my forays through love and other gastronomical stories

I see you — April 30, 2017

I see you

I have found one year into my sobriety of sorts (healing my 46 year addiction to numb out with food) that after the first few months, the hardest part and still the hardest part, maybe even harder now, most definitely harder now, is to feel all my feelings that I haven’t felt since I was fourteen, when I discovered the pure relief of escape using food as my vehicle of choice. 

 I am astonished at the depth of my self loathing and self abnegation. I feel weighted down by a tonne of grief at being alone here on earth at the age of sixty.

It’s terrifying to be emotionally naked without my usual escape routes. Today I received an email from a client and my first thought before I read it was ‘How did I fuck up now?’ I am distraught and so ashamed that after all the work I have done to heal my wounds, my go to gut response is still –


I’m not sure what to do or how to proceed. Perhaps the not knowing is a good thing. I have spent a lifetime ‘trying’ – to be good, to be thin, to be normal, whatever the fuck that is. Perhaps not trying so hard and just being gentle with my grief will help.

 Today my grief and I are going to the beach where we will sit together and each will say to the other:

‘Hello there, I see you’.

Well, at least I am going to say that to my grief, I am not sure what she will say to me…

tuesday morning 7 a.m — April 29, 2017

tuesday morning 7 a.m

early morning light

softly illuminates

the etching

on my blush

coloured wall.


“be careful who you

share your little

efforts on staying


says the bird

perhaps a wren,

perhaps a swallow.


i think i can

i think i can

says the little

blue engine

that could.


bring your

brightest light

to the world,

even though.





Lucille — April 18, 2017


Three years ago today I brought Lucille home, and my life has never been the same.  Lucille’s joie de vivre combined with her delicious doggie devotion has been incredibly healing.

When I first met Lucille the breeder had given her the name of Baby, but I thought this puppy deserved a more sophisticated moniker, and so changed her name to Lucille Pearl, in honor of B.B King’s guitar Lucille.

She has her flaws: her need to bark at sounds real and imagined, always at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m., her need to throw her toys at me, frustrated with my unwillingness to play even though we just came back from a six mile walk, and did I mention her barking?

Loving Lucille despite her flaws has helped me to become hopeful that someone can love me flaws and all, and more importantly, that I can come to love and forgive my own deeply flawed self.

Today in honor of her homecoming I will make us some cooked salmon with rice, and raise my glass of strawberry Perrier to the doggie gods that brought her into my life.

Shadows And Light — April 15, 2017

Shadows And Light

Recently  I made a video of myself reading one of my stories and frankly I was quite dismayed. I wasn’t sure who I was looking at, certainly this person on the video did not match up with the image I have of myself.

This was the first time that I had ever seen myself on video and frankly I was more than a little disturbed.  I did not like at all how I looked, or more specifically how I spoke. In still photography I look fine, because I can smile like everyone else, I’m just not able to smile with my teeth showing. On video however, I can see that when I speak I certainly do not speak as most people do.

I have Moebius Syndrome, or Moebius has me. Regardless of the how or by whom, having Moebius means that some muscles in my tongue do not function, forcing me to speak differently than the norm.

In my community which includes healers and therapists; there is a movement to look toward the light, believing that if you are in the vortex of positivity you will be rewarded with all the riches, healing and love that you have been longing for.

I have toyed with these concepts for a while and find them lacking. Here is why –

If I can’t make peace with my flawed mouth then I will have failed and the kingdom of heaven will then be permanently closed.

In my opinion however, this concept of praying away the shadow only forces the shadow deeper underground. I  am a perfectionist. I can never not be one, perfectionism is written in code into my DNA.

Now how can I make peace with not looking perfect?  I can’t. What I can do is this. I can finally make peace with never being normal and make peace with not looking nor sounding like Joni Mitchell (my heroine). Then paradoxically I can relax into me, because I just gave myself permission to love and accept my unyielding perfectionist self.

So I am loving the hater part of me instead of shaming the hater part of me into submission and into the shadows where she has lain waiting, always waiting to find another opportunity for self abasement.

Accepting the all of me just as I am: the good, the bad and the ugly. 

The Lesbian Chronicles: Tales Of A Chorus Line Wannabe — April 14, 2017

The Lesbian Chronicles: Tales Of A Chorus Line Wannabe

Part One:


I am parked outside the studio waiting for my turn to audition, nervous as shit, (Don’t know if shit gets nervous, but I imagine it does.) trying without avail to memorize this fucking monologue that I have chosen for today. I was supposed to have memorized a two to three minute monologue but my memory is shit. (Not the nervous kind!) I have spent the better part of the week trying to memorize this two minute piece, but I’m still fucking up the lines half way through. I’ll be grateful if I don’t totally embarrass myself. Maybe they will let me just read the damn thing.


I get out of my car five minutes before Showtime, and started to look for 10 Wiltshire. Merde! I was looking at 53 Wiltshire and now had just 4 minutes to reach the rehearsal hall. Shit.Shit.Shit. Walking briskly now I reach my destination with one minute to spare. I knock on the door as per their request and was escorted by the stage manager into a small room where I signed the requisite forms and waited for my turn.


