In July Simon and I celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary. It's not a big one on the calendar of grand events; the traditional gift for it is copper, "a soft and malleable metal that holds a special significance for a long-married couple". When we hit twenty years I had felt some amazement. Me, married for twenty years? I spent much of my life imagining myself as single forever. I did not seem to have the knack of commitment to one person. And yet, I thought to myself back then, I would be such a good wife.
Time has proven me both right and wrong. I do have the knack of commitment and I'm not too shabby at the wife thing (I have confirmed this assessment with husband). We celebrated with an afternoon and evening at a nearby day spa, and then took ourselves out to dinner at a newish, French-ish restaurant in our neighbourhood, Café Cancan on Harbord Street, scoring a coveted table on the lovely patio. At first glance the menu items did not spark joy: too outré, or bijou, or some other French word suggesting we would go home hungry. The burger tempted me but seemed like chickening out, and the price for it ridiculous (twenty-six dollars!). So we ordered the Moroccan-style chicken instead (ironically). Also smoked trout, and intriguing sides, including pea and fava fricassee with ‘house cheese’, and Dimitri’s garlic mushrooms. Everything was utterly delicious. I would go back again for Dimitri’s mushrooms alone. I ordered a cocktail called C’est La Vie with a little bough of mint in it and thought of my old brown Honda Civic which had gold racing stripes and the license plate SAYLVEE (later SAI LA V; long story) and Simon debated between something chartreuse and something red, eventually selecting the gin-based 'Cyd Cherise'. Primary colors abounded: Simon's scarlet drink; the green of mint, pea, and fava; and for dessert, a vivid yellow lemon posset (yes, same word that describes baby spit-up in England, or at least in the northeast of England) with tonka-bean meringues and fresh mint leaves. (We consumed a lot of mint.)
The dinner proved eventful, as we had to abandon the patio and dart indoors between starter and main because the heavens opened in a dramatic summer thunderstorm, foretold only by a single flash of lightning. Our new table by the window offered us a front-row view of the antics at the disputed cannabis café across the road. We finished the meal dry and comfortable and walked home after coffee, when the rain had shrunk to sprinkles. There the two younger children greeted us and brought us hot tea in bed. They, the dog, and the two cats curled up at our feet. I drifted off.
In that state of semi-retirement I had a dream. We, Simon and I, were back at the restaurant where we had ordered a dish described to us by our waiter as enclosing something green. He brought us a plate with a rolled-up crepe and put it between us on the table, to be shared. When we gently tugged it open with the tines of a fork, it released a small swarm of creatures, maybe eight or ten of them, like bright green sand crabs. Unlike the burrowing crustaceans, though, these beings hovered in the air in the manner of winged beetles and emitted a series of high-pitched tones, a sort of chant, before suddenly dropped to the plate still and silent. We were expected to eat them. Simon and I looked at each other. I prodded one with my fork but I don’t recall a crunch or a taste. I hope we didn’t eat them. It would be uncharacteristic of me to be so daring, but Simon might have sampled a bite.
I awoke in the small hours to find the children vanished, the pets nesting in the folds of duvet, the tea cold, and Simon asleep. We had to wait until the next day to exchange gifts.
No problem. We're malleable that way.
