Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I love a good hunkerin'. There is no finer way to spend a day than at home, curled up, enclosed and coccooned and otherwise safe from the outside world. I've pretty well perfected the art of hiding out. It's a sport usually reserved for the colder months, though, and I always feel a little sad when the days get longer, the sun warmer, the urge to leave the house mysteriously stronger. Sure, you can still hunker down in the summer, but it's frowned upon (unless you're deathly ill and there's a wicked heat wave and you have the first five seasons of 90210 at your disposal, but that's another story). That's why Friday's monsoon-style downpour felt like one last cold-weather gift, one last chance to huddle up.
I didn't get around to my burrowing until late in the day on Friday, which wasn't necessarily too awful. I had the great good fortune not to have to go too far afield. Working and visiting and teaching and running errands, I walked back and forth and up and down Locke Street all morning and afternoon. Each time I left my house it was raining a little harder, and each return home felt like a tiny miracle. There is something so comforting about spending an entire busy day in your own neighbourhood, going and returning, one foot in front of the other. And there's no greater relief than that final coming home when you know you can put on your thick socks and unplug the phone and stay awhile. This is a lucky life.
The worst of the deluge may be over, but Saturday's still looking a little iffy. With that in mind, here's my foolproof summer hunker survival kit.
The Hour. This is a BBC series that takes place in 1956. It's about murder and intrigue in Cold War London, the dawn of the post-newsreel age of reporting, the Suez Canal Crisis, and smart young boys and girls in perfectly tailored suits. At the risk of sounding like a culture-vulture dipshit, I think this series will satisfy all lovers of Mad Men and/or Downton Abbey, which I'm pretty sure amounts to the sum total of the English speaking population of the universe.
Miso gravy on sweet potatoes with steamed spinach and halloumi cheese. It is exactly as incredible as it sounds. At the risk of sounding like a foodie dipshit, I find it to be poutine-reminiscent. Here is the miso gravy recipe that got me started, all the way from the best vegetarian restaurant in the world, The Naam, not far from my old Kistilano stomping grounds. I'm already fantasizing about eating there every blessed night when I'm back in the city of glass this summer.
The June issue of Vanity Fair. This magazine features nude photos and new tales of the last days of Marilyn Monroe, as well as a very informative and tragic story about the last days of Whitney Houston. I'm a fan of last days.
The Night Strangers by Chris Bohjalian. The first Bohjalian book I ever read was Trans-Sister Radio. Actually, I listened to it on audiobook back when I lived in Ottawa, and have listened to several of his books since, as well as reading several more on paper. Bohjalian's books are wonderful. He creates rich, morally complex characters wading through myriad life-altering circumstances, from gender reassignment to attempted rape to domestic abuse. He's a master of the trauma-inducing moment and the long, drawn-out, harrowing process of recovery. The Night Strangers is a ghost story of sorts that starts with a truly terrifying description of a plane crash on Lake Champlain and then follows the pilot as he tries to get past what has happened to him. At the risk of sounding like a literary dipshit, it has elements of Updike's Witches of Eastwick and echoes of the best books Alice Hoffman ever wrote (Fortune's Daughter and Practical Magic, for starters). If you'll excuse me, I'm off to turn on every light in the house before I go to bed. Why I thought I could read this book and then fall asleep alone is beyond me but god DAMN if it isn't worth it.
Happy hunkering.
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