The stage manager pointed to a closed door. “You’re up darlin'” she most definitely did not say, but it’s what I heard in my head. In reality she just said “Push that door open, they are waiting inside.”


I walked into a darkened room lit with a spotlight in the center, and a trio of babes sitting on a long bench in the back of the room. They looked like Charlies Angel’s waiting for a call from Charlie.


“You’re up” said the blond one.


“Can I read my piece?” I asked hopefully


“Sure” said the one with the long brown braids.


“Phew” I said to myself and the ghost of Joe Greenbaum, my Dad and fellow thespian hopeful who never took his chance to be in the spotlight.


I read my monologue and Braids laughed and Blond Girl chuckled and the Kate Jackson of the trio said nothing.


The blond one introduced herself as Jen, and the girl with the braids was Evangelia and Kate Jackson’s name has escaped me.


“Okay” said Jen “Can you please read your piece again? I want to see how you take direction.”


“Black, one sugar” I said (Oy! Why did I say that? I’m trying too hard!!)


Luckily all three ignored my faux pas, as Jen instructed me to be more “In the scene and in the moment and…”


Jen suddenly stopped and said:


“Umm, I’m sorry to interrupt but a mouse just dropped from the ceiling!”

I turned to my right and sure enough there was a cute little mousie running stage left.


Evangelia calmly tried to capture the mouse with her plastic Tupperware bowl, but mousie had escaped to live another day.


I have ten thousand issues but cute mousies aren’t one of them.


“Interesting development” I said to break the tension.


“Anything can happen in the theatre.” said Jen


“Have you ever read the Angelina Ballerina books?” I asked.


“They feature a dancing mouse named Angelina, and since Angelina is my middle name, this mouse must be my power animal!”


The trio surprisingly had no comment, other than to say ” Proceed and try your best.”


I tried my best to do just that, because this was my chance to have a life re-do.


I was eight years old in the summer of ’64 when my parents sent me to Camp Wahanowin, where all the cool kids were supposedly going. My parents were determined to have a child popular with the ‘In’ crowd. Sadly I was not even a member of the ‘Out’ crowd, but at eight years old I had no agency, so off I went.


That summer we were doing the play ‘Li’l Abner’ and I was trying out for the part of Daisy Mae. I knew my parents would be happy if I snagged the lead. I was so excited when the Drama Counselor offered me the prime role of Nurse. I was going to be on stage the entire time! Unfortunately Nurse said not a word throughout the duration of the play. Was I given this role because I spoke differently? I was born with a rare syndrome named Moebius that affected my tongue and speech. I tried not to think about how different I looked and felt, but the shame of being different and then given the silent role of Nurse, stopped me from pursuing my dream of acting until now.


Because now, I can. Because I am the only one who need approve of me. Because shame is toxic and exhausting. Because I am determined to hold my little eight year old’s hand and say to her “I got you!”


After my second go round the trio talked about the theatre troupe’s auditions, telling me that 99% of who they had auditioned so far were seasoned actors.


“Well there goes that” I said silently to myself.


I told the trio thanks for the memories and left the building, only to get a message from Jen late last night asking me to come in tomorrow with a 3 minute memoir piece of my own.


I stood up way past my bedtime of 9 p.m. with my IPhone stop watch trying to make sure my piece fit the requisite 3 minutes.


Part Two:


This morning I walked in faux confidently and read my poem. Jen said that she will call me by Wednesday and not to wait frantically by the phone.


“It’s okay” I said.


“I can wait.”

The Lesbian Chronicles: Keep on Keeping On. —

The Lesbian Chronicles: Keep on Keeping On.



I’m lying prostrate in my bathtub balancing my phone carefully so as not to drop it in the water. I have 10, 000 problems and I don’t want electrocution to be the 10,001.


However in the minuscule likelihood that my being electrocuted should come to fruition,  I will have zero problems as I will be dead.


Sorry for the sharing delay but my mind meandered. Mea culpa. Back to me in the tub at 8:54 p.m. as the water in my bath gets colder and colder but again, I digress. Sinus headache. Bad sinus headache. Four gold liquid gel caps kind of sinus pain and still no relief and frankly I’m over it. I have heard that orgasm helps relieves headache pain, and if I could suddenly procure a lesbian of a certain age and vintage who is willing to experiment for science, I would.


Alas and alack as fate would have it, I am still here and still queer and still just hanging with my tribe of three: me, myself and I.


I am a resilient bunny however, not unlike the pink one seen on those battery commercials. I will keep on going and going and going, until I find a cure for my debilitating headaches. In the meantime all this talk of batteries has given me an idea…

The Lesbian Chronicles: even now — April 13, 2017

The Lesbian Chronicles: even now

even now

3 a.m

still can’t sleep

been crying

so hard my


has no dry side.

i read again

mary oliver’s

poem ‘wild geese’

that rests


on my night table.

‘you do not have to be good’

writes mary

i try to convince

my young inconsolable

self that

this might be true


she disagrees insisting

that our badness is

what drove jane away

last christmas

taking the dog

along with her

now broken

promise of a lifetime

of protection.

“i just want to feel safe”

i whisper out loud

to no one

staring at the ceiling

praying to the stain

in the grain

of the wood

that looks like jesus.


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