this is life.

marrakech, morocco

2011-10-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

see and read of their time in marrakech, morocco here. as this blog will no long be updated, follow along with their story as they live in paris here.

2011-09-28T17:31:00.000-07:00

they are moving to paris!

another volume of their story, beginning… the months before paris dwindled into weeks. the weeks before paris dwindled into days… she could nearly count the days until their flight on her fingers. each day passed more quickly than the one before, revealing more and more the reality of the european season ahead...

to read more and to continue following along their european adventure, please visit here: www.robyn-thompson.com. that will be the new space where photographs and stories are shared, so please update your subscriptions, bookmarks and links. soon, past posts will be imported into the new site, and this one will be removed.

there are many, many, many posts to come from europe!

three years of love.

2011-07-05T23:00:00.000-07:00

another year of love to celebrate: three. on the fifth of july, two thousand and eight, they were married as the sun broke through the clouds, amidst a country garden, a grape arbor and one hundred family and friends. tears poured down her face for the entire ceremony, as she was overwhelmed with love for him. they committed their hearts to one another for the rest of their lives. on the fifth of july, two thousand and eleven, they celebrated. they celebrated three years of love. she woke up to his touch on her cheek, soft and familiar. he told her that breakfast would be ready shortly. he thoughtfully had her black silk kimono robe waiting to wrap around her shoulders. she followed him into the dining room and saw an elegant table set for two: a vase of white peonies, a vanilla candle burning at the centre, the stove top espresso maker with the aroma of fresh coffee escaping. both ends of the table were set with white china and a cup & saucer balancing a vintage gold espresso spoon, found somewhere in the world by a local artist. she saw a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a cream ribbon bow. a leather tag detail inscribed with 'three' spoke of the three years that they were celebrating, as well as the leather aspect of the third traditional gift of marriage anniversaries. year one, paper, he had gifted her with a copy of love sonnets written by elizabeth barrett browning, printed in the year eighteen ninety six, found in a used bookshop in edinburgh. year two, cotton, he had given her three gorgeous tall branches of soft cotton blossoms, along with the d&s durga perfume 'my indian childhood', an intoxicating, exotic scent that smells of the indian dessert after the rain. she was curious about what year three, leather, would hold. but first, was breakfast. he poured milano la una espresso, topped with vanilla foamed milk. inspired by the city's favorite brunch from medina cafe, he presented her with a plate of organic greens topped with smoked salmon, caramelized onions, rosemary roasted nugget potatoes, applewood aged cheddar and an egg. on the side was a wedge of grilled foccacia, exactly like medina. they savored the salt, the sweet, the smoke. whispers of 'wow' kept escaping her lips. soon, there was a knock on the door, a surprise delivery. she welcomed another bundle of dozens of white peonies, bringing the number of the beautifully intoxicating flowers in their home to forty eight. she remembered the first time he had flowers delivered to her; she was seventeen and so surprised by the massive bouquet of vibrant blossoms. her grandmother knew that one day she would fall in love with the one that had sent such flowers. she could have hardly imagined, then at seventeen, that five years later, she would open the door to an armful of peonies on her third wedding anniversary to that same man, in the home of her dreams, so deeply, deeply in love. smiling from their memories, she unwrapped the cream ribbon bow and the white paper to find a orchre box inscribed with 'michael kors'. she knew immediately she would love anything he had chosen from her favored designer. inside she found the perfect clutch wallet, of course made from leather: blush pink, a silver buckle clasp, buttery soft. the summer sunlight streamed into their apartment. there was a shared hot shower, there was a sundress and a pair of jeweled sandals. they parted ways for a few hours, him to work in gastown, her to be pampered. she sipped peppermint tea and had her scalp massaged at one of the city's premier salons. her hair soaked in a restorative conditioning treatment. she shed a few requisite tears when inches of her long hair fell to the floor, but she would soon come to love the summertime polished collarbone length and the wispy fringe. soon, she found herself in gastown, wandering the streets, taking in the eclectic mix of people, of boutiques. it was early afternoon, he emerged from his office to meet her and to whisk her away to another part of the city. when they had arrived at faubourg, she knew instantly why they had come. on the day that he proposed, they celebrated over afternoon tea at the fairmont. six months later, on their wedding day, they invited their guests to share in an afternoon tea reception beneath grand white tents in a garden. on their first anniversary, he surprised her with a tea date at the luxuriously opulent prestonfield house, just outside edinburgh, where there were peacocks on the lawn and where they reflected on their first year of marriage and set intentions for the year to come. following that year, they sipped tea and savored delicate macarons and champagne truffles at the urban tea merchant, again pondering and planning. she knew that faubourg would be the contemporary and parisian-inspired location of their fifth afternoon tea, a tradition kept. a large wrought-iron chandelier hung above the tea salon. perfectly-brewed tea was poured into their platinum-rimmed china. his, a strong black from marriage freres; for her, a blend of teas with sweet mint. they shared tiny sandwiches of smoked salmon with wasabi cream, of chicken with fresh apple. there were warm dried cherry scones with thick cream; there was a spread of small pastries to sample: a coconut souffle as light as air, dark & rich chocolate mousse, fruit & spice parfait, warm apple cake, a light lemon tart and a slice of opera cake of layered almond sponge. they lingered, pouring cup after cup of tea, tasting each pastry in turn. they talked about the intentions they had set for the years past; they remembered their first year of marriage, the honeymoon, when they had spent a year living in & traveling europe. they remembered the year that they resolved to repay every dollar of student loans, to establish a comfortable emergency fund and to triple their net worth. they remembered the most recent year that had past, a year when they had aimed to establish their careers: just out of university, she would find a path she was passionate about and he would find a position with a start-up with plenty of promise. that year, she fell madly in love with wedding photography and established her own business. he celebrated her successes of nearly one year of business: exceeding their revenue goals, multiplying the average monthly views of her work by ten times, and being featured numerous times in print and online including the renowned style me pretty. he told her, no one will ever know the details of your success the way that i do - i am so proud of you. the same year, he found a dream position with a venture that they believe in, working with a passionate team in a gorgeous historical flat. they looked ahead to their fourth year, eager for the business & travel that they had already planned... they settled on a word to aspire to for the year: 'cultured'. more abstract than the years before, perhaps more delicious. they started to describe 'cultured' as a lifestyle in which they would live in paris, in which they would travel across the mediterranean and asia, in which they would launch a new brand of her business, in which they would refine their aesthetic. they planned to dream of the details in the coming days, weeks, months, so eager to see what they would be reflecting on the following july. after tea, they walked outdoors, in and out of streets, hand in hand. quiet, soaking in the warmth of the sun on their skin. they returned to their apartment where a sweet and cool breeze ruffled the curtains of the bedroom balcony. exhausted from the heat of the summer, they curled up in the white sheets and fell asleep for a little while, two bodies spooned close. when they woke, it was already late in the evening. she pulled on her black cigarette pants and a paper-thin sheer silk blouse designed locally by obakki. she grabbed her new clutch wallet, filled it with coins and pink lipgloss and they headed back to gastown for the night. they settled into a table at chill winston, finding the casual, trendy vibe and the edgy aesthetic exactly what they were looking for. she sipped a cocktail garnished with a rose petal and he had a beer he loves, nutty and oak-aged; they perused the menu and lamented they couldn't taste a little of everything. they started with yam crisps topped with hummus, then a platter of crab cakes made of west coast dungeness crab, topped with smoky corn salsa and horseradish aioli. they also shared the briased bison short ribs: free run, grass-fed bison short rib slow braised in bourbon and molasses, tender and moist. they moved from their table to a couch in the corner where they could sink into the cushions and order a cup of steamed milk with thick froth and one single earl grey infused truffle. an evening of perfect flavours that beckoned them to visit again for the kangaroo carpaccio, for the coconut pakora. they were quiet during the taxi ride home, taking in the day of celebration and reflection. three years; they simply love being married, they couldn't imagine a better life than the one they live together.

an evening with the girls.

2011-06-13T23:58:00.000-07:00

monday, the alarm went early, but he encouraged her to sleep until she's rested. they made the bed together, the quiet rustling of the white duvet and the platinum textile covered pillows welcoming the morning as they shook the feathers into shape. she brewed a pressed of white jasmine tea, the pearls expanding in the hot water. she poured the infusion into a delicate china tea cup on the table: cream-colored porcelain, edged with intricate golden patterns, antique wedgwood, a gift from her best friend years ago. they shared breakfast a bowl of ripe rainier cherries, still beaded with cold water from washing. the rain poured loudly outside the window and they conversed before the start of the day. he told her about the german film he had watched the night before, set in east berlin. she told him of the pages of the journal she had been reading before she fell asleep, the pages covered in her own handwriting from the six months of her engagement. breakfast was followed by a hot shower was followed by a morning of work. they sat side by side, both working from home. late in the day, long after photographs were processed and a cup of hot chocolate was savored in the afternoon, she curled her hair, she sprayed indian perfume. she wore a sequin adorned tulle top under a cashmere wrap and slipped her feet into black wedges. on main street, she met two creative and gorgeous girls: caroline & sarah. they gushed over one another's outfits; sarah dressed in a silk obakki top with strappy black stilettos and caroline dressed with a soft leopard printed scarf around her neck and the perfect line of liquid eyeliner on her lids. they were seated at the latin american latitude. they begin to catch up on one another's lives. ages passed before they even glanced at the menus. the perfect conversation, without lulls, continued for hours and hours. she ordered a flute of cava and the others drank argentinian malbec. they shared a starter plate of prawns sauteed with garlic, smoked chili, butter and grill bread, perfectly spiced. from the latin american street food inspired menu, three platters of tacos were ordered: one with steak and guacamole, one with chicken and tomatillo salsa, one with battered fish and cabbage and pickled red onion. between the rich flavors and sips of wine they shared their lives, their hearts. stories of their loves, of skincare, of fashion, of tiffany & co., of business, of monocle magazine, of engagements, of weddings, of photography, of films... and more and more and more. sarah reapplied nude lipstick in elegant sweeps. it was refreshing to be out, to be feminine, to be conversing, to be listening, to be giggling. they finished the evening with one dessert and three spoons: a decadent chocolate banana bread pudding with molten chocolate and cream, simply perfect.

cooking is like love.

