Today I am making Sunday dinner for me and the relatives, who are as eager for my company as I am for theirs. Not that any of us is of significant entertainment value to the others, but anything for a (legal) change. Ontario is still buttoned up tight.

I have come to realize that I am not often particularly motivated to cook for myself alone; my interest kicks in when I have someone else — anyone else, to be honest — to feed. (I would probably grill a steak for the plumber if he came at supper time.) So the rellies can look forward to many invitations to get their knees under my table.

And now I know why my grandmother always summoned us (parents, brothers and me) to Sunday dinner. “No thank you” was not an option.

Dinner will be chicken with brown rice pilaf (baked in the Römertopf) and roasted sprouts, followed by crème brûlée. (I haven’t made crème brûlée since the 80s; can’t think why not.) I even hit the LCBO for a new bottle of Grand Marnier because the rellies like it. Of course, I like it too, but I notice that I have no taste for the stuff when it’s just me and the cats at table.