Having been sufficiently thrilled by the squill, I proceeded back home to enjoy catching up with my Mom on the phone (as we do most Sundays) and to have my lunch of a little egg salad-like sandwich made of leftover tofu scramble.

After that, it was off to the National Arts Centre, which was hosting Uncommon Markets’ Spring Market, a sort of craft-and-maker’s market held annually. While I’m always on the lookout for novelty earrings, cute necklaces, and perhaps even cuter tchotchkes, the real purpose of my visit was a little tastier: Little Jo Berry had a table there!

With so much to choose from, I was a little overwhelmed trying to balance a rapidly-filling freezer with eyes that said “buy it all!”. While obviously I couldn’t buy the table, I did choose a cornflake square and a delicious cookiesn’n’cream donut.

Along with some lovely teas from Just the Tea, I placed my purchases in my tote and continued on along the canal and down into the Market to make more photos and enjoy the lovely afternoon along with (seemingly) the rest of Ottawa.

Aside from a weak attempt at mild transphobic street harassment¹, the Market was fine but as uninspiring as it usually is, so I turned back toward Centretown.

Except one thing did bother me.

No, not the street harassment.

After having walked through the Rideau Centre (picking up a new tube of my favourite mascara), instead of crossing to the south side of the Mackenzie King Bridge, I stayed on the north side and returned to the National Arts Centre, where I approached the Little Jo Berry table and told her that “I have made a terrible mistake!

…and reached for a Peanut Butter Cream Cheese Freezer Cake!

With relief having settled over the table², I paid for my cake and was on my merry way back home. I had film to develop, dinner to make, and an exceptional mid-cycle load of laundry so that the baskets would be as near a reset as they could be for Kathleen’s arrival home on Tuesday.

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1. Walking down York Street, two men looked at me and, as I passed, repeatedly lobbed “It’s a fefe!” between them, not entirely unlike like Kevin McDonald and Mark McKinney lobbed “He’s a food critic!” between themselves for this sketch. I’ve received worse from better and was far more confused at first by: (a) the use of a slur I don’t think I’ve heard used since the 1980s or 1990s; and (b) the wrong slur for a trans woman. ↩︎
2. I’m sorry! It’s one thing I did get from my Dad: his sense of humour. ↩︎