2011-06-06T08:37:00.000-07:00

sunday, they bathed in the sunlight all afternoon before their evening cooking course at the dirty apron cooking school. they, along with six other couples gathered in the gorgeous kitchen & dining space to cook three decadent courses together. run by the same chefs at the ever-celebrated chambar and their favourite brunch spot next door, cafe medina, the dirty apron features a european deli, a shop filled with gourmet ingredients and a cooking school. after a demonstration, they got to cooking in the gorgeously tiled kitchen, while soft jazz music played in the background. they tasted the fleur de sel before seasoning their dishes; they whisked, they melted, they folded, they sauteed. pears were set on the hot grill, a cornish game hen was rubbed with paprika and butter, egg whites were whipped until light and fluffy. she wrapped her arms around him from behind and relaxed into the warmth of his body as he cooked. once the first course was prepared, they plated it: beds of watercress tossed in vinaigrette with hazelnuts, grilled pears, thin slices of prosciutto, oyster mushrooms sauteed in sherry vinaigrette and a warm goat's cheese and apricot cake, crusted with panko. they enjoyed the starter at the communal table in the dining room amongst the other couples, with glasses of perfectly paired italian wine. the sourness of the balsamic and sherry vinegars, the sharpness of the aged red wine glaze, the saltiness of the prosciutto, the sweetness and smokiness of the grilled pear, the hint of creaminess in the hazelnuts. for the following course, they enjoyed a roasted cornish game hen with a grainy mustard pan jus and a risotto with chanterelles, asparagus and truffle oil. warming, hearty, creamy, satisfying and again perfectly paired to wine. finally, they pulled their chocolate souffles from the oven and caramelized the tops of their creme brules to plate a trio of desserts, a sharing plate: chocolate souffle, dark & white chocolate dipped strawberries and rosewater & pistachio creme brule. the souffle was light, airy, cloud-like; beneath the crisp caramel crust of the brule was a rich custard studded with pistachios and hinted with the floral aroma of roses. they sipped hot coffee and lingered over their dessert, eyeing one another across the table, laughing and staying after the rest of the couples had finished. they walked home, hand in hand, along the water, reveling in the romance of decadent flavors, of cooking together. cooking is like love, it should be entered with abandon or not at all (julia child).

for more poetry.

2011-05-09T07:52:00.000-07:00

saturday, they created a sense of 'clean', of 'newness'. while a playlist of happy, mellow music filled the home, they wiped and swept and tidied. they are minimalists, keeping only the few possessions that they truly need and love. they purged, they rearranged, they cut fresh flowers for the vase on the table. they rotated the candles from room to room, moved the stalks of cotton to the other side of the sink, and pushed the sofa under the window, amazed at how small changes breathe life into a space. they created a space that felt more polished, more mature and even more reflective of themselves, of who they are. between the scrubbing and the lifting, there were many cups of tea sipped at the window with incredulous comments about the heavy rain and thick hail. they were grateful to be inside, to be warm and dry. she took a break and sank into their white armchair and surveyed their home, their life. she wondered what her younger self would make of all of this. she took herself back to the first months of her relationship with her love, when she was seventeen, having just moved to university dorm and begun her life on her own. she looked at her present life through those seventeen year old eyes and was amazed... she saw a modern, gourmet kitchen with the kitchenaid stand mixer in which to make cakes. she looked down and saw a classic and understated tiffany & co. solitaire diamond sparkling on her left hand, and a wedding band to match, meaning she had married the love of her life. she saw a home filled with striped silk textiles, with black and white photography framed, with chanel no. five, with a front loading washer and dryer - details that would have spoken to her young self of elegance and luxury and independence. she noticed the photographs of europe, of the eiffel tower: we've been to paris, she smiled. she wondered why there were no bibles to be found. she was curious if there was a significance to the tibetan statue in the bedroom, yet she admired the global aesthetic. she saw ingredients that she'd never heard of, technology that had yet to be invented. in her closet, only one item, a printed a-line skirt, was familiar, while every other hanger held a piece that was new and neutral-toned and luxe; designer pieces held her attention. the tin of white jasmine tea, silk sachets filled with pearls of tea, seemed so beautiful. yet, she was still drinking jasmine tea, with a little splash of milk and a teaspoon of honey, the way that she always had. and her love, he looked different, yet he had the same heart and the same adoration for her. observe the wonders as they occur around you. don't claim them. feel the artistry moving through and be silent (rumi). the revelation of the sights of her young eyes gave her a sense of accomplishment, of appreciation, of insight. in the evening, the sun had set early behind the dark prussian blue skies, and they steamed brown basmati rice, rich and aromatic with garlic cloves, cumin, turmeric, saffron and cardamom pods. the fragrant, woody and spicy scent filled the kitchen and poured into the rest of the flat while he read to her. he picked up the 1896 edition of sonnets by elizabeth barrett browning that he had found for her in a used bookshop in edinburgh, her first anniversary gift, made of the traditional 'paper'. he read sonnets of love while vanilla candles flickered and cast light around the walls. she listened, and relaxed into the sound of his voice, occasionally stumbling on the rhythm of the poetry. when the rice was nearly cooked, they steamed broccoli with lemon, roasted carrots with sea salt and pan-fried filets of basa marinated in garlic. she hoped that the coming days might bring sunlight, and she hoped that the coming days would be filled again with more poetry. both that he would read to her, and that they fill their lives with the romantic and the mundane moments that create a poetic living.

sunday, her love slept late. she woke hours before him and took the quiet moments in bed to peruse inspiration. exposed brick and sequins and soft hues and tulle and travels in morocco. she prepared foamy lattes in the kitchen, careful not to wake him, and brought them to bed with breakfast atop a large bamboo board. he read, she wrote. they called their mothers to wish them a day of joy and celebration, to appreciate their years of bringing up children. his mother, having just returned from a holiday in africa, told them stories of elephant rides and victoria falls and safaris and the sweetest babe that they miss. she longed for a holiday in africa soon. she wrapped herself in a white trench coat, he in a black knitted sweater with tortoise shell buttons. they visited commune cafe. he read, she wrote.on the way home, they stopped at the market, the one that plays the jazz music, and they filled a basket with kale and lemons and chorizo. she chose a thick and fruity olive oil from new zealand with a minimal and witty label, as well as a bundle of wildflowers. at home, she baked kale chips, crisp and earthy, while he prepared a meal. simple, slow, rhythmic, sharing the space in the kitchen together, spreading their ingredients out on the large island. they savored rosemary & golden rum granita, hand made with fresh herbs from his sister's garden. beautiful, all at once warming and cooling, sweet and herbaceous. it was a quiet evening, reveling in the beauty of the home, of the flavors of the world, of their life together.

five days: live the life you love.

2011-05-06T19:51:00.000-07:00

monday morning they woke early before the sun had risen, they caught a train back to their home in the city, sipping hot earl grey tea. as they rode through the countryside, she began work and sorted through photographs of love; she looked forward to a week of processing and sharing the beauty. at home, she unpacked their bags and slipped into a hot bath filled with lavender bubbles to let the tiredness slip off of her and to let orchid conditioner to soak into her hair. her order of groceries arrived at the door; she baked a loaf of sourdough bread and spread a hot slice with creamy ricotta and raw wildflower honey. she indulged in a compelling new book and a soft, afternoon nap. in the evening, a rich pot of ratatouille was simmering on the stove... a week of life came and went, filled with rainy days. grey skies welcomed the month of may, and many afternoons were spent at home. many days spent processing images, soothed by the sound of swishing from the dishwasher, soothed by the sound of a happy, mellow playlist on the speakers. falling slowly, eyes that know me, and i can't go back; falling slowly sing your melody, i'll sing it loud... ...i'm your firefly, i'm your shade, i want to live in a house that we made; i want to love you, everyday... haute design's eloquent and widely-read coverage of the obakki fall/winter fashion show featured her images. she was featured on a local site as the featured vancouverite. an artist that she admires and a brilliant yogini-entrepreneur-writer-activist commented on her work; a photographer that she loves traveled in europe, making her nostalgic for her once-home. her work was published by a site for baby inspiration in the u.k. she sipped cups of vanilla oolong tea as she worked, she took a break in the afternoon to walk along the ocean. this is why we live here, she thought, in this building on the edge of the sea, so that i can take a moment in the afternoon to fill my lungs with cold, salty air. for the very last time, her book club met around her table. they poured local wine from the decanter, they shared a board of aged cheeses and a platter of sliced pears and a dish of baked camembert in which to dip crusted bread. soon, they would soon all be on new paths: in rwanda, in australia, in paris... they cherished the year that had past since the first time they met -- they cherished the novels they had read together, the meals that they had shared in one another's homes and mostly they cherished the many late night evenings of conversation that had happened, deepening an inexplicable trust between near-strangers, and turning their monthly gathering about books into something more profound, more spiritual. again, they stayed up late, drinking in every last minute of time together, sharing their hearts over pieces of chocolate. the next morning she woke early to attend her first pottery class. she walked the short distance from her home to the studio along the seawall and looked forward to getting her hands thick with grey clay. she had always wanted to create with her hands; to her, it feels feminine, artistic. she learned to prepare her clay, to centre it on the wheel, to lift it with her hands as it spins. she left hours layer with clay all over her yoga pants, dried on her hands and perhaps a small smear on her cheek. at home, she tossed all of her clothes into the washer and turned on a hot shower. she refreshed, and dressed simply in her sevens with a white tee. she made lunch: a panini made with fresh sourdough bread, with ricotta, with basil, with thick slices of zucchini, with sea salt. hurrying, she caught the train out of the city; she flipped through intelligent life on the ipad, captivated by the cover story about the elegant and artisitic grace coddington, creative director of american vogue. she prayed that she would be as lively as grace at seventy. once she arrived at her destination, she was welcomed with a hot cup of peppermint tea and a cuddle with her sweet baby niece. she photographed her little giggles and fell more in love with her dark-chocolate-hued eyes, catching the light in them in each frame. she went home with a bundle of fresh rosemary in her bag, with tiny purple flowers still attached, grown with love by her sister in law in the garden. that evening, she met her love after work in gastown, where they were shown to a table at nicli antica. they shared authentic italian pizzas topped with fresh basil and fior di latte and finished with extra virgin olive oil. they shared their day over the candles flickering on the table, amidst the myriad diners filling the trendy spot. they finished the meal with a tiramisu - light texture, yet rich flavors of espresso, chocolate and mascarpone. another work day passed, and she spent it in a cafe with fresh spring flowers on the tables and with grilled multigrain bread topped with roasted turkey and cranberry chutney. every table was filled with those working on laptops, those meeting for lunch; the energy around her motivated her to work. two hipster mamas in skinny pants, vintage clogs, big glasses and knits sat at a table with their baby girls in prams. they gave their babes steamed soy milk as they enjoyed lattes and discussed interior design and record players. she smiled at the way their motherhood felt young, relevant, beautiful. that evening she simmered a mushroom and red wine soup on the stove; the sipped the rich broth and dipped crusty bread into it, savoring. earthy, bitter, sweet. she enjoyed a quiet, cosy evening and was inspired by sophie dahl. gorgeous and eloquent and delicious, she is. this kitchen is a gently relaxed one... in this kitchen we appreciate the restorative powers of chocolate. the kitchen would have a fireplace... there might be a small upright piano by the window, with an orchid that doesn't wither... on long summer days, the doors to this kitchen are thrown open, while a few lacy, non-stinging bees mosey by. children stir. when it rains there is room in this kitchen for reading and a spoon finding its way into the cake mix. serious cups of tea are drunk here; idle gossip occurs, balance and humor prevail. it is lingering breakfasts, it is friends with babes on their knees, it is good-bye on a sunday with the promise of more. this kitchen is where life occurs, jumbled, messy and delicious. it is lovely. and, on the final weekday, she wrapped herself in a white trench, a nude silk scarf and heeled boots to do errands. she stopped for a yam roll and a green tea at a japanese restaurant before finishing her tasks and then meeting her love outside his office in the rain. it was time for the weekend to begin.

a weekend of home.

