Edmonton Wedding Photographer | Republic of Doyle

I always loved my Grandmother Maloney dearly. That hasn't changed a bit, even though she has passed away. However, when I was a kid, love her as I might, I didn't like to visit. You see, she was an amazing cook, who always wanted to feed you. She was unbelievably funny, bursting into song and dance in front of the washing machine just to mix it up a little. In fact, I remember right up to the end, even with her mind ravaged by dementia, she would grab me and try to give me a twirl around the kitchen. She was always way more fun than me.

But for all of her great points, there was one major flaw. She didn't have cable television. I certainly don't think she knew that I didn't like to visit for that reason, because I would always play cards and read back issues of Readers Digest, even if it was way before my time. I still can't hear the word cougar without thinking of one of those stories every single month where people who just couldn't help themselves were in the backwoods of British Columbia alone. Those fools always had some heroic story of how they were forced to fend off a cougar, a grizzly bear and a pack of rabid pit bulls using nothing more than an empty pop can, some chewing gum and a hiking boot.

But I digress.

The cable television was a sticking point for me. Back then, CBC didn't have much going for it besides Hockey Night in Canada and the Raccoons. If you weren't a Don Cherry or Cyril Sneer fan, you were hooped. No matter how hard those rabbit ears tried, you were stuck with CBC as your only option.

Things have changed though. It's amazing. I think it started a nice while ago and snuck up on me. Ever a fan of good fun making, This Hour Has 22 Minutes and Royal Canadian Air Farce came along. That made me grin for a bit, but really, pickin's were still pretty slim.

Then one day, while I was home alone and couldn't find the remote I heard the familiar music of Coronation Street streaming in my ears. Who doesn't know that familiar tune? Chances are good you heard it at your Grandmother's house first. That's where I heard it. As an adult I began to develop a soft spot for the patrons of the Rover's Return. After all, these characters were all quite common, and I could identify with them. I might also mention that there were no devils, ghosts or fancy gowns like the daytime soaps.

Then Heartland appeared out of nowhere. I regret missing the first season and now having to try to play catch up. The light is always beautiful and though I am not a horse fan, I can assure you, it makes me wish I was living on a ranch on those days when the kids are in my face more than I enjoy.

Imagine my surprise last year when I was visiting my parents and fell in love the Dragons Den. I am sure I am not the only person who finds Kevin O'Leary to be an ass but thinks that Arlene Dickenson is awesome. Oh and Brett Wilson? Love! Even with this season's hairdo.

I was doing pretty well with my CBC viewing and then it happened- While I was in St. John's on vacation.

Well, you couldn't go anywhere without seeing parking lots full of production trucks. I had never seen a craft service truck anywhere on the Avalon before. I was pretty darn sure something big was happening. But no one I knew could tell me what was going on. All I kept hearing was "I s'pose they're making a movie or something."

Well, what they were making was something else all together!

Wednesday night is now Doyle night at my house. There is no XBOX or Sports Net or talking. It's only been 4 weeks, but I am not sure what I did on Wednesday's before my main man started solving crimes in the big city of St. John's. Not to mention that not unattractive son of his...

I actually am in awe of how good the show is. The actors play real characters, because most of the crowd from home are just that- real characters. The accents are authentic. The expressions are things we all say, even though we wouldn't admit it or include it in a dissertation. The storylines may seem farfetched, but really Newfoundland, just like any other city has its share of 'arseholes'. Not a single thing that's happened so far, is anything that might not have happened at one time or another, nor is it something that might not ever happen. Some episodes, like last night's, seem to be pretty close to a truth, depending on whose truth you believe.

But it's not just the cases making the show real.

Who doesn't admire that Rose can out and out say that she isn't interested in playing Mommy to her boyfriend's teenaged granddaughter? No Cosby Show sickeningly sweet parenting going on there.

I am just not sure what to make of Jakes relationship with his ex wife. I find it a whole lot of aggravating that he doesn't recognise that she has about 80 layers of crazy piled on that little body of hers. He also clearly hasn't noticed those awful bangs. But really, isn't that how real life works?

So all things considered, hyper critical me has no complaints. Considering I had my suspicions that this show was going to be just another Canadian production that gets taken off the air after we have all had a chance to grumble about how bad Canadian productions always are; I am incredibly impressed. I had initially thought I would tune in to see the scenery, just because it was made back home. But instead my PVR is set to record the series and I have my chips and Pepsi ready long before the show is due to start.

