Thank You Jamie Oliver

From mid-May until the start of school we can usually count on having a yard full of kids pretty much every day of the week. Our front lawn is commonly strewn with bicycles, scooters, skipping ropes and flip flops. Could be that we're the house on the corner, which makes ours a natural gathering spot. Could be the freezer full of popsicles (and the suspicion that we've earned a reputation as easy marks). But really I don't think we'd have it any other way. I like getting to know our kids' friends as much as I enjoy watching my own at play. But I also think, frankly, that having people over makes a better cook. It's a modest dinner for sure, but I was quite proud of how these pizzas made on the BBQ turned out. I've never had much success with homemade pizzas; they are one of those frustratingly simple things that never works for me, like pie crust. My pizzas are usually burned and yet doughy. The toppings too crisp, the crust unsatisfactory. But I will heartily thank Jamie Oliver for last night's feast. The secret, I believe, is preheating the pizza stone so that when you slap on the dough there is a fantastic sizzling and searing. The other tip is to roll out the dough a good 30 minutes before you add the toppings. I don't know why that should make a difference, but I swear it did.

The dough is supermarket, but the basil and cherry tomatoes (which are so good they'd bring a tear to your eye) are from my garden. Yummy!

...on second thought

...maybe I'm not done. I miss my blog. I miss keeping track. I've become used to chronicling life through this blog that I feel in a strange sort of way that in not having a place to keep track of things I am somehow missing them. There is a big old banker's box somewhere in the basement filled with diaries and journals I've kept since grade 8. I guess I've always had a need to write things down. I also miss being part of a community of bloggers. I've connected with many interesting and dear and smart and funny people thanks to this blog, and I miss the conversation. Thank you Neta for your encouraging words this morning - your enthusiasm for this old blog was just what I needed.

It's nice to be back!

Signing Off

Well hello. I could explain away my frequent blogging breaks by saying it's been a full couple of days, but every day, every week is full, as I'm sure it is for most of you. In truth I think I'm ready to take a permanent blogging break. It's been 300+ posts over the last couple of years and, yes, I'm running out of steam but also recently I've become mindful of my children's privacy. They're getting older and it's one thing blogging in anonymity but with an open-to-the-public shop I find myself feeling increasingly bashful.

It's time to sign-off. Returning might be in the cards one day. We'll see. Thank you for visiting, for your comments and for hanging around. Happy Mother's Day.

Be well,

Nicole

*I'll be over at my shop blog for now, posting on crafts, events, and new stuff.

sprung

It's here.

After that weird summer weather the other week beat a hasty retreat and forced me, grudgingly, to wear a winter jacket and socks again it was a treat to have a seasonally normal day. Blue skies. Warm sun. Cool enough to warrant a windbreaker. Warm enough to remove it after an hour spent tussling with crab grass and dandelions. As much as I've made my peace with winter, who doesn't welcome spring with open arms and windows? Stella and her gang found this nest on the lawn this morning; some poor bird's home blew out of the tree in all that wind the other day. We put it back as best we could. Thankfully we didn't find any eggs. I hope that means the nest's inhabitants have moved on to bigger, sturdier digs.

But it's not all bracing alpine breezes and rosy-cheeked kids over here, I'm afraid. There is a mystery smell - a bad smell - in the house. We've been sniffing like bloodhounds all weekend; walking around the kitchen with flared nostrils and furrowed brows. It's a recurring phenomenon, and one that is almost always related to the diaper bag, a dank wash cloth at the bottom of the hamper or a Tupperware container of grapes left to ferment in the hall closet. This time I am sure the smell is coming from the kitchen sink. So far I've poured boiling water, the juice of three lemons, an entire box of baking soda and, when white vinegar could not be found, half a bottle of apple cider vinegar (not recommended). Yet the fishy smell lingers. I haven't used cleaning products stronger than Murphy's Oil Soap and Method for ages, but sometimes I suspect they're not quite up to the task. I found myself loitering in the cleanser aisle today, visiting my old friends Vim, Ajax and Pine Sol. Sure, I saw the skull and crossbones but I read the labels anyway, hoping it wasn't that bad. In the end I couldn't do it. I think it's because we drink tap water and it's unfathomable to me that toxic cleaners flushed and rinsed down the drain don't somehow make it back into my water glass. I googled "stinky sink" and came across many suggestions of bleach, even a bi-monthly dose of Drain-O, good heavens, but nothing I could use or hadn't already tried. I sure hope the good weather/open windows weather continues.