2011-05-01T19:50:00.000-07:00

friday afternoon, the sunshine shone and she wrapped herself in ballet pink cashmere and filled a suitcase with nude heels and cocoa butter and a skinny tie and dolce & gabanna cologne. she met him at the train station where they settled into seats and watched the cityscape turn to lush green countryside studded with rustic fences. they arrived at her parents' home and the scent of familiarity washed over her; it was the same home that she grew up in. the kitchen was bustling with stirring and tasting and hugging and conversing and laughing. she loves being with her family, surrounded by the feeling of home, reminded again of what it was to be seventeen. they spent saturday at home, cooking together, inspired. they curled up together in the hammock and let the spring breeze lull them to sleep. there was music and dancing and laughter in the evening. the following day, they woke eager for the afternoon to begin. she piled her hair on her head, they picked up iced coffees and drove to rural meadows to meet two adorable couples to photograph. they met their first clients who brought balloons and styled their shoot in shades of black and white. a rural-meets-modern session that they loved photographing, ankle deep in mud. after soaking up a little sunshine into their skin and reveling in the first real warmth of the year, they met the next couple. they brought their vintage bicycles and his tee shirt that reads, i just want to ride bikes with you. they set up a knitted blanket, a selection of cheeses and a bottle of organic wine. what followed was such a pleasure to photograph: a couple, styled in creams and nudes, bicycling to their wine & cheese picnic; pouring a blend of cabernet sauvignon and carmenere into glasses and sipping; kisses so intimate and his thumb on her soft lips; walking hand in hand through the tall grasses, through the soft light. after the picnic was put away and hundreds of pretty photographs had been recorded to remember forever, they left the rural meadows for the city centre to dine on greek food. they tasted greek wines, ordered lamb souvlaki, tasted off one another's plates. four friends. they finished the evening with dancing, at the same place that she and her love had danced for the first time, more than five years before, on the second day that they had met. their new friends told them that they adored watching them dance, their love for one another evident. clearly you are head over heels in love with each other. yes, they are. she wondered how she could have ever imagined that moment when years ago she was twirled by him for the first time, at the age of seventeen. the life they've created together since then is simply filled with goodness.

fashion is in the sky, in the street.

2011-04-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

another week of rain and of work and of love. one day of perfection. she began the morning working from bed with a cup of tea in hand, working to complete each task for the week, to process each image. minutes before afternoon, she sealed the envelope of a collection of photographs for a client and let the satisfaction of accomplishment and productivity wash over her head with the hot water of the shower. she dressed in a gold tassled scarf with cap toe flats. she swept black liner onto her lids and curled her hair. she met a lovely friend for pitas filled with falafel at nuba. they shared life, they shared their fears and dreams over fresh lebanese food and chilled cucumber water. they then trained downtown to browse urban outfitters. she found the perfect summer dress, the one that she's been dreaming of for hot days with jeweled sandals and an iced coffee. flirty, flimsy, navy, white. that evening, she slipped into black skinny pants, a nude tank with sequins and her thick herringbone wool cape. she met an inspiring soul, dressed in sky-high heels and a nearly backless obakki dress, in one of the front rows of an ancient downtown cathedral, the backdrop for the much anticipated obakki fall/winter fashion show. obakki is a local fashion house, with a stunning gastown boutique and an international reputation, that designs beautiful collections mostly in neutrals, both pale and dark, made in opulent fabrics of fine japanese lace, delicate italian silks, with angora and mohair accents. the stained glass windows threw dramatic shapes of jewel-toned light onto the high stone ceilings and across the runway that was set up between the rows of traditional wooden pews. hundreds and hundreds of bone white pillar candles in staggered sizes flickered at the front of the runway, the space lit only with candlelight. the evening began with a ghostly and beautiful improvisation on the grand piano and the full screening of the fall/winter film. a soft and slow documentary of ethereal dresses in a majestic mansion, featuring dusty chandeliers and the same layers of burning candles. the fashions were walked down the runway by gorgeous young models made up in red lipstick, porcelain skin and fishtail hair styles. the detailing and draping were impeccable, the textiles longed to be touched. flashes went off around them as international media captured the beauty of the evening. industry insiders from fashion television, from elle, from who-what-wear, sat around them to capture the moment. collective neutrals of antique whites with complexities of dark ash were accented by a kaleidoscopic array of garnet red, umber brown, burnt petal, and ochre. custom prints and washed vintage silk elevated the ornate nature of the collection. silhouettes included sheer and billowed blouses, body conscious cocktail dresses, tiered gowns, and tapered trousers. the two girls whispered to one another about which looks they could see the other wearing, dreaming of trying on many pieces from the collection. obakki hoped to raise the standard for fashion and for runway shows in vancouver, and they certainly did. the proceeds of the evening went to support the work of the obakki foundation, which closed the evening with a film set in cameroon. her eyes brimmed with tears, not because the film of the foundation's work showed sadness, but because it featured so much joy. simply uplifting beauty. do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.
view her photographic coverage of the event here.

the soul is on its knees.

2011-04-25T19:40:00.000-07:00

saturday. she woke to him watching her sleep. he told her that when he wakes up in the morning he loves her most. seeing her stir each day, his face lights up and he feels so much for her. they untangled their legs, she uncurled from her fetal position and they stretched their bodies until the pads of their feet touched the floor. a bridal shower: the bride's bright blue eyes shone as she surveyed all of the gorgeous details planned for the event, which was held in a suite on the fourteenth floor of the fairmont pacific rim, overlooking the ocean. twenty four of the bride's closest friends and family, dressed in beautiful layers of silk and linen, gathered to toast her with pink bubbly. there were orchids, there were china tea cups, there were many pairs of designer heels and there was love for the bride-to-be. he met her after the shower with a picnic in hand. they sat next to the ocean and tore off pieces of soft baguette to spread with soft brie. she bit into a ripe bosc pear and the juice ran down her fingers. they breathed in the sea breeze. he ordered her a tall decaf half-sweet hazelnut whole milk one hundred and fifty degree latte for her to sip while they shopped downtown. he chose for her an elegant white trench; she found a ballet-pink cashmere wrap. they finished the evening with films. sunday. a quiet day at home while the rain poured. a friend that they love came to visit, and the men went out to drink beer at the local brewery. she watched dramatic films and had a pedicure with ballet pink polish. she pondered easter, what it meant to her once, what it meant to her on that day and what it would mean to her and to her babes in the future. when her own words failed, the words of others came to mind: faith is very present in my life and yet it has evolved over the years to a more encompassing place of respecting everyone's beliefs and learning from many different walks of life. i have a very faith-heavy past, and there are both treasured traditions and beliefs from the past i keep as well as pains and misconceptions of god i've worked to heal. faith and religion are two very different things. i am religion-less, but faith--the grounding, comforting belief that i am smaller than someone else, that there is more to my life than my breath and body--is a very purposeful part of my life. (kelle hampton) there are thoughts which are prayers. there are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees. (victor hugo) they simmered a spicy curry with mushrooms on the stove and served it over brown rice. perfectly warming for the cool, wet day. when the sun had set, they pulled on wellies and put up their umbrella. a journey to visit couple friends with a stop at the wine shop for a bottle of beso de vino old vine garnacha, mostly intrigued by the label: banana and nut bread toast, berry compote, and delicate spice aromas follow through on a round entry to a dry-yet-fruity medium body with a hint of green apple and mint jelly. once uncorked and decanted, the aroma and flavors proved to be as interesting as the bottle. the four sipped on wine for hours, sharing life stories while the babe slept soundly upstairs.

friday, a holiday. cherry blossoms, love and a play.

2011-04-23T18:02:00.000-07:00

friday, a holiday. a day to spend together. she woke up hours before her alarm because of the sun streaming through the curtains, because of him stirring in bed next to her. she pressed her back into his front for a few more moments before waking to bake a loaf studded with dark chocolate to slice for breakfast. she folded fresh laundry, she listened to mellow music, the noise of the stand mixer competing with the playlist and her soft voice filling the kitchen. and i have to speculate that god himself did make us into corresponding shapes like pieces from the clay. long before her alarm rang, she had already accomplished much and had reveled in the spring sunshine. she danced in the kitchen, feeling the music. i'm standing on the edge of me, i'm standing on the everything i've never been before, i'm on fire when you're near me. after slices of warm chocolate loaf, a hot shower and an armani scarf wrapped around her neck, they left for a japanese garden where he would breathe in the calm and where she would photograph a couple in love. amidst koi fish in the ponds, tall cherry blossom trees shimmering in the dappled sunlight, and grounds covered in moss, she captured the love of two long-time sweethearts. they wore white and cream and carried a japanese inspired parasol. she fell in love with them and their love story and yearned to capture them as best she could in images. the couple generously offered to take her and her love for sushi, to continue the japanese themed afternoon. they found a place where they would take off their shoes, sit on cushions barefoot, and sip miso soup out of bowls. the four shared stories of love, of weddings, of city life. she felt so blessed to work with clients that she would love to call friends. when they parted, she suggested that they walk home, hand in hand, along the ocean; that they take a few hours to soak in the city that they love and the sunshine that they had been craving. they walked past the fisherman selling their catch, past the granville island market, past the bridges to downtown, past the kites and the sailboats. once they arrived home a few hours later, she was ready to sit with a hot coffee and to be still. yet, he told her that in an hour she would have to be ready to go out again... he asked her to bathe, to put together an outfit with heels, to wait to be surprised. she wore a nude tulle tank covered in hand sewn silver sequins and piled her hair on her head. she drew black liquid liner in a thick sweep above her lashes. she filled a clutch with her lipstick. when it was time to leave, a taxi awaited her in front of their building. he opened the door for her and she wondered where they would go. when she heard the destination, 'the cultch' cultural centre, she knew they would be seeing a play. along the way, they picked up a chilled bottle of perrier to sip and soon, they were settled in plush seats in the front row of the theatre. she felt so pampered, so loved. over the next hundred minutes they watched a myriad of stories unfold before them, all linked to the concept of clothing, of fashion and the way they shape lives. after the play, they shared with one another how amazed they were that they could laugh so deeply and feel such heavy sorrow all at once. they marveled at the wonder, at the insight, at the talent of what they had watched, and became aware of the ways that the theme played itself out in their own life. she was inspired by one scene in particular, inspired to live her life with fearless abandon. to let go and to let be. still discussing the philosophies presented by the theater and not yet ready to go home, they stopped at a cuban restaurant & art gallery that was filled with hipsters and late night energy. the walls were textured with thousands of names carved into the plaster. they ordered two sangrias: one traditional red wine with citrus and one champagne with mint and strawberries. they shared a platter of skirt steak taquitos, impressively presented with fresh sour cream, vivid pink pickled cabbage, black bean puree and greens on warm tortillas. as they sat in the crowded cuban restaurant sipping sangria, savoring the cuban flavors, feeling gorgeous and discussing the play, she felt, this is life. they walked up commercial drive, took the train one stop to home and climbed into bed for a long, romantic massage in the dark.

wednesday to thursday, their life.