The best part of all of it though, is that for a good hour every Wednesday, my accent comes back again, thicker than ever. And I couldn't be more proud.

 

 

Edmonton Photographer |The Bear in Rundle Park

I have always said that it was my job in life to be pretty and not smart. Really, I don't believe I am much of either. A little round around the edges and more witty than book smart, but all in all, I don't think I am terrible to hang out with.

However, there are days like today, when I am neither.

When I woke up this morning, it was because Jamie was standing over me, already dressed for work. I was supposed to be driving him downtown because he had meetings and I was supposed to be taking Bridget to Millennium Place in Sherwood Park so Bridget could meet some new friends. Well, if you only give someone 15 minutes notice that it's time to go out the door, there is an excellent chance that someone is going to face the day in a headband with hair that could really do with a pull through with the flat iron.

Of course, getting me into jeans and a sweater (and the classy headband) isn't nearly as challenging as waking an almost 2 year old, who was up doing callisthenics while watching the Biggest Loser until 11pm.

There are few situations in life when I would rather try to wrestle a steak from a mountain lion, but really, it would have been much more fun than what I faced this morning. She woke yelling, like a teenager being roused to do chores on the first day of a really long grounding.

That was just half the battle. I still had to change her diaper, change her clothes, wash her face, brush her hair and teeth and then wrestle her into a snowsuit, boots and hat.

Of course, the screaming during the dressing process was mild. Someone was even less impressed with having to get into the car seat, even with the promise of an 'egg-el' at Tim Horton's for breakfast.

Finally out the door, sitting in the car, I have a chance to acknowledge Daniel. He has 4 minutes before the bell rings at school. We live 3 minutes away from the school. Today might work out after all.

"Morning Buddy," I yawn, realizing I didn't take time to stretch or wash my face.

"Morning," he replies.

"Buddy, don't forget to get a new library book today for home reading, and come straight home after patrolling." Yes, my little hockey star is a crossing guard at school, I couldn't be more proud.

"Sure," he replies.

We pull out of the driveway and are driving down the street, towards his school. Then he does it. He hasn't done it since the gingerbread house incident where he had to make the gingerbread house out of whole wheat crackers, due to lack of notice, which you will find in an earlier blog post.

"Hey Amy, I need $7 to pay for my overdue library books or I am not allowed in the library at school today."

 

It's a good thing for him I was still groggy.

The drive downtown was uneventful, aside from a few closed roads for snow clearing, which was just as well. In fact, I might have slept through it, because I don't remember it at all, and it was only 3 hours ago. It's a good thing Jamie was driving is all I can say.

I didn't have an uneventful ride for long because, the fun started again when I got into the driver's seat and Jamie tried to kiss Bridget goodbye. Little Linda Blair lost it. There were tears, and screaming and yelling and kicking. Then, just in case I hadn't witnessed the meltdown, Jamie felt compelled to inform me, "You're in for a long day with this one- she is in a bad mood."

Thanks for that.

Desperate for a cup of coffee, I head to the nearest Tim Horton's. It's the one by my house. If you live near me, you will know exactly who I am talking about when I tell you the guy who reminds me of a character from an unpublished Dr. Seuss book greeted me with his insanely fake happy voice over the speaker. I order up a bacon breakfast sandwich, a bagel for Bridget and a large Double Double. Surely, things will improve from here on in.

Bridget, now distracted by hearing the word bagel was finally quiet. Thank God for small favours I figure.

Then the voice booms back at me.

"Would you like to have a Canada Donut?" Dr. Seuss hollers at me through the speaker. I can hear his fake smile. This guy is so irritating he confuses my senses and causes my ears to see things.

No, I don't, I just told you what I want. Stop with the fake enthusiasm, I want to say. It's been a long morning and it's only 9:30am.

Normally, I am very patient. But this guy just gets my goat.

"No thanks." I say, in my fakest nice voice.

Then I look at the sign above the menu. Sure enough, there they are, Canada Donuts. With little red maple leafs, just like the flags. Morons, it's still freakin' January. Not anywhere close to Canada Day.

