By stroke of luck we were able on short notice to convene at the golf club for breakfast this morning with my erstwhile physician and globetrotting brother of the Craft. He was captured like an errant bee between jaunts as broadly disentangled as British Columbia and Italy. These passages are but an introduction to his early winter seclusion late autumn in Florida. Thereafter I have no idea. I find I must constantly reacquaint myself with his complex peripatetic agenda.

Our convention on the flagstone patio this morning was uncommonly leisurely and unhurried. Over ample omelettes and blueberry pancakes we touched upon the critical affairs of our private lives including family members young and old and naturally the ever-changing world of business.

Long after we had wiped our respective platters of any remnants and drunk from the bottom of our coffee cups, we curtailed our summer languishing aside the Mississippi River and redirected ourselves to our prearranged objectives. Primary for us today was nothing more distinguished than grocery shopping. We did however pointedly resist purchasing any vegetables at the grocery store and chose instead to frequent Needham’s Market Garden near the Village of Pakenham.

Needham’s Market Garden, as we know it today, was founded in 2000 by Glenn Needham, who went from a youngster selling corn at a picnic table at the end of his driveway, to farming 110 acres now. Glenn has always had a love of working the land. Most known for his corn, Glenn offers so much more including berries, vegetables and fruit wine.

As surfaced at table this morning during our casual conversation, my late father was especially fond of a vegetable dish aligned to the harvest at this time of year.  It was basically a bowl of boiled potatoes, carrots and yellow beans smothered in warm milk and melted butter, salt and pepper. He ate it with the devotion of a cleric.

The afternoon’s summer weather was too inviting to pass over. The call of the road was irrepressible. Though I hadn’t expected anything in particular as I wound my way along the customary ribbon of undulating highway, I ended in the chair of a barber. Her name was Viktoryia who I understand from her gossip is from Armenia. We had  an academic chat about vodka and cognac. She also introduced me to her favourite pomade.  That – and a car wash – would have been the pinnacle of my day were it not for this evening’s soup plate of boiled veggies, salt and pepper.