to pay the bills and put food on the table and I would be at home with the boys, overseeing our special son’s therapy while raising the other and the only job I could do kept me inside the home, babysitting other people’s typically developing children and pretending to like the ones I really didn’t. I learned to re-use and re-purpose things and replenish the basic needs of our family with a budget based on what I called a creative banking system. It goes without saying that life was grinding us down back then and I could absolutely relate to Lee Lawrie’s famous sculpture of the plight of Atlas. I had to make a concerted effort to find joy in each day so that I could face the next. I was often bitter, angry, hurt and just so sad because at the time, I felt that my child was ripped off by his diagnosis and that we were ripped off as a family. It felt like we had to work so hard for the simplest of things; work so hard for peace and happiness.

Dear People between the ages of nineteen and twenty-nine, I can sincerely tell you that ALL my plans went down the drain. I couldn’t remember what they were or why they were important and I had no idea who I was. But, I survived and I truly lived because I got out of bed every day and sometimes went through the mundane motions and sometimes I experienced heaven before my eyes or in the palm of my hand and eventually, when the grief and pain subsided; when I stopped letting myself believe the medical community who kept telling me I had a short window to help my child develop; when I quit frantically rushing around trying to fix my son and fix our lives from something bad that I believed was lurking around the corner…. when I stopped to breathe and take life more slowly, I started to see and I mean really see what was life was all about and just how magnificent it all was. I understood that there was no plan that was going to make me happy. What was making me happy was what I have been doing for the past twenty one years. I had to get to the end of my parenting road to realize my value. I had to become an empty nester before I could say I understood the puropse of my life and now, it’s time to write a new chapter for myself at fifty-four — it’s time to see what other purpose I will fulfill.

I spent too much time doing what I thought I had to do in my twenties and not doing what I loved. Circumstance made me shelve my passions but I was able to take all the mistakes and poor advice that I spoke of earlier and make sure I did better as a parent and a person. I had the wisdom to break the cycle of haste and planning and mapping out a life that surely none of us could predict. In life there are only a few sure things — you are alive, you need food, water and air. You need love, joy and a sense of belonging and purpose and then, one day, you die and your life is over. So, don’t you think we should make the most of the time we have?

I encourage my boys follow their passions. I try to expose them to everything by taking them everwhere and showing them what this world of ours has to offer. I give them love and affection and I give them my ear, always. I think truly listening to a person is one of the most valuable gifts you can give to them. I welcome their ideas and opinions and love when they teach me something new. I have given constructive criticism and I have known when to hold back and let them fail. I have learned to be patient whenever I watch them flounder before they rise again. I have wiped tears and offered words of encouragement more times than I can count. I try to make them confident and strong knowing that some days, they can’t be strong and they just need time to be emotional puddles — but they are my puddles, my boys, two important contributors to the planet that I have had the great fortune and privilege of raising and propping along the way. I was there for every first and every struggle and every heartbreak when life was not fair. I have been there for every achievement and I am proud not just of who they’ve become but of what the four of us have been able to achieve as a family. I might not have become anything I dreamed of but my husband and I continue to take on the twists, turns and sudden drops of this roller coaster life of ours. We look at the short comings of our parents as teaching tools because we know we are able to do something better — we can support our sons as they shoot for the stars and we can encourage them to slow down and be patient and see how life unfolds amidst a world society that still bases success on archaic patterns of generations gone by. We try to do better by our boys because we know what it is like to not get the opportunity to try and pursue our passions.

I might not have gotten the promotions and important corporate positions I thought I wanted. I live in a simple house that is a glorious home. There is enough money in the bank and there are even some well-performing investments and we’ve since upgraded the sedan to two more reliable and comfortable cars. We are at the point in our lives where we are looking to do and see more and possess less. I didn’t become famous for anything earth shattering but my husband and I have been complimented repeatedly for helping nurture two incredible human beings. As we lived through those tough, tough times, we became passionate about helping our sons and other young people embrace their talent, live their truth and follow their passions and it continues to be extremely rewarding. What we feel every day is something money could never buy. I know now that if I was working for some powerful corporation when my son was diagnosed, my family would not have turned out as wonderfuly as it did. I cannot imagine doing all that I did with my sons and working in a demanding environment at the same time. All those moments I devoted to raising them would have been split with and lost on a career and I don’t want to imagine what kind of person I would have become . I don’t have material accolades to show that I am indeed successful. Truth is, I never needed them and I was able to get the necessities of life in the long run. It didn’t matter that the things I needed came when I was twenty-five, thirty-five or forty-five, the point is, we got what we needed and what we don’t may still come, or not but I don’t care because there is no benchmark or deadline. We have our health and we have a bit of wealth but most of all we have love and an openess to receiving and accepting all that is to come or that is to be denied.

Take it from a middle aged woman about to start new things — slow down, be patient, take it all in. Breathe, lie back and stare at the sky, dip your toes in the water, taste all the flavours, listen to all the music notes, take a walk in the rain, feel the sunshine on your face, jump into a pile of leaves, make a snow angel. The planet isn’t what she used to be, there are no starter homes that young people can afford and higher education is more expensive when it should be free. Choose to follow your passion and follow it your way because it is okay to break the mould of stringent path of elementary school to high school to college and university to hopefully high paying job. It won’t work because it can’t work if you haven’t allowed yourself to experience life. If you don’t allow yourself to live, how will you ever know what you want to do in life? Life will deal you several hands, be flexible enough and love yourself enough to be able to play each hand you are dealt. If you just want to be alive, stay on the carousel. Jump onto the roller coaster if you want to truly live.

Duck Face

The Human Duck Face

D. Barsotti & J.A. James

Social media is not the cause of duck face but it certainly has encouraged it and it is one of the reasons I cannot bear to scroll through Facebook and Instagram anymore. The moment the human race was able to take selfies, it was evident the acceptable facial expression, the new image of beauty, was the duck face — head tilted ever so slightly, lips pursed together causing cheeks to suck in, eyes vapidly staring into the lens of the phone’s camera.

Kiss Me – D. Barsotti & J.A. James

And almost everyone did it and for some reason, no one thought it was unnatural or stupid looking. Now, if you are twelve through sixteen….even through eighteen, sure — you’re young, you’re goofy and posting silly, social media faces is really your domain but after thirty, and definitely beyond forty and fifty, it’s just asinine.

“the unfortunate thing is, in their heart of hearts, people know this but they continue to post and expose themselves to the judgement”

Cold, Hard Truth – D. Barsotti & J.A. James

But, “friends” click like and heart and comment with all kinds of uplifting and cutesy decorative emojis, saying how someone is “just beautiful” or “simply gorgeous” and then, in minutes, tell or text others what they really think of a person’s duck face and or body. Their true thoughts are usually unkind and often horrific. The unfortunate thing is, in their heart of hearts, people know this but they continue to post and expose themselves to the judgement because society’s approval has become as vital as air, water and nourishment.

Fish Mouth – D. Barsotti & J.A. James

Social media encourages those who could afford it, to take duck face to the next level. The level of permanent duck face which evolves into a disaster of unnaturally tight skin around the eyes and mouth, skeletal noses, perma-surprised eyebrows and swollen lips that make what was once a duck’s bill, a fish mouth. Man, if animals could capitalize on human beings’ need to look like them, they would financially dominate the world.

We are not meant to stay in the incompleteness of being young

There are some people I know (and some I used to know) who barely resemble their original selves. Skin pulled tautly over bone, I’m never sure if they are smiling, scared or eternally surprised. Social media fuels this need to be impressive, be the most beautiful and the most popular and it has prevented many of us from seeing just how lovely we are, inside and out. Many humans do not recognize how valuable they are. Many of us are more concerned with our outward appearance and have forgotten about the essence of who we are and how much more we can become as we get older. I truly believe one must take care of oneself. Eating good food, exercising, moisturizing and caring for our skin with good clean natural products; caring for our hair, our teeth and nails is vital to being healthy…but caring for our minds and self-esteem is just as important. Being able to cry, be angry and to laugh without feeling like our face will snap is a wonderful and natural thing. We are intended to age, to grow more experienced and wiser. We are not meant to stay in the incompleteness of being young. It’s not natural and let’s call a spade a spade…it’s freaking weird to see an old person with a face that looks like it is ironed onto their skull. Some humans are beginning to look like walking corpses — face all pulled back, filled in and oddly “perfect” while the body is aged. What is the appeal of looking like twenty when your forty old mind has so much more it can offer if it were less occupied with trying to perpetually look young. Many in the fashion industry are embracing all body types, natural attributes and individual quirkiness to reflect reality. The effort is there but it is such an uphill battle to show people that imperfection is actually …perfection! Skin is not supposed to be flawless. Whatever happened to the saying, “every flaw is a fashion?”