a place for everything

Despite my well-documented issues with clutter, I am magnetically attracted to the promise of organization. I crave a simpler life. One filled with less stuff. And yet, paradoxically, I am able to discard very little. So it all gets shelved or binned or, more likely, piled and stacked to be dealt with at a later date. Or until someone stages an intervention (please!). I'd been meaning to make myself a lunch tote, and had every intention of making a lunch tote, but wound up making a wall pocket organizer last night. Another place to stash things. Exciting.

The white backing is an old Ikea curtain panel and the yellow dahlia fabric, a thrifted sheet. All in, I'd say just shy of three hours total project time. If I could cut a straight length of fabric the first time, that would save a good 30 minutes. The pattern is based on one from Celine Dupuy's book, but I made mine shorter, narrower and I stuck three tabs on top instead of the grommets that were called for.

spring becomes me

An entire day spent outside. I wouldn't call it gardening exactly, but there was some raking and sweeping and the happy discovery of things in bloom. There was the repair of a decrepit clothesline (followed by t-shirts and pyjamas flapping in the breeze.) Bikes were dusted off, lawn furniture hosed down. There was a barbeque. Ice-cream. And all is right with the world.

if you loved me you'd go to tim hortons

It is essential to start the day off on the right foot. And for me that means two things: a shower and a cup of coffee so hot it would cauterize the taste buds of most. Allow me those two things and I can deal with anything else three disorganized people throw my way, which includes but is not limited to: a perpetually misplaced parking pass, socks with "bumps," an empty milk jug (after the cereal is already in the bowl), shirts with "bumps," and a sudden, urgent need to colour. I need a shower and then I need my coffee. It's elemental.

I turn 40 next year and I'm taking stock. And you know, settling into life a bit isn't so bad. There are things you learn and things you earn with age. I finally get the whole wisdom/age thing people are always banging on about. Being a regular at a restaurant, for instance, means I can order off the menu, my kids can wander into the kitchen and no one minds, and the owners treat us like cherished friends. Another thing I've discovered: I really don't care about fashion anymore. I realized this after I pulped three issues of Fashion magazine without cracking a spine. Frankly I wear what's clean and doesn't cut off my circulation. This will probably earn me a visit from Stacey and Clinton one day, but no mind. My relationship with my coffeemaker has also evolved over the years. The DeLonghi was a wedding gift. It was hauled out of the cupboard every Christmas to make one flavourless pot and then it was promptly put away. I could never make a decent brew at home. One day I set about scientifically testing different beans, grinds, and water-to-coffee ratios until eureka! I made a fantastic pot of coffee and it changed my mornings for the better forever.

This morning I arose as usual to the pleasant sound and aroma of percolating coffee but when I went to pour a cup I discovered the filter basket was not in place. It was, inconveniently, two feet away in the dish rack. What happened next doesn't bear repeating. Suffice to say there was a mess, there was mild scalding, there were accusations, and then during the clean-up a plastic thing broke off the coffeemaker leaving the filter door swinging uselessly like a broken arm. The long-term implications (what if DeLongi no longer makes this machine? Will I have to learn how to make coffee all over again?) were dwarfed by the problem at hand: getting a coffee now. Imagine discovering that the man who would once walk across hot coals for me (and let's not point fingers but let's also not forget who actually broke the coffeemaker in the first place) would not go to Tim Horton's in my moment of need. Thankfully I was able to jerry-rig something with a couple of elastic bands and eke out a small pot. All I will say is duly noted friend, duly noted.

me Vs the wild things

There were many truths in Katrina Onstad's Baby Wars article in this month's Toronto Life, but for me none more so than the simple fact that parenting is work. It is work on many different levels of course, but at its most basic the nightly sprint - or maybe it's a marathon - to get kids bathed, played with, read to and tucked into bed by sundown so that a decent amount of evening remains... it's work, man.









