photoblog: the Spanish Inquisition is one!

I promised a wrap-up of the Spanish Inquisition's first party, didn't I? And that was almost a month ago. Bad me. My only excuse is that July was unbelievably busy — the Spanish Inquisition started daycare (I've mentioned that), which means that she a) hasn't been sleeping as well, and b) has already brought back daycare germ factory germs, which are better crafted, more resilient, and more deadly than regular hoi polloi germs. They've got some really good quality control, that germ factory — sadly so, for us.

But! Her party! We had it at our house, and it was for her little friends — the neighbourhood 2011 baby brigade (with an honourable membership for one who was born around Christmas, 2010) — so there was lots of opportunity for crafting and decoration. Because I am still me, and that is what I do.

The spread:

The cake:

The favours:



And finally, last but not least, the birthday girl:
The party kept her up a bit past her bedtime, so she was a little stunned.

photoblog: cherry blossoms (and a magnolia)

Last weekend, we went to High Park to look at the cherry blossoms. We'd never actually been before. We think that it's one of those things that Torontonians never get around to unless goaded by a visitor — sort of like the CN Tower.




Anyway, the blossoms were open, but it was cold, and there were many, many people — much more than I expected. Apparently cherry blossoms are a "thing." (I think I much prefer the Japanese tradition of laying out a picnic underneath the cherry trees. Here, everyone sort of milled around with their eyes glued to the viewfinder — much less picturesque, and it seemed to miss the point a little, somehow.)




At any rate, it confirmed what I already knew before: cherry blossoms are very pretty, but magnolias are orders of magnitude better. Intrinsically.


(Pd still won't let me pull out the Saskatoon berry to plant a magnolia tree. Sad.)

photoblog: victoria day weekend

Our long weekend: rebuilding a room; stopping to play with flowers; knitting for the future; long walks on the beach; and relaxing with my love.










How was yours?

Photoblog: cabane a sucre

So I am sick — yes, again. I abdicate responsibility this time, though. First, we caught it from our lovely, charming, adorable, leaky, germy nephews (aged four-ish and two-ish). We visited them in Ottawa last weekend, and I didn't know they were sick until after I had been there for ten hours (we arrived close to midnight, well after they had gone to bed) — by which point it was, obviously, TOO LATE.

Second, Pd is sick too, which means that this must be some kind of superbug. His immune system is usually better than mine, especially right now.

Third, it could be worse. The younger nephew also had pinkeye.

In retrospect, though, it was probably a bit of a mistake to let them squirm and frolic their germy selves on our futon/bed. (We were occupying what is usually their playroom/tv room. It was hard to say no.) Still — not pinkeye. I insist that that must count for something.

Anyway, as you might (or might not) be able to tell from the photograph above, we went to Ottawa for our annual trek to the local cabane à sucre. (Er, by "annual," I mean we haven't done this in something like five or six years, and by "local," it's just over an hour away — creative license.) It's pretty much as I remember it — things don't really change there.


The pretty farmhouse at the front of the property that has nothing to do with the cabane itself — I think it's where the owners live. At any rate, guests are not welcome to go into it.














The last time I was there — five or six years ago — we got there very late, and had to rush in order to get the tire before they closed. We went in the early afternoon this time, so for some reason I thought it would be more like a school trip: you know, a syrup tap demonstration, maybe a visit to a shed or something where they do whatever mysterious thing they do to maple syrup; maybe even a hike in the woods? But no. Apparently one really does go just for the food. It was a bit of an eat-and-dash sort of thing — especially as the nephews were sick, and very antsy. But still — very good. None of us could eat for a good day or so afterwards, though.
...
Extraneous gardening note: I found more tulips! In the front yard this time! More victory points! Now, if only I could remember which type I planted has stripey leaves ...

Photoblog: the Royal

Wow, sorry for the silence. I'd meant to get this up before o'er long, and then life/stuff (*coughRock Bandcough*) got in the way. As I had mentioned, the main impetus for going to the Royal Agricultural Winter Fair was this:


Superdogs
... but we did the traditional Royal stuff, too.

We managed to catch a horse demonstration, for example:


It was for saddlebred ... something. (The reverb on the announcer was tremendous; it was really hard to make out what he was saying.) It was very cool, until the horse threw a shoe. Then it was still cool, but we were distracted by the shoe.

We also looked at cows, including wee dairy calves:

The term "wee" is relative.
We petted animals who deigned to let us touch them in exchange for food pellets.