2011-04-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

the days following spotenaeity and romance... wednesday, they joined their wine club for an evening of tasting languedoc wines in a yaletown apartment on the twelfth floor. they feasted on prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, on imported french cheeses, on andouille, on stewed mediterranean vegetables with lamb sausage. there was a view of the ocean, and passing ships through its mist, from the high rise. he offered the monthly lesson, and impressed the group with his brilliantly researched lecture on the economics of wine. she offered him a proud look from across the room, over her glass. wine club: a sophisticated gathering filled with many generations, with many origins, with many languages. they sipped their way through six bottles of languedoc wine, they soaked in the company, they returned home thoroughly satisfied by tastes, by people they admire. the following day, she took a moment between working to revel in the spring warmth. she found a seat at the outdoor cafe of the downtown art gallery, took off her trench coat and sipped a hot pot of ginger tea. she read a paperback, she donned large black sunglasses, she greeted the white puppy beneath her feet. that evening, she met a couple to book their wedding photography and she fell in love with their sweet plans for a local, intimate event with lemonade and little black dresses, followed by a honeymoon in paris.

a tuesday romance.

2011-04-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

a tuesday of april, a whirlwind day. many commitments, many disappointments. in the late afternoon, she took a hot shower, rubbed pink balm into her lips and dressed in her softest clothes; refreshed. he called her, and she answered with i love you. he invited her to choose a dress from the closet and to dine with him at a spontaneous dinner reservation at la quercia. he arrived home with softly-hued roses and kisses, romantic. they sampled mango-curry-cashew raincoast crisps and tandoori smoked salmon, and they sipped on kombucha while sharing their day; she lounged across his lap. she dressed in azure satin and pinned her hair up on her head. she added elegant sparkle to her ears and clasped a crystal pendant around her neck. she felt loved, beautiful and pampered. he hailed a taxi, and opened the door for her. they were whisked away to the restaurant. a small space with abstract art in ornate frames, an open kitchen and historical elements. it evoked a sense of rural italy with its design and the aromas of truffles and ripe parmesan-reggiano. although a tuesday evening, every table was filled, a sign that they had discovered a well-admired secret. she began with a luxurious flute of prosecco: bubbling, fresh, aromatic. they perused the menu, yet he dared her to allow the kitchen to surprise their palettes. hesitatingly, she agreed. a bottle of castello di bossi 2006 morellino di scansano was poured into their glasses: rich, velvety, smoky. they dipped crusty bread in olive oil so thick, fragrant and earthy. seven courses followed, and as their wine glasses were refilled, their conversation became more lively. she asked him if they were celebrating anything, and he answered, we are celebrating your beauty. they held one another's gaze across their intimate table in the corner. first, sole in soar cured with pickled leeks and salsa verde. second, a salad of beets, endive, cherry vinaigrette and large slices of creamy burrata cheese. third, vitelo tonnato. fourth, handmade gnocchi with gorgonzola and walnuts. fifth, garganelli folded pasta with lamb. sixth, trout with potato puree, brown butter sauce, truffled zucchini and capers. finally, they savored desert, a perfect end to the meal, a sampling of flavors from rhubarb with lemon cream to chocolate-citrus ganache to a moist carrot-spice cake with tart cream cheese. she sipped a bold cappuccino, and they were offered meringues as their final taste as they finished their evening. while they had dined, tables had cleared and filled, the sun had set, the street lights had illuminated... hours had passed, and they had simply been savoring the culinary creations and the romantic company. in the taxi that brought them home, she sat close to him and wrapped her arms around his body, thanking him for his spontaneity. inside their flat, he slipped off her dress and put her in bed. moments after he pulled the duvet over them, they were already entwined, arms, feet, hair. she fell asleep quickly, held by his warmth.

first tastes of spring.

2011-04-18T12:37:00.000-07:00

the week came and past, punctuated by a song that makes them smile. at the weekend, spring was alive. the sun shone and the flowers blossomed and puppies were out to play. they spent mornings basking in the sunlight streaming through their curtains as they woke slowly. the home was scented with green tea fragrance oil and they celebrated time together. she saw sparkles and gowns at the city's celebrated gala. she played the piano for him, and he closed his eyes in enjoyment. they spent sunday at the granville island market, weaving in and out of rows of organic produce with a cup of hot hazelnut tea. they watched the wonder in peoples' faces as they took in the vast array of products and sampled the whole earth on their lips. he squeezed her hand a little tighter when three-year old twins, one boy and one girl, with soft olive skin and almond eyes ran by. the littles were dressed in ivory cable knit under leather jackets. the girl had sheepskin boots and her black hair tied into two bouncy knots on her head. the boy wore a tweed newsboy cap. the two babes were stylish and giggly; he smiled at her, knowing she'd find them beautiful. live music rang through the island, seagulls flocked. they ordered lebanese street food and walked around the ocean, basking in the warmth. they spread out in a lush green space, at the edge of the water and watched the magnolias bloom, the the cyclists rush past and the mamas push babies in prams. they stayed for hours, so content to be warm and to be loved and to be together. they stayed in the sun so long that his forehead began to color. as the air finally started to cool, they walked all the way home, where he ran her a hot bath to soak in. she soaked and soaked for so long that her fingers and toes were wrinkled beyond recognition. he kissed her hands, closed his eyes and took in the feeling of weathered skin against his lips. when he opened his eyes again to look at her, he said, this is what it will feel like to kiss your fingers in sixty years. i cannot wait. it was late, and they had not yet eaten. they spread the table with mediterranean olives, with flickering tea lights, with thinly sliced prosciutto, with crusty bread, with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vvinegar. they made a salad of vime-ripe tomatoes, fresh bocconcini, torn basil. most of a bottle of australian white was poured into their glasses as they savored small bites. late in to the night, satisfied.

saturday & sunday: lattes and fog.

2011-04-13T15:26:00.000-07:00

a weekend of simple bliss. of reading in bed for hours on saturday morning. she: poser, my life in twenty-three yoga poses. he: atlas shrugged. a cup of hot chocolate for breakfast, inspired by parisians. when i am despondent, i dream of paris. when i am content, i dream of being in paris, in love. (barbara-jo mcintosh) a tin of jasmine pearl tea and her dream camera in hand, they walked home from the shops, an hour of wandering quiet evening neighborhoods in the heart of the city. she loves the city skyline at dusk. the dusk settled on the city on saturday evening and turned into thick grey fog on sunday. it poured and the skies were dark. they lit the flat with lamps all day, and candles flickered, reflecting golden light on the walls. he made lattes and fed her a spoonful of hot milky foam from the pan. it washed over her lips and fulled her mouth with warm, creamy sweetness, bubbles dissipating on her tongue. she called her mama for the family banana loaf recipe and set to work, mashing and mixing, filling the home with the scent of bananas and vanilla extract as it baked in the oven for an hour. all afternoon, they enjoyed hot mugs of jasmine tea and thick slices of warm banana loaf and salted butter. film after film is his way to savor grey sundays. they watched a silent foreign classic, set in edinburgh, making them nostalgic for what was once their home. they went to the market, braving the rain, for the weekly shop of rustic baguette and dark chocolate and basil and avocado and brown sugar. they spread a hand tossed crust with pureed cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, spinach and black pepper with bocconcini and finished with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. she was dancing around the kitchen as she cleaned, and he looked up at her with shining eyes, and called her elegant, in her simple black pants, his striped cotton tee and a wrapped ethnic pashmina and pearls. his compliments are her favourite.

another week: our hands they seek the end of afternoon.

2011-04-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

another week passed, the mundane and simple rhythms of laundry, of being together, of cleaning the floors. some days are long and descriptive poems, but on other days, the poetry is short. these were days of familiarity, the quotidian habits of bathing in lavender bubbles and saying i love you to him. the week was punctuated with a book of inspiration, cover to cover, read in the sunlight: a book that inspires her art and her business. the week was punctuated with cold, white ceramic bowls of tiramisu gelato; the flavors of dark chocolate and espresso and mascarpone melting over her tongue. they spent the week together, working from their home, brewing milano espresso. the week was punctuated with an evening out for sushi, together, sharing many cups of hot green tea. the week was punctuated with that spicy, natural scent in whole foods that makes her feel 'home'. the week was punctuated with a meal in a another's home: a friend from france, who lives in a home filled with twenty-somethings from all over the world. many of them sat together around the table, drinking australian wine, dipping crusty bread into french camembert that had been baked with herbs and garlic. french music played, and the men who knew the words sang along under their breath, whisking a homemade vinaigrette for a salad. they all shared stories of travels and dreams for seeing more of the earth. another evening after dinner, she turned on the sea and the rhythm, and they listened on repeat, literally for hours. they shared childhood memories in between verses. they let the lyrics wash over them; he felt the emotion of the banjo. tonight, we're the sea and the salty breeze; the milk from your breast is on my lips and lovelier words from your mouth to me when salty my sweat and fingertips. our hands they seek the end of afternoon, my hands believe and move over you. tonight, we're the sea and the rhythm, there the waves and the wind and night is black, tonight we're the scent of your long black hair spread out like your breath across my back. your hands they move like waves over me, beneath the moon, tonight, we're the sea. one evening she loved him and pampered him, scrubbing his skin, massaging his back, shaving his face, wrapping him in hot towels, rubbing him with almond oil. she settled him on the duvet, wrapped him in his thick black bathrobe, and poured him a steaming cup of rooibos to pair with the novel in his hands. romantic and generous, they were so connected. ultimately the atmosphere in the home was of calmness. the following morning, friday, ten photographers met together in her flat. some who had barely begun, some who had been photographing for years. all artists, all ambitious. they shared brunch together... the table was spread with crusty bread and herbed ricotta, with freshly sliced produce, with bunches of red grapes, with delicate pancetta quiche, with decadent homemade baked goods from butter tarts to rich blueberry muffins. she passed around flutes of bubbly lemon water and americanos adorned with vintage golden spoons. they filled every chair, they sat on cushions on the floor and took in the inspiration of a course on business. they shared their own photography experiences and encouraged one another to dream; they became a community over photography, over brunch.

the perfect weekend: etre ce que tu veux etre.