Ironically, it was my vain mother who taught me that I was enough and encouraged me to love myself and own all of me — every bump, every chip, every blemish. I know my mother, even at eighty-two has many things about her face and her body that she has never liked but her words of encouragement juxtaposed with the many times I have watched her be self-dissatisfied, enabled me to accept myself. I love and accept my crooked row of bottom teeth, the big cleft on my chin and the, blue-black birthmark on the left side of my face, close to my ear that is the size of my fingerprint. I lived with constant commentary about it looking like a stain, a sideburn, dripping hair dye, or a black olive on my face but I never hated it and never intentionally tried to cover it up — ever — because it was unique to me. I love the freckles under my eyes and across my nose. I love my thick, dark eyebrows people would relentlessly tease me about. I cherish my bouncy and often unruly, greying curls. I adore my skin tone, dark eyes, small boobs and very present ass that was a favourite topic of conversation among some of my aunts. I love my strong thighs and calves that show my athleticism even at fifty-four and I embrace my stretch marked belly that housed my much wanted and adored two, ten-pound-baby-boys I delivered into this world. I have scars from three kidney surgeries that saved my life and a five inch scar on my right elbow that is the conclusion of a snowboarding run gone horribly wrong. Perhaps I am not as attractive as I was in my teens or twenties but I feel and believe that I am exquisitely, interestingly, splendidly, confidently, intelligently, gracefully, sublimely and elegantly fifty four. I mean, I continue to get my husband’s attention from across a crowded room and in our bed. To me, all I am externally is imperfectly beautiful and I am on a perpetual journey to improve my internal flaws. As I grew older, I have made it a point to separate and discard what I deem frivolous, inconsequential and unneeded in my life. It has been my mission to be nicer, kinder, more patient, more tolerant and more accepting of others and it is imperative I remain informed and continue to learn and improve my mind.

The physical signs of aging, much like scars, are the badges of honour we earn living life. It does not matter what people think of us and it matters less when their true thoughts are masked by fake comments about us online. In order for young people to develop self-esteem, self-worth, and an acceptance and joyful anticipation of ageing, older people have to lead the way. Ageing isn’t a bad thing. When you get older and your children leave home, you get back the gift of time. Time to rediscover yourself, try new things, see new places, meet new people, grow things, cook new thigs, play new sports and learn a couple new languages. There is time to read more, create more, make more of a difference to our endangered planet and pass on what we know to those who will inherit and inhabit her when we are gone.

“You are enough”

And while I understand that for some, when artificial, cosmetic enhancement is started, it cannot or is difficult to stop, I urge those of you who have not succumbed to this ritual to try something simple — Look at your face, your hair and your naked body and smile. Really look at this amazing vessel that houses the essence of who you are. You are enough and if you want to strive for more, if what you see looks unhealthy, or not as fit as it could be, heal it and take care of the vessel in a healthy and safe manner. Cherish your body. Feed your soul. Enhance your mind. True friends, and I mean real people, don’t care about what your vessel looks like but rather care what you think, what you have to say and what you do. There is nothing wrong with looking lovely, stylish or wearing something that makes you feel good but you don’t have to go to painful extremes and you don’t need blue thumbs up, smiley faces or hearts. Unpurse your lips, turn off the filter and smile, really smile from within and show the world just how beautiful you are … because you are and truth be told, you always have been.

Learning my place in society (and loving where I have found myself)

Isle ChileJust now·9 min read

I am fifty four. I am active, I take care of myself and I do what is interesting to me. I am using the time that has been returned to me, to learn new things and to get back to hobbies I’d put aside. It is really nice to get to this point after years of evolving into a person who cares not what others think, while respecting the fact that everyone is entitled to their opinion and their space on the planet.

I do not have conversations with or read posts made by people who can’t get over that things have changed since they were young. I do not waste breath or time with people who don’t realize that the problems the world faces today has SO much to do with the way things were done in the time of their heyday.

Human Lifetime Evolution Stock Image

I remember my husband’s grandmother asking us how much we earned, when we started off with our first “real” jobs. When we answered her, she looked at us incredulous and asked, “Where are all the starting professional jobs? You know, the hundred thousand dollar starting salary jobs?” and all we could tell her was, “Your son’s generation took em all! They enjoyed the spoils then implemented cutbacks and downsizing, Grandma,”.

You see, what the older generation forgets, is while things may seem different, not much has changed. We still live in a world where things are convenient and abundant for a certain few. Colour, creed and race still determine who rises to the top and who settles like sediment beneath. We still live in a time of status symbols and where race and gender can determine whether you fail or succeed and the world still operates on having that “in” because of who you know. Society still has dangerous addictions and status associated with certain brands is still a thing, but at least we no longer see ads like these where being successful was only associated with being male.

Source: Kenwood

People had two to three point five children, drove huge polluting automobiles fuelled by oil that often spilled in transit into the oceans and lakes. They put food in a can and filled it with preservatives to get mother out of the kitchen and off her feet so that she could be considered a modern woman. As a woman, I am really glad I was around to see that type of advertising change.


I know progress has to start somewhere. I know that advancement comes with it’s problems but every generation has to take responsibility for the fallout it caused and we must show support and encouragement and assist the generation trying to repair the damages. I am tired of hearing derrogatory comments from older people regarding young people and they way they live their lives, their taste in art and music, their likes and dislikes and the way they access information. I am tired of hearing them complain that X-treme sports are included in the Olympics. I am tired of them disregarding and disrespecting the things in the world today that they cannot use because they don’t understand how to navigate a virtual, digital world. I am tired of hearing about the “good old days” and how much “better” it was “back in my day” and I am tired of the criticism that young people don’t know the value of a hard days work. If they don’t know, it’s because my generation, the children of the grumpy old critics, didn’t teach them because we were so busy trying to not be like our parents, some of us forgot to pass on the valuable stuff that we were taught. If our young people cannot cope, if they feel overwhelmed, if they lack confidence it is most likely because we did not teach them how to develop these abilities. Do not dare call them entitled, if you had a hand in entitling them. Do not call them unmanerly, if you spoiled them and forgot to teach them kindness, humility and gratitude.

The world has never been perfect. The world has always been evolving to make life better. Before you generalize and judge our youth for always being on their phones, remember that the radio and television was your “cellphone or tablet”. Before you criticize their demeanour, remember the generations before took away the well paying jobs giving way to a time when it took two working parents to sustain the basic needs of a family, removing a parent from the home whose best gift to a child is presence and loving guidance. No generation is perfect and every generation has it’s share of complete mis-informed idiots. But take a look around. This is the generation that is calling out abuse of law enforcement and authority. This is the generation who accepts differences in gender, ability, race and culture. This is the generation who is making us mindful of our adjectives …mindful of the way we phrase things. This is the generation that says, “Hey wait a second, I need a break. Things are a bit much right now,”. This is the generation forcing politicians to at least sound mindful when they address of the eclectic society of the world in which we live.

Living beings, especially human beings are adaptable. If we choose to not be left behind, we won’t. I’m not saying to make your way onto every social medium and interract with it exactly as young people do; what I am saying is be openminded and accepting.

Shakespearean English isn’t spoken on the daily anymore. We don’t whip out our stone tablets to chisel a letter to someone; we dont have to pound away on clunky typewriter keys and thankfully, in a pinch, when we need information, confirmation or money instantly, it is possible to receive it instantly. Isn’t that kind of nice? So what if news papers are becoming a thing of the past and fewer and fewer people have a landline and maybe we only know one person with a rotary phone. So what if I don’t need to have a paper dictionary anymore? Yes, jobs have been lost to downsizing and AI, but new jobs are and will be created and we will evolve. I mean, isn’t it fantastic that we don’t have to print, or save information on a floppy disk, writable disc or thumb-drive we can misplace because we can upload our stuff to the cloud? Isn’t it nice that there is so much less stuff to physically collect and figure out where to store? Dealing with waste is an on-going problem on our planet, which by the way is a problem that was created generations ago.

Please understand I do not believe everything in the past is archaic and worthless. We must have a past to have a present and attain a future. We have to learn what to keep and what to archive and if we choose to be left behind, we must not complain about the way things are or criticize the people who function just fine in the state of the world. I am fifty four and my children are grown. I have time now to think about what I want and what kind of senior I would like to become if given the opportunity. I want to continue to support young people in their determination to speak out against inequality, racism, sexism and bullying. I want to continue to applaud their innovations when it comes to sustainablilty and environmentally conscious ways living. I want to help them repair the planet and maybe, when they get tired, feel anxious or overwhelmed , when they feel depressed, maybe I can be there to talk to them, lift them up, and teach them ways to cope without a prescription, because they are human and they inherrited a lot of troublesome baggage from the generation before me. And my generation? Well, I think we spent a lot of time getting angry at it all, but didn’t do enough to clean up the mess. I know I could have done more.

