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Pickle run without the Pickles

Tuesday, 25 November, 2025

I love pickles. Almost anything — I don’t see the point of pickled eggs. My mum used to say I was weaned on a pickle. Until I was five, we lived with my dad’s mum – Nana. Nana is a whole story of her own, and I think I’ve told it, but one thing she was known for was pickles. Somewhere I have the handwritten (not by her) recipe, ‘Pickels.’ I don’t remember if they were new or fully sour pickles anymore, but they were amazing. I remember the smell, or I think I do, and I can see the container they were fermented in, filled with the cucumbers, the brine and the generous amount of dillweed. It’s not so easy to find today.  I’ve spent my whole life looking for a pickle that compares, even if I know a taste today may prove I’ve already found  or even surpassed it. It’s just been too long.

In Canada, the taste for pickles is similar to the USA. A crisp and vinegary pickle with a slight sweetness. The UK gherkin from a chippy has the same sweetness but a different flavour. I see Canadians and Americans who live in Britain yearning for the Bicks or Clausen taste. It’s not for me. A brined kosher pickle is my style. There are a few jarred ones that I will eat but perhaps a Jewish deli is the best place to find the right one. If I ever find Nana’s pickel recipe, perhaps I’ll give it a go.

Toronto has a Polish neighbourhood in the west end, near High Park, its biggest park. Once upon a time it was filled with Polish restaurants, delis and other businesses, as well as Polish churches. When the pope was Polish, his photo was everywhere! Robin and I spent a summer on Roncesvalles in the early 90s. I woke every night thinking there was a fire. It was the smoke from the converted garages behind us, where they smoked sausages and hams. The air in the neighbourhood was always smoky. Luckily, I liked it. You had your pick of where to pick up sauerkraut, bigos, pierogies,  pickles, smoked fish, cabbage rolls, and sweet doughnuts and pastries, When I left Toronto and visited again, they were almost all gone. Things had started to look smart and trendy. Now there are only two Polish delis left, although the restaurants and a couple of take-out counters for cooked food remain.

Benches beside the planters along the sidewalk
Neighbourhood mural
Two long-standing Polish restaurants in the area

The main street is Roncesvalles Avenue. It gets its name from the  Battle of Roncesvalles, which took place in the Roncesvalles Pass in Spain in 1813. An early Irish settler,  Colonel Walter O’Hara—an early 19th-century Irish settler in the area—played a significant role in the establishment of the neighbourhood. He’d led a regiment that fought against the retreating army of Napoleon at the battle.

Old apartment buildings and Polish churches
Urban mounties, shall we say?

The name  means ‘valley of thorns’ in Spanish.) In Spanish it’s pronounced Ron-sess-vie-yes (or with the alternate ‘th’ sound). In Toronto, we call it Ron-sess-vales. When it was first constructed, this was a primarily agricultural area with market gardens.  In 1904 many of the estate homes in the area were sold and the east side of the street became mixed-use. Today, at least at the lower end, the west side stays residential, while the east is shops. The homes in the area still seem quite grand but most are now split up into flats.

This was once a gated community off the main road. The houses are grand

Roncesvalles is where you’ll find many greengrocers with vegetables and fruits overflowing wooden display counters. You go for the Polish deli, Benna’s, the restaurants like Chopin or Polonez, the trendy boutiques, European toys and other goods. I like that they do decorate for the holidays and I must go back closer to Christmas when it will be quite cheerful. Besides, I covered only a third of the street.

Greengrocers (not as lush as in the warm months) and the European style boutiques ready for Christmas

I took the plunge to travel by public transport on Monday. I had a false start when I took the wrong streetcar and ended up needing to backtrack and almost start again – my eyes aren’t functioning too well and the driver was reluctant to help! On Roncesvalles, the right streetcar pulled away too hastily from my stop and I ended up further up the street, when I’d had no intention of walking very far. Walk I did, pausing to inhale the scent of Christmas trees on some of the lots. I’d had a few other false starts to buy pickles, and those times I’d not managed it for one reason and another. I ended up buying my pickles from the supermarket instead of from the familiar “barrels” at Benna’s. Benna’s does stock the double-smoked garlic sausage I like, though. That was my only goal.

There are a lot of Polish customers in Benna’s. They chat happily with the (mostly) women behind the counters. The English speakers just may be at a disadvantage since some of the servers’ English isn’t fluent. Sometimes I get cheerful service, this time I got a grumpy reception. But I got my sausage. Job done. I also visited the hot counter for a  small amount of potatoes and some pork stew, which I ate outside since the weather was mild. I skipped the sauerkraut, the pastries, and the herring that I always buy. This was a light shop.