2011-04-12T17:07:00.000-07:00

. . . il n'est jamais trop tard pour être ce que tu veux être. saturday was a perfect day, when everything aligns and they feel exactly as they always dream of feeling. she woke early to the morning light kissing the silk, striped drapes. she woke him, he stirred. good morning. she prepared a decadent weekend breakfast, wearing the sensually soft black nightdress that makes her feel beautiful. he steeped rooibos and they brought their meal to the table, basking in the springtime sun. they carried a lively conversation from the table to the hot shower. he rinsed her hair and massaged orchid scented conditioner into her dark, wet locks. chocolate brown towels. they dressed. he wore a skinny tie with skinny jeans. she pulled on tights, two toned flats, a soft caridgan-dress and draped pink baubles around her neck. the collision of elegance and comfort. they left for the eastern part of the city -- a little grittier, a little artier. they ended up in a quiet residential area of east vancouver, wandering between houses, discussing where they'd like to live one day, and when to have their babies. they picked up green glass bottles of sparkling spring water and showed their tickets at the cultural centre for the matinee performance of 1984. they sank into plush seats, sipped perrier. they were amazed by production and choreography and story. the boundaries of west coast theatre were pushed, thoughts were provoked. she whispered to him, that she couldn't imagine a better place to be on a saturday: sipping sparkling water, feeling gorgeous, watching theatre with her love at a cultural centre. a life of art and luxury. after the play, they walked commercial drive, discussed the theatrical merits and stopped for lunch in little italy. she pulled him into vintage shops where they sorted through silk scarves and where she fell in love with a vintage black tutu. they stopped for a coffee from one his favourite local roasters. as they waited for the espresso to brew, he held her close and asked softly, can i get you anything, darling? she felt such tenderness in his words and in his touch. they walked all the way home together, one hour from the east side to the city centre, while the sun set. they tangled their arms together around their backs, he offered her sips of his latte, they shared their hearts, they admired the cherry blossoms. this is what love is, she felt. that he loves her and holds her and shares with her and listens to her. his attention was lavished upon her and she felt its sweetness. this is to be loved. she wished that every heart in the world might feel that. when they returned home, he spontaneously photographed her, seeing her beauty through the lens. he loves her. he turned on opera, warmed her feet, and took her to bed in the early evening to play and rest. as the sunlight faded, the flickering candles became more prominent, filling the room with their light and the scent of ripe figs on trees. still with the mid-century opera playing, they cooked, they dined. they simply lived a slow evening together, in each other's arms, in dim light. sunday was met with as much beauty. they explored fourth avenue, with its organic markets and loose leaf teas and imported french candles and tulips wrapped in brown paper. a quiet sunday, drinking in all the perfection of the life and love that they share together. they baked ginger scones and brewed sweet black cardamom tea and invited his parents to share. his parents shared with her stories from his childhood in africa; from days spent playing on the beaches of the namibian desert. her heart swells for that little boy with his pail and wellies and freckled skin.

between: meeting inspiration in the present.

2011-04-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

between the saturdays and sundays are a handful of days that crave routine and progress. these days passed, filled with inspiration. early in the week, she spent an entire afternoon penning her dreams. inspired by another dreamer, she penned blank page after blank page after blank page with thick cursive in black ink. she described her ideal life: dreams for her business, dreams for her home, dreams for her love, dreams for her art. a bookclub met in their flat and passed walnut-basil pasta around the table as they explored conversation & debate. they all wondered at the evolution of language, of art into the future. the following day, there was rising early to catch a train out of the city, to cradle a baby girl, born only nine days before. she held and photographed those six pounds of sweetness. the darling's mama shared the story of her natural water birth; both parents simply radiated with joy. she was inspired by their simple, calm parenting, by their hopeful hearts. many evenings, she wore black silk lounge pants around the home, indulging in the soft, slippery fabric brushing against her skin; a gift from her love. she began a space to capture the inspirations that she finds. happily there is inspiration everywhere -- the tulle, tiaras and graceful movements at the ballet; eggs benedict and mimosas over sunday brunch; glittering stars in the late-winter sky; vintage shops and art galleries; breathtaking coral-colored sunsets; morning coffee over glossy magazines, and most of all and always, traveling... (this is glamorous for high gloss). midweek, they ordered indian food: paneer butter masala, chilli mushroom curry, bowls of fluffy basmati rice, soft and flaky naan bread. they curled up with indian and blankets and films and chai and one another. they finished the evening with gulab jamun -- his favourite. he craves gulab jamun so often, the indian milk balls have nearly weaved themselves into his identity. he is her love, a man who loves a glass of bordeaux, indie films, local coffee roasters, ayn rand's work and gulab jamun. when she is overwhelmed, he is the one who takes her into his arms in the kitchen, holds her hands in prayer position and breathes with her. ooommmmm, they chant together on the same exhale, the energy vibrating around them and within them. one evening, she brought a novel to bed, and began the first chapter. she read and sobbed and was absorbed into the story, long after he had fallen asleep. she did not close the pages until she had reached the last one. one book, read, in one evening; after some months with only a few books, she felt like herself. a lover of literature, a reader of words, in the secret quiet space of the night. as she finally drifted to sleep, she could smell the space behind his neck that is all at once sweet and salty, like dark chocolate with fleur de sel. she met with the associate editor of parlour magazine, caroline. over italian coffee, their conversation wandered around the publication world, from magazines to online glossies to the thickness of paper. from fashion shoots to creative direction to make up artists. the curation of their aesthetic visions. they discussed a collaboration -- a fashion or beauty photo shoot for the pages of parlour. they shared inspirations and aesthetic directions... she left the yaletown cafe glowing -- a creative collaboration in the fashion industry, to be published; she picked up sushi and shared it for lunch with her love, sharing her elation. the following afternoon, she met with another inspired beauty, sarah klassen of haute design. they met in a trendy cafe in kitsilano. from the moment they met, they were inspired. it began with fashion, back and forth. nude pumps, heeled oxfords; pearl earrings, romantic ruffled cardigan; audrey hepburn-styled hair piled on top of the head, perfect manicure. they both carried a piece from michael kors, a mutual love. two pots of tea, one jasmine, one rooibos. over the next hours, they sipped and shared the beauty of life, letting the afternoon slip by without one quiet moment. their conversation ebbed and flowed from travel in italy and france to tiffany engagement rings to local boutiques to chilldhood and family to collections by chloé and chanel to relationships and love. they connected over their loves of travel, of art, of simplicity, of luxury and simply of life and love. sarah exuded positivity and sweetness and elegance, in her soft laughter, in her reapplication of cinnamon-hued lipstick. she left hoping that this new-friend would one day become a cherished old-friend, and felt so blessed to have encountered her. as the week came to a close, she put her work aside and made more moments for play. she walked on a rainy friday morning to main street to meet a lovely friend. her grey wool socks peeked out of her croc wellies. she hugged her long grey cardigan close for warmth. she arrived first and observed the scene in gene cafe. an indie vibe. loafers with socks; plaid; muted colors; organic coffee; lively meeting place where many faces recognize others; a queue fills the small space between communal tables; rituals of americanos and almond croissants and macbooks; concrete floors. the two girls sipped chai in tall glasses and enjoyed the retreat from the rain behind the walls of windows. her friend wore her curls in a braid on one side of her face, revealing mismatched earrings: one long, rich brown feather and one simple golden jewel stud. the elbows of her blazer were patched. they shared the stories of how they met their loves. soon, they ventured into the rain to wander in used book shops to discuss literature and art; to wander in a shop filled with records. her friend left with a suitcase record player and some iron & wine to play on it. they parted with a kiss on the cheek, she hurried home to warmth. when her love returned home in the evening, he drew her a bath. he had picked up a bottle of organic lavender bubbles for her to bathe in. the bubbles were mounded over the edges of the tub and filled the home with the scent of provence. she sank into the hot, fragrant water. as it cooled, she used her toes to turn on the hot water tap, filling the space with steam. there were candles lit for her at the edge of the bath and she relaxed in the near darkness, eyes closed, light flickering on the glittering edges of the foam. she slipped out of the bath and into a black silk night dress with bare feet for dinner. she still wore her pearls. he made salmon, filleted by his own hands and caught in the wild by her father's. salmon on toasted sourdough with ricotta, wildflower honey, chopped fresh parsley. they turned on a film she loves, they went to bed with hearts full of laughter, playfully pulling on the duvet. when she had written her dreams at the opening of the week, she described a life that had space to explore galleries, to sip in cafes, to photograph the world, to read classic literature, to taste local wines, and to connect with those who inspire her… in the days following those words, she was sincerely so inspired. when i meet you, in that moment, i am no longer a part of your future. i start quickly becoming part of your past. but, in that instant, i get to share your present and you, you get to share mine. (sarah kay)

weekend: simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.

2011-03-28T00:52:00.000-07:00

this weekend, they daydreamed. and they slept very, very late. she spoke to him in french, some phrases romantic, some phrases nonsensical, to familiarize him with the intonations. they cleaned the home and tumbled the laundry; she loves that sensation of freshness on her pillowcases. there were many hours at home, many hours of nothing, and they basked in it. they had very little in the kitchen, but eggs and bread. yet they refrained from going to the shops, so that they might spend more time being, more time lounging. he made her french toast, studded with chives and sprinkled with the last of the asiago. he made her salmon with herbs, spread onto buttery toast, with ricotta and wildflower honey. he grilled fried eggs, spinach, tomatoes and french mustard between thick slices of italian bread. she loves the way he cooks for her at the weekends. she polished her nails with a sheer, soft nude. he watched an independent french film, his favorite weekend pastime. they shopped for pretty, lacy underthings for her. they visited a local coffee roaster, a few blocks from their home, with balanced and smooth espresso blends. west coast heart, italian soul. she ordered a decaf breve latte, he sipped a breve cappuccino, brewed with conca d'oro espresso, with cocoa and vanilla aromas. simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. they constantly remark to one another how much they love this life.

life is handmade lemonade.

