Yesterday I made vegan cookies for Gigi. Although if I had my way I’d wander the earth baking cookies for everybody like Samuel L. Jackson at the end of Pulp Fiction, I didn’t do it out of pure altruism, nor out of a Malibu Stacy-esque desire to make cookies for the boys – hee hee hee hee! They were supposed to be payment for our first yoga lesson, supposedly in Lady’s building's gym supposedly with Lady. But Lady is a crackhead, which was disappointing.
So instead we went to Commensal, a vegetarian place off Bay. They charge you based on how much your plate weighs after you load up on the buffet, which is how I feel food should be priced – by the sheer quantity of kilos I’m about to noisily consume. And though I'm not a vegetarian, vegan, or anything else that will preclude me eating things that don’t make me die, Commensal serves things I’m occasionally willing to pay their inflated rates for. The slabs of firm tofu fried with ginger, for example, are fucking yums. Like sausage without any gross bits. They have an arame salad that is also fucking yums, and an avocado salad that's just - oof - so satisfying, in taste and texture. The sweets are also awfully good; I’m especially partial to their maple pie, but I’d eaten too much of the mains to be able to fit any into me.
So the complete blanket smoking ban everywhere that exists publicly indoors in Ontario enters into effect soon. I'm glad I've managed to stop already because it's been piss cold lately and I don't want to stay outside out of compulsion. Pope Urban VIII banned tobacco once upon a time. He said snuff was naughty because sneezing was so much like sexual ecstacy. I want to sneeze like Pope Urban VIII. Which reminds me, I've started reading The Great Transformation by former nun Karen Armstrong, and the first 30 pages of it are absorbing, even inspiring. I’ll write more about it when I’ve read more of it. Thank Jeebus there are only three days of work this week . . . work is so much worse than not-work.