I pull up to the window and sure enough, he is skipping around in there, like a 7 foot leprechaun.

"Here's your coffee," he says, accompanied by a fake giggle. Like he knows I am having a morning. Because, we all know that fake Dr. Seuss Leprechauns surely to God don't need coffee to get them into their mental state. They need something much stronger.

I am still waiting on a breakfast sandwich and a bagel.

"You know," I say, as though someone asked my opinion, "It's not even close to the first of July."

"No, it's not. It's January 27^th", he says, with an air of superiority. As though with a headband on and sleep crusted in the corners of my eyes, I might not know what the date is.

Well that just set me off.

"Well why on earth are you selling Canada Donuts, when it's not even close to Canada Day???" I say, in the tone I reserve for Daniel when he forgets to mention that he needs $7 for overdue library books when I have no cash on me and he is running perilously close to missing the school bell, but refrained from using an hour earlier when I could have.

"To support the Olympics," he says, with a smirk.

I don't like being outsmarted, especially by oversized Dr. Seuss Leprechauns. You can imagine that my morning had taken a turn for the worst. I didn't think it had any turning left to do, but alas, it had.

Once I had my breakfast securely in the car, I hauled out of there like a lady in a mission. It was time to forget about him and get on with my day. I needed to go to Rundle Park to make sure the trails were cleared for this Sunday's Frosty Fotos mini portrait sessions.

I am happy to report that the trails are cleared and the light was amazing. I wished that I had brought my camera with me and I had a more reasonable child to photograph. There was no way with her bad attitude and mine this morning that I was even going to attempt to get her out of the car seat and take her photos, even if I did have a camera with me.

Driving out of the park I mentally compiled a list of what I need to accomplish today. It's a long list so I was trying to put things in the order in which they made the most sense. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see them, in the distance- A mama bear and her cub.

Well I almost went off the road with excitement. I have only seen a bear once in my whole life and seeing them is a big fascination for me. I pull over to the side of the road, and turn on my emergency flashers. I berate myself for being the only photographer in the world dumb enough not to take a camera to the location where she will be shooting on the weekend. Of course I would see a mama bear and a baby when I am without a camera-just like when I saw a deer at arm's reach in Hermitage Park. I wrestle around, looking for my Iphone. At least I could snap a picture with that, though the quality would surely disappoint me.

It's in the bottom of my purse. The bears are still walking towards me. I can't even believe my luck.

I rummage around in my bag; hopeful they won't get scared and run off while I am looking in my bag like a fool. Finally, I find it. Daniel had rearranged my Apps again. Where the hell is the camera button?

Got it!

I press the button to roll the window down all the way while I enable the camera and then hold it up to click the photo.

Then I hear it. I hear the mama bear roar, "Can I help you," in an angry people voice.

You see, in all of my haste, I failed to realize that Mama Bear was actually an extremely tall dark haired woman in a really ugly fur coat.

And the Baby Bear? You guessed it-an incredibly portly Rottweiler.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fresh Fruits and Vegetables...

Riddle me something.

I finally got Bridget to sleep and I thought I would get a jump start on supper. Call me crazy, but having a toddler pulling on the leg of your yoga pants while you are trying to cut and brown raw chicken breast isn't any fun.

So while my chicken breast was browning nicely, I started slicing and dicing peppers. I had a whole rainbow of them in front of me- Yellow, orange, green, and my absolute favourite, red. However, you can imagine my excitement when I cut into the first one, and though the flesh was still firm and shiny (which I fully realize is actually sure to be some sort of wax they throw on there to make it look pretty), the inside was rotten.

Well that's just great, I think, as I fire a pepper that I paid $5.99/lb for into the garbage bag.

You can also imagine how excited I was when I cut into the second one, only to discover it was the exact same way.

I start thinking about how long ago I bought them. I think back over the last week and remember that I bought them last Monday. Well, they have been in the fridge a full week. But other two were just fine, and they were packaged in the same cellophane bag. That just doesn't make sense. How exactly does fifty percent of something rot from the inside while the others remain shiny on the outside and nice on the inside?

Right I think. But really Amy, you have had them a full week.

But then I get to thinking...

The silly peppers had to be grown and picked. Then they probably sat somewhere for a few weeks ripening before they were put into a barrel and shipped somewhere so that someone else could put them in the package and stick the label on before....