2011-03-28T00:11:00.000-07:00

this is life... life is waking up next to her love, cuddling in bed, late in the morning on a weekday, tuesday. life is wearing his cardigan with a silk scarf. life is warm butter on bread, rich. life is the celebration of spring's arrival, of basking in sunlight on window panes. life is walking, hand in hand over the bridge that separates their home from the downtown of the city, admiring the skyline. life is fresh flowers and penguin classics. life is imagining their days filled with a puppy named hugo. life is them both pulling on the duvet, for more feathered warmth.

this is life... life is a week of mornings with him, home late. life is squares of dark chocolate. life is a week of both him and her, daydreaming of envisioning the life they love living... perhaps taking their babes to pick olives one day, wearing green wellies. life is looking at photographs from the festival of color, hoping to experience it one day, covered in brightly hued powder. life is a long day of work, of exhuastion followed by abandoning the kitchen for a walk through the refreshing air to nuba... crispy cauliflower, covered in a spice rub; lamb kibba with pinenuts, tzatiki, shredded beets; okra stew with tomatoes and chickpeas over brown rice; grilled haloumi salad with sliced ripe tomatoes, walnuts and pomegranate vinaigrette. life is a quiet house, dim lamps, a blanket and a book in his hands, calm.

this is life... life is dreaming of apartments in paris and of holidays in provence. life is the reality of moving to the city of light, sinking in to her heart. life is recognizing that this documentary space has been visited by eighty-nine countries in the world, half of the earth... from russia to india to greece to the phillipines to peru to saudi arabia to iceland… one thousand eight hundred and fifty seven cities, from london to stockolm to melbourne to seoul... every single inhabitable continent. life is shopping for spring fashions, enjoying the role of curating an aesthetic, of watching her purchases wrapped in tissue paper. french-inspired stripes, aviators, nude polish, a top of hand beaded tulle, a scarf with golden threads, navy ballerina flats, a bohemian tassled pashmina, floaty summer dresses. life is watching the sun dip behind the horizon as late as half-seven, perhaps even eight. life is lemons squeezed with sugar, over ice, handmade lemonade.

this is life... life is a friday with her mama, sipping london fogs, shopping for grey italian cashmere and pure black silk and diamonds. life is four cartons of thai-inspired fare ordered at the noodle box, with wooden chopsticks and wedges of lime, with chilled bottles of imported beer. life is an evening walk in the warm air, around the water at the edge of the city. life is him wearing a soft shirt in shades of azure. life is film after film, one with elegant fashion, one with ballet.

a monday dinner party.

2011-03-22T18:55:00.000-07:00

monday. the first full day of spring. a day of soft sunlight, a day of her work, where art and business collide and create a beautiful symphony of purpose. she drank gogi tea in bed, spooned warm oatmeal to her lips, and wrote and wrote and wrote. the paintings in her home, neutral studies of white texture, were admired and a potential commission was offered -- she is becoming an artist in photography, in styling, in words, in paint. she read a note from a friend who is in europe... a friend that she misses, yet a friend that is ever with them when they play anouar brahem, or when they bake fondant chocolate cakes. she read the words of others, words that inspired her: this evening, at a bus-stop with a newspaper over my head, i thought back to my brief college romance with buddhism. i loved how we were all connected, and the idea having a golden buddha on my mantel. i figured that whole part about renunciation would come later, with maturity; when i made a conscious decision to shed the things i wanted so badly, but couldn't afford. but, i never... "lost the world in order to find myself". somewhere along the line, joy just started pouring from a french press pot; so simple and perfect it doesn't even need to be plugged in. lately, i find luxury in the feel of a bathmat beneath my feel on a cold morning. i've never been a champion of low expectations. but, i write this as i drink three dollar wine, waiting for the bus. what i want most is to hear my key in the loose lock, opening up my one roomed apartment. life is so good - half drunk and half way home - counting on something to come. i know happiness is somewhere in here, amongst the things i've kept. (sam, unconventionally beautiful) while working, a song played that brought her to a place of spiritual craving. a song about a beautiful god... she had never heard it before, yet it brought her a wave of nostalgia for the faith-filled days of her youth. beautiful colors all around me, painted all over the sky. and the same hands that created all of this. they created you and i. what a beautiful god. she sat and pondered this reverent new sensation. she does believe in a beautiful god. she doesn't know the theological details, but she knows beauty. uncomplicated, vast, a sense of undefined worship. a thirst quenched, with simple spirituality. after working, after inspiration, there was a nude polish pedicure and a silky, ruffled top. a walk to the wine shop for a bottle of new world bubbly. her love came home with bags filled of pink tulips and european cheeses and organic leeks. they chopped and stirred and simmered. she lit candles around the home, she sliced crusty ciabatta. new friends, shane & mikaela, arrived. they came with a bundle of ten tulips, some white and some yellow with feathered petals, all wrapped in ivory ribbon. he wore a collared knit, she wore a soft pink cardigan with beaded detail. a dinner party, of laughter, of tastes.

the menu:
at the kitchen island, thin slices of ciabatta, spread with unpasteurized wildflower honey, ricotta, proscuitto and black pepper. with flutes of sparkling chardonnay from argentina.

at the dining table, set with a centerpiece of tea lights, shallow bowls leek & celery soup, drizzled with rich cream and with dill-infused extra virgin olive oil.

followed by, simple salads of organic colored lettuces, dried cranberries, pine nuts and a homemade balsamic vinaigrette.

a cheese course. creamy subtle camembert, pungent smoked dutch esrom and ripe pear. shared on one wooden board with a vintage knife.

in the lounge, foamy vanilla lattes and individual chocolate cakes served in ramekins with a dollop of freshly whipped cream.

cheers to new friends, to conversation, to art, to dreams, to achievement, to flutes of wine, to dark chocolate.

three days together, her sister.

2011-03-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

her sister came to visit in the city. three days together, and it was three days of beautiful life. on friday morning, she woke up early to welcome her sister through the wooden front door. bags and suitcases and boots were dropped on the fresh linens in the guest room. she made oats, he made lattes. purple tulips blossomed and caught the sunlight between their petals. she dressed in black and pearls and cashmere. the morning was quiet as she worked and her sister studied. each typing on silver macbooks, glancing up to smile at one another. they made lunch, they spinkled paprika, they talked about their lives over the dining table. her sister is nearly four years younger. they connect, because they are so familiar. they see themselves in the other's face. they shared and laughed while she styled and pinned her sister's hair. they went into the downtown, visited tiffany's and went for tea at the urban tea merchant. surrounded by the soothing water feature, photographs of asia and simple french luxuries, they perused the tea list. she ordered a pot of histoire tibetaine, a blend of black and green tea hinted with jasmine, bergamot and vanilla. her sister ordered a green tea with caramel flavors. served with a french accent, hot milk and raw sugar were laid on the table. one warm scone each, light and soft, with thick cream and tea-infused preserves. they brought a mocha macaron with them to treat her love at the end of his day. the rain fell softly as they returned home to meet him. her sister dressed beautifully in silky layers of navy, black and cream, hinted with silver. he knotted a purple tie around his neck and she smoothed her fishnets over her legs. they traveled to gastown, past the steaming clock, to a restaurant, newly opened and recently discovered by the couple, to celebrate her sister's birthday. as they had visited only two weeks before, they were recognized as 'the attractive young couple with the stylish fashion sense', she blushed. they began at the bar where her sister asked for a cocktail that was fresh and feminine. the bartender squeezed pink grapefruit and lemons, mixed libations and handed her a cold martini glass filled with a rose-hued cocktail, garnished with a curl of grapefruit rind. all at once sweet and tart, and it was delicious. she noticed that they were among well-styled company, loose draping cashmere, skinny black pants, silky layers in coral, thick bangles. once they were seated, he ordered a bold, complex italian red. they used their hands to tear into a slightly charred margherita pizza topped with fresh basil and rosemary oil. at the end of the night, they had espresso and the dolci pizza, topped with preserved figs, gorgonzola, honey and confectioner's sugar. they walked back through gastown, on the cobblestoned streets that shine in the rain, under the twinkling lights. once home, they crawled into bed and she and her love stayed awake for many hours discussing the qualities of her ideal clients and dreaming of where her artistic business will take them.

saturday morning, they all slept. it was nearly afternoon when they awoke, and they took the morning slowly. they took the afternoon slowly. they took the day, moment by moment, as it came, mostly spent around the table and entirely spent in the comfort of home. three lattes and three macbooks were spread across the table. soon they dressed in comfortable layers and cleaned the home until it evoked a sense of freshness. the flat smelled of recently mopped floors and the spiced caramel of a lit candle. the sun shone around, bouncing off of the walls, and making everything gleam. they turned on arab-inspired music and they sliced pears. they layered ciabatta with rosemary ham, with french dijon, with asiago, with black pepper. they poured water from glass bottles. again, around the table. they spoke of dreams. they shared wisdom of their few years more than her sister's. that sister declared that she would live her life like theirs. that she dreams of the love, of the education, of the style, of the achievement, of the travels that they have found. they were so touched that one who watches their life would want to imitate it in her own way. they made assam in the cast-iron tea pot, and poured many cups with whole milk. raw sugar cubes dissolved in the bottom of delicate white tea cups. they unwrapped hazelnut-currant organic dark chocolate from gold paper and snapped off small squares to savor. they poured over financial strategies to advise the young university student, so that she might achieve all of her dreams. they taught her everything they know, and imparted all of the thoughts that they had wished someone had shared with them when they were beginning. the sun stayed bright all day, into the evening, a sign that spring is near. the girls painted their nails in feminine hues, and then all three squeezed onto the couch to watch films with one ivory fleece blanket and a large bowl of kettle corn for sharing.

sunday, she woke up early to the golden light, radiating through the curtains. the girls pulled on layers of flexible black textiles and went to yoga. the warmth of the sun washed over them through tall glass windows on a busy street. the yoga was slow, detailed. each sun salutation took handfuls of minutes. adjusting each muscle, adjusting each alignment. grounding, awareness of the body. and, of the mind. they relaxed into the poses, and let everything go in savasana. at home, they toasted bagels, spread them with cream cheese and brewed gogi tea. all three laughed together around the breakfast table, in the sunlight. they dressed: she in stripes, in cap toe flats, in pearls, in a silk scarf tied around her hair. he in a prep school-inspired collared shirt, sleeves rolled up and linen scarf knotted. sister in a silky navy top, wrapped in thick flax-colored knit, and hair piled high on top of her head. they went to coco et olive and ordered coffees. she poured cream into the decaf americano until it was the color of caramel. they spread the table with philosophy books and fashion glossies, and got to sipping and studying and sharing for hours. they walked home, down main street, to peek into boutiques and to breathe in the fresh air. three days spent with her sister. as much as the sister admires the couple, they too, so admire her, and are inspired by her dreams. in the evening, a visit with her family and a warming late-winter meal, just as winter turned into spring. they finished the weekend with a stunning foreign language film, entre nos. it stirred their hearts on the issues of poverty and immigration, and made her weep tears of amazement at its close.

another week of late-winter.

