Four weeks ago, my friend Eilidh came home from work to find her boyfriend of three years sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarrette, suitcase on the ground beside him. “I can’t do this anymore.” That’s all he said. She tried to ask questions (why? when? how?) but he wouldn’t talk. He was cold as stone. Then he was gone.

To lift my friend’s mood, we decided to take a holiday together. One overpriced flight later, I arrived in BC ready to embark on an upbeat all-girl road trip. Our first stop was a family wedding on Vancouver Island, an event bound to arouse mixed feelings; joy, loss, rage, regret. I was going to be my friend’s “girl-date.” Her buffer. Her drinking buddy. With enough booze, music and prospective cute single boys, this weddding would be a breeze. Much to our horror, the wedding was a dry event with, gulp, no dancing, and lots of married young fellows holding newborn babies in their arms. Damn those sober, fast-breeding Christian types!

Fortunately, Mother Nature stepped in to save us. Mountains, giant trees, sprawling ocean views, wild deers prancing along the roads…the scenery was our entertainment. One afternoon, Eilidh and I took a hike in the woods and were instantly drawn to the lush blackberries growing wild along the path. When picked at their late summer prime, blackberries have a sweetness so distracting all your heartache goes away. Eilidh was particuraly adept at spotting just the right ones and it quickly became a passion. The second you taste a good blackberry, it’s like an addiction. Frantically, hungrily, you pick your way through a few sour berries in search of another mouthwatering hit. It’s a treacherous activity too, since the bushes have thorns and more then once I had to disentangle my sweater from a cluster of mauling branches.

Love’s the same. Finding the right person is no easy task. After endless discussions, we decided Eilidh’s man was sour from the start. She would have to choose better next time. And she was hungry for it. I could tell. While we walked along the beach, she texted an old flame, hoping to start a spark, then bought a new flirty skirt on the high street in Victoria that she said would be “perfect datewear.” She was discarding her rotten blackberry on the compost heap and getting back out into the woods. She was my blackberry-picking superhero/goddess! Resilliant, beautiful, brave, funny, with the sharp eye of an expert huntress, I knew she would succeed.

Meawhile, with all this relationship talk, I couldn’t help but wonder– how long was my love story going to last? Would the sweetness ever go sour?

When I returned home to Montreal a week later, the FC was waiting for me at the front gate as my taxi pulled up. It was early morning and he was just heading to work, wearing his usual rumpled shirt and fresh-from-the-shower slicked down side part. The timing was perfect. We embraced, shyly at first. The electricity, the magic, the reverence for what we had infused every moment. Unable to say goodbye so soon, the FC dropped my bags in front of the house and we walked to the metro together hand in hand, stopping every few steps to embrace. In the station, the FC kept looking back as he stepped onto the escalator down to his train. I waved back from the turnstyles, silly, grinning, already missing him…

It was so very sweet. Like the perfect late summer blackberry.

When I asked my sister,  “Do you love your husband?” she paused, then replied, “Only in the right lighting.” The marriage didn’t last – his doing — but she had a point about the lighting. Good light and love go hand in hand. Nobody can fall in love while scrutinizing a prospective lover’s pores.  Even Blanche Dubois had the good sense to throw a Chinese paper lantern over a cruel naked bulb. Shadows let dreams live. This is important. Because falling in love isn’t about seeing all the facts,  it’s about seeing possibility.  Of course staying in love is more tricky. Staying in love means seeing a person at their most beautiful all the time, in all kinds of light. This is how the French CutiePie sees me. No matter where I am, under the midday sun or bathing in the harsh flurorescent light of a waiting room, to him I’m always “zee most beautiful girl in zee wold.”  It’s like the FC’s eyeballs have a built-in dimmer switch. He never notices my flaws.  And the more beautiful he sees me, the more confident and beautiful I become. That’s why love feeds love. In all light.

Though the FC thinks I'm beautiful in all light, we tried to make the lighting in our new house as beautiful as possible, like the vintage Victorian fixture we chose for the kitchen. Even with a 100 watt bulb, it casts a warm, love-inducing glow.

