Thursday, 16 April 2015


My brain is flowing out my nose in a continuous aqueous stream. At this rate of loss, I should invest in a tissue company before I am no longer capable of rational thought.

A nasty, demon-powered virus has inflamed my sinuses and eclipsed my spirit. The frustrating part is that I may have unwittingly contributed to its triumphant invasion.

As an artist without a day job, I am still, after two and a half months, trying to find a working rhythm and routine.  One advantage of not having to get up at 6:00 in the morning is exercising the freedom to work late into the night.  After years as an early but groggy riser, my body is resisting change and assailing my immune system.

From what I can gather, the benefit of working while others sleep is doing so in absolute silence and tranquility.  I nestle inside an invisible egg, far beyond the fibre optic reach of telemarketers.  The flip side rolls in the following day; energy levels plummet as I am reassigned by the body police to a blurry, unfocused, parallel universe.

Yesterday I was up at 5:30 because I couldn't breathe. I grabbed a nearby box of 3-ply tissues, plunked myself in front of the keyboard and wrote:  

Birds chirp as the crawl space pump spits out melting snow.
peel masking fluid off a paper work.
I don't have to rush.  I am grateful.

Deep stuff confirming the obvious...the head cold has fried a portion of my brain. On a positive note, (I always look for one), even with throbbing, swollen sinuses, I managed a frisket peel and started a blog post. If this isn't a manifestation of discipline, I don't know what is.  I understand that I am not ready for the army.

Wednesday, 8 April 2015


I am still amazed at how commanding, man-made, vividly-coloured metallic birds manage to soar through our skies. 
Physics was never my forte.  

Like many, I prefer terra firma, but I've never been one who, in pre-flight terror, clutches the nearest airline employee for dear life in an attempt to avoid boarding.  I am generally reassured by smiling flight attendants who emit an air of total calm as they prepare one and all for take off.  

My first flight ever, and the always attractive stewardesses (beauty was on the list of hiring criteria then) were young, fearless, unmarried women who were oblivious to the pitfalls of risk taking.  Airlines attempted to make the trip delightful and civilized, a brilliant strategy to maybe help passengers like myself, forget that we were actually soaring at 20,000 plus feet above the planet. 

My long legs were nowhere near the seat ahead of me.  I could wiggle in my chair and grab a safety belt without scraping my hand against the rough, durable fabric. The aircraft interior was in nearly pristine condition and free food arrived in little warm containers filled with delicacies prepared by airline chefs!

Flying is no longer what it was.  

I recently returned to Montreal from Austin, Texas. The flights to and fro were okay, late coming back because we had to wait for a good part of an hour in Detroit while a technician repaired a couple of overhead bins. 

I was happy to have leg room on the first part of the trip back (until the stopover) because my companion and I were seated at the emergency exits.  Strangely, the more we inclined towards the jet stream, the colder I became. Initially I ignored it, assumed that my imagination was overactive or that the air conditioning was on full blast.  As time went on, my right thigh felt as though I had left it in the refrigerator for thirty minutes and my toes recalled the sensation of driving a rusty Volkswagon Beetle in twenty below weather. 

Cold air was seeping into the cabin via the emergency exit door.  I borrowed my partner's winter coat and wound it tightly around my legs to keep warm.  Before long, condensation launched a steady stream of water from the window down to my shoes.  Not exactly what I would call a high-end experience.  What happened to the colour coordinated blankies and pillows?

Free service included tiny bags of either pretzels, peanuts, or chips along with water, a soft drink, or juice.  

Are you trying to stay hydrated?  Here!  Have salty food!
Do you want to keep your blood pressure down?  
Tough titty! 

Other beverages, meaning booze, had to be purchased. Part of the rug-type material edging the seat in front of me was torn and suspended directly in my line of vision.  The button to lower my companion's seat was nothing but a hollow orifice.  He could fit his finger inside quite nicely but it was useless for its intended purpose.

A nonstop creaking sound worthy of a Vincent Price  horror movie enriched the drone of the plane.  I would quickly return my car to the dealership if it had that kind of rattle.

These happenings brought to mind memories of the city bus rides I took to get home from high school. 