Now, I have an opportunity now to do better by the younger generation. I don’t want be someone who constantly criticizes everything they do. I also know I don’t fit into or understand every aspect of their world, and that’s perfectly fine. We can’t be a part of everything that changes in society, all the the time but we don’t have to cut it down because we are not capable of adapting.

Stock Image

As I always have, I look forward to technology yet to come. I may not be able to immerse myself in all of it, but I am looking forward to being a part of whatever I can. I want to be able to live comfortably in my senior years and have technology be the reason I live without the physical and mental hassle of the silly stuff of daily living. I want to be the senior my children don’t have to be concerned about. I am fortunate enough to have been able to put things in place for when I am unable to care for myself so that I will never be their burden. It is not my children’s duty to take care of their mother while simultaneoulsy caring for their children, their jobs and the problems they will face in their lives. I want my children to want to visit me and not make time to see me out of guilt or loyalty. I am watching my parents’ generation and I am learning what NOT to do. I want my senior future to be all it can be. I want to live life with the same openmindedness I posess now. I want to see what these young people are going to do next because I am in awe of them, I believe in them and I love them. I am fifty four and I hope to be blessed with as many healthy, happy years on the planet as I have had in adulthood. I am not perfect. Things were not better back in my day and most of all, by learning and accepting my place in society, I am still able to be excited about the future. I know my place and accept that I do what I want to do, whenever I want to do it. I accept that my way of doing things may work for me but not for my twenty-something-year-old sons. I accept that my role is one of quiet observation, thought and decision making. I accept that it is possible to have a quiet role and still be impactful by throwing my support behind those charged with finding the solutions and make the changes that will save our species and planet. I accept that I do not have all the answers and I accept that things “back in my day” have become and will continue to be, my memories to share, but not begrudgingly compare to the things that “kids these days” do.

I am fifty four and I am choosing to NOT be a fussy, frustrated, frumpy, furrowed, conspiracy theorist, fosil. If longevity means becoming some paranoid, old-way-is-the-only-way, crazy,conspiracy theorist, then I’d rather die sooner, thanks very much. I remember my friends mother telling her grandmother once “Oh, gosh, granny, stop griping about everything people younger than you do! Be nice, let people like you!” Those last six words? ….Ones to live by!


A couple weeks ago, plans with my sister changed due to weather and we decided on a rain check. Looking at the overcast sky and the drizzle sprinkling the back deck, I was about to settle for a day indoors when I realized, it was perfectly still. No wind rustled the leaves of the trees. The air was thick and humid, the smell of the rain soaking into the earth, ripe. Feeling the discontemtment with the possibility of an indoor day, I gave into my urge to be outside and on the water. After all, I was on day two and a half of the eighty two hours I had to myself and I wanted to use this time to unleash myself from my usual routine. There was to be no cooking or cleaning up during this time and knowing that this unusually hot weather (no matter how strange) in Canada should not be taken for granted, I didn’t want to spend all my time at home. The confirmation that I had to get out and do something came from my reflection in the mirror while brushing my teeth. I was checking out the mop of curls atop my head (no hair appointments during covid), and looking at the transformation my hair has been undergoing. In my case, dark strands are turning red and over time, red to yellow before settling into a permanent state of white. Unlike my face, my hair isn’t deceiving when it comes to my age and nothing says get out and utilize your time like graying hair. I got in line with a parade of SUV’s at Starbucks and treated myself to a fancy coffee; went back home, changed and threw my paddle board gear and my stuff (wallet, phone, water bottle, comb, towel and a cotton slip-on dress) in the car and headed for the beach. Listening to lyrics being belted out by Amy Lee and other thought inspiring music streaming via Bluetooth, I was really inside my head, watching the road, of course, but thoughts a million miles away. When I have downtime from work and my family I spend a lot of time thinking deeply about my life, the world and my place in it. Like everything else over the years, in moments like these I recognize how much the deep thinking has changed. I remember times of solitude whether I was driving or just sitting on the deck, my thoughts would would classify more as worry or concern …concern over my autistic child’s future, concern for my other child, my husband, my parents, my marriage, my ever changing ways of making a living…it was all based on concern and problem solving. Now, at 54, I’m in the roller coaster carriage going up the last couple not-so-steep inclines of the ride of life and my deep thoughts bring a smile to my face and peace to my soul. This is the we’ve-made-it-through-the-toughest-times incline and it is the one where we get to experience and truly appreciate the things that make us feel love, happiness and gratitude and although everything that goes up must come down and I know there will be loss and sadness to bear, the ride will plateau and eventually come to an end. If it ends with me feeling the way I feel now, then I would have succeeded in truly living.

As I drove through the county’s winding road to my destination, I appreciated the gift this region was to me and my family. I have never warmed to the town we settled in after having lived in some of Canada’s most fabulous cities. I have never understood or accepted the cliquish and rather frivolous nature of the people who were born and bred here but I’ve learned to live my life in this small place while keeping the small minded at arm’s length. The county is home to some of the best vineyards in the country and best stretches of beach front, cosy coves, inlets of Lake Ontario. Being from the Caribbean, the Provincial Parks in my area draw me to their shallow clear waters and white sands. It feeds my passion to play in the water and hear the shushing of waves as I’d done in mychildhood, albeit without that briny taste of the ocean so dear to me. This piece of perfect real estate is one of the reasons I am able to continue living here. 

In spite of the grey skies and spotty showers, the colours of the vegetation along the way were vibrant and lush and I could see that there was no turbulance on the water in spite of the rain. The water was flat and almost motionless like a sheet of glass and the beaches were not crowded but they weren’t deserted either. It seemed, like me, people were intent on having their day at the beach in spite of the weather. Some people took shelter from the rain grilling their food under pop up tents or canopies while others were enjoying being in the warm water, being baptised by the rain.

I inflated my board and paddled out into serenity, my oar slicing through the water, the sound of tiny ripples overiding the ambiance of music, people chatting and kids playing. It didn’t matter that the drizzle had turned into a shower. It was peaceful and where I needed to be. Not having much experience as a paddle boarder, the initial tense legs and overly engaged core were now relaxed and I was looking ahead at the scenery and not at the water. I thought about the last seventeen months of this global pandemic and what it had done to the world. I thought of all the suffering and death it caused and while I recognize and acknowledge our privilege and good luck, I thought of what it did to my sons. I thought of how their goals screeched to a halt, shattering everything they were planning to do post high school. My sons are on the brink of independent adulthood and 2020 was supposed to be the year that bore the fruits of their labour. But, instead, like everyone,they had to wait and wait and wait some more. They had to find ways to stay motivated and positive and the toll it took on both their mental well-being was overwhelming, especially for my autistic son. And then came change. Some much needed relief in the form of vaccines. Now fully vaccinated, we can do a bit more. We can gather with a select few and we can be outdoors and we can get a taste of the daily life we took for greanted. Two strokes to the left, two to the right I’d covered a decent distance from my spot on the beach. “We did it,” I thought and a smile came to my face. We made it through the toughest sixteen months of our lifetime; especially my sons, especially Adam. We followed the protocol, we kept our distance from everyone outside our family and we found a way to make the lockdowns worthwhile. Those were the good days. I taught the boys how to cook, their father showed them their way around power tools and home renos, they studied, they trained and we all stayed healthy. And then there were the difficult days, especially for Adam. After all those the days when his inability to communicate what was bothering him resulted in destruction and pain, just like the rest of us, he made it through. One stroke on the right, one on the left, I kept paddling and I felt my shoulders drop and the tightness disappear and in that instant I realized that we’re all okay and everything with everyone I love was as it should be.

The pandemic is not over and it will be a while before we have a handle on Covid 19. There is a lot going on in the world along with Covid 19 and it’s repercussions. The climate has changed and the west of our country is burning, while tornados touch down in South West Ontario and Northern Ontario is on fire too. Greece is burning. Germany is flooding. California is burning again and it is easy to think that our planet is just going to turn to ash one day, but in that moment, as I paddled, I was able to unleash it all and let it go. And I felt it leave me too. You see, I might not be able to change the world, but I can do my part; I can do my best to not add to the problems that plague our world. There is still a lot of good and a lot of beauty to behold and therefore, there is hope in spite of all our problems. 