A quick snack lunch from the hot counter, sitting on the bench outside Benna’s

I got the streetcar straight back, this time without any problems. This driver, unlike the first two, was a gem. I’m going to make borscht and use some of the sausage. Crossing my fingers.

I fear I’ve made lots of mistakes and doubled up on photos. Bring on the editors!

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Cusp of the Season

Saturday, 22 November, 2025

Ordinary days. On the 7th I finished my rehab sessions. 90 minutes of education followed by 60 of gym work. The group had started out feeling like it couldn’t gel, but week by week it did happen. There were always the odd ones, the fussy ones, the bewildered ones, the ones who bounded in like this was a heavy-duty gym experience and ate lettuce and raw almonds like it was their religion.  What’s said in group stays in group. By the end, we were pretty much a team. One of the younger ones arrived with a QR code to scan and join WhatsApp so we could ‘keep ourselves accountable.’ Not so bad then. We exercised and had the most fun warming up to Blue Jays fan songs, willing ‘our team’ to win. They didn’t in the end, but it was quite a ride. I won’t get into it. It sucked to lose. There’s always next year.  For a while, though, Toronto was buoyant. If you lived here and felt the animosity from the USA, this was a big deal.

Then we got an early taste of winter.

They were right. Out came the winter boots and coats. Here we go then. It lasted a few days, about two and a half days longer than I expected.

The first day it snowed, there was enough to shovel.

And then it was like it never happened

When it was almost clear, I had to go to an appointment at Wellesley near Church. This area is now called the (Gay) Village. It’s always weird for me since it’s not always been so chic. Back in the day I’m sure there were gay residents — their biggest stores, bars and other haunts were around there – but there were also the young straight crowd, the  hippies. Along these roads they lived together in crowded and awful conditions, shooting up drugs and not coming out for days. There’d be sprays of blood on the walls, garbage on the floors. No one cared as long as they were high. Does this still happen now? Today it’s cleaned-up facades and rainbows, trendy restaurants and boutiques. Everything changes.

I was there to renew my WheelTrans pass. This is Toronto’s public transit alternative to public transport. I got it because I was in treatment and going back and forth while in a vulnerable position. No one really wants to need it but it opened up my life and I feel sure I’d have stayed housebound without it. I’ve seen a lot of the city too, the back streets.  Somtimes I doin’t have a clue where I am, the buses and cabs zigzag around in sometimes illogical patterns and then I look up and notice something familiar and reorient. There have been some crazy journies but I’ll skip talking about these for now. (PS I was accepted for another year when I hope to be well enough to actually have adventures.)

One of the perks of the transport is going places I might not have elected to travel to or, if I had, would have been an onerous journey.  On the last day of my rehab, I was invited to a get-together for the women I used to teach with. Some of them I’d known since the early 80s. Then we were together, with only a few missing faces, as if we had never been apart. There was a lunch that was mostly breads and a bunch of cheese, but the company was warm. We sat in the friend’s house and enjoyed each other’s company and her amazing living area, full of comfy couches and a view of the trees at the back. Envious, moi?

Suddenly raalising where I was after seeing this hippy bus near Trinity-Bellwoods Park

I went back to making dolls. My brother called this a Janice doll. I certainly didn’t mean to do that.

At least if it’s a Janice doll, she has hair

I really need supplies, though. I try to make my dolls from recycled materials and give-aways. After another rehab appointment on Friday, I went to look at a few fabric stores on Queen Street West. I did find a place that wasn’t too expensive, but I’ve been used to Ridley Road bargain bins and Stoke Newington remnants where the owner would ask me how much I wanted to pay for my handful of lace, ribbon, beading and colourful fabrics and never said no to what I offered. On Queen Street, I succumbed to buying two separate metres of lace – $9.00. Must find more donations in the neighbourhood or it’s the end of my sewing career.

Queen Street West has also changed. I took a few photos, though. I was there, after all.

I did my last Writing workshop (cancer-related) on Thursday and am not sure I learned much. Maybe. I also did my last art therapy workshop on Friday (also cancer-related, as most of my things are these days). I did learn from this one. My art group did gel pretty quickly. We were a mixed bunch but we’ll stay connected, I know it. Our final assignment was to look at common themes from all of our past works. This was my piece.

