Sweet Finds of the Day

Just read the paragraph about women on their moon time in Cindy’s email about the upcoming Ghost Dance, and I was moved to tears...

"Moon Time is a sacred and beautiful time with Grandmother Moon, which must be honoured and respected. Women are encouraged to return home and rest so that the precious life force that is within you can move freely through your body to bring purification and re-alignment to every cell of your body."

I was just thinking the other day that I had never heard the explanation for women needing to be ‘quarantined’ if they are on their period during ceremonial times, and saying that they are ‘too powerful’ does not suffice for me...
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On our Labour Day Monday walk along Queen Street we came upon The Pie Shack, which, on previous passes have never tempted us enough to enter, or peek in when it was closed. There was a wooden dog house just outside of it, with a sheepdog lying in it. As it was meant to attract at least a curious glance, we looked, and we were hooked, as if we’ve just stumbled unto an oasis, without knowing we were parched and needy.

Just cross the threshold and the air felt different. It’s the kind of air you’d expect at a spa, the carefully packaged ambience of soothing stillness, designed to insulate your nerves against the jarring jangles of the world outside. I loved the furnishings immediately. The nouveau cheap chic of salvaged wooden tables, chairs, sofas, cabinet, and picture frames. I couldn’t help it (even though I could see the mild disdain and amusement in Michael’s eyes), I was charmed by the driftwood twig chandelier over the coffee table. Someone had lovingly and patiently collected these pieces that once were scattered across continents, perhaps oceans away, in my imagination, and someone else (the proprietor or his interior designer) had sourced them out and assembled them with very pleasing taste and a discerning eye for a kind of tranquil warmth and beauty. I felt a hearth fire burning even though there wasn’t one (the fireplace was boarded over).

The pies were homemade and lovely warmed, one slice is a quarter of a pie at $6 plus HST. An ingenious way of separating the true pie-lover from the dabbler-sampler, I thought, as the former (like Michael) would happily gobble up the quarter, and the latter (like me) would get the the-pie-is-bigger-than-my-stomach-but-my-eyes-aren’t look upon seeing the slice.

But the best find, the real treasure of the place, of the whole day for us, was the books lying around all over the place. There were old editions of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, and several books on dogs, and the moment I opened the one called “Old Dogs Are The Best Dogs” my heart broke out into a big smile. Suddenly I get why there is the old, arthritic sheepdog and his doghouse outside, it’s more than advertising, like putting a manikin outside a clothing store. There’s another theme running under the main headliners, the pies, here. It’s about the owner, an interesting, a glint of eccentricity in his eye kind of guy, who is nevertheless savvy and hip with a beachy, never-in-your-face sophistication. I can take you or leave you, as you please, but I’m definitely here, the look says. I may be flip-flop casual, but there’s also a discreet Nike swoosh on the hip of my shorts ;) And he loves dogs, although he never said so, even when he saw that we were watching waves of passersby stopping to look at the dog, then at the storefront, all he said was, “It’s not about the pies, eh? People are stopping for the dog.” No smile, no rancour either, he’s said this before.

The slice of pie, the little gem of a book (which I’ll be getting for my sister’s birthday gift), the attentive service, the patrons who came in and went about their ritual straight away (reading, writing, playing cards) probably in their accustomed places, the light and shadow playing on the earthy tone of the walls, the view of the park in the ravine across the street, and what endears my freaky little person the most: the timeless, comforting way the place greets you, embraces, and gently disarms you if it’s your first time there, cups your ears and whispers to you, ‘You are mine’, and soothes you into contented agreement that you love it here, that you belong here.