When I lived in Savannah, Georgia with my brother one summer, I wrestled with the frustratingly slow pace of life, of traffic, of humid and lifeless Sunday afternoons. My brother and his two roommates lived on Budweisers, frozen hotdogs and tobacco, so there wasn’t much cooking happening. No one had any interest in leaving the city. Life was fast enough for them, but for me, it felt like a trap.

Soon enough, I, too, was “Ma’am-ing” and “Sir-ing” people, sitting in friends’ garages clinking beer bottles on Sunday evenings, telling crass stories, dipping and chain smoking unfiltered Camels. That’s a lie. I mean, I don’t smoke, but if I did I’d roll my own.

In any case, those Lazy Sundays were the only habit that followed me right back to Toronto, Montreal and back again. They took a shape of their own; given the weather in la Belle Province didn’t lend itself to outdoor gatherings. I shaped them accordingly, made them Lazy Sundays for Catherine, swapping Buds for lattes and garages for coffee shops.

In less than a month, I will be spending a year’s worth of Sundays (and all other days) in the small town of Colorno, 15 km outside of Parma. There, twenty-seven students and I will begin the Master of Food Culture: Communicating Quality Products at the University of Gastronomic Sciences. I will, no doubt, have my share of gastronomic epiphanies, and while I don’t do homesickness, I need to recognize a few things in an effort not to miss what has fueled my last year of living well in Toronto:

• Weekend afternoon pints of Leffe Blonde at the Bedford Academy on Prince Arthur

• Catching Ruth of Monforte Dairy during a break from the rush of customers to talk cheese

• Playing hooky on Tuesdays to go to Riverdale market

• David letting me pick through the slightly bruised Cookstown tomatoes and keep what I could carry away from Brickworks Market

• Food talks with Michelle at the Victory Café

The last Sunday I spent in Savannah, my brother tried to convince me to get behind the wheel of his 1970-something blue Camaro Z28. He had just removed the back seat and the AC unit to make room for a better engine and bigger speakers.

Sailing down Abercorn Street in the heavy August heat, the roar of 370 horsepower rattled my insides. I couldn’t hear my thoughts, didn’t feel the push as the speedometer inched its way towards 80mph.

“Seriously, Cath, you’ll never know if you don’t try it. Just put your foot on the pedal and go”.

We were flying, my brother and I, in a flurry of burning fuel and chipped blue paint; isn’t it funny how going so fast can sometimes seem so slow?