Drivers had a knack of pushing a little too hard on those brake pedals to simulate turbulence! The occurrence was especially challenging in situations where there was nowhere to sit.  I had to stand and white-knuckle grasp an overhead bar to avoid a solo flight towards the rear of the vehicle.  I landed on my face a few times.  It was not unlike returning from the airplane loo but not quite reaching one's seat during a one thousand foot drop 

The air inside buses was foul, especially in winter. I picked up many a cold virus over the years. Airplanes today also host a variety of interesting microbes from all over the globe that innervate our immune systems.  Supposedly cabin air is no longer filtered as efficiently as it was when smoking was permitted.  It might be a good idea to don a face mask before boarding.

Pretzels were never served on the bus.  If one wanted to eat, it was necessary and healthier to bring a snack, or better still, an entire meal from home.  Hint, hint!

"Air Whatever" takes us to exotic and not-so-exotic places fast and almost always, safely. That's a good thing.  Yet I dream of a day when airlines might once again make the flying experience comfortable and affordable.  Sometimes it's necessary to look back to innovate.

Monday, 16 March 2015


The Rocking Chair

Time capsules are often prepared with the intent of documenting cultural periods in history.  Objects and/or photographs are placed in sealed containers and opened a fixed number of years later. 

Those of us with a penchant for mild hoarding possess our own versions of time capsules.  I, for one, still have a folder containing a journal that I wrote in my grade nine english class, old high school report cards, anonymous letters from a teenage admirer, and diaries that I kept in early adulthood. Coming across personal mementoes invariably leads to a nostalgia riddled afternoon.

I also have boxes of objects that my children made, and anticipate that they may, in later years, enjoy exploring these little treasure troves of their past.  Then again, they might just chuck everything out in dark green garbage bags all the while exclaiming "why did mom keep all this stuff?"

Discovering artifacts, decoding languages, learning more about cultures that came before doesn't only excite archaeologists.  

I recently came across a historical find in the attic of old French and English newspapers dating from 1942-44.  They are seductively fragile, yellowed, in some cases darkened to near black. Each page must be turned with care as the paper will either immediately disintegrate or tear.  These gems were printed during World War II.  The news, for the most part, is horrendous, not unlike today's. Humanity never learns from its mistakes.

This unintentional time capsule is an artistic gift from the universe.  While the newspapers are probably too dry to work with, (I must admit I'm still at a point where I feel it would be sacrilegious to rip them up...that may change over time), I've been photographing parts to either work with collage or to create digital prints.  

The exploration begins (amidst all those other projects I have in my head!)

"The Rocking Chair" above was done on my iPad.  

Wednesday, 4 March 2015


The abode is still a shambles due to continuing home improvements. Dust lies everywhere and things are strewn about higgledy-piggledy.  I don't have access to my usual workspace so in the spirit of "gotta-work-no-matter-what", I set myself up at the kitchen table last night to create a small work.  

I wanted to prepare a piece for Monika Mori's Turquoise International Mail-Art-Project. I printed up an image the day before but wasn't entirely satisfied with the results. I was apprehensive about sending a printed postcard to Austria and instead decided to create a one-of-a-kind painted work. I didn't know whether my wonderfully decadent, thick, hot press paper would withstand an application of acrylics but it surprised me by accepting the water-based medium extremely well. The process was a great learning experience.  

I started out with this image on my monitor.... 

...but the initial printed version on matte paper was extremely washed out. It nevertheless unveiled unexpected shapes and lovely lilac stains.  

My studio has full spectrum lights but the kitchen is lit with incandescent bulbs.  I let a warm artificial beam affect my colour choices. 

I applied both heavy body and liquid acrylic paint to the image, in some areas thick and opaque and elsewhere, extremely diluted.  My new printer uses dyes rather than inks.  To my surprise, these didn't blend with the acrylic paint.  Dyes it seems, merge with the paper.

I ended up with this.

Both versions are interesting for different reasons. Colours are hot, intense and excite me more in the digital interpretation. The tiny painting reveals a softer side that emphasizes cooler blues in line with the theme "Turquoise".  I'm tempted to paint a larger version of this image on canvas but dust, clutter and the workman must disappear before I attempt anything on a grander scale.

Away she flies!  May the post office goddess protect this wee artwork as it crosses the big pond!

UPDATE:  The postcard arrived in Austria.  It got there way more quickly than any mail I have sent to the U.S. in the past.  Bizarre.  Here's what it looks like online.  

