I was very happy sitting alone at a dining room table, writing a script.
While I've won five Junos, I've donated four of them to the National Archives in Ottawa. Which left my fifth Juno sitting, seemingly abandoned by its four family members, on my bookcase in my dining room.
My aunt got me interested in journalism - she found an old typewriter, had it worked over, put it on the dining room table, gave me a stack of paper and said, 'Play like you're a writer.'
We have cultural expectations that everyone needs a dining room, yet they're only used three times a year. But if I put a bone handle on the door of an upper-end brick home, I'm making an outlandish statement.
History has long had a wall up between the kitchen and the dining room. Front of house, back of house - one group always wielded more power and influence.
I'm a secret interior decorator. There's a mural on my dining room wall of the railroad tracks at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. I love having my hometown with me out here in California.
I wanna buy vinyl and I want to listen to records on it. I want to put on 'Dark Side of the Moon' in the dining room while I'm eating pasta or whatever. You know what I mean.
Every time I open a new restaurant, I wake up in the middle of the night moaning about bread and water. I dream I am in the middle of the dining room, and I am panicked.
But there's always a Mass. It's not a formal Mass at all. We're sitting around her dining room table with wine and Eucharist and holding hands. It's very informal and small, but to me that's a wonderful way to have Mass.
At consignment shops, I can collect things reasonably, and it's joyful. My dining room table was $75, and I'm so proud. It's beautiful.