One stroke to the right, one to the left, over and over and over until I felt like I was floating on a cloud rather than on water. I thought of the love of my life and our love that has deepened over the years and how much more I love him each and every day in ways I never knew existed. Paddle left. Paddle right. Love, like life,has evolved. Love is easy, always available and is uncomplicated at my age. Marriage, like me on my board, floats, bobbing over ripples easily. Marriage, is friendship, comfort and well…its home, welcoming me with open arms everytime and it’s where I want to be. Children are grown and starting their adult lives and we are starting a new chapter together that still includes and cares about our boys, but is mainly focused on us and the time we will spend together until one of us leaves this life.

Like a loud noise, or a flash of lightening, a jet ski’s motor and heavy wake disrupted my peaceful thoughts. My board bobbed and wobbled on the waves and I lost my balance and plunged into the water as did two screaming little girls from a paddle board about 80 metres away. Beginners all, the sudden waves made it difficult to pull ourselves back onto our boards. The more I tried, the more my legs bobbed and kicked the more tangled my leash became in the tall weeds. A strong swimmer, even with a life jacket, I grew tired. I stopped. I took a breath. What was the plan? Looking into the water, I could barely see my foot. Reaching down I tried to remove the velcro ankle cuff. What a bitch that was! Who knew weeds were that thick and strong? Third time was the charm. With my foot free, I tried to mount the board again, but when I pushed my weight onto it, the tail of the board would sink because the leash tethered it so strongly onto the weeds. I was tired. I was done with this shit. I reached up and unhooked the leash from the board and glided towards the shore. I glanced over at the kids whose father had come into the water to detangle their leash from the weeds and bring them to shore. They left their leash behind too but they were safe. I hoisted myself onto the board and lay face up. A big breath released the tiredness and frustration of dealing with the weeds. I was unleashed. I was free. So, I lost a thirty dollar leash. Whatever. It was holding me back. Binding me to disgusting, prickly, slimy, octopus- arm-like weeds. Weighing me down. I remember my cousin Nicole would say, “just free it, Danie. Free it” and I did and everything was so much better. 

Look At MyFace.

How one comes to live on Nowhere Island.

Of many races; accepted by none. (Photo by D.A. B.)

When I look at my face, I see the plight of the indigenous Carib tribe, who, along with the Arawak, struggled to survive five centuries of European conquest and ravage. When I look at my face, I see Africans violently plucked from their home, brought to toil on the stolen land in heat the white man couldn’t bear. When I look at my face, I see my maternal grandfather and his brothers — teenagers, sailing from China to the Caribbean islands to escape communism, with no money and little knowledge of English. When I look at my face, I see my paternal, Italian great grandfather, living and dying by his work — his family crafting and building the churches and courthouses still standing in the Caribbean today. When I look at my face, I see his cousins who left the Azores for the plantations, as post-abolition labourers. When I look at my face, I see hard working people coming together to create a new life and home for themselves, sacrificing everything for their families and the generations that followed.

When I look at my face, I remember stories of how my grandparents met and how their love transcended social and racial boundaries of their time. When I look at my face, I am reminded of the greed of the powerful white man, who had no problem crossing those social and racial lines he created, taking what he wanted at the expense of an innocent baby, born much fairer than her sisters and sent away to hide the shame of what he had done. When I look at my face, I see the baby, now a young woman, brought back to the island to work. I see the scar on her forehead, the tell-tale symbol of occasional beatings by the black man betrayed — her fair skin, hair, and eyes a constant reminder of what that white man had stolen from him.

It is the judgement and discrimination from all races that cast mixed folks like me onto Nowhere Island, where one is of every race yet accepted by none.

When I look at my face, I see my history. I see the love, joy, struggle, pain, sadness, loss, and sacrifice it took to create this lineage. When I look at my face, I reflect on what set the tone for my adult life as a mixed-race Caribbean woman living in North America and I am reminded why we can’t live as one world, one people. You see, when I look at my face, I acknowledge the racism I have experienced from various ethnic groups living in North America. The racism I have faced from White people has been hurtful, especially when they feign ignorance, but when you are mixed like me, the pain is deeper and more disappointing coming from other ethnicities because you don’t expect or understand a racist sting from another minority. It is the judgement and discrimination from all races that cast mixed folks like me onto Nowhere Island, where one is of every race yet accepted by none.

When I look at my face, I remember my first day of University in upstate New York, waiting on the bus to campus when someone asked, “What are you anyway?” and when I responded with “I’m human…you?” it didn’t embarrass as intended, but encouraged more insensitive questions. “No, I mean, like…are you White or Black or Latina?” Nothing like the need for clarification to make the situation worse. “Yes, and more,” was my terse reply because I saw no reason to choose to be something I am not and so it was concluded by both black and white students that “she a Oreo”.

… in North America, it is apparent that you must be one race or another, so that it is easier for people to know what box to put you in.

Look at my face. Is it my responsibility to explain to anyone why I look the way I do? In the Caribbean we learn about the world in geography, history and social studies classes, yet many North Americans are comparatively ethnocentric when it comes to understanding who and what comprises the world in which they live. And while I am fine with inquisitiveness, I am better with polite curiosity about where I am from and what it was like to live there. Look at my face. Is it my responsibility to teach geography or anthropology to random strangers intrigued or off-put by my different appearance? Why is it my responsibility to define myself to anyone? I was not raised to be one race or another but to embrace all the culture, cuisine and traditions that were passed down to me by the many ethnicities that created the essence of who I am. But in North America, it is apparent that you must be one race or another, so that it is easier for people to know what box to put you in. Well, the box I check on the census form is OTHER because it’s the only option that applies to me. They might as well call it NOWHERE or NOTHING because that’s how that box on the form makes you feel in society. Look at my face. Can you understand it isn’t my responsibility to make anything easier for anyone, since I am the immigrant, trying to embrace a new culture and adapt to a new way of life? And for anyone thinking that I should have gone back to where I came from, know I would have if I could.

When I look at my face, I remember how refreshing it was to make friends with others who looked like me and had similar experiences. It was equally refreshing to find a few North Americans worldly or sensible enough to know the Caribbean was not in Africa or India.

Map of the Caribbean (stock image)

They knew, as in every country, people in the Caribbean do not spend the day aimlessly walking about in beachwear and flip flops. When I look at my face, I remember the frustration and boredom of sitting through unfortunate instances when some vapid, underexposed soul would be flabbergasted by my Oh-my-God- neat-accent and would try to get me to say words like boat, classes and answer to hear how oh-my-God-totally-wicked I sounded. I look at my face, and I remember how little I thought of every White and Black North American who thought I was entertained by their absolutely shit impersonation of my NOT Jamaican accent by the way, when they said, “Yeah Mon, Bob Marley! De ganja irie!” To some North Americans, every Caribbean island is Jamaica and in their shallow minds, the only thing the Caribbean gave to the world is reggae and weed. Some people (in many cases white people) can be quite trite, and they refuse to try and understand how their “innocent” comments come off as insulting.

I know that some of the teasing and bullying my children have endured in school and in sports occurred when I showed up at their events and they waved and called me Mom, tainting their presumed whiteness.

When I look at my face, I remember how saddened I would become when the racism hurled at me came from minority ethnic groups. I replay the insults like movie scenes in my head because those were the times I was made to feel tainted. I remember the two Latino guys in a Miami club who decided it was okay to call me coño when they realized by my schoolgirl Spanish, that I wasn’t one of them. I remember my first Black American friends ending our friendship when I didn’t want to pledge a Black sorority even when I told them I wasn’t interested in pledging any sorority! I look at my face and I remember the Asian woman at my teller’s counter growing furious, when, at her request, I explained my jade jewellery was my connection to my maternal grandfather. I remember her calling me hak gwai under her breath and her consequent embarrassment when I told her what she’d said, gave me the right to not serve her at my counter since to her, I was too dark-skinned to don articles of my Chinese heritage. I look at my face and shake my head at some North Amerian East Indians I have met who aren’t too comfortable that I know as much as I do about their festivals, culture and cuisine, saying that East Indian culture in the Caribbean is not as rich or pure as true East Indian culture. I beg to differ. When I look at my face, I chuckle when North American Italians vehemently deny that my surname is mine and not my husband’s because I don’t look like them. I look at my face and I see that I am my father’s daughter. His name is my name, and it is the name I will take to my grave because I am proud of my Italian ancestors’ Caribbean architecture.