Wednesday, 25 February 2015


One of life's constants is change and I am presently going through a transition precipitated by me. I finally left my day job.

Subsistence income derived solely from sales of artwork is a rarity for many artists.  Most have other jobs. The up side is that beyond demonstrating extreme versatility, artists are constantly learning new skills and acquiring seemingly unrelated knowledge. Invariably cross-fertilization feeds perceptions and affects creative output. 

Like Hindu gods and goddesses with propagating arms multitasking on a spiritual plane, I have soaked up experiences that nourish Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi-like flow and personal growth.  Be that as it may, clots occasionally block the stream of creativity.

The Teacher

In the past, I sometimes felt frustrated, as though there were two of me, one side free, uninhibited (to a degree), and the other side stuck within the confines of business decorum, rules and regulations.   

Two of Me

The day job required attentiveness and active listening.  I couldn't let my mind wander.  Switching mindsets as I entered the studio became increasingly challenging. The artwork became smaller in scale and I was compelled to learn new tools that didn't require a change of clothes or set up time (digital apps and software).

I am now free to create at will but remain unsettled at some primordial level.  Adjusting will take time, it's only been three and a half weeks.  I spent the first one painting like a madwoman to meet the deadline for a recent show.  Creativity under pressure is a given once the invitations have been sent.

Weeks two and three and a half were spent adjusting to a series of home improvements involving loud noises, spreading sawdust, and shopping for upgrades. I also kept coming across other things to do (not art related) that involved sorting, organizing and cleaning.  

A couple of nights ago, I took the bull by the horns and played with a new mouth atomizer.  I ended up going to bed way too late because it was so much fun. I blew hard, sometimes nothing came out, at other times it the ink or paint flew everywhere.  Still have to get the hang of it but interesting things are beginning to happen as I combine mediums.  

I guess it's all about being patient as I realign the egg yolks!

Vaudreuil Yolkscape

Sunday, 15 February 2015


The choice of an inspirational object becomes the impulse for creating three works that reveal an artistic process.  My object is the fried egg.

The exhibition Through the Artist's Eye asks the following questions of participating artists:
  1. What do you see that others do not?
  2. How do you experience it?
  3. How does it manifest itself as you create your art?

I began a study of the fried egg last summer and decided to continue this exploration for the exhibition using principles of analogical play.   


Question 1 is particularly difficult to answer since I don't know what or how others see.  I use as many senses as possible when creating art. 

Before painting a fried egg, I must fry it.  For me seeing is in large part experiential, I paint from the inside out.


Frying an egg involves getting the temperature of the pan just right so both the white and yolk are cooked to perfection (no rubber egg will penetrate my parted lips). I hear a lovely crackling sound as it connects with the surface of the pan while a discernibly healthful aroma infuses the air.  Some might add salt and pepper to their eggs, not me!  I love mine fried "au naturel". A gem to behold, it's shiny, colourful, almost too beautiful to eat.


It's an egg...from a chicken.

I think about all the types of eggs that exist in the world including those that were once inside my own body. Associations abound but there is little time to wallow in fanciful thoughts.  I have to eat this sucker before it gets cold!  The yolk runs as I pierce it with my fork or perforate it with piece of warm toast. My mouth waters as it gently slips down my esophagus.  

What does it remind me of?  When two eggs are on a plate, the yolks look like eyes. They stare at me emptily.  Using my "eye pad", (sorry...bad pun), I place photos of my breakfast atop a picture of my face. The ensuing image in turn, becomes my 2015 Happy New Year's card. 

This playful thought process inspires my second painting.  I block out the eggs and sketch the face in caran d'ache. I discover that I really like painting fried eggs.  Those little specks of white are particularly delightful as they create the illusion of light reflection.  

I don't really want a toothy grin in this painting and paint juicy red lips.

I photograph my companion with a towel wrapped around his neck to analyze the folds. Elements start coming together. 

I add hair to the top of the head, develop the background and transform the towel into a blue garment. I add stripes to create texture.

I flesh out the lips.  

Shadows are adjusted and more pattern is added to the background.  Additional refinements are needed but I put the painting aside to begin the next work.

The idea of having egg on one's body carries through into the following piece. I plan on painting the iPad sketch of the Woman on a fried egg blanket.  I develop the face but decide to postpone this interpretation.

