My heartbreaks, my regrets, my joy.

A day of plot twists, it was. First was the pie, the birthday pie I was asked to make for Stephen's mom's birthday. I had made the pastry on Saturday in my mom's kitchen, under the supervision of my baking mentor, mama. I've made pastry maybe a few times in my life. I've made maybe four pies on my own. Cake I can do in my sleep. Pies are still a new challenge, and boy did this one set out to test my mettle.

I am constructing the pie in Stephen's kitchen and hadn't packed flour in my toolbox for rolling out the pastry so it sticks to everything, the rolling pin, the mat, me...etc. I have corn starch with me so I cross my fingers and make it a substitute for the flour. Unfortunately I have to roll it out twice, once for the failed attempt where the pastry refused to let go of the mat and then a second and final time. You need to be careful when working with pastry that you don't overwork it or it will end up tough and may shrink when baked. Sure enough, it shrinks in the pie tin. Plot twist number one.

I then set to make the lemon curd filling. This requires five egg yolks; the whites would be saved for the meringue topping. It is very important that no yolk gets into the whites or the meringue won't work. I bust a yolk on egg number 4. Despite our best tries, neither Stephen nor I can collect all the yolk out of the whites. They would make a lovely omelet, but are useless for meringue. Plot twist, plot twist.

Finished with the curd on the stove, I pour it into the crust and then we leave for my house. We had our first real dumping of snow the night before so I needed to get home to do some shoveling. I had also forgotten to pack my hair dryer and needed it to make something out of my goldie locks.

While Stephen starts on my driveway I retrieve the carton of egg whites from my fridge, my hair dryer and my snow brush for my truck. I go to find mitts so I can join Mr. Plow outside. I keep my winter things in a bag in my closet and this is my first time accessing it since March. I pull everything out but only manage to find three different mitts, no matches. I consider wearing a mismatched pair, thinking at the very least it would make Stephen laugh, but I can't even do that since I'd only found left hands.

Stephen had found my scoop shovel for pushing the snow off the driveway.

"That thing hurts my knee," I say.

"It works great, you just need to learn how to use it properly." Stephen proceeds to demonstrate pushing the scoop across the snow and then dumping it with a slight tipping action after pushing it up the newly established bank. He then offers the scoop to me.

"You learn by doing," he says. Right. I'm dating a teacher. The thing is, my dad had given me the exact same speech and demonstration numerous times. It's eerie, really, to hear the same words coming out of Stephen's mouth. He is a movember-stashed, splash pants and blue toqued version of my father. He's also recently taken to affectionately calling me JB, which previously only my dad had ever addressed me with. This starts feeling weird.

Back in the boy's kitchen, I get to work on the meringue. It turns out lovely. It's my new favourite part of lemon pie now. I spoon it onto the filling and put it in the oven to toast. It gets a bit over-toasted but otherwise is good. When we eat the pie, I am happy with the meringue, mostly pleased with the lemon curd, but know the crust would not pass the Barrott standard of excellence. I still have practicing to do.

At the end of the night I gather my weekend luggage in the kitchen and get ready to leave for home. I'd brought so much stuff this time I feel like I'd traveled hours from home. I loathe this part of Sunday nights. They feel sad, heavy and arduous on my arms and my heart.

I don't get very far down the back lane before I realize I'd forgotten my cell phone and iPod. I pull up to the front of Stephen's house where he is shoveling his steps and sidewalk.

"Cell phone and iPod," I say. He is not fazed by these Alzheimer's moments of mine. I still beat myself up about them but am consciously trying to be more accepting and forgiving of it all. I just don't want to come to terms with the fact that I forget and lose things because I think that it means my brain is smaller than everyone else's. I shake my head at the terrible insults I hurl at myself when I make a mistake, but when someone I love err's, I know I am good at smiling and forgiving. Why can' I lend myself the same level of compassion?

I go around to the back of the house and into the kitchen to retrieve my electronic devices. When I come back outside, Stephen is there to meet me. I am set to hurry back to my truck, but he stops me, smiling.

"Hey, where's my bonus kiss?"

And right then and there in minus seven degrees I start to melt. He kisses me once, then again, and then again. The weekend that had zipped by is suddenly on pause as he and I become the couple of the moment to share a tender kiss with the snow softly falling around us. I think about that moment the whole drive home. I think about it so much that I miss my turn off and have to drive an extra six kilometres. Never mind twist, this is a plot detour.

If I hadn't forgotten my phone and iPod tonight, I wouldn't have had that sweet moment that I will replay in my head when I need a warm thought. I forgave myself tonight for my brain of fluff.