Including little baby ones!


There were also Silkie chickens dyed odd colours ("for fun," they say), and wee little bunnies ... but not for petting.




Also popular, and I sort of regret not getting a picture of this: stands of Dyson Airblade hand dryers next to the "washing stations" at the petting zoo. Pd wanted to take one home, but I thought someone would notice and take umbrage. I was, however, terribly impressed with the branding opportunity. Who would have thought petting zoo = product placement for $1,000 hand dryers? Not me, but perhaps that's why I'm no longer in publicity.

Moving on.


Piglets! These were behind glass. I noticed a distinct lack of pigs on display at the Royal, which Pd explained by pointing out that, despite what I've been taught by Babe and EB White, pigs are actually very ornery and not calm enough to just keep around like this. Well, fine. But I can't believe EB White would lie to me like that.

So we moved on to the sheep.


Of course, being me, seeing sheep immediately leads to ...


Fleeces! (And fleeces lead to yarn. Yum. And I'm not sorry, either.)

And finally, the traditional agricultural fair competition: butter sculptures.




These were not the winners (I think they were second runner up and critics' choice, respectively), but we liked them the best. The winners were technically superior but kind of boring.

We also saw the displays for the other traditional competition — giant vegetables — but declined to document it. As Pd says, giant vegetables are odd: they never look quite real. Maybe years of watching CGI has spoilt us, but honestly, Mother Nature really does not upsample well at all.

Meanwhile, on our way to queue for Superdogs, we passed by (I think) a display for canola. It had interactive stands for kids. Anyway, we are pretty sure we shouldn't have been able to access the systems utility, but we did:


Somehow, Pd always seems to find the broken computer. I don't know how he does it; it's a gift. Or a curse. (He fixed it, though. He rebooted it. Don't tell the IT guys.)

And then ... Superdogs!

We had decided to make our way to the arena about an hour before the scheduled showtime, as it was the last show of the day (we had gotten to the Royal late, and they don't have evening shows). It was lucky we did, too: they had already started letting people in — we didn't have to queue, at all — and there were so many that they decided to start the show half an hour early. In the end, they supposedly turned away something like 500 people. If we had opted for the suggested-arrival time of half an hour prior to the show, we wouldn't have gotten in.

It was a show, not a competition, so it only lasted about 25 minutes. It was super cute, though.


Noah, a Pyrenean sheepdog. (I had to look up his breed later, but I should have known that it was a sheepdog, judging from my reaction. I loves sheepdogs.) There was also an Afghan, which I didn't get a picture of, but it was absolutely beautiful; tall and elegant.

The main event was an obstacle course race run by eight dogs (four for each team). The Boston terrier ran for our team first, and he was pretty good:


The other team had the Old English sheepdog, later, and ... okay, the sheepie was nowhere near as fast as the Vezla or as smart as the border collie, but it was really, by far, hands down, no contest, the cutest.


Especially since it got confused and skipped the high jump on its side of the course, but turned around and ran half of our side of the course. And then ran back and had a tug-of-war with its trainer, who was trying to get it to do the weave properly. And then it may or may not have slid off its pedestal at the end of the course by jumping onto it too fast.


I got to pet it later, after the show. His name is Puff Daddy and he is five years old.

I want one.

Photoblog: Valley of Fire

Rainbow Vista in the Valley of Fire.

The Valley of Fire was the main reason I was excited about going to Las Vegas. (I know. I'm lame. But I don't gamble, I barely drink, spas bore me, and American Coke tastes weirdly different — it's the high-fructose corn syrup — so it's not that surprising. Which is not to say that everyone who enjoys Vegas should be an alcoholic, caffeine- and gambling addict with a penchant for massages, although I'm sure it would help.)

It really is spectacularly beautiful, though. (Speaking of which — you'll want to click on the picture above and see it in its original size in Flickr. Trust me.)


The long and winding road into the park




The trail known as the Mouse's Tank


Mouse's Tank is also known for its Anasazi petroglyphs.








We entered the park via the Valley of Fire highway off of I-15, drove through the park, and exited on Northshore Road (the so-called scenic route) to head back to Vegas. It turned out, though, that the road was being re-asphalted, a section at a time, so we had to wait for a pilot car to guide us through, which we found amusing.


My Docs, which used to be black, but now ... aren't. A souvenir, I suppose.