Instead I paint out the face and leave a multitude of fried eggs on the background.  I ask myself another question: "what if egg shapes were to cover the entire body, like a disease, perhaps "Egg Pox"?  I rummage through my model drawings and find a gesture pose that reflects my state of mind and I block it in on my egg filled canvas.

I add eggshells.

Egg shapes and multiple curves reproduce.  The figure is covered and surrounded with fried wonders of every size.  I consider turning the figure into a bird hybrid but after painting a couple of feathers, I axe the idea.

Refinements ensue, he now wears a black fedora and holds an oversized egg at his knees.

The work is riddled with incongruities but my brush is now possessed by the Demon of Inconsistencies.

My figure appears contemplative, guilty, tormented, his skin is transparent in parts and one can perceive a suggestion of bones.

Voilà!...the birth of a masked bandit obsessed with fried egg thievery (conceived of a runaway mind).

Final works!

The Facial

The Bandit

Monday, 2 February 2015


I'm in furious painting mode at present, finishing one more piece for the exhibition below (must have 3 works).  My choice of subject is the fried egg.  I've been asked why I didn't stick with the bird...well, the fried egg excites me way more. 

What follows is info about the show.  I look forward to chatting with you on the 15th!

Media Release  January 27, 2015  

galerie de la ville 
centre des arts de dollard centre for the arts 
12001 boul. de Salaberry , DDO, que, H9B 2A7 
514-684-1012 ext. 298, 

Galerie de la Ville presents in February/March an exhibition of works in various media entitled Through the Artist’s Eye. 

Artists endeavor to interpret their physical or emotional experiences visually.  The way each artist sees and interprets their subject matter makes their work personal, unique, and often mysterious. Intrigue, mystery, emotion — the intangibles are often what connects or perplexes the engaged viewer.  Often the process the artist engages in to create a work from its concept to final work is shrouded in an air of assumed secrecy to the viewer. 

The exhibition Through the Artist’s Eye invites the viewer to connect and to see the "how and why" in the artist’s personal image making process. Each artist, chosen to demonstrate their personal process from the beginning to the end result, responded starting with their choice of subject; interpreting how they best want the image to be represented on its support, and their ultimate response in the form of a finished image. The artist’s finished work or works are exhibited alongside their subject, and their process is evident.

Branka Marinkovic, Diane Collet, Georgia Priniotakis, Joseph Dunlap, Nada Kyriakos, Janice Poltrick Donato, Jacinta Ionno and Roxanne Dyer each work in a different medium with personal and individual brushstrokes, emotional involvement and appreciation of their subject matter. Their individual eclectic response reveals a cross section of the professional painting community. 

The opening reception for this exhibition will be held on Sunday, February 15, 2015 from 1 to 3 pm. The artists will be present. A free, bilingual guided tour on Sunday March 1 will begin at 2 pm

The exhibition will run from Saturday, February 14 to Sunday March 15, 2015, at Galerie de la Ville, located in the lower level of the Dollard Cultural Centre, at 12001 de Salaberry Boulevard, in Dollard-des-Ormeaux. 

Opening hours are Tuesdays and Wednesdays from 12 to 4 pm.; Thursdays and Fridays from 2 to 5 pm., and Saturdays and Sundays (except opening Sundays) from 1 to 4 pm. 

For further information, or to arrange free guided tours of this exhibition for your group please call 514-684-1012, extension 298. Please also consult our web site:

Source: Bev Wight, Guest Curator 

Communiqué de presse Le 27 janvier 2015 

galerie de la ville 
centre des arts de dollard centre for the arts 
12001 boul. de Salaberry , DDO, que, H9B 2A7 
514-684-1012 ext. 298, 

La Galerie de la Ville présente en février et en mars une exposition d’oeuvres en techniques variées intitulée “À travers l’oeil de l’artiste”. 

Les artistes tentent d’interpréter visuellement leurs expériences physiques et émotionnelles. La manière avec laquelle chaque artiste voit et représente son sujet rend son oeuvre personnelle, exclusive et souvent mystérieuse. Intrigue, mystère, émotion - le caractère intangible est souvent ce qui engage ou crée de l’incertitude chez le spectateur attentif. Fréquemment, le processus dans lequel s’investit l’artiste pour créer une oeuvre, de son concept au produit final, semble enveloppé d’une ambiance secrète aux yeux du public. 