And then suddenly it's quiet.

A spring jacket. Another super-quick project - as in 45 minutes - from Amy Karol's book. The most time consuming part was finding a copy place to enlarge the patterns to 215%. Staples can't do it, so I had to copy different parts of the pattern and then cobble them together. I recall reading something on Amy's blog that her next book will have proper patterns. Yay. I was lucky to come across this camouflage fabric in the remnant bin at Fabricland: I'd wanted to make this little jacket for some time now but Stella and I could never agree on fabric. You might think I clothe her in dresses with leg o'mutton sleeves and send her out with Gibson girl hair for all the fuss she makes.

Along with this cute chocolate brown paisley jersey that's a gift for my niece, I made two little jackets for $7, including the bias trim. And now I'm off to spend the savings on a new spring 'do for me. Enjoy your day!

out of sight...out of mind

Imagine: I returned home this afternoon to find my chalk portrait two full sections of sidewalk away from the rest of the family - and facing the opposite direction. Weekends, or 'home days' as we call them around here, aren't quite the same now that I'm working Saturdays. I miss hanging out with my peeps.

And on that note, I mustn't be late for movie night: 101 Dalmatians and ice-cream sundaes.

making it lovely

Four Dining Room Ideas, originally uploaded by pinklovesbrown.

Moss on a rolling stone and all that, we are finally getting serious about a renovation around here. The old homestead isn't looking too good, truth be told. Not that it ever did. We bought it because A) it was summer and there was a pool in the backyard - a small one with faux mosaic faux tiles that defy explanation, and B) There was a yard! With grass! The combination proved irresistible. Five years and one incomplete paint job later here we are. Ready to renovate.

I have my folder of magazine tears. I have a sketchy floor plan and a laundry list of hoped-for improvements. We have a budget. What we don't have, unfortunately, is an architect/builder/designer to draw up the plans, and perhaps reign in the less realistic items on my list, like taller ceilings. The first design/build place I contacted eventually did return my email, but they're booked a year out and even if we do the $500 consultation there is no guarantee they'll take on our job. My second and third choices have not returned my calls. What we have in mind is beyond DIY - taking out a load-bearing wall and moving a staircase to eliminate a crazy jog in the kitchen that renders half of the usable counter space unusuable - so we're in limbo until we find someone to do the plans. Someone simpatico, not merely available. I had some cockamamie idea that we'd start in September, take off for a few weeks during the worst of it and have the dust settled and the paint dry by the time we're ready to deck the halls with balls of merry. I may have to reassess the timeline. But in the meantime, my hunt for inspiration continues, which brings me to Making It Lovely, which is a fun and inspiring place indeed. I love these curtains. Or are they window treatments? I never know really. Anyway, she's done a bang-up job on her bungalow. I'm itching to get started on mine.

thank heaven for little boys

Others may ponder but for us the nature/nuture argument was settled when Henry's first second and third words were car. Or more accurately, caahr? with a drawn out middle and an upward inflection at the end. The kid is consumed - practically feverish - with buttons, keys and anything mechanical. And let's just say it is not genetic. So really I should not have been surprised to be interrupted at my part-time job in the laundry room by the simultaneous blast of an AM radio springing to life and the roar of a big sister reporting that Henry had pushed some button on my clock radio. It's a strange thing because I bought this clock a few years ago but the radio never worked. Stranger yet, there are just two volume settings: loud and supersonic and it apparently only tunes in to a local Punjabi radio station. I'm sure Henry will have it retooled and working like a charm in no time.

This clock carries a bit of sadness with it though. I bought it at an everything-must-go yard sale, the kind where the front doors are thrown open and there are people in every room going through closets, buying art from the walls and Pyrex from the kitchen cupboards. I always find estate sales unsettling, but this one particularly so because there was an older gent wandering through the house, looking things over and seeming sort of overwhelmed. I thought he might be a neighbour but it turns out he lived there, and I guess with the house for sale for one reason or another his children were liquidating the contents. Anyway, a little sad. I do really this clock. And now I'll always wonder if the man was listening to Bhangra or Leafs' games.

happy easter

the cobbler's child

A little lunch: Italian wedding soup and blue marker.