I learned that home was my common theme. Always with lots of windows, chimneys with evident smoke from fires, and although surrounded by trees and plants, most definitely urban. In this one the Gherkin and a bit of a botched attempt at the Tower of London are clearly there. This yellow brick road had no obstacles. A clear path home. The sky was blue, the sun was out and shining. A wish on paper.

Today I haven’t gone out. I made some noodle soup, mixed a little miso into the broth, cooked a perfect egg but forgot to marinate it, and added some marked-down tempura shrimp for that fancy touch. Winter comfort on the horizon.

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Meandering in place

Saturday, 8 November, 2025

This morning I walked to the store. I bought a Sausage McMuffin, which is a very rare thing for me to do, but today I thought why not. No egg. Just the sausage and pretend-cheese.  In the Longo’s near the flat, I bought a machiato (single – semi wet, so she said – and I picked up two packs of marked-down meat (good till tomorrow) and bemoaned the fact I had hesitated too long for the last bag of marked-down gianduiotti and it was gone. While I was doing all this, I knew I was ready to write again. It’s been an age.

Sausage McMuffin wrapper in Canada
Always bilingual in Canada. Sausage McMuffin this morning

An age.

Why? At first it was just ennui, an unwavering sense of boredom with my surroundings. I wasn’t used to this milder interest in where I was. It wasn’t crushingly boring, but it just didn’t stir me. What to write about? I’ll confess that this feeling really hasn’t changed all that much. I don’t know if it will.  But then last October everything got murky.

Cancer.

I am just putting it out there without explanation for now. I have written a lot in draft and email and chat and, as always, in my head and I feel ready to talk about it.  I’m not quite sure how to go about it because some of you may not want to know. My plan right now is to start plopping things in here and make the subject line Breast Cancer Journey – xxx. That way, anyone who wants not to know, not to get inside my head, can skip those bits. When they’re all done, which I hope they will be, I’ll link them all. They’re part of me so I don’t think I want them to stand alone. Deal? (Do let me know so my hesitation moves to determination.)

So…Art Therapy. I’m in a group. We’re part of an art therapist’s next thesis. It’s hard. It’s much harder than I expected, but that’s because I hear the other women’s (yes, all women) stories. They’re bittersweet, crushing, sadder than I can explain. And then I feel  lucky, and then I feel bad about feeling lucky, and then I feel maybe I’m not going to be lucky, and then I don’t know how I feel. But sad, yes sad.

I’ve not been pleased with what I’ve done. The other women draw abstract forms that express so much. They range from amateur to promising, the latter maybe more than that. My drawings are poignant, too complicated, too real (too?) and they all depict ‘home’ in various ways. What I’ve been writing about is being me – I just want to be me – because this journey creates an unreal feeling, a sense of having morphed into this unrecognisable person. It’s a person who feels detached, often unwell, and in my case certainly a nomad in more than the sense of where I call home.

This week the assignment was The Path – where is it, how does it look, are there signposts, are there forks, how does the path feel? So here is mine, the most complicated of the group and thoroughly me.

Art therapy – 7 November 2025

At the bottom of the picture is a barbed wire fence. It’s daunting,  but if you look closely, there are a few gaps to wriggle through if you want to get onto the path. It lies, yellow (brick road, of course) just through the fence and begins. At first, there are many thorny bushes to make me hesitate moving forward, and although these start to disappear, they crop up here and there, showing that even near the destination there’ll be challenging times. On the right of the photo there are pleasant distractions, a tree stump to sit on, a swing for the fun of it. To the right is a duck pond with a bench to sit on. The top of the pond is swampy, it’s not all lovely. A thorn bush and stump block the path near the top – more determination is needed. Throughout, the trees are flourishing, and there are nests – this place can be nurturing. At the very end of the path – home.  It’s yellow,  with a yellow sun in the sky to echo that. Two smoking chimneys show that someone is home and there’s a welcome inside.

Not hard to interpret this. It’s a difficult journey, one I want to abort many times, where I feel I can’t go on. My love of photos that show gardens so wild that the houses are only barely visible is a metaphor for home being there, but you need to look for it.

I’ll do my very best to keep writing and share my journey. It will be here if you want.

 

One thing I haven’t mentioned is how bad my eyesight is now. I was due to get cataracts removed, and that went pear-shaped after my diagnosis. If you spot mistakes, it’s because I am seeing things in double-vision and in a faded version. Getting my eyes fixed will come next, but it’s a tough decision to allow my body to be invaded again so soon. Wish me luck!