Fri, 31 October

RECIPE FOR A FRIDAY IN OCTOBER Take one city built on silt and stubbornness. Add six appointments, each requiring a different face. Fold in school drop-off at 8:47, never 8:45, because the light on Bealey Ave has its own theology. Blanch the morning's pitch deck in cold panic. Let it rest. Carve out the afternoon with a paring knife— triangles for eyes, a crooked grin that says I'm fine, this is sustainable. For the sauce: reduce one hemisphere's confused season until spring tastes like autumn, until blossoms and decay occupy the same breath. Serve on a table already cleared for homework. Garnish with the candle you forgot to buy but the kids won't notice— they never notice the light source, only that the room is bright.