Sometimes, I want to talk to my dad. The desire may be prompted by what is happening with the Oilers — once our go-to for conversation at Sunday dinner. Or I rub up against a memory only we would share; I want to place the needle at the scratchy beginning of the record and play it over again, together.

The desire to engage with my dad happened again recently when my husband and I were on a holiday in New York City, enjoying a few days of shows and museums. The Canadian dollar, as ever, was struggling, and so we vowed to buy nothing but essentials (cocktails mostly). But then, we were in Amy’s Bread in Hell’s Kitchen — with its pressed tin ceiling and legendary sticky buns — and they had tea towels for sale. They were bright yellow and turquoise with a cheery graphic of the bakery. Stupid expensive, but adorable.