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

whooo

That's me blowing the dust off the blog. Oh I've been around and thinking bloggy things but lately my eyes spring open at odd hours of the night with thoughts that sound like
ordercroissantsandwhatcolourflowersandbuymoregreenpaint
andineedshoppingbagsandcashregisterollsandiditurnonthealarma
ndwhatifmovetheblanketstothebackandishouldmailtheinvitationsandremembertocallelsa

racing through my head and, being unsure that I could piece together a paragraph, I opted for silence this week. But things are looking up, after a productive day spent in the excellent company of my dear sister-in-law, who always come through in a pinch, even though she is jet-lagged. And now that the back wall is merchandised, I can sleep tonight without thoughts of unpacked boxes invading my slumber. Two weeks 'til opening day.

Happy weekend folks.

sundaying

Fiddling with the aperture settings on the new camera this morning. And sewing button eyes on a felt bird, but that is another story. It's crazy cold and some kind of windy here, in other words the perfect sort of day to stay inside and make things. Which is exactly what I'm doing over at the shop this afternoon. Making displays. Unmaking displays. Remaking displays. Trying to get it right. At the peak of my exasperation, caused by endless configurations of a bucket, a vase, a tub of Bum Bum Balm, the iPod coughed up The Storm by Tanya Donelly and this lyric that felt perfectly apropos as some brave passersby peered in my window:

I'm not finished yet, I'm under construction
You can peek behind the curtain if you want
You watch, don't stop
My reputation's shot
I just wanted to get it right


Well maybe not the reputation part, but the rest feels spot on.

me Vs. your friendly neighbourhood spiderman

Tomboys are cool. I have no issue with that. It's the aesthetic that gets me. And what does SpiderMan - or the Transformers for that matter - know about Valentine's Day anyhow? It may be controlling. It may even be wrong. But I won't buy a box of SpiderMan valentines. I just won't. I know it is only a question of when I will be too girlish for Stella and instead of lavishing attention on our crafty projects she will merely humour me. Happily, I have managed to thwart Spidey and the evil forces of commercialism - this time - with a little bit of old fashioned cut and paste.



A big box of old school Valentines, the kind you have to cut out - no perforations here - glue together the little envelopes (they never stay closed anyhow) and seal with a sticker. She can't wait to get her hands on them. The other cards were made with snips of baker's twine, white glue and embroidery floss along the border.

circa 1964

We are in the dying days of January and I know we are through talking about Christmas but I received an email last night that brought me back, so forgive this short digression. At the Queen West Art Crawl back in August or September (an event I highly recommend if you're interested in purchasing or viewing undiscovered and still affordable art) we met James Durant, a local photographer and artist. We were really taken with his work, which involves the manipulation of old family photos using wax, paint and power tools before mounting the enlarged images on wood and sealing with resin. I filed his card under G for gift and reconnected with him on the sly in November when I commissioned this piece for my husband. The term "commission" sounds all pretentious and puffed up and I hesitate to use it. I am not Peggy Guggenheim and I do not have 38 Shih Tzus buried in my backyard, nor do I spend my evenings at gallery openings sipping Champagne and smoking Gauloises. But for lack of a better word, I sent James a photograph of my husband's father circa 1964 and James made this for us. Even my father-in-law likes it. (Benny is the handsome devil in the dark suit.)

All of which is a long preamble to the note I received last night from James announcing two good things: 1) he finally has a website so the world can see his work and 2) he is having an exhibition at Engine Gallery this Thursday. There could very well be Champagne and maybe even a Gauloises-smoking arts patron or two.

of clandestine cauliflower and furtive yams

The stealth vegetable regime continues. This new program is for the entire family's benefit. We are not vegetable people by nature. Between my Anglo heritage (canned peas, canned mushrooms, potatoes from a box) and my husband's Austro-Italian background (rigatoni, penne, penne rigate, rotini, farfalle - all pasta is not the same I've learned - and schnitzel) I don't think our kids have a green-loving gene in them. A predisposition I hope to change this year.

I am embracing Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook with open arms. If you're not familiar with her book, every recipe uses vegetable purees in sneaky, undetectable-by-the-human-kid ways. A spoon of squash in mac 'n cheese. Zucchini in the banana bread. That sort of thing. Tonight it was turkey burgers - the turkey part being a wily turn in and of itself around here - mixed with a glop of fresh cauliflower puree and a scoop of tofu. I really don't like tofu and yet I routinely buy it only to toss it out when it makes the fridge smell bad. I am determined to figure out how to work with it. Now tofu isn't even on the ingredient list of this particular recipe, it was an improvisation since I was feeling so very healthy and, at the same time, a little bit bad about tossing out yet another unopened container of the stuff. Tofu aside I followed the recipe to the letter. It called for:

lean ground turkey
cauliflower puree
unseasoned breadcrumbs
soy sauce
crushed garlic
milk
black pepper

I made micro-mini burgers for Stella thinking the novelty would distract her from the new flavours. She wolfed down the first one but got wise by the second and had to be bribed with the promise of chocolate pudding for dessert, which, I assure you, is not a technique I suggest or would normally employ. I just really wanted a success after steaming and pureeing all that cauliflower. Henry, however, dug in his heels from the first bite. No. Way. I'm surprised, considering he ate crayons for lunch. My take is that it's a good recipe in need of a bit of tinkering to suit us better. Here's what I would change next time: cut the soy sauce and garlic by half, or use the more familiar flavours of barbeque sauce or ketchup. The funny part is no one noticed the cauliflower. I declare a partial success.

sunday morning

Waking up in a crowded but cozy bed.

These are the first pictures taken with my new camera, an EOS Rebel DSLR. A birthday gift from my people. Yay.