Took this picture from a Manhattan shop window (Rugby?). Aren’t T-straps and argyle socks dazzling? So cute and preppy it makes me want to go back to school and get a PhD… in love.

Worked the same look earlier this summer with argyle ankle socks and couldn't stop looking at my feet.

Coucou!

With the cottage renovation nearing completion (so much to say on that topic) and two screenwriting projects on the go, I’ve just been too swamped to blog or cook. Frozen peas, instant mashed potatoes (they’re good) simple mixed green salads, couscous, frozen perogis and Knorr Carrot and Coriander soup boxes have saved my ass.

Not having special dining time with the FC is definitely a challenge. I miss gazing into his big blue eyes over the candlelit dinner table. Instead, we snarf down a hasty supper and quibble about shady contractors, renovation delays and all round stress. It’s conclusive. Renovations are NOT part of the recipe for love. But they are a test, that’s for sure, though the FC is constantly reminding me not to take the temperature of the relationship now, while under duress. (He’s so wise.)

The good news is that I love what I’m writing, especially a new ghost series pilot for CBC (more details to come.) I think that’s definitely part of the recipe for love. Loving what you do. It makes you happy even when everything else feels out of whack. Though under a tight deadline, the writing has been a sanctuary from other pressures.

And on that note, back to work. Will blog again soon. Promise.

Illustration by Ola Kononova.

“Coucou!” That’s what the French say upon entering a room unexpectedly. It’s like saying hello, here I am, good morning, good afternoon, wake up and put your pants on, I’m coming through. It’s a greeting and a warning all at once.

I’m back in France with the FC, taking a much-needed break from the house renovation. Tonight the FC is attending a bachelor party for a dear friend and I’m alone at his parent’s country house in Wambrechie, a small village in the north of France. Though it was gloomy and overcast, I decided to cure my restlessness and go for a walk. As I strolled down the lush wooded path to La Deule river, a cuckoo bird starting calling. Coucou! Coucou!! The sound was so clear and pronounced I was afraid it was someone hiding in the bushes pretending to be a bird. On edge, I arrived in the lonely town square where a gang of French boys implored me for a little smile. “Un petit sourire Mademoiselle? Un petit sourire?” Frightened, I quickened my step and headed straight back to the house. Now I’m here, in the FC’s childhood bedroom, writing this post.

“Coucou!” It’s not just a hello, it’s a warning. It’s also time passing. And madness. I suddenly find myself afraid and full of questions.

What am I doing here? Why does the FC love me so much? And more importantly, when will it all come to a spectacular and catastrophic end?

This blog started as a question “What’s the recipe for love?” Maybe it’s just faith. You have to believe that you’re not crazy. That the feelings you have are right and true, even if you don’t know what the future holds, and even if you’re afraid that, at any moment, disaster might enter the room and say “Coucou! Wake up. It was just a dream.”

Title image is “The Cuckoo Bird” an oil painting by Meghan Trice posted on Flickr.

Here’s the FC and my Valentine’s Day menu.

Couscous with sun-dried tomato and broccoli (because feeling heavy and bloated is not very conducive to romance.)

One peaked chocolate mousse with caramel centre, to share, with a candle for a wish.

Three pink roses. One for me, one for him, and one for our Mac Powerbooks, which we are never without.

Nigerian Funk (thanks again Margo, for turning me onto this)

Vin mousseux (our favourite love potion next to champagne)

Candles in the bedroom.

Joining friends for Sunday night jazz at Diese Onze afterwards.

You know those moments when you click with a total stranger (on the metro or at a party or in the laundromat) then they disappear into the urban chaos from whence they came? Later, you romanticize about them. You wonder if they felt the same way. You only wish you’d had the courage to ask for their number. Or were you just imagining it all?

These moments are the subject of Missed Connections, a gorgeous illustrated blog which uses stories of missed connections culled from real life personal ads to inspire beautifully rendered drawings. Besides the artwork, it’s amazing how much wordsmithing goes into the personal ads themselves. When it comes to love (and prices by the word) people quickly become poets. Blogger Sophie Blackall choses her inspiration well, picking those personal ads with the most potential for visuals, my favourite being a guy looking for a girl he shared a bear suit with at a costume party.