2011-03-18T15:17:00.000-07:00

another week of late winter. purple tulips blooming at the table. there was homemade mushroom soup, creamy and velvety. she loved her love. there was a passionate day of dreaming of photography: she joined nine other photographers at jamie delaine's studio for a presentation on envisioning art and business. the ten photographers shared their dreams with one another, and then she joined four of them for a quaint lunch at the little white house, heritage home turned boutique and tea salon in various shades of white and cream, hinted with gold and crystal. the table was laid with white linens and white cups. they dined on salads with dried cranberries and chevre, on quiche, on grilled thyme chicken. two already friends, many meeting for the first time. they shared their fears and their growth, and all five left inspired to create more, to live more, to make more of their businesses. that evening, the couple went to wine club, to share many bottles from the pacific northwest. they discussed the geographical history of the area, the art on the hosts' mantle, the best places for coffee in the neighborhood. they are quickly falling in love with their wine club, with the education, with the diverse souls. one couple, more than twice their age, is lively and romantic, and makes them look forward to all the decades to come. others are european, and talk of their childhoods in france and england and sweden and serbia, and make them eager to move to the continent. they dined on gravalox, on grilled salmon, on yam salad with local hazelnuts, on a wild mushroom tart. inspired by the coffee culture of the pacific northwest, they brought espresso cupcakes with cream cheese frosting to finish the evening. thursday, the final day of her week, was accented with an online feature and with a date with a friend in the elysian cafe, to discuss making a film for her business, and to talk about the loves of their life and the years of transition they are in. they wandered fourth avenue in kitsilano as they talked, stopping to look at lululemon's flagship store and to pick up some loose leaf teas from david's to bring home. she is so inspired by her friend's eloquence.

simple, relaxed.

2011-03-14T22:59:00.000-07:00

a simple, relaxed weekend. saturday. a morning for making pancakes together. a restful day at home. reading an interpretation of parisian style. roasting yams for a salad at lunch with a simple hand whisked vinaigrette. she read pages and pages of handwritten words from the journals of years ago. she pondered the identity that has been forming within her since her youth. how many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone (coco chanel). someone artistic, global, feminine, natural, elegant, deep. feeling under the weather. an afternoon of sleeping in the covers. cold bottles of beer in the evening. hand rolled crust topped with spiced capicola. a gorgeous independent film, bella, with beautiful scenery and language and love. sunday. she wore tulle and fishnets and wedges. he wore a piece of linen in shades of grey, a gingham shirt, a knit tie, a soft cardigan. many, many hours spent in a window-lit table in the commune cafe. she had the recent issue of in style magazine tucked in her michael kors bag, and caught up on the moment's fashion. she sipped an amazing cup of decaf caramel latte... sweet, yet subtle. well balanced. as night fell and the skies cried heavily on the sidewalks, they did not want to return home. she suggested bin 941, around the corner. they sat side by side in the smallest booth. night fell and the streets glimmered with pouring rain. they ordered the flank steak, with a cinnamon chilli rub, maple syrup chipotle glaze, topped with a mound of crisp black pepper pommes frites. they dragged the thin frites through the glaze at the bottom of the plate, eating with their fingers. next, they shared the duck breast, thin slices with crisp skin, served with fingerling potato hash, truffle oil, haricots vert, and a reduced port cranberry jus. rich and decadent, perfectly satisfying for a rainy sunday evening. they hailed a yellow taxi and hurried home in the cold. he wrapped his arms around her for warmth. they baked tarts filled with brown sugar and butter. they loved, they bathed, they slept.

the week: simple moments.

2011-03-12T23:48:00.000-08:00

life is not about finding yourself, life is about creating yourself. the week. simple moments, every day. there was a dozen vegan blueberry muffins baked with whole oats and raw sugar. finding photographs in paris that make her dream of shooting the streets and the style. she looked into the bedroom one evening to find her love lounging on the made bed, barefoot, typing on his macbook. she fell in love with the scene. a happy birthday to her beautiful sister, who chases after her dreams. an evening spent sipping tea and discussing the wedding and photographs of a wonderful couple in love. two more weddings booked, both in august. one evening, he brought home sushi and they indulged in yam tempura while completing their taxes. after many hours, a sense of completion and relief when the papers were sent to the accountant. a day spent in bed, sniffling. he cooked a healing chicken soup with ginger and mushrooms and leeks and carrots, hinted with a pinch of curry. she nourished herself with hot soup and comforted herself with crusty bread, smoked gruyere and many films. a day of working productively in a cafe with spicy chai and then meeting him for lunch at his office. midweek, she visited michael kors, and came home with the black reptile textured jet set tote with gold details that she has been admiring for weeks. one afternoon brought a meeting with a client: an indian bride, her sweet parents and the charming groom. the groom told her how he designed his love's stunning engagement ring to match the bride's mothers, which was designed by her own husband many years ago. warm-hearted banter was exchanged around the table, as the wedding day was described: a traditional hindu ceremony at the brock house, complete with the groom on a white horse, intricate saris, and garlands; followed by a western ceremony at a yacht club, complete with white gown, vows and rings; followed by cocktails and cupcakes and dancing. her dream clients: global, inspired, luxe. friday morning, he showered early while she slept. he came to wake her, hair still slightly damp, with a chocolate brown towel wrapped around him, tied at the waist. she felt his warm bare skin-wrapped muscle bent over to kiss her cheek, as he whispered i love you so much. she felt beautiful. after he left, she missed him; she pulled on his soft grey cardigan to wear with skinny jeans, a statement necklace, heels. a blend of feminine and masculine, of loose and fitted, of him with her. she curled her hair and welcomed him home for lunch. when they both left the home in the afternoon, she kissed him on the front step of their building, in the rain, beneath his umbrella. he went off to finish his work for the week, and she climbed into the mercedes of a friend waiting for her. the two friends went for green tea and caught up... they both work in the wedding industry, and gushed over dream brides, over magazine publications, over luxurious details. they discussed their loves, their careers, their futures. travel and babies and journalism. a friend with whom there is always so much to connect. they talked of diamonds, of tiffany's, of harry winston, of cushion cut, of halos, of the seven carat beauty that makes one's heart flutter. un ami est toujours un personnage à deux faces. d'un côté, il nous renvoie notre image, de l'autre il appartient à cette société qui nous est inconnue. (francesco alberoni). friday evening was complete when she was with her love again... when they dined on shwarma and unfiltered belgian beer, seated at the kitchen island. they soaked in knowledge about age and communication and education, and debated excitedly for hours, quoting hayek and rand and gilbert. they love that they share an intellectual curiosity, and that they satiate one another with the energy of good conversation.

sunday: city and colour.

2011-03-08T11:05:00.000-08:00

they crawled out of bed into the cool kitchen, soon warmed by espresso bubbling and milk foaming. she cracked eggs, whisked flour and poured buttermilk. a blueberry pancake batter sizzling on the grill. a cinnamon-brown-sugar butter to spread overtop and a tall stack of hot pancakes for brunch. they sipped and savoured while he played a british documentary on the philosophies of nietzche. a gold espresso spoon at the edge of his cup. steamy hot shower in the afternoon, the scent of cocoa butter. a poppy-hued silk top with soft cashmere. she felt as though she was cheating on her beloved neutrals with this infusion of color. from the shower to the bed to the mirror she left her hair piled wildly on the crown of her head. a few pins to tame the strands, and that was it. he said she looked french. fresh pink blush. he wore a linen scarf, tied. they walked the alleys and cobblestones of gastown, seeking a newly-opened restaurant, nicli antica pizzeria. what struck her first was the design - high industrial ceilings, a wall of exposed original brick, textured white tiles throughout and an architectural arch shaping the design. mostly white. marrying the traditional influence of italy with the sleek modernity of west coast design and the integrity of the historic gastown space. she cosied into the long grey banquette and he ordered an imported italian beer, menabrea. golden and earthy. water arrived in a recycled glass wine bottle, spotted with condensation. known for the authentic wood-fired pizzas of naples, they barely glanced at the menu. one margherita pizza, please. baked in the brick-lined oven filled with burning wood for exactly ninety seconds, emerging slightly charred. a crust, cornicione, made from '00' caputo; the sauce made from whole, peeled san marzano tomatoes; a subtle sprinkling of parmesan and sporadic mounds of fresh mozzarella, fior di latte. finished with a few whole basil leaves and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. they tore at the pie with their hands, in the traditional method of the neapolitans. the tomatoes were all at once sweet and tart, the mozzarella creamy. they poured rosemary oil onto the plate to add a fragrant, herbaceous finish. mgmt played, reminding them of their time in the mediterranean two summers ago. they talked and talked, feeling that they were sharing their lives with the most interesting person in the whole restaurant. perhaps, the whole world. on their way home, they stopped at the market, the common rhythm of picking up milk and onions. she wrote, he brewed rooibos tea. they listened to k-pop, fascinated by the korean music industry. they chopped and stirred silently in the kitchen, preparing a familiar meal. guests from germany arrived and they prepared a bed for the sleepy travelers. in their own bed, they slept so close, taking up only a small fraction of the mattress along an edge. she nearly on top of him, resting her head on his chest. embracing his arm with hers and rubbing her thumb over his skin. this is marriage.

saturday: a long daydream, a beautiful reality.

