I love vegetables. But I love them best when they’re pureed into a sumptuous broth, served up in a beautiful bowl, and slurped up like a cat with cream - well, not quite, I’ll use a spoon.

I came by my love for soup after I left home. Contrary to other farmwives, although mom would have rather skipped vacuuming for a day than buy a frozen pie crust, Campbell’s was her go-to every Sunday lunch. I don’t blame her - hers was a 21-hot-meal-a-week job. Those over-salted soups, however, diluted as they were from concentrate, were not a way to develop my young palate.

I bought my first soup-pot in my 30s and was at the apex of my soup-making life five years ago when I catered a wedding for my step-daughter, Alexa. Sixty-five people sampled two soups from crockpots set up in my backyard, with the main course served from my basement bar. The first, Woodsy Wild Mushroom Soup, is a recipe from the recipe book published by Rebar Modern Food in Victoria BC. It’s a mix of dried and farmed mushrooms, and is always a hit. And I love it.

There I was, 90 minutes early - cutting it close for me - for an afternoon speaking engagement at Barrie City Hall. Barrie’s one of those small cities Torontonians whiz past on Fridays, escaping to cottage country. Oh sure, they might grab one last Starbucks at the Enroute but there’s no need to venture into its interior to explore its restaurants. They’re bringing big-city food with them in their coolers. As a non-cottager, I am as unlikely to be looking for lunch in Barrie as Britain’s Prince Andrew was to be eating at the Woking Pizza Express. But yet I was.

Thirty-three years is a long time to be mentored by someone. But not long enough — I wasn’t ready for the news that my work mother died on November 13, 2023.

Barbara Caplan - Barb - held the top job in the city bureaucracy, City Clerk, when I started working at Toronto City Hall in September 1990. She was the first woman in the role and she laughed when she told the story of how one councillor asked her what a woman in her 40s would do with all that money. Barb, however, was not there for the money. Barb was there to facilitate good public decision-making, apolitically and efficiently.

Hers was the department I was hired into as a management trainee. Barb had no hand in choosing me, but I ended up working in the elections section where, as Clerk she was also Chief Returning Officer. I was tucked into an office on a hall next to the back staircase where Barb would dart regularly down to the underground parking for a smoke.

“Wow, the hair!” I said as I opened the front door to Liz. She stood there, decked in multicoloured scarves, layered artfully, all topped with a brilliant orange wig. “Yay-es,” she drawled in reply. “Ah wanted to be sure y’all appreciated the impohtnace of mah role as fohtune tellah.” “Ah, you’re southern? Not Polish?” “Yay-es, Ah woulda have a tough time bein’ Polish. Yah see, Ah’m from Geojah. You invitin’ me in?” “Yes - come in, come in. Let me get a photo of this getup before the guests arrive.” It was November 28, 2015. The 30th was Jack’s Name Day** but more importantly, it’s Andrzejki and as everyone Pole knows (I’m not, Liz is not), you need a fortune teller on Andrzejki.*** Jack’s real first name was Andrzej, the Polish version of Andrew. Scottish St. Andrew’s Day is November 30 but the Poles celebrate it in a much more fun way with a party called Andrzejki. As near as I can gather, it’s just another chance to get together over a lot of food and vodka, a warm up to the Christmas season. Andrzejki involves a bunch of games, among them interpreting the meaning of the blobs and knobs that form when you thread molten wax through a keyhole into water. And for that, naturally, you need a fortune

Five years ago, my husband, Jack, died with medical assistance (MAiD).

I first told the story of his death spontaneously at a conference three weeks afterwards. It wasn’t easy but the 100 people in the room were curious yet too scared to ask their questions: how did Canada’s three-year old MAiD law work; what were the mechanics of arranging it; how easy was it for Jack to make the decision; and what was it like for me to be with him throughout. I knew if I shared my experience that day and every time I’ve written* or spoken about it since, I could educate and help pull back the curtain that hangs in front of the rich human tapestry of dying, death, and grief.

Five years ago, my husband, Jack, died with medical assistance (MAiD).

I first told the story of his death spontaneously at a conference three weeks afterwards. It wasn’t easy but the 100 people in the room were curious yet too scared to ask their questions: how did Canada’s three-year old MAiD law work; what were the mechanics of arranging it; how easy was it for Jack to make the decision; and what was it like for me to be with him throughout. I knew if I shared my experience that day and every time I’ve written* or spoken about it since, I could educate and help pull back the curtain that hangs in front of the rich human tapestry of dying, death, and grief.

I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT REVOKE, indeed I stand firmly behind: all the crazy shenanigans (a word I only just learned in my 30 year mission to conquer this bloody English but cannot deny applies) that made everyone around me laugh through my 67 yearsmy strongly held progressive views regarding Polish politics, especially my disdain for those “Kaczyński idiots”; my contempt for the Roman Catholic Church and in particular, its propaganda arm, Radio Maria; and my complete devotion to Jerzy Urban, and his controversial newsmagazine, Nie, that I’ve enjoyed weekly despite having left Poland

Jack and I were no strangers to hospitals. They were the places we knew best other than my condo and our shared house. We arrived at Princess Margaret Cancer Centre for the first time together on January 20, 2016. Jack grabbed a quick smoke walking from the car park to the door. As he dropped it in the sewer grate he grinned, threw his arm around my waist and said:

“Hey, we’ve never been to this hospital before.”

When I went to bed that night, I was cold. Really fucking cold. It was a cool Nov 2 but more than that, my defences were down. Emotional fragility and exhaustion drove icicles right to my bones. I had also been spending most of my time with Jack in the basement where he had the heat cranked. The pilot light within him had already expired as he inched towards death.

In that chilly bed, despite fatigue I’d never experienced before, I struggled to sleep. I was wearing the beautiful pyjamas I’d bought in case Jack moved to a hospice. I wanted to be sure that if I stayed with him there, I would not embarrass myself, or more likely, Jack. He was fussy about that kind of thing. While he wouldn’t have cared what he looked like, he would have wanted me to look decent - clean, evenly trimmed nails, and so on. Funny the things he cared about. Still cared about.