Wait one red pepper loving minute! The label!

Right- grown in Spain. My peppers had sat in a barrel before packaging, before making the trip from Spain. That's for sure a few days journey. But then I study the label again. They were distributed by a company in Delta, British Columbia. So (silly me) they weren't flown here (really, what was I thinking?). They were sent to sit in a container, then put on a container ship, floated here, taken off the ship, sat in a container, moved from the container to the warehouse, where I am sure they waited for their ride from Delta, British Columbia, to their new warehouse in Edmonton, Alberta. All before they sat for a few days in the cooler in the produce section at the St. Albert Super Wal-Mart waiting for me to come and put them in my cart, drive them back to Edmonton where they waited in my fridge for a week.

So I ask. How does one feed their family fresh fruits and vegetables? Oranges come from Florida, we all know that. Fish has to come out of the ocean. I get that. But really? Does nowhere in Canada grow peppers? If I head to the Farmers Market in Edmonton will I find peppers made anywhere more locally than Spain? Or do I have to eat produce that came halfway across the world to get to me. Honestly, not to have ridiculous ideals on the whole matter, but I am sure they can't be quite as healthy as something grown nearby and consumed right away and not only for bodies- but what about the earth. What kind of environmental impact does it have to send food to the other side of the world? If we are encouraged to carpool, how does it make sense to spend all of that energy and pollution on transporting vegetables? There has got to be another way.

I have concluded though, that considering the lengthy road trip those darn peppers went on to make it to my fridge, I am sure the rotting didn't actually start in the last week while they waited for me to cut them. It probably happened back around the same time everyone was buying flashlights and Coleman lanterns to prepare for the end of the world at the Millennium, when they were actually picked in the first place.

 

 

 

 

 

My Cup Runs Over...

Something biblical is happening in my house. I can hardly believe it.

You see, I have no clothes in my closet that I like to wear. Jamie has no clothes in his closet that he likes to wear. Yet, my hamper seems always to have copious outfits waiting to be laundered. You would almost think it was a miracle.

However, though my cup may be filled to the brim with odd socks and ill fitting pants, there's something else exciting going on around here.

You wouldn't even believe it.

Every afternoon, tiny Bridget makes her way into the kitchen and demands the cupboard doors bring forth the 'cheerdios' hiding within. I always give her a baby sized container of her favourite whole grain snack. She makes her way to the living room with the container, sits in her baby sized chair, at her baby sized table and quietly eats her snack.

Of course, she never gets the whole way through, which is where the miracle occurs.

When she loses interest in the 'cheerdios' she dumps them on the table. There are only about 25 of them in the container, when I put them in there in the beginning. But somehow, when they get dumped out of the container and onto the table, there are 25 in there, no matter how many she has already eaten.

But really, God smiles upon me.

By the time she has taken her chubby little arm and slide it at 100km/hr across the table, 150 'cheerdios' rain down, all across my living room. They roll under the couch, land on the TV stand, and cover the floor like a blanket of whole grain snow.

Yesterday, I tried giving her a pile of loonies to see if she could multiply them as fast. It didn't work. So instead, I have decided to be grateful for the good fortune I do have. Though I probably will never eat the cereal off the floor, I am very glad I can vacuum them up. And if I do have to have a biblical miracle all over my living room on a daily basis, I am just glad it's cereal and not loaves and fishes.

 

 

Sorry Mom...

Looking back, I think I might have been an ungrateful Brat. I was respectful most of the time, rarely got in trouble, and was up to my neck in extracurricular activities. But now that I am a grown up, I am certain that I wasn't all that great.

It hit me this week. Jamie had to fly to Toronto due to the loss of a well loved Aunt. I didn't hesitate to book the plane ticket, help him pack, and drive him to the airport. But once he had passed through security and I was left standing in the airport with a cranky pants toddler, I suddenly felt very alone.

I have always been afraid of the dark, and I was never keen on staying home alone. I knew when I booked the ticket I would have to face 5 nights of sleeping alone in the dark. But that was just the start of my heart palpitations. The stress was already closing in on me, and I had yet to find the car in the parkade, and wrestle a screaming toddler into the car seat.