I look at my face and I know that some of the teasing and bullying my children have endured in school and in sports occurred when I showed up at their events and they waved and called me Mom, tainting their presumed whiteness. I look at my face and I am saddened that even in a time when we stand up and fight for our human right to matter, I have women of colour judgementally commenting, “she upgrade” when I pass by with my husband and children. Upgrade from what? From whom? Is that how little some women of colour regard men of colour? Regard themselves? You can’t help who you love. I have no restrictions when it comes to the package love comes in and as far as I’m concerned, a sexy, attractive man comes in every colour. I never saw myself as someone who would marry but I married a man who loves me and our sons and treats us with dignity and respect. He is ever present; always supportive. We see no colour when we look at each other in our family — only love and I will never apologize for loving my man who embraces my culture and everything that makes me, me.

I look at my face and I shake my head when I think of my most recent encounter with the hate of racial discrimination. I discovered a group of Caribbean parents of children with autism who were on a news program to attract members. They wanted people who spoke the dialect and who applied the tools of our upbringing and culture to enhance our autistic children. I reached out on social media and in one day I was accepted and rejected by the group. It seemed that one member trolled me on social media, saw the profile photo of our family and decided we were not Black enough. I regard myself as having a nationality rather than an ethnicity and when I saw them on television, I didn’t see them as Black but as fellow West Indians who had that Caribbean twang, just like me. The Caribbean is comprised of numerous ethnicities. My roots are there, and I know everything about my culture, and like them, I too raised our son differently from other North American families affected by autism. For ten years, I ran a charity for autistic persons in his name, that continues to financially help many families affected by the condition and no one is turned away. With twenty-one years of raising my son under my belt, I could have been an asset to the group, and would have also benefitted from their experiences.

In rejecting someone for their appearance, we miss out on the good they can bring to our lives.

I look at my face and that of my son’s and I am angry to have been treated in such a manner. I was particularly enraged when the organizer of the group insinuated that even with his very curly hair and light brown skin, my autistic twenty-one-year-old was paler than the other autistic persons in their group, and that I should try and join a South East Asian group or start my own.

In our family, the colour we see is love. (Photo by D.A.B.)

Tell me, how does a woman with a face like mine start a group for only mixed-race families affected by autism? Would I be able to tell someone in not so many words they were not able to join because they were too light or too dark? I would be ripped to shreds and shamed for doing what they had done to me. I look at my face and I realize that so many who stand up against racial profiling, have no problem profiling a mixed person like me. In rejecting someone for their appearance, we miss out on the good they can bring to our lives.

When I look at my face, I remember leaving the US somewhat bruised by the prejudice I had experienced, wondering what to expect as I drifted on a sea of isolation further north to Nowhere Island. Back in 1988, Canadians in the major cities were more exposed to people of different ethnic backgrounds and while I felt more comfortable living there, I was acutely aware that racism ran deep under a cloak of Canadian politeness. I look at my face and remember how tough it was to be cast onto Nowhere Island. I look at my face and I know how uncomfortable and lonely it is to not really belong. Over the years, I made friends and acquaintances and I was outgoing when I wanted to be, but I never compromised who I was and so I never really fit in to North American society. Visiting my home over the thirty-four years of living abroad, I found myself on Nowhere Island there too. Things had changed drastically in many ways while the things that needed to change, stayed the same or had gotten worse. Never loving the idea of living abroad and not able to leave for numerous reasons, I learned how to find my groove on Nowhere Island. When I look at my face and reflect on the whole-lot-of-life I have lived between my twenties and now, I am grateful I stayed true to myself. When I look at my face, I know and love who I am. I am a mixed-race Caribbean woman, living in North America, raising North American children to have an awareness of the world while loving and embracing who they are. My husband and I have raised them to be kind, generous, respectful, non-judgemental, and loving human beings because they are our gifts to the world albeit one which still does not readily accept them.

When I look at my face, and I think of my disposition at this age, I realize that I might not be able to change the world, but I don’t have to subscribe to its bullshit double standards and hypocrisy. I am comfortable with myself and I have the courage to counteract racism, sexism and injustice with strength and dignity. I choose to surround myself with a handful of people who share my values. I don’t need popularity. I don’t need to fit in or be cool because I already am all of that for myself. I adhere to the priciples of a dear, admired friend in my homeland. She demands to be treated with the respect and dignity she readily gives to others and she will not form an opinion of anyone based on the colour of their skin. This is her living truth and she is the example I look to when injustice and racism blinds me with anger.

I look at my face and today I happily see it reflected more often in media. The media has blindly and rudely starved society of diverse representation for too long. I like that people are demanding to be seen, heard, respected, and not judged. I am happy that people are not going away quietly, because neither am I. We all must stand up for our rights and dignity, yet while I applaud anti-racist movements, I see that our society is one with irony abound. We are racist but we still want bits and pieces of the very people we hate– non-White people dyeing their hair blond, White people plumping their lips with collagen, or baking in the sun and at tanning salons to get brown. Curly haired people straightening their hair and straight-haired people curling theirs… Is anyone truly satisfied with themselves? While one can argue that we all have a right to express ourselves, a part of me sees people of all races trying to change the things they dislike about themselves because somewhere along the lineage, someone pointed out that aspects of their physical features were not good enough.

In his excellent article, The White People in the Comments, (pub. in Level, Medium) Steve QJ says “Misguided anti-racism already makes genuine anti-racism look ridiculous”. He says that “the enemy of anti-racism is racism”. Think about that for a minute. If you are fighting for your rights, is it wise to assume that eveyrace but yours is against you? Should you cast off a person’s support because of the colour of their skin? Revisit the history of the Underground Railroad. Enslaved people trying to escape to freedom did not refuse the help of the abolitionists, some of whom were White. We must be mindful that messages we deliver of anti-racism must not be fuelled by the racism that might be burried deep in our souls. Steve QJ makes this point when he refers to the present-day absurdity of the uproar of the press and social media with regards to the translation of Amanda Gorman’s poem The Hill We Climb. Ms. Gorman chose International Booker Prize winner, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld for the translation into Dutch, however when some Netizens and reporters felt that Rijneveld was not “unapologetically Black and female” like Gorman, they felt it would be better to withdraw from the project than be embroiled in an unnecessarily difficult situation. I look at my face and I recognize that though we may raise our fist in protest, equality will never be achieved if we fail to take a moment to look around at the different faces surrounding us, supporting the quest for solidarity. Racism will not end if we hold grudges. Racism will not end if we cannot forgive. It will not end if we judge or hate. We must forgive those who hurt us so we can heal and when we are healed, we can cure others by our example. To end racism, we need to shed the racism within ourselves.

I look at my face and at fifty-four, I am still living on Nowhere Island, descended from many races, belonging to none and watching humanity react to itself and I realize I only have control over my own actions. I have always been in the OTHER box and even as society claims to change, I always will be. And I while I still don’t belong anywhere, I fit perfectly into my mold, living my truth in my beautiful, brown skin with my crazy combination hair. In his piece, Steve QJ asks, “What does a world without this ridiculous prejudice look like?” I don’t have the answer, but I would like to think it looks like my face, your face, and every face. He wonders “how do we get there as quickly and painlessly as possible?” and again, I am not sure we can, but maybe we can start by helping and getting to know each other. Maybe we can stop ridiculing and judging each other and making ignorant assumptions about a person who doesn’t look like us. Maybe we can start by mindfully choosing our words so as not to be insulting. Maybe we can get there by freeing ourselves of the racism within us and raise the next generation of humans with the positive qualities so vital for humanity. Maybe we can end this ridiculous prejudice by utilizing the power of love to eradicate the weakness and fear that is hate. We must accept we can agree with someone who doesn’t look or sound like us and should we disagree, we must not assume it’s because of race. Humans do not like change, and we are a species that tends toward making things more complex than they need to be, so I am not quite sure we can live in a world free of prejudice.

A world without racism starts with simple acts of love, kindness and acceptance and as Steve QJ so brilliantly and simply states, “If we are ever going to live in a world where we stop judging each other by the colour of our skin, WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO STOP JUDGING EACH OTHER BY THE COLOUR OF OUR SKIN”. The solution to worldwide racism is a simple one. Racism is learned. Being racist is a choice and I believe if each of us chooses to eradicate racist thoughts, actions and vocabulary from our lives, dare I say, it can end.


Crocheting. After 21 years, it is back in my life, every stitch unhooking my mind from things that weigh me down in a day. Hook in right hand, yarn in left I am on automatic, chain linking, waffle stitching, blanket stitching and cross stitching, every fragment of my life back together in the hopes of making something great…something comfortable that makes others smile. Hoping to make something of a story with this life of ours that will result in something beautiful.

