So that's the routine -- familiar from last year when an old filling had fallen out just as one did on Sunday -- and it's still in place. We arrive at the dentist's office, park, and call in to let them know we're arrived. But this time there was no need for the call, soon as we parked in back of the building the attendant was there, ready to usher me in to the building and begin the rest of the pandemic protocol. Irving decided he'd wait, not drive back home, since the last time this happened I was only about twenty minutes before reappearing.

Jackie and Jillie were with us. They prefer that immeasurably to waiting at home, which is to say being deserted and left to fend off the evils that prowl about to haunt them while they're on their own. When I opened the car door to exit, trying to pull on my mask, they scrabbled at me, frantic not to be left behind. The attendant wanted to pet them, they wanted to stop me from leaving.

But finally, leave I did. And just as on the previous occasion I was ushered into the building with its labyrinthine series of hived-off treatment rooms, the complex's original neat design lines transformed into what resembles a construction site with heavy, semi-opaque 'curtains' enclosing all of the pods, each one holding a dental chair, computer, desk, wall cupboards and the usual dental equipment. The dentist familiar to me as a recently-certified graduate; brimming with youth, personable, with wide genuine smile, long black hair held back in a ponytail. She is still lithe and smiling but now with silver-grey threads creeping into that black hair.

What felt to my exploring tongue like an immense chasm, she tackled gently with exquisite skill. One can attribute to dentistry the production of hidden jewels, the product of skilfull artistic sculpture-in-miniature.

A few days back, an election canvasser had dropped by the house on behalf of the Conservative candidate in our riding. He happened to mention that he'd voted early, at a local Elections Canada site that happened to be located on the second floor of the Place d'Orleans shopping centre. I detest malls, particularly these huge colourful, bright mausoleums, even walking in an indoor mall feels alien to my feet, so long accustomed to walking on natural surfaces. We haven't been in an indoor mall for years.

But Irving ascertained its exact location in the mall, on the second floor, and we drove directly there from my appointment. He went in first to vote and I sat in the car with Jackie and Jillie. When he returned I took my turn and entered the mall for the same purpose. When I arrived at the place I was informed by a receptionist that there would be a 15-minute interlude while the poll attendants were taking a break for some reason. There was no one else waiting to vote at that juncture. I waited awhile, then went down and outside to inform Irving why I was tardy in returning.

Back up I went again and the same receptionist, smiling apologetically, informed me that the wait had been extended -- to another fifteen minutes. I smiled and asked to speak to the supervisor of the office. Along came a very polite man, a tall Francophone who listened to me patiently, apologized, asked me to follow him, and went to one desk after another to ask each person manning it if he was 'prepared' to guide me through the process, and each time the answer was no.

So the supervisor took possession of an empty desk and went through the verification process with me, guided me to a voting desk, handed me an envelope and ballot, and asked me to return to him when I had written down the name of the candidate I voted for.  Done, done and done. He asked politely if I would like to complete a complaint form, and I laughed, congratulated him on putting out another fire, thanked him for his solicitude and assistance, said likewise to the receptionist and returned to my waiting husband.

Soon as we got home, on went the puppies' harnesses, and off we went for our regular afternoon ravine hike. An exceedingly pleasant weather day, after yet another overnight rain. The sky alternately semi-clear in a wash of baby-blue, with streaky grey clouds appearing at times in sufficient numbers to block out the sun, but temporarily. The weather forecast for chance of afternoon thunderstorms failed to materialize, and as usual we enjoyed a lovely late summer day meandering through the forest trails.

Last night's savoury tart was really quite excellent. The ingredients geared to success, with half whole-wheat flour in the pastry crust, the addition of fennel seeds for fragrance when stir-frying the chopped garlic and onion in olive oil, the layering of sliced tomatoes with sweet basil and oregano, Mozzarella and Parmesan and anchovies adding further flavour, texture and aroma.

For today, a fish chowder served along with a freshly baked flatbread redolently topped with rosemary and olive oil and a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese. A salad will preface that, and freshly sliced Ontario-grown nectarines will conclude dinner. The best thing about late summer may well be its coinciding with fall harvest...