Driving back from the airport, I was filled with determination that I could get through the coming days. How hard could it be? I just had to get Daniel up, fed and out the door to school, then play with and care for Bridget all day, then transport the two of them to hockey practice, where he would skate and she would act like a tiny terrorist who drank too much coffee, then go home, cook supper, do homework and fight with everyone to get to bed at a decent hour, so I could do it all over again. With Jamie, it's only half the battle- or at least I have someone to help hog tie Bridget at hockey when things get out of hand.

I wasn't far off my initial predictions of how the week would go. However, I didn't accurately foresee the demise of my beloved dishwasher, the clogged toilet or the two nights of washing sheets and blankets because Bridget threw up a strawberry coloured mess all over my bed, after we were all sound asleep.

I can tell you truthfully on the second night of blanket washing, I started thinking about my mother.

You see, my parents got divorced when I was 13. I wasn't sad for a minute when it happened because oil and water mix much better than the two of their personalities and therefore, they got along with the relative success of the ever restless Middle Eastern countries that are always in the news. It wasn't that I was happy about the breakup of our family, but I knew that it meant that both of my parents could find someone better suited to their personalities; which, thankfully they did.

In the interim though, my Mom was single for quite a while, and my sister and I both lived with her, in a cute little house in a good neighbourhood. My dad lived close by, and I saw him every day when he picked me up for school, we went skiing or to do activities or to visit my Grandmother. I still loved both my parents very much; I just needed to love them separately.

But it was this week that I realized how much Mom probably needed my help. When I was bellowing at Daniel to switch the clothes or grab Bridget a bottle, to sit down and do his homework, to pack his hockey gear and get it in the car, I got to thinking. It's wasn't the having to ask that made me think of Mom. It's the asking twice, or three times and then finally losing my cool that made me feel bad.

You know, I remember Mom nagging me to do things. Like clean the bathtub. If I had ever cleaned it the first, second or third time she asked me to do it, she might have appreciated it. But the thing is I never did it without being asked ten times and I don't ever remember her losing it. In fact, I actually don't remember cleaning the bathtub at any point, which makes me think she was very good about keeping her cool, even when she did end up having to everything herself.

She could come in the door after working a full day and find the house full of my friends, and not a math equation of homework completed and she would ask my friends how their day was. It's like it rolled off her back.

I can't quite figure how she managed to pay for everything, drive me everywhere, and still keep the house clean when I wouldn't do anything to help; without wanting to lob my head off. I am not saying my Dad wasn't around. Couldn't have been further from the truth, but the fact of the matter is, Mom was in the trenches, dealing with two pain in the wazoo, lazy teenagers, who wouldn't clean the bathtub if their brand name jeans lovin' butts depended on it.

So, to my Mother, I am truly sorry for being a pain. I knew enough not to bring trouble to the door, but in all honesty, I could have managed to vacuum the floors once I was inside it.

And to all of the single parents out there, kudos to you- I wish I had your moxy. Those of you who manage to not only pay for the expeditions but also steer the ship and swab the decks, I salute you. If your kids don't appreciate you right now, just you wait. Some night, when they are cleaning strawberry puke in a dark house all alone, they will think back on all of your hard work and realize just how good they had it. They might even look back and wish they had scrubbed the bathtub.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lumpy Gravy

I have never claimed to be a great cook. In fact, I would never even dare tell you that I am a decent cook. Given the choice between thawing pork chops and heading to the nearest Swiss Chalet, you can bet money that you will find me dipping my chicken in Chalet Sauce, every single time.

I have a pretty thick skin about my cooking though. I inform people of my shortcomings in the same breath that I invite them to dinner. I do my best, but following recipes was never my strong suit, and really, I am too old to change that now. I might one day have a television show based loosely on the ridiculous situations I get myself into, but there's no chance that you will ever see me on the Food Network. Though I shouldn't shout, I have recently watched episodes of both Canada's Worst Handyman as well as Canada's Worst Driver. On a side note, I am a shoe in for the Worst Driver show, and Jamie would for sure win the grand prize on the Handyman edition. But with my luck, they will start a show about Canada's Worst Cook and Daniel will thoughtfully nominate me.

His confidence in my cooking ability is pretty underwhelming. A year or so ago, we went to Burger King. Now, please don't throw Whoppers at me, but it was the first time he had ever eaten it. He had never tried the fatty, charbroiled goodness.