Photo: Daniella Barsotti

I have so many things I want to make with this yarn and hook of mine. Things that I hope will bring joy to someone else. I hope these ideas blossom into cherished items that people could look upon from time to time and remember I made it for them out of love and the best of intentions. And while creating to give is the goal, selfishly I yearn for that rhythmic, peaceful mindlessness that accompanies this craft that my younger self snickered at as being very “Carmencita and Mrs Ramirez”, aka an old lady thing. Hmm…from time to time I think youth is really wasted on the young and while I would give anything for the eyesight of my teens and twenties, I doubt that I would have had the patience for crocheting as a young person. While it is easy to learn, there is so much that can go wrong, oftentimes only revealing itself the further you get into the project. When I was young if I invested a great deal of time in something, I would only be satisfied with a positive result. Wasting time was not an option for my younger self and I would have quit rather than restart a project. For me it would have been perfection or bust. When I started crocheting at 32, I was filled with joy because I was pregnant with all the time in the world to crochet for my baby. I was happy to take all the steps necessary and I was open to making mistakes and learning from them because I wanted to make something special for my child. I made blankets, a scarf for my husband and even a little jacket and hat for my baby to wear as a matching set. Love and hope fuelled me from one project to the next and it was blissful. I put down the yarn and hook the summer after my 35th birthday. Life happened and I needed both hands and a focused mind and then the second sweet baby came, and I only happened upon my crochet tools when I was searching for something or cleaning something, always vowing to get back to it. And now I am back, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect.

To me crocheting is the one craft that gives you infinite chances to redeem yourself. Since my epiphany to make a hockey-watching blanket for two, I have made so many mistakes. The first mistake was at 6 feet by 2feet in when I realized I could not talk myself into thinking that I could straighten my twisting blanket. The stitches were too tight and so, after 3 weeks of work, I pulled the working yarn and unravelled it to the very first chain stitch and started again with a plan – make 12 to 14 large squares, each a little different in pattern from the next and join them together to form one big blanket for two. I am re-learning how to do this craft and I am prepared to unravel and re-do and re-work a piece because I know I have undertaken a big project that I want to see through and while this blanket for two is going to be perfectly imperfect that’s okay because it will keep my husband and me warm as we sit together watching the sport we love. It will connect us and make us happy and it will have a purpose in our lives. It just has to be good enough for us to become part of our story.

Crocheting is a timely metaphor for what is happening in my older son’s life during this pandemic. Adam is my big 6ft 2-inch blanket for two. He is a cumbersome project that would cause even the most skilled crochetier to flounder and quit. He is a beloved project that is never-ending with facets of his personality and behavior that is greater than me and everyone involved with him. He takes time, patience, hopefulness, tolerance and acceptance that can only be fuelled by deep and endless love. He requires perseverance, energy, strength, resilience and did I mention time…lots and lots of time along with an abundance of creativity and an ability to have short- and long-term foresight. If I let him, my son Adam can be a life-long project and I find myself wondering if that is best for either of us and if tying off the yarn and ending the project no matter what it looks like is what I need to do.

But I can’t give up. It’s Adam. He has always been my big, complex project. With all the success and all the mistakes I’ve made raising him and all the tears of sadness and joy I have shed over him, I am far too invested now to walk away from him, as this thing that is inside him scorches us with its fiery breath. Helping him battle this demon means advocating for him behind the scenes, I am still, on the daily, intertwined in his intricate life; still designing a platform from which he can successfully launch …. again.  I’ve stitched his world together before and it has unravelled before, but not like this. As my son reacts to the isolating restrictions of a poorly handled pandemic, his mind sinks deeper into what I see as a sort of unique madness. Nothing in his world makes sense to him, yet he can remember all the steps required to physically navigate our topsy turvy world – this world in which I promised to meet him halfway if he would just trust me, take my hand and allow himself to be a part of what it had to offer. The world has unravelled, and he is barely hanging on to its frayed ends. Confused and desperate to control the things that are happening in his life, he stitches his day together with pain, sadness, and anger. But medication, like yarn is forgiving. I am forgiving. I understand his mental illness more than ever. Autism, the most miniscule of Adam’s issues at the moment, is a neurological condition with attached comorbidities like depression, anxiety, OCD, ODD and or personality or mood disorders and distinguishing among them all to try and treat them is like trying to diffuse a bomb with a blindfold on.

 Nothing that has happened, nothing that he has done is Adam’s fault. Not his father’s, not his brother’s and though as the vessel that carried him and nurtured him, I want to blame myself, it is not my fault either. And so, I roll the unravelled tentacles of yarn back into a ball and I twist its frayed ends between damp fingertips so that it can be functional again – so that it can be manoeuvred through the fingers of my left hand and be known as work again, and hooked and linked whole by my right. This blanket for two meant for his father and me is symbolic of my unravelled son and his frayed nerves. Like the blanket, putting him back together will take time. Some days there will be great progress and there will be days where chunks will be unravelled and I will have to step away, re-group and start linking them together again, perhaps with a less fancy stitch. I have learned that the most basic of stitches are the strongest especially when you are working on a big project and once it starts coming together you see that often; they are the most beautiful. Simplicity equals purity and there is nothing more beautiful than the purest version of anything. I have crocheted eight 20 by 20 inch perfectly imperfect squares of red and white, each slightly different from the next. I have eight more to go and it could take me days, weeks or maybe even months, but I know by the end of the year, as much as I will unravel and re-work this big blanket for two, I will be able to count on the integrity of the yarn the way I count on Adam’s integrity and he counts on ours, and that of his support team. And once every fibre is stitched into place and my project becomes the blanket I envision; I will wrap it around his father and me the way we wrap our love around our son.

It will take a long time for my son to crochet his life together –much longer than it took to unravel and longer than it did the last time he came apart. But we have crocheted before and we have more experience this time and we know to expect the unexpected. We have learned that every project is different and not every stitch is the right one and that the most intricate ones take the most time and patience. There are days when I work on this blanket, I go for the most complicated stitch because I know if I am in the right mindset …if I work slowly and carefully, I can create not just a beautiful square but one with a pattern so unique, that it will be outstanding … that square will be the one that ties all the perfectly imperfect ones together. And so, I retire to my comfortable spot with my yarn and hook, so close and yet so far from my son. I designed the plan; I picked the players, and he is in the best possible hands. Over time, the effects of the pandemic will wane, and the world will be able to offer my son what it once did – his life as he knew and loved it along with all his expectations of entering adulthood. Holes will be filled and patched, walls will be rebuilt, and the sun will rise and cast aside dark clouds. He will find the balance between moving towards independence and the kind of relationship he wants with us. Twenty-one is as good a time as any to rebuild one’s life and I will simultaneously stitch this blanket together while I wait and watch in hope. My son wants and needs the space and time to find peace and wade his way through this swampy depression that is trying to drown him. I cannot be with my son physically, but I am with him in spirit and I hug him with my heart and because he dwells in my mind, I feel like I am there with him for every leap and stumble along the path to healing. I’m here…we are all here. We are his family and as long as there is breath in our bodies, we aren’t going anywhere.  And so, I sit and I crochet, stitch by stitch, every fibre… waiting, hoping and loving until he feels whole and ready to be held by us again.

Photo: Daniella Barsotti

Covid-19: Revealing What We’ve Become and Why We Need to Change.

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Everyone agrees that life in 2020 is a big blur. Last week was long. Monday dragged into Tuesday and the rest of the days slid into each other like thick gooey gravy. There was much of the same when it came to news about the Covid-19 pandemic except that certain cities and regions were heading into lockdown again with the number of infected cases increasing rapidly. Nationwide, red zones were popping up like mushrooms and provincial leaders were caught in the middle of the tug of war between small business owners, certain to lose everything with another lockdown and the medical professionals calling for immediate action in order to save lives and to prevent overwhelming the healthcare system.

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The 2019 coronavirus

This is pandemic news. This is pandemic life. The world is being attacked by an enemy it cannot see, only feel. It is the one thing we all have in common right now, no matter what square footage of the planet we occupy, and it is showing us who we are.

This pandemic has shown the good, the bad and the ugly sides of human beings. There is a lot of good. People who are putting their safety and health on the line to care for the sick and most fragile hold a special place in my heart. I am proud of others not on the front line, who find ways to support local small business who supply the goods we all need while we hunker down at home. I respect those who have made the decision to go out only when necessary and the people who wear masks without fail or complaint. I admire those who respect the arrows on the floor of the grocery aisles that allow for less crowding and contact while shopping, and the people who sanitize their hands and shopping carts prior and after use. They are all a part of a greater good. These people are the ones who do the small unselfish things to keep the most vulnerable of the species safe. It’s the least anyone can do yet somehow, many people can’t and, in some cases, won’t.