L’exposition À travers l’oeil de l’artiste invite le spectateur à s’intéresser et à voir "le comment et le pourquoi" dans le processus personnel de création d’image de l’artiste. Du commencement jusqu’à l’aboutissement de leur processus personnel, les artistes sélectionnés ont répondu à leur thème en commençant par le choix du sujet; interprétant comment ils veulent représenter de leur mieux l’image sur leur support et leur réponse ultime sous la forme d’une image finale. L’oeuvre ou les oeuvres achevée(s) de l’artiste est (sont) présentée(s) en exposition aux côtés de leur sujet, et leur processus est flagrant. 

Branka Marinkovic, Diane Collet, Georgia Priniotakis, Joseph Dunlap, Nada Kyriakos, Janice Poltrick Donato, Jacinta Ionno et Roxanne Dyer travaillent chacun/e avec un médium différent et des traits de pinceau qui leur sont propres et personnelles, faisant preuve d’une implication affective et d’une appréciation de leur sujet. Leur réponse éclectique individuelle révèle un échantillon de la communauté d’artistes professionnels. 

Le vernissage de cette exposition aura lieu le dimanche 15 février 2015 de 13 h à 15 h. Les artistes seront présents. Une visite guidée bilingue gratuite sera offerte le dimanche 1 mars débutant à 14h

L’exposition se déroulera du samedi 14 février au dimanche 15 mars 2015, à la Galerie de la Ville, située au niveau inférieur du Centre culturel de Dollard, au 12001 boulevard De Salaberry, à Dollard-des-Ormeaux. 

Les heures d’ouverture sont les mardis et mercredis de 12h à 16h, les jeudis et vendredis de 14 h à 17 h, et les samedis et dimanches (sauf celui du vernissage) de 13 h à 16 h. 

Pour d’autres renseignements, ou pour organiser une visite guidée gratuite de cette exposition pour votre groupe, veuillez téléphoner au 514-684-1012, poste 298, ou visiter notre site : et cliquer sur l’onglet Galerie. 

Source : Bev Wight – Commissaire Invitée 

Saturday, 24 January 2015


Here is an interesting article in the online journal Bmoreart about how to define the different stages of an artist's career.  Three labels pop up time and again: emerging, mid-career and established.  According to this article, I have probably been emerging for over 35 years.  

I'm like a worm stuck in clay.  The stuff is packed down so damn hard that it's difficult to squeeze through, no matter how wet and saturated it is.

I'm leaving my day job in a few days.  It's a time of great, exciting turmoil, a passage riddled with calculated risks.  My business side is transforming.  As an artist who can now produce art "whole hog", I am possibly fated to a life of crass, shameless self-promotion.  Interestingly, I've been coaching others on how to do this for almost ten years, helping professionals who have lost their jobs market themselves to find hidden opportunities.

Ah how easy it is to preach!  Now I have to put my money where my mouth is.  Yikes!

The art market landscape is changing, appears to be more democratic. People are actively peddling their wares on the web to make a living, often disregarding galleries or the grant systems in place.  According to an excellent article in The Atlantic, artists are becoming far more entrepreneurial, although in so doing, inadvertently changing the definition of what an artist is.

I have a lot of thinking to do.  Forgive me while I submerge for a while.

Saturday, 17 January 2015


I don't have any pets.  

The only ones allowed to share my life as a child were cats.  My mother didn't like dogs. 

I dressed my pretend babies in doll's clothes, placed them in a miniature carriage, and wrapped them snugly under warm blankets. They objected to my intense mothering and leapt wildly out of the carriage in no time flat, claws blazing, after which an an energetic pursuit by me ensued. In retrospect, it offered a novel way to get aerobic exercise.

After years of exposure to felines, I decided when I became a mother, to let my kids care for (ha!) a variety of pets; cats naturally, dogs, horses, rabbits, turtles, guinea pigs, and hamsters. 

Then about ten years ago, I had an "aha!" moment! 


  • picking up pee and poo, 
  • vacuuming hair balls, 
  • purchasing rolls of tape to lift unwanted fur off my black dress pants, 
  • expensive designer food,
  • vet bills and kennel fees, 
  • aromatic smells of ammonia and crunchy bits of litter on the bathroom floor that stuck to my bare feet in the middle of the night after a visit to the loo.