My little dude turns two Thursday. I haven't planned a party for him. Goodness gracious, I haven't even attempted a crooked cake. In my defense: it is Easter weekend. And we saw everybody at the shop opening two weeks ago. I gave up guilt a long time ago; it's the feeling of hypocrisy I can't shake. So we, and by we I mean me, will try to deck the halls between now and Thursday 6:00 pm when grandparents, godparents, aunts and uncles, but alas no little playmates, will arrive for take-out churrasco, a double-decker cake from here and to toast the man of the hour.

Post script:



Impromptu or no it was a fine fête. Considering Henry's best pals are his grandma and grandpa, the most important people were present and accounted for. And in a strange display of baked goods karma, we even managed a crooked cake.

Thank you for the birthday wishes Josiane & Susan!

sunday sunday

Our usual Sunday feast with the grandparents was followed with a trip to the Junction for a stroll and a poke around Pandemonium, a favourite used book store. I like the Junction. My parents hung out at the movie theatre that was there in the 1950s, which I think was the area's heyday. We looked at houses there not long after Stella was born, but we despite the rooming houses, abandoned storefronts and generally high grit factor we were still outbid on even the humblest semi. Ah Toronto. It's been a forgotten pocket of the city ever since, likely because of a wacky no-alcohol bylaw from a hundred years ago that no one thought to change until recently. But businesses are finally moving in - there are now two solid Indian restos, a Thai food place and an organic burger joint in half a block - and it feels like Queen West in its pre-Gap days. You know, before the chain stores move in and the old buildings are renovated beyond recognition.

Anyway, there we are at the book store and I'm finding gold I tell ya, gold: An original Mother Goose, a Velveteen Rabbit, an oddball collection of children's letters to God ("My name is Sharon. I am in third grade. I live in Seattle. One thing I would like to know. Do you like what you do now?). I also picked up this Mr. Rogers Golden Book because even though I never watched Mr. Rogers as a kid, I was teaching Stella and Henry the won't you be my neighbour song earlier in the morning, and as a believer in fate not coincidence I couldn't pass it up. Turns out to be a pretty good tale: Henrietta gets bent out of shape at the idea of someone new moving into the neighbourhood. She feels threatened by the arrival of flashy Colette from Paris and ends up in a self-defeating spiral of negativity. It all ends a little too conveniently, if you ask me, but I applaud Mr. Rogers for approaching the subject - the possibility that people might like someone else more than they like us - in a way that feels real and honest - even if Henrietta is a cat walking on her hind legs and wearing a dress.

report card

"Good night Stella"
"Good night mummy"
Rustling sounds. The tear of Velcro. Soft footsteps. Bed squeaking. I can hear all of this because ours is a small bungalow and after lights out I am twenty feet down the hall. If I lean off the couch just so and tilt my head to the right I have a sliver of a view into Stella's room. She hasn't cottoned on to that yet and I'm happy to preserve the illusion of omniscience. Anyway, the Velcro sound remains a mystery but the rustling and footsteps I later discovered were the sounds of Spiderman being installed on the bedpost. He's the prized trophy, won after who knows how many rounds of whack-a-mole at Spring Fling - dad's March Break day out. It wasn't hard to do, but I've been badly trumped.

in a handbasket

It's the first day of Stella's first March break and I was filled with good intentions. A big breakfast, a little fresh air and then who knew where the day would take us. Maple sugaring and a wagon ride through the forest. The Wizard extravaganza at the CNE. Dinosaurs at the ROM, with a bonus subway ride. The day was ours to discover. But first up: banana-filled French toast. Except the bread was deemed too "seedy" and "brown" and lest anyone ingest fiber willingly around here, I gave up early and a big old bowl of Frosted Flakes it was.

Next: a leisurely wagon ride to the library. Along the way we picked up a little friend. What should have been a 10 minute walk turned into an epic yet pleasant two hour exploration of every snowdrift along the way that was higher than six feet. There were many. The downside was ending up at the library completely shagged out (me) and sodden (them) and then having to lug a wagon filled with two kids and thirty pounds of picture books back home along unploughed sidewalks.