I understand that Covid-fatigue is a thing.

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Covid-Fatigue is wearing us down.

It is essentially cabin fever and yes, we are all a little tired of staying home. As a mother of sons who were hoping to launch their adult lives this year, I know how frustrating it can be to have your young life on hold. It is also hard for the elderly, many of whom have been cut off from friends and family and much enjoyed activities because of Covid-19. It is more tragic to hear that those who have died of Covid-19, have died alone. The novelty of staying home has worn off. No one is looking for their fifteen minutes of pandemic-on line fame anymore. The live-streaming of varying abilities of musical talent and the endless walking in support of this or that during the pandemic, is over. The endless posts of sourdough bread creations are no longer interesting. It’s over. It’s over because we all want this pandemic to be over. But breaking up with Covid-19 isn’t easy. It wears you down. And when you’re weary from the state of your life, you might stop caring and choose to live dangerously. In our small city, our numbers are extremely low and convincing people that remaining at home will keep them that way is getting harder for our municipal government. Young people are having bonfires and parties in remote areas

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remotePeople are ignoring the advice of health officials

and older people are tired of being told what to do to stay safe. In the summer many of them (sans masks and distancing) could be seen gathering at outdoor events they were accustomed to attending before the pandemic. But is getting tired of our situation a good reason to be reckless? I am starting to question if there are indeed more good people on this planet who abide by the rules. Are there instead more selfish people in the world? Is it ignorance or arrogance that is driving this selfish, uncaring attitude about going against the pandemic protocol?

I look at the news and see the rising numbers and I am beginning to think that there is less good in the world than bad and I find myself examining people’s behavior and I’m disappointed by what I have come to realize. I also wonder if Covid-19 was not a respiratory virus but one that presented with vomiting and diarrhoea or worse, if it was similar to Ebola, would people stay home, stay distant and wear masks without issue? I feel that too many people perceive Covid-19 as a bad cold or just a threat to the elderly and no matter how many stories you hear about the virus also killing younger people, there are still so many who have decided to shun pandemic protocol. And while those who choose to “take their chances” and venture out to weddings and parties and social gatherings, doctors and nurses are reduced to tears every time they pronounce a covid patient’s death.

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When day after day, there is nothing you can do to save them.

I believe we have evolved rapidly as a species. Too rapidly. With convenience comes laziness and selfishness. Many of us rarely sacrifice anything to get what we want. We point, click and it appears at our doorstep. We have all seen progress change our behavior and no one can deny we live in a world society where bigger, faster, stronger, easier, and better have created the desire for more in all of us. It is reflected in what we buy, what we needlessly accumulate and what we waste. There is an attitude of “someone else will do it”, “it’s not my problem” and live in a bubble where tragic things happen to “other people”. Everyone is out to make a fast buck, and it does not matter who or what we inadvertently step on to get what we want. Humans seek the most attention from each other all day, every day. With the existence of social media platforms and new ones popping up everyday, our species has managed to turn something that is great for connecting us with each other into a way of hurting each other and ourselves. So, instead of occasionally connecting with each other, we are on every day, sometimes chatting, sometimes judging what someone has posted, sometimes downright spewing hate and cyberbullying each other. We are on our phones so much, there is a muscular-skeletal condition called Postural Kyphosis, which is basically a hunch due to our neck and upper back posture when we are on our phones.

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Looking down at your phone much?

Just think what humans are going to evolve into to adapt to our lifestyle. I wonder if C-section numbers might increase as women’s bodies are unble to adapt to allow for the safe entry of our future little hunched-back babies.

It’s not only our abuse of social media that is to blame. Social media is just one example that illustrates the degeneration of our species’ character. Long before cyber connectivity, we were crushing each other and the planet to get what we want. We’ve taken land from indigenous peoples and suppressed them for generations. We’ve turned a blind eye to the poisoned water and deplorable living conditions we would not accept, but they have had to endure for years.

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The Neskantaga First Nation has lived under a boil water advisory for 25 years. They have been evacuated from their homes in the thick of the pandemic with no clear knowledge of when they will be able to return.

We’ve torn down forests, polluted the ocean, and expanded our habitat by infiltrating and displacing animals from theirs. We plough over wildlife daily

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We’re still doing this …

with our cars and have over fished and hunted animals to the point of near extinction. Child labour, cheap labour, longer hours of labour, deplorable labour conditions — we step on those less fortunate by paying them very little so we can get a lot. Our factories have puffed noxious gas into the air we

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…and this. Wonder why our health is declining?

breathe and because money speaks the language of politics and economic success for a select, powerful few, we still drive cars that rely on gasoline. What we have lost along the way is respect and honour for ourselves and others. And we are all guilty. Think of a time when you failed to return a grocery cart to the collection rack. Regardless of the signs pleading for customer compliance, did you leave it on the curb, or in the parking space beside yours? Were you careless because it was it too cold, too hot, or too far for you to walk the cart back to the designated area? Was it because despite the weather, it’s the cart person’s job to gather the carts wherever people have left them? This is an example of our laziness and entitlement. I was raised to respect and follow rules and to return what I’ve borrowed in a timely manner. I was taught that in order for a business to keep their costs and the cost to their customers down, they relied on us to do simple things like, return the cart to it’s station in the parking lot. Now, we pay anywhere from a quarter to a dollar to use carts as incentive for us to return them so we can get our coin refunded, yet, if you walk along the river, you can see at least three stolen and abandoned grocery carts rusting in the water. When I’ve slipped up or dabbled with the idea of being lazy or selfish, I always came back to how my parents raised me, especially if I was in the presence of my young children. When you have children you have to present the best of yourself and teach by example. If everyone checks themselves and stop doing little selfish things every day so much will change for the better in the world.

The Covid -19 pandemic shows how little human beings care for each other and the planet. The pandemic is telling us we have taken too much for granted. When there is a sale, or in keeping with the times, the threat of a lockdown, we hoard. We always want the most for ourselves which is not necessarily the best for ourselves. When we are uncomfortable, we complain that rules about mask wearing, physically distancing, and queuing for goods infringe upon our rights and freedom. What right? The right to be ignorant

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and selfish and get others sick? What freedom? The freedom to spread this virus just so we can be with our friends? I feel we crumble easily in times of struggle. We flounder without our conveniences. I look at our forefathers who lived through war, financial depression, and widespread pandemic but they put their heads down and did what they had to do to get through the tough times. There was a sense of duty and responsibility that they had that I have trouble seeing when I look around today. I think they had a greater sense of honour and respect than we do and much of what we have today is due to the sacrifices they made for us way before many of us were born. They made do with what they had and were very careful to not be wasteful. They were more polite, mannerly and generous than we are and while they did have their flaws, if we could adopt some of their qualities, we might learn how step out of our singular little worlds for a moment to look around and see what we can do to make another’s life better. We have a chance at making our planet a better place for everyone and everything on it. A few years ago, I decided to change the way I do things in my life. I challenged myself to pick one thing and do it differently and do it better. Whether it was choosing more sustainable products, donating more regularly to the food bank, donating gently used clothing instead of selling them — there was always something I could do better to make myself less of a problem and a part of the solution. I challenge you to do the same. It’s not difficult and it wells up feelings inside of you that you didn’t know you could experience. Tomorrow is Monday. Monday is a day when we put plans into action. So…Watch the news tonight and decide to use your power to make a difference, starting tomorrow. Decide to change so collectively we can help each other cope. Decide to be kind and lift others not push them down. Decide to speak out against corruption and the catering of politicians to the select, wealthy few. Decide to fix what is wrong on the planet so that it can sustain life. Decide to do more than wave a hand, shrug, or utter a prayer. We must DO. And it is so easy to DO. Easier than NOT doing. DOING is fun and heart warming and it makes you feel good about yourself in a way social media cannot. Respect others and think beyond yourself and raise your children to do the same. Keep the golden rule in mind every day because we are not alone. We share our homes, our communities, our countries, our planet. We share it. Act like we share it. Decide to not always be first. Accept to not always be right. Understand that no person is more important than another. We all share hard times. This pandemic is a hard time for everyone. Follow the protocol so we don’t make it harder for others who are more vulnerable to this disease than we are. Learn to cope and help other’s cope. Your phone can be used for more than just shopping or taking a selfie or posting a video that starts off with you saying, as usual, “So guys… um… I just wanted to share this crazy, amazing thing I found about with you ….” Use your phone to check in with a friend or loved one. Have a text chat or a verbal conversation. Don’t just talk, LISTEN. Let’s be MORE than what we have become. We can be MORE. We ARE more. Let’s all be better HUMANS, because every one of us absolutely can be.