I often muse that if aliens from outer space were to observe our relationships with pets, they just might wonder who runs the show around here. Dogs in particular wear stylish outfits. People walk them, make certain they evacuate, bend over, pick up and put the precious doo-doo in little bags.  Yup, we love to serve!

My needs for animal companionship are met in other ways. Mammals and amphibians continuously pop into my life regardless of my pet-less desideratum and require little or no commitment on my part.  I have had many encounters with various species over the years but last weekend's was particularly memorable. 

My partner and I were invited to a rather eventful brunch. 

As we crossed the threshold, the first thing we heard from our host (let's call him Robert) and hostess (let's call her Claire) was that a mouse had just been seen scurrying about the kitchen. Wow, I thought!  Imagine that!  A mouse brave enough to venture out during the day!  (At our house, we have had multiple penetrations by field mice, the cute ones with large pink ears, but they normally sneak into the kitchen at night when it's dark and quiet).

I thought for sure that the said mouse would not be seen again given our vibrant conversation.  But lo and behold, the beastie suddenly appeared, a peculiar little thing, torpedo-like, almost black, with a rather stunted tail.  A loud female shriek bounced off the walls (not mine) and the mouse made its way across the living room floor to hide under a toasty radiator.  

Our host wanted to find the invader and prepared his gear for battle. Particularly well-equipped, he donned gardening kneepads, thick black suede gloves, and what looked like a miner's light atop his head.  I secretly thought that perhaps he was a tad overprotected but the old adage "better safe than sorry" probably served him well in this case.

Robert crawled about on all fours and hunted for the mouse.  No luck so we continued feasting on croissants, crusty bread, various cheeses, and cold cuts.  We figured our dark visitor had probably disappeared for the day but I still glanced at the radiator every so often.   

I suddenly noticed a dark, gray sausage shape behind Claire's chair and nonchalantly mentioned its location to everyone.  Carried away with the wind of an EEEK worthy of any horror movie scream, Claire found herself on the other side of the wall while "Tiny" turned around in circles before disappearing for a second time under the radiator. 

Another search was foiled once again.  We tried to keep eating but by now my head kept flipping back non-stop to see if the mouse would grace our presence once again.  We stood up and I went to examine Robert's rodent hunting gear.  

Suddenly we saw the mouse slip under a nearby cupboard door and Robert finally managed to catch it in a clear plastic container.  We soon discovered that it wasn't a mouse, but rather Northern short-tailed shrew

have heard of women being called shrews but were you to ask me what a real shrew looked like or why it was bad to be a shrew, I would have been at a loss to tell you.  I have now learned that shrews have elongated pink noses, stunted tails, and rather nasty characters.

Why are women called shrews?  Beats me!  Initially, the term applied to both genders but eventually we got stuck with it.  Seems these varmints are really aggressive AND their teeth are venomous.  YES IT'S A VENOMOUS MAMMAL!  Whoa!  

National Geographic has a fascinating video of fighting shrews.  

I think the term is not a particularly nice designation for anyone.  

Thank goodness Robert wore those gloves.  He tried not to hurt him (her?) but unfortunately the shrew either suffered from shock or got accidentally whacked by the container.  

Now I ask you, who needs pets when life hands you a venomous shrew?

Thursday, 1 January 2015


Excitement!  Joy!  

Discovering and learning often bewildering yet spine-tingling digital tools in 2014 opened up the possibility of keeping up with my racing mind (almost) and stimulating or documenting (sort of) a deluge of wild ideas. It all bodes well for the upcoming year although it would be the height of absurdity and incredibly naive to make plans or predictions.  

Ergo, I have no clear resolutions for 2015; I revolve in the spirit of "NOW", zigzag like sperm with crappy motility; climb mountains of texture with cameras and emboss tools; clone like a frenzied scientist enamoured with sheep; split wrinkles and patterns into harem veils; collage, smudge, add splatters of colour and blow gusts of wind! 

I write in the present, wallow in a potent bubble bath of peace, sing with wailing cats in heat.  I'm in Québec...can you hear cold wintry gusts penetrate the silence of this early New Year's day?  Feel my icebox feet as I type these words?  It's positively hypnotic. No egg-spectations!  Have a wonderful year and thanks for reading my blog.  I"m off for a hot cup of lemon tea.