Sunday on a Patio...and Books!

Yesterday a case of golfer's guilt prompted my husband to offer up a drive to Toronto for some book browsing with lunch on a patio.  It's also Caribana weekend so he planned alternate routes in case the traffic wreaked havoc.  I was fine with a lazy afternoon around the house but after a millisecond of hesitation it was on with the lippy and out the door we went.

BMV Books has no catalogue system whatsoever so there's no quick and easy way to find out if something is in stock.  There's nothing for it but to load up the parking meter and browse until your time is up.  The literature section flips over quickly with stacks of green book bins full of fresh stock to fill gaps once a space is made so each visit is like scanning the shelves for the first time. 

My heart leapt at finding the orange Penguin edition of Little Boy Lost on a bottom shelf looking out of place amongst more recent publications.  I loved the Persephone Classic version but have coveted this edition for ages. The Lehmann short stories are described as 'set against the background of Britain at war: the world of women and children, the minutiae of daily life in rural England...'  Perfect.  The Wilkie Collins was just because and my inner 'downstairs girl' simply could not resist another book on English domesticity.  Reading snippets about the etiquette of entertaining guests for dinner, dealing with infant teething (they lanced their gums!), how maids should mend linens on their day off and the most humane way to slaughter a pig made the drive home seem a lot quicker.  The seemingly endless paragraphs of rigid rules and guidelines had R saying he would rather have been the type to hang out at the docks wheeling and dealing for a living.

I probably should have spent my time reading the book on my nightstand instead of buying more but it was a fun afternoon out.  You can't go back to work after a long weekend saying you hung around the house now can you?  We've also seen the last installment in the Harry Potter series with our group of friends.  Alan Rickman and Maggie Smith, I love you.  And this weekend was the annual Steak-Off BBQ.  R won it last year but this year barely managed to stay out of the basement.  He went with an untested recipe which was a bit banal for his liking once he tried it at the event.  So what's a fellow to do at that point?  He starts rooting through the host's spice cupboard, finds a jar of steak spice and begins shaking it over the steaks like a madman with a set of maracas in a mariachi band.  It actually wasn't bad at all but the competition was quite exemplary this year so better luck, and practice, next time.

So today I am a golf widow and perfectly happy with plans to use my day off to get some housework and laundry done.  Mrs Beeton would be so pleased.

Throwing Down an Oven Mitt

R and I have lovely friends. There's a core group of eight couples and we like to get together at certain times through the year. Last night we got together for a BBQ hosted by Mr and Mrs C at their lovely home with a swimming pool and room for a pony. Lately, it seems as though there must not be a gathering without the men partaking in some sort of competition. Last night the event was Who Can BBQ the Best Steak. There were numbers drawn, a couple of trust-worthy people secreted in the kitchen to cut up samples, sheets handed out with a grading system and a teen with excellent math skills to calculate the submitted points. Toward the end, I felt a little like Geraldine Granger from The Vicar of Dibley trying to eat just one more brussel sprout at Christmas Lunch. All of the steaks were delicious but sadly, I have to report that R's steak did not achieve a top three position. Not to worry though, in September we'll be doing it all over again at our Ribfest. R made a trophy for that one and he's quite determined that it will grace our mantle this year. He took a sterling silver piggy bank and mounted it on an old soccer trophy that he bought at a charity shop, the player on top was done away with. The trophy is affectionately referred to as 'The Porker'. Heaven help me.