What are Bacon Bunnies You Ask?

My husband’s favourite childhood breakfasty snack

I was reading a post by Kate Bittman called Here’s the Dish to Cook When You *Really * Don’t Want to Cook, which was a wonderfully warm piece about a simple treat her dad used to make her called the Egg in the Hole. It was toast with a just-runny-enough egg embedded into it and it looked tasty and comforting. I liked the post and I commented to her that it was nice to see someone have such a fond childhood memory of a simple treat that satisfied not just the belly but the soul. I told her it reminded me about how my husband, boys and I feel about his mother’s comfort treat, Bacon Bunnies. So, Kate messaged me back and asked, “What are Bacon Bunnies?” and so, I figured I’d post this to answer her question.

Bacon Bunnies are the bacon, cheese, toast version to her Egg in the Hole. It was a simple breakfast snack my mother-in-law would make her kids. My husband made them for me when we were dating and as soon as our boys could eat solid food, he made it for them and it has maintained its status as a James family favourite breakfast/brunch snack. First of all Bacon Bunnies don’t look like bunnies at all. If you ask why they are called Bacon Bunnies you will get the answer, “Cause that’s what they’re called. They’re Bacon Bunnies. They are cute,”. Fair enough. You don’t have to have a reason for everything. Some things just …are.

They definitely do not look like bunnies

Bacon Bunnies are the simplest of the simple when it comes to ingredients and preparation. You need a few slices of bread, each cut into 3 strips, a strip of your favourite cheese on each strip and a strip of cooked bacon. The bacon should be cooked just enough that they would crisp up in the oven but not burn. It takes about 10 minutes in the oven…maybe? and that’s it.

This might hold the active teenager for a few minutes.

The baking sheets are brought out of the oven and the smell of bacon wafts through the house prompting the thunderous hooves of man-children who make their way to the kitchen to devour them in what seems like seconds. We went from making maybe making two baking sheets of bunnies to making four sheets (depending on how many man-children are at home) which is pretty much a loaf of bread, otherwise there would be none left for my husband and me.

Bacon Bunnies are certainly not a healthy snack but it is a happy snack. There is some nutritional value to them if you really analyze the ingredients, but it’s no quinoa salad nor is it supposed to be. So, here’s to all the Bacon Bunnies and Egg’s in the Hole or whatever makes you smile when you reflect happily on your childhood! They may not be the most nourishing combinations but they certainly nourish the soul! They are simply little traditions that taste great that make you happy. And as I see it, the world could do with a lot more happy.





Me & Tom -2018
Photo by Stephen Attong


Photo by Stephen Attong

Photo by Stephen Attong









AND FOR TRYING TO STEAL YOUR SONS’ THUNDER (medals…team gear…you really need to get on your own team)










JAN. 2000



AND THEY ARE PERFECTLY OURS…..(even though they were really, really, big)

Photo by Stephen Attong




Photos by Stephen Attong


(he really likes it)







AND ….



(to quote Fall Out Boy…yes, I said Fall Out Boy)…. YOU DRAIN ALL THE FEAR FROM ME….

Photo by Stephen Attong




































Cooking in the Time of Covid 19: Thanksgiving Lasagna

Thanksgiving has come around and Covid-19 is in it’s second wave in parts of Canada. Families have been discouraged to mingle beyond their immediate households to prevent community spread but somehow, Canadians have a way of making the most of what can be done during trying times and they did enjoy the long weekend albeit low key. I am Trinidadian and Thanksgiving is not a holiday celebrated in the Caribbean but having gone to school in the U.S and calling Canada home for 32 years, it’s a holiday I have learned to cook and eat my way through just like any other. My husband comes from a family where a traditional holiday meal would be prepared. For Thanksgiving and coming to think of it, Christmas too, his mom would prepare a turkey, stuffing/dressing, mashed potatoes and either brussel sprouts or broccoli or green peas with cranberry sauce on the side. While my mother-in-law always did a good job on the turkey, (I have only made a turkey once in my life and take my hat off to all who do) not one of the 4 in our household is in love with the bird outside of a turkey bacon sub. Since turkey is such a big bird and not beloved chez nous, over the years I have subsitiuted it with roast beef, cornish hens, or chicken and side dishes that ranged from a wild rice and vegetable medley, seasoned corn on the cob, garlic bread, some kind of jazzed up pasta dish or interesting and flavourful potato and if Adam has his way, it is boiled for 5 minutes then generously seasoned and baked for 20 minutes until crispy. If Logan has his way, the side would most definitely be sharp, cheesy Trini macaroni pie. Tom, on the other hand is just happy to have anything but turkey, however I have spent all the years I have known him dissuading him from his desire for Thanksgiving pizza. The childhood bland pallette does rear its odd head in my husband from time to time and I know for a fact if he weren’t married to me, A, would have had his way and B, he would not have woken up his taste buds the way he has over the 28 years of eating from me and my family. My man eats it all, from callaloo to curry but the turkey is a no go. In his defense regarding pizza, he has perfected fire oven pizza to the point of gourmet so maybe I’ll bend next Thanksgiving , weather permitting and we shall have his excellent fire oven pies.

So, what did the James family have for Thanksgiving this year? Well something from The Chef Show on Netflix, of course, and we gave thanks with a HONKIN’ MEGA LASAGNA! We watched the episode about 3 times and Tom watched it again to make notes and we showed it to Logan to psyche him up for the meal, not that he ever needs psyching up for meals. Adam has moved away from pasta except in the form of Macaroni pie so he swung by and picked up a meal of garlic bread, meatballs with a side salad that I made for him and cinnamon muffins he baked himself. With him taken care of, Tom and I excitedly went about preparing our dish.

The twist for us making this Lasagna was the sauce, which was a tomato sauce with the ricotta melted into it. That was the sauce for the bottom of the baking dish and to drizzle throughout the layers. We also had to make a rich red tomato sauce made with ripened tomatoes, garlic and seasonings that we used throughout the layers and on the very top what we like to call the lid layer.

Another difference for us was the meat. Instead of a meat sauce, this recipe calls for ginormous meatballs that you pre-cook then dice and spread over the noodles on each layer so it makes for a chunky dish that is flavourful and cheesy with that rich garlic and tomato tartness that makes you smile with satisfaction with every bite.

In total, this dish took us 2 hours from start to finish and that was because we don’t like using oven ready noodles. It was worth every second and it was a very delicious version of the way I make lasagna. We decided we aren’t huge fans of the meatball chunks so when we make this again, we would brown the ground beef and layer it with the sauce and we would use a bit more oregano in the meat. We are definitely keeping the fresh basil on the layers and the ricotta tomato sauce in addition to the red tomato sauce. We captured the recipe in photos and have included photos of the instructions Tom noted while he watched the episode. So whether you are like us and your tradition is to let go of tradition and try new and odd things, or you are looking for a variation on a HONKIN’ MEGA LASAGNA give this a shot. It is fun to make and tasty as all get out and there are enough leftovers to feed an 18 year old who is in hockey training camp and eats five meals a day. We also had enough to put into the freezer that we can have in a couple weeks when we don’t feel like cooking. It’s a perfect one dish meal that you can serve to guests as well (when having guests are a thing again) or if you are suddenly asked to do the catering for an event lol. The best part for us was the time spent in the kitchen. Tom and I cook together quite a bit but this was the first time we tried something new together. I was reminded of the moments my parents shared in the kitchen. My dad did more cooking later in his life but he was always the Special Holiday Helper in the kitchen. Mom would have it all under control and dad followed her instructions here and there, putting the ham, for example in and out of the oven, helping prep ingredients for the stuffing, garnishing dishes and of course making the drinks. You can’t do big Trinidad cooking without a few drinks. And as I manoeuvred about our oddly shaped kitchen(we will be remedying that) with the love of my life, I realized we are the same age as my parents when I remembered them cooking together. It made me a little nervous because I realized our ages – that middle age period where life starts to make you aware of your mortality. But, I was also really happy because it shows where we are in our journey. We have done so much together and we will do more and I hope even much more than that. As our sons launch into their adult lives we uninterruptedly get to have each other back and as much as I love going places with Tom, my absolute favourite moments are the simplest ones like making a special meal. Happy Thanksgiving Canada – ableit a more down played Thanksgiving because of Covid-19, it was warm and loving nonetheless.

I prepped meat with seasonings, egg and onion puree. The texture of the meat becomes squishy and gluey. Tom took care of boiling noodles and making the tomato sauce.
Garlic confit was added to the sauce.
Layering and the finished dish.