Flowers / Flours

Sometimes I wonder.  I wonder about just how well we know each other, how deep our relationships truly are.  I suppose we all have varying levels of relationships:  the once-in-a-lifetime encounters, the acquaintances, the general circle of friends, the confidants, and the family, spouse, love, and soulmate.  I often wonder why it is that certain people are a part of our lives.  Why do we know and relate to some people for a lifetime and others for a mere moment?  When I have traveled or lived somewhere else for a while, I often think about the people I have met and befriended during that period.  And why? Why do you think our spheres of life overlapped for a time?  Certain people I say goodbye to and I know that I will never see them again.  Others, I can feel in my spirit that our lives will always converge.  Like a soulmatch.  

Someone who knows you up and down.  Someone to shoot the breeze with (I love that phrase).  Someone who doesn't mind when you need a minute and will sit with you in silence.  Someone who knows you adore Pride and Prejudice.  Someone who knows you prefer white over red and tea over coffee.  Someone who laughs at your worst jokes and at times, loves you despite yourself.  Someone who shares the last slice of cake.  Someone who knows just what kind of flowers you like best.

For the past week I've been temporarily working as a floral designer for a local florist during the Valentine's rush.  I had no idea just what I was getting myself into.  It has been a joy to realize my creativity in a completely new media.  But let me just say, roses are so overrated.  I'm quite over a dozen reds.  Maybe a bouquet of daisies?  They're much friendlier.  Or a spray of stargazer lilies perhaps?  They just holler of spring.  I just love a crisp bunch of tulips.  I can hear them cheering each other on.  

But as much as I love a vase of fresh flowers, in all truth, my choice of "flowers" are more akin to the ones Harold Crick brings to Ana Pascal (Stranger than Fiction, a delight and two hours of film you won't regret).  She a baker.  He an IRS auditor.  An unlikely pair to be sure.  He barely knows her, only as her OCD auditor, whose life is suddenly narrated by writer Kay Eiffel (that's Emma Thompson, because who else could so beautifully narrate the brushing of one's teeth and the ocean-like sound of filing folders?).  Though they are off to a rocky start, Harold Crick already knows Ana Pascal is the kind of girl to share the last slice of cake.  He knows she dropped out of Harvard Law to change the world with cupcakes and cookies.  And he loves her despite her tax flaws.  In my favourite scene, Mr.Crick tracks down Miss Pascal with a flat of small brown sacks...

Buckwheat, bread, whole-wheat, rye, semolina, rice, corn, spelt.

He brought her flours.  I love that.

He knew just what kind of flours she liked best.  Brown sacks of flour may not speak of spring like a bouquet of fresh flowers.  But it's not about that.  It's about knowing.  And I know just what I'd do with those flours:

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