Rosemary Leach

Last night I watched an episode of a Netflix series Chef’s Table. It had been recommended by a few friends but, as per usual, I was disappointed; an Italian guy who sets out to be a rock star chef becomes a rock star chef. I wished it had been about the old woman who rolled out the pasta, or the dairy farmers with ear hair. Or even about the chef’s relationship with his handicapped son. *** This week as I was sitting in a rustic neighbourhood joint in Montreal I was thinking

The truth is I “fritter” my life away painting, cooking meals that take forever, and daydreaming. And chatting about life with Jake and the kids, or friends, turning over the meanings, the intentions. I clean when things are intolerable, and approach banking with similar levels of enthusiasm. My fear is that I might find myself or worse my kids, starving in a gutter doing this. I just keep closing my eyes putting groceries in a filthy fridge. Acknowledging what you haven’t ac

As a young kid when I showed an interest in piano my parents sent me to a really good teacher, Ruth Kazdan whose home was near Hazleton lanes. The poor woman was a serious Conservatory type who was probably a concert pianist teaching to pay the bills. I had no rhythm or other musical abilities, and I found myself filling out theory pages and all I wanted to do was play Air Supply tunes. Finally I convinced my mother to send me to Mrs.Hedderwick. Agnes Hedderwick (I'm not joki