Home for a change of clothes, a spot of lunch and to chew over our next move. It's at this point that the day starts to unravel. We picked up a third friend post-lunch and before you can say "whatwereyouthinking" plans were made to take everyone out for the afternoon. There was mention of an early supper at McDonald's. Gleeful jumping. Cut to me attempting to install three car seats, something not previously attempted. Cue the sound of a screeching record as I discover my car does not have three seat belts. Just two. Oh the tears. And recriminations. A suggestion that someone ride in the trunk. Or someone stay home. It was not a good scene. Most of the roaring, of course, came from my kid. The other two were actually pretty gracious, readily bribed with an offer of a walk to the ice cream shop. Yet somehow on this blazingly beautiful day I ended up with a sofa full of kids watching The Road to El Dorado in my living room. I was able to block out the Elton John soundtrack and most of Rosie Perez' dialogue until I heard someone shout "How the hell do we get back to Spain?!," an odd line for a kid's movie, no? I'm no rube. I didn't hit rewind to make sure I heard correctly. I didn't draw any attention to it at all. But still, within seconds there was a trio of girls on my sofa giggling and chanting "how the hell do we get back to Spain?!" Man. If I don't turn this thing around I'm going to get a D in March Break.

you could say I like yellow

My $19 tote from Joe Fresh. I like that Joe Mimran, I do. He has good ideas.

Cuckoo clocks are also up there on the list of things that make me happy. This one a recent Etsy buy from a lovely girl in Paris who included all sorts of sweet nothings that made opening the box feel like I was getting a gift.



A Tim Horton's takeout coffee that didn't leak would make me happy. Thankfully I have options. Happy Friday, happy weekend friends.

hello

Back from a shorter than expected blogging break. I'd been planning to take today off from the shop and spend it with Henry but our week got shifted around and he's at nursery school, leaving me with an empty and most welcome day to myself. I made an apron.

My love for aprons is still in full bloom. I have a dozen or so vintage-y ones picked up here and there over the last few years, and despite being asked on occasion, I really couldn't part with a single one. I love them all. And they're quite hard to find now for less than $20. So it's been on my to-do list for some time now, a range of vintage-inspired aprons sized for children. At the annual gift show last month I couldn't help but notice aprons of every style and fabric imaginable hanging so prettily on the booths of every textile exhibitor. I imagine you'll be seeing a lot of them in stores in the coming months. I thought that rather than go the mass-produced route, I'd like to make a few myself using a mix of new and recycled fabrics, which is in keeping with the thrifty spirit of women who made aprons from tea towels and flour sack cloth back in the 1940s. This one is a thriftshop pillowcase cut in half (so half of the cutting/sewing work is already done) with linen ties and waistband and a kangaroo-style pocket. I'd say about two hours from start to finish, longer than I'd planned and mostly my fault for trying to eyeball the waistband and then getting into all sorts of trouble with the ties not fitting smoothly. But overall I'm quite pleased with it. I'm not much of an embellisher, but I can see this one looking super cute with some pompom fringe or a touch of embroidery on a corner of the pocket.

The groovy pink floral apron, a late '60s model I suspect because it looks just like the kitchen wallpaper in the house I grew up in, was the inspiration, and I referenced Amy Karol's pattern for the pocket.

A whirlwind of a weekend: a friends & family event on Saturday to christen the new shop. It was a big thrill to throw the doors open and welcome my first visitors after fiddling around on my own until the wee hours for so many weeks. I'm delighted that my stroller-friendly assertion passed the test. And doubly happy that the kid-friendly claim also seemed to hold: the play kitchen and stack of poofs were popular with the under six crowd. And I'll get to do it all again in four days with the grand opening on Saturday.

On that note, I've decided keeping up two blogs is a bit much right now and I'm going to take a break here. With so much of my time and energy going into the shop I'm a one note Nelly these days and I just don't have that much else to talk about. I'll be posting over at the shop blog here and hope to return to this comfortable place once things settle down.

I'll be back!

Nicole