Thinking about it, the FC and I could easily have been a missed connection. We met at a party, danced and laughed for what felt like hours, then, when my friends were leaving, I bid farewell and disappeared into the night. We would never have seen each other again if the FC hadn’t tracked me down on Facebook. (He remembered the person who brought us to the party and started his search from there.) My heart pounded in my chest when I received his first email message. It was so wonderful to know that he felt the same as I did, that something magical had happened between us. I was also glad I’d decided to join Facebook since without it I might not be writing this post.

Connection found.

In Montreal, there’s something called the Seasonal Relationship Theory (SRT for short.) According to the theory, couples tend to hook up in the winter and break up in the spring. And it’s true. Montreal winters are definitely the time for romance.  The snow-covered streets sparkle in the sunshine. At night, windows glow with warm light. Though we’re all covered up in lumpy shapeless coats and silly toques, there’s a lusty fire in our hearts. We want, nay, we need, to meet a warm special someone to snuggle up with on those cruel minus twenty nights. It’s a question of survival!

Despite the cold, I love the winter season. I especially love ice staking in Parc La Fontaine and the Belgian hot chocolate at Au Festin de Babette.

I also love winter because that’s when I met the FC. He was my Christmas present from the gods. Together, we kept winter warm. And luckily we decided not to break up in the spring.

Sometimes I worry: Will the FC still love me when I’m old and gray? But then I see this picture of artist David Hockney painting at the age of 72 and I stop worrying. Don’t you just adore the funky cap and suspenders, not to mention the groovy painting flowing out of him?

Cooking for others is a great way to draw love and friendship into your life. But what if you can’t cook?

No worries. Here’s ten tips for faking it in the kitchen.

 1. Throw a frozen pizza in the oven. Heating something up is almost like cooking. (Try PC’s Blue Menu Goat Cheese and Veg.) Add a fresh salad of pre-washed greens with quality storebought dressing, it’s a two course feast.
2. Dress for success. A pretty apron will always create the illusion that cooking has been done even if you’re ordering Chinese.  Be sure to decant your take-out onto real dishes. Eating off styrofoam or paper tells people you’re not a real cook.
3. Pretend your stove isn’t working and your landlord won’t fix it. Eventually the truth with out, but at least it’ll buy you some time to enroll in a cooking class.
4. Fresh pasta + jarred gourmet sauce = you’re a great cook! (Source out a good gourmet food store in your hood. Sometimes you can find complete French meals including canned fois gras and jarred veal ragout. Heat, assemble, serve. That’s cooking.)
5. Display a set of beautiful cookbooks in your kitchen or clip a recipe onto your fridge. If someone notices, say it’s something you’ve been meaning to make. Intending to cook is almost as good as actually cooking.
6. Set the table. You may be serving KD, but attractive dishware, candles, flowers and homemade place cards go along way to elevating the repas. 
7. Add one fresh ingredient to something pre-prepared, a chopped red pepper or some fresh herbs. (Just be careful not to cut yourself. Slicing off a fingertip usually tells guests you’re not a real cook.)
8. Be a master baker with a roll of Pilsbury chocolate chip cookie dough. Slap on a pair of cheerful oven mits while you take the cookie sheet out of the oven and you’re practically Martha Stewart.
9. Kitchen utensils such as a nice cutting board, a pair of stainless steel tongs, set of mixing bowls, spice rack, and a few good pots say you’re in the kitchen zone even if you’re not. Even better, if your boyfriend turns out to be the real chef, you’ll have everything he needs to cook his way into your heart.
10. Stock your pantry. Jar of olives or antipasto. Processed cheese. Tin of smoked oysters. Crackers. Having food around implies you can cook. Non-perishable pantry food also means you’ll always have something on hand for hungry friends and unexpected boys you like. (It also comes in handy for the days when you’re snowed in or in the middle of zombie apocalypse.)

Caution: Sometimes in the faking process a change happens and you become a real cook. So be prepared. Soon the just-for-show cookbooks will be regular reading material.