2011-03-08T10:56:00.000-08:00

saturday, she woke up slowly, late in the morning. she lingered in bed, keeping company with her daydreams. she imagined their life in paris, two years from now. she imagined a flat with high ceilings, ornate white moldings and a large crystal chandelier over the dining table. a wood-burning fire place. white and grey and ivory and cream and black, the palette. bold, monotone striped drapes. a kitchen with wooden counters and a stove top espresso maker. greyscale photographs, framed. a nursery in shades of soft pink and dove grey, where she wraps a little lucia into her arms in the morning. the babe wears charcoal cashmere and little boots lined with fur. she slips a flower into her hair and a kiss on her cheek, and hands her to her papa for a walk to the patisserie. he cradles the babe against his chest, he wears a knitted tie, he wraps the babe in a black fabric sling to carry her close to his heart. while her love and her daughter are out, she dresses. black cigarette pants, navy blue ballerina flats, a grey knitted wrap that layers and ties, a string of crystals around her neck. she ties her hair loosely on her head, and starts the espresso. she lays the table with small bowls for foamy lattes and golden vintage spoons and a tray for the pastries. when her love returns, he unwraps croissants and pains au chocolat. they speak in both english and french, kissing often. she brings the sweet babe to her breast and nurses, reveling in the sound of suckling and swallowing and in the scent of milky breath. they sip coffee, pull apart flaky pastries and bask in the soft morning light flooding the home. they plan travels in marrakesh and tokyo, they plan an afternoon at an art gallery. she shared her dream with him. awake to the sweetness of her current reality, they lingered longer. he read the news, she read about paris. he turned on anour brahem and the ethnic sounds filled the home. she felt the music resonating in her body, reflecting off of the walls and floors as though they were literally present in the space. the music accompanied their slow pace. she cracked five eggs into a large ceramic bowl, colored of wheat. they added dill, asiago, ricotta, ham, mustard. he baked the mixture into a frittata and they sliced it on a bamboo board. they savored and read at the breakfast table, with the sunshine and the fresh cut flowers in a vase. he knotted a tie, she wore stripes and her tiffany pearls. they spoke mostly in french for some time. she in long, fluid sentences and he in halting phrases filled with nouns and adjectives. they understood one another. they went shopping for diamonds and were entranced by carat, color, cut and clarity. street food and street musicians. a nostalgic walk through the kitsilano streets that they used to frequent often. change breeds nostalgia, she remarked. they will live a life washed in both. a visit to coco et olive, a place that now feels like home. they sat near the window with lemongrass soup and beetroot hummus, and took in the familiar quiet hum of the saturday afternoon. he ordered his latte in a to go cup, and they walked down to the beach, where he sat near the sand and watched the people. she met with a couple-in-love and photographed a vintage-styled session in warm light. a plaid tie, feathers, lace, red sling back pumps, a handful of brightly colored tulips, a family ring with a vintage yellow diamond. the styling, the soft reflected light, the laughter: she adores her work. at home, they crawled into bed in the evening with dark chocolate. tyler brule educated them on the affairs of the world in the background, while she wrote and processed. ratatouille simmered on the stove. aubergine and capiscum and whole cloves of garlic and onion and ripe tomatoes and black olives. basa grilled, coated in lemon juice and cracked black pepper. brown rice steamed, a nourishing foundation. they heaped rice and stewed vegetables and fish into white bowls and savored the life they love.

this week: the small details.

2011-03-07T22:59:00.000-08:00

it's more interesting to have just a picture of a small detail - then you can dream all the rest around it. because when you see the whole thing, what is there to imagine? (dries van noten).

a morning at granville island market. a cup of spicy chai. cool late winter air. a lipstick mark on a cup. a sweet note, from a reader about details and painting pictures with words. she is an artist with words, with light, with color, with texture. his soft white tee shirt. richness in intentional poverty. three photography sessions: one lilac and grey, one navy and turquoise, one ivory and charcoal. she found inspiration in styled shoots. an oatmilk bath. skinny dark sevens. side braids. pigeons fluttering. laughter and connection. many, many cups of herbal infusions. innovation that makes her cry in wonder at the brilliance of the world. dreams for paris. thick and nourishing greens soup of kale and courgette and spinach and parsley and dill. an afternoon with an intern and creativity. fresh fig and wild ginger candle. early mornings. watching him shave. brilliant culture and design on the monocle weekly. dreams of tokyo. a evening of bookclub; four girls from all over the city, together in a cosy basement suite for one evening of fig & chevre salad with lavender-infused honey vinaigrette, and chili-hinted chocolate. theories of art and psychology, shared. an evening of vegetarian fare in a main-street-space covered in graffiti, filled with hippie-types and the sounds of hiphop. peanut-quinoa veggie burgers, salad covered in seeds and lime juice, black beans, creamy avocados. mason jars as glasses for house-brewed iced black tea. barely sweet. delicious, sub-cultural. a daydream: calling lucia, hikari, while in japan: both meaning 'light'. perspective on the future and reflection on the past... over the past years, she has fallen in love, married, lived in europe, traveled to eighteen destinations, finished studies at renowned universities, started a business, established a passionate and creative career in photography and reveled in millions of tiny, poetic moments. she could not have imagined such richness; how can she imagine her future years? thirty feels worlds away.

sunday, a day of slow.

2011-02-27T21:55:00.000-08:00

sunday was mostly a day of duvet feathers in the bed and eucalyptus essential oil in the bath. there were his loves: bowls of vanilla bean ice cream and economics documentaries. after a hot shower in the afternoon, she could smell his signature scent. somehow, his cologne always brings her back to the day they registered for their wedding gifts, dreaming of their future home filled with silver rimmed china. now, they live in that home, the place of her dreams, married. and, she married a man who knows how to cook. the kitchen was filled with steam and with the aromas of paprika and garlic. he served her a gorgeous meal topped with a little spoonful of creamy ricotta. to show appreciation, she baked dark chocolate cake, sprinkled with sea salt. and they celebrate slow.

fashion magazines and honeysuckle pink.

2011-02-27T15:21:00.000-08:00

saturday, her day. when she woke up, he was not in bed. she crawled out of the warm duvet into the chilled air and padded to the bedroom door. without her glasses, she saw the outline of his form look up at her, and come back to bed. they enjoyed the comfort of bed for a while. he was romantic all morning. kissing her neck, stirring honey into her rooibos, taping a hand written sign, i heart u, onto the glass-walled shower while she stood under the hot stream of water. their groceries arrived from the market and they put away courgettes and an aubergine and asiago and basa and kale and multigrain penne. she wore pink, he wore grey. they took the train downtown to explore the shops. they air was cold, the snow began to fall in small flakes. there were no street vendors except for the ones selling roasted nuts; the streets were filled with the scent of smoky chestnuts and fresh snow. she found a cocktail ring with a large turquoise stone; she found a ruffled silk top the same hue as tuscan poppies; she found a tall pair of sophisticated black wedges. while she tried on silk and cotton, he danced to the music in the shops. his lips looked delicious. they stopped at the little 'hole in the wall' they love for shawarma. no more than a few square feet, several arabic family members and a selection of tahini and pickled turnip. they talked all day, discovered all day, loved all day, laughed all day. oh, he makes her laugh. they stopped for a caramel espresso beverage a local bookstore and read fashion magazines. she read a quote from albert elbaz, the designer of lanvin, on the sensuality of clothing: it should feel like eating chocolates. to her, it does. she wore the turquoise ring all evening, because of that exact feeling. like chocolates. when they arrived home, they boiled the kettle and watched the snow fall outside. it sparkled in the evening light. a winter wonderland. the perfect evening for a rich soup -- creamy mushroom with fresh herbs and black pepper. they baked a fresh loaf of bread, and spread the hot slices with ricotta and drizzled them with eucalyptus honey. for a little pampering, he soaked her feet in warm water and scrubbed them with brown sugar. her toes smelled of molasses. he gave her a pedicure in honeysuckle pink. she leaned her head back, closed her eyes and relaxed into his touch.

black and white images, a chocolate macaron and a bundle of white roses.

2011-02-27T00:52:00.000-08:00

tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday. there were black and white images printed for the home; there was a personal message from one that inspires her. she emerged from a sushi restaurant in yaletown, and saw a familiar man in a black wool coat hurrying from the italian cafe to his office. she called out his name; it was her love. they stopped in the middle of the street for a hello and a kiss, and then he left for his meeting. that evening, she was cleaning dishes, looking around their modern flat with its sleek lines, minimal design, european and asian influences, natural textures -- a home so evocative of themselves, of their life here, and she thought, how can we leave this amazing life and move away? it was the same feeling that she had when they were leaving edinburgh -- a season that she looks back upon as one of the most memorable of her life -- and so, this feeling must be a marker of goodness. an indication that their move to paris will mean that they embark on a journey that changes them. the next morning, she worked from bed for hours and reveled in the luxury of her schedule. that evening, she met a kindred soul over hot lemon water and a chocolate macaron. they discussed what it would mean to live a life that is interesting, rather than content. how might it be that instead of searching for a happy life, they could seek a juicy one. they wondered what it might look like to be uncomfortable, but to find meaning. to let go. to be more of themselves. she carried these thoughts in her heart for days, inspired. she arrived home before her love; he opened the door with a bundle of white roses under his arm. he simmered curry on the stove and they enjoyed flatbread with baba ganouj as they shared their days. he told her about an evening spent with a french friend in a home with housemates from all over the world, discussing cuisine and world travel. she told him about juicy. they were both inspired by the souls they encountered. the following morning, thursday. she woke before the sun had risen, in the small hours of the day. he slept soundly; she kissed his warm, freckled forehead and dressed for yoga. she took a personal lesson in the ashtanga primary series. two hours of intensity. it was her first ashtanga practice since living in europe. the motions were both foreign and familiar, both remembered and forgotten. she quietly sang the invocation. vande gurunam charanaravinde sandarshita svatmasukavabodhe... the om resonated in her. vinyasa after vinyasa her weakness became strength. her teacher counted in sanskrit, encouraging her to steady her ujjayi breathing. she completed the entire series, even attempting headstand. she took complete blanket-covered rest in savasana. she came home to the bed made and the heater turned on, a home ready for her to work in. she worked slowly, taking time to recover and rehydrate. in the evening, they took a walk at dusk and watched the skyline painted in greys and pastels. they connected, always having more to share, uniting in laughter on the sidewalk. they watched a film of relationships, the romantics. he slipped her sweater off of her shoulder to reveal bare, pale skin and he rubbed softly it with his thumb. he rubbed her muscles with oil, yet every part of her body ached as she slept. she could barely turn from one side to the other; a sensation of deserved rest after intense yoga. a feeling she craves. friday, she read beautiful words, and longed to write such poetry: it feels like spring here. like warm and cool have exchanged vows in a beautiful blue-skied ceremony and have brought forth a love child who dwells right here, right now. she is splendid, this love child, and she brings with her breezes that send our curtains fluttering and call the babies outside. he asked her to meet him for a drink after work. she dressed in heels and jewels and piled her hair high on her head. they sat at the bar in goldfish, the contemporary west coast restaurant in yaletown. they admired the capiz shells and the modern design. he ordered a bold californian cab sav, and she sipped a flute of a bubbly italian cocktail with prosecco. they sampled coriander hummus and shared their hearts and their lives. the bubbly made her giggly, and it was good.

monday: to live everything.

2011-02-24T09:52:00.000-08:00

monday morning, a june wedding at the teahouse, booked. writing, oatmeal, a hot shower. a thick pashmina wrapped around the neck. she rearranged their office space until it was welcoming and perfect -- minimal, with a shelf of black and white architectural photographs from the places they've travelled, a damask jar of black pencils, two shiny silver macbooks and a recycled paper notebook. monday afternoon, