My friend Ann hit the big time, with a mention of her cabbage cookbook in The New York Times.

Proceeds from the book fund the Little Free Pantry Blooming House; I’m hopeful that the influx of purchases prompted by the Times mention gives that project on a substantial boost.

In today’s edition of The Quack, Dave writes about public transit on PEI:

My teens love the bus now. All of them. And mostly because it’s free for them.

We are so lucky in Charlottetown to have this free bus for riders 18 and under. It means the entire city is open to them. Alice wants to take the bus everywhere. When you’re 13 and you can go anywhere in the city you like? That’s a pretty nice feeling.

Even better, the bus network on PEI can now take you around the Island. Want to go to Souris? 2 bucks. Want to go to Tignish? 2 bucks.

One of Jane’s buds is staying with us this summer. Anthony has a job at farm up in Millvale. He takes the bus to Hunter River, and his boss picks him up. Easy peasy. We couldn’t have driven him this summer, but the bus made this job possible.

On Anthony’s day off, I told him about a used book store in Summerside. He didn’t think twice. He jumped on the bus to Summerside to check it out. Because he can.

Anyway. The bus. I love it.

This is exactly the way transit needs to be viewed—as the default way we get around. It’s heartening to learn that at least a slice of the next generation is already there.

I generally prefer blog over newsletter, but Dave’s Sunday morning ruminations on pigeons, cats, and midtown life are a welcome exception. Subscribe.

Thelma’s ode to eelgrass is a delight.

We all have all sorts of business ideas, never executed, buzzing around in our heads. “Turo, but for dogs,” and the like.

One of mine, long-standing, has been a bookstore that only sells 10 books. I figured that, in this age of infinite choice, curated limitation is attractive.

Overwhelmed by the billion books on Amazon.com? Come to Pete’s Bookateria, and free yourself from choice!

But this morning I read Lewis Buzbee, in The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop:

One thing is certain in the aesthetics of bookstore design: if there’s too much space, there’s not enough books, and pretty soon, customers will stop coming, and so the decline begins. Customers are seduced into a bookstore because it seems to thrive; we want to see lots of books. We are much more likely to be drawn to a messy bookstore than a neat one because the mess signifies vitality. We are not drawn to a bookstore because of tasteful, Finnish shelves in gunmetal gray mesh, each one displaying three carefully chosen, color-coordinated covers. Clutter—orderly clutter, if possible—is what we expect. Like a city. It’s not quite a city unless there’s more than enough.

So, right: an integral aspect of bookstores is all the books we don’t want to buy.

Part of the joy of browsing a good bookstore is the knowledge that, in the sea of books that hold no interest, are the two or three books that do—my books, the ones the bookseller secured with me in mind, uniquely.

My idea—let’s relieve the pressure of choice—removes that delight.

So I’m moving it to the rejected-business-idea pile.

But if you’re interested in fractional dog ownership, let’s talk.

In other news from The Shed, their canned coffee, Kool Brew, is now available. It’s potent stuff: enough to share over an afternoon with someone you love.

Best wishes to my friend Hai as she opens the second location for The Shed, on Queen Street. As a special bonus, there’s a brand new public library opening around her at the same time.

I took a week off.

Everything.

Work, parenting, household management, blogging.

Lisa and I spent five nights on the shore. Doing, mostly, nothing at all. It was sublime.

My first time strawberry picking on Prince Edward Island.

Longtime reader of, and contributor to, this blog, Andrew Chisholm, has launched Island Edition:

Learn everything you need to know to stay current with what’s happening on PEI. Island Edition will be in your inbox every Wednesday and Friday morning. For free.

Recommended.