Well, he mistook the yummy charbroiled taste that people flock to Burger King for as burnt. So at the top of his ten year old lungs, he hollers at his father who was rearranging everything on the table and not yet paying undivided attention to him. I could not have been more thrilled than to hear him shout, "Dad, this is burnt! Who let Amy in the kitchen?"

It was one of those moments that I find myself repeating in my head, "I love my family, I love my family" while resisting the urge to throttle someone.

However, the most notorious of my kitchen disasters is my gravy. It's almost epic it's so bad. In fact, my reputation for gravy precedes me. I am positively sure that when we are invited guests, and I offer to lend a hand in the kitchen, the host has already been warned, 'Don't let her at the gravy.'

Even Jamie, who during the most trying of situations is a very supportive and loving partner can't hide his distaste for the roast dripping muck I end up with poured over lumpy mashed potatoes. His sneaky trick so that he might enjoy his hot turkey sandwiches the day after I have laboured all day in the kitchen is to stop at KFC along the way home to 'pick up fries', and then follow that up with 'while I was there, I figured I would grab some gravy too, just to save you the trouble of warming yours.'

So you can imagine my enthusiastic response this fall when I came back from Newfoundland having spent Thanksgiving at my Mothers. Daniel and Jamie wanted Thanksgiving dinner cooked. I offered to send them to the White Spot, which I happen to know serves a mean turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

That just wouldn't do.

So we went to the store, bought a bird, all the vegetables Martha Stewart insists we need, as well as the makings of stuffing and a can of cranberry sauce, because it is just not the same if you don't have the print of the can in what you are eating.

Well, ever the dutiful, if inept, cook, I rose early that morning. I made the stuffing, stuffed the turkey, put it into the oven and peeled the vegetables. I even kept the turkey wrapping that promised that following its instructions would yield 'Perfect' gravy.

I followed the directions to the letter. In fact, just so there were no distractions, I banned all spouses and children from the kitchen so I could concentrate. I boiled the giblets in a saucepan for the time suggested, with the celery, carrots and onions, just like they told me. I mixed up the flour and water, just like they told me. Then, when it was all ready to go, I combined it with the water from the vegetables, just like they told me. All I had left to do was add the thickening.

I sampled it with a spoon. It was scrumptious! I couldn't wait!

Proud as a peacock I yell into the living room about my delicious gravy. I was met with cheers that sounded like they may have had a large trace of trepidation. However, since the kitchen was a no fly zone for the last few hours, I think they may have been hoping that I had pulled it off.

Now, I would like to mention this no fly zone of mine is roughly the size of a fancy postage stamp. So when you add in the fridge, stove, counters and dishwasher, I have a working space the size of the Queen's nose and I had spent the last 5 hours in there with a roasting turkey. I felt like I might have been warmer than the bird itself.

So now I have cabbage, carrots, turnip, potatoes, pea's pudding, and stuffing to contend with. Quickly, I am out of counter space. Then I have Bridget, Daniel and Jamie complaining about starving to death to contend with. Quickly, I am out of patience.

Suddenly, I am boiling over. Just like the potatoes did 20 minutes ago.

Crash, boom, bang, go the stainless steel bowls of carrots, cabbage and turnip that no one besides me is likely to eat. Bangdyboomwhattheckgezlynamut,why did I make stuffing!? Everyone likes Stove Top and I wouldn't have just caused myself second degree burns trying to get this soggy mess out of the turkey's arse.

Then I hear the words that send me from boiling with rage to incineration every single time, floating in from the chair in front of the television.

"Amy, calm down."

Well. Let me tell you that what happened next.

As I turned around to give him that face (You know, the one that can stop a clock when your spouse makes you so angry you could clobber him the potato masher) I accidently knocked the container of gravy thickening into the roaster. The studio audience who do not live in my house but should would have heard the glub, blub, lub noise as the beautiful, tasty gravy turned into one big gelatinous lump in the bottom of the pan. It was like it formed into one solid ball, grew a face and laughed at me.

So I did it. I made fantastic gravy this past Thanksgiving. The trouble was that I was in fact the only person who got to taste the scrumdidiliumptiousnessof it.

Everyone else's tasted suspiciously like that of Colonial Saunders and his 11 herbs and spices.