My food memoir hit stores this week in Toronto. After a sneak peek event for family and neighbours in my garden this summer, the official launch arrived.
Dreams. They’re worth having.
Minutes before customers filed into the store, I was on the giddy-up pony, trotting along Dream Avenue. Two days of baking treats from my book for launch guests and we were ready to go. Oh sure, the whipped cream wasn’t whipped yet. Go into the bathroom, I directed the bookshop young staff member, take this ancient mixer (Thanks Bama, see how you are still with me?), and whip up some cream. Then throw a dollop on that cake there, and there too. She’s young, she can do anything, I reasoned, as the next job was adding cloves to my oranges to spice the cider. You can add all this to your resume now, I told her. She went to it, saying little. I don’t bother reading minds. Thinking is free.
“Crazy as the next one”
People came! They bought books! My book. Lined up for me to sign them.
I talked some, read some, and scribbled some. My handwriting is poor, please forgive the woeful signature.
And while apologies are on deck, let’s throw one to the customers with children. Did I think about you when I chose an essay from my book to read about the great lie of Santa? Incredibly, no. Later, sitting around the kitchen table, we laughed about the time Mommy skewered Santa for some innocents. We did this over champagne, on ice back at home, when the giddiness wore off and I did a little self-analysis: happy, exhausted, proud. What happens when a dream you’ve floated around with for a very long time becomes a reality? When the people you love are grinning in that way you both understand as, well done?
You exhale. And whisper back, without you, nothing.
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