It's the middle of January. It's 54 F (12 C). I'm outside. I'm sitting on a park bench next to the lake overlooking Toronto's skyline. There is a surreal mist on the lake and a mixture of sun and cloud that makes it both dark and light.
It's a perfect day.
My mind wanders to my therapy session a couple of weeks ago. After a brief pause in the usual conversation. My therapist asked me what was on my mind. I state "actually I'm hungry and thinking about going for breakfast after I leave."
There is an all day breakfast spot a few minutes from my therapist's and they make a really good big breakfast. The conversation progresses and I describe my love of breakfast. My love of bacon and eggs. Soft bacon. Scrambled eggs.
I describe in mouth-wateringly great detail my love of breakfast. How it is, and always has been, my preferred meal.
I describe how my mother used to make it when I was a child and how that has always been my preferred way of eating it. I tell him about my favourite breakfast places and how often I go there.
Then he asks "how often do you make it for yourself?"
"Never" I reply.
"Nope. Never. I always prefer someone else to make it for me."
"… Like your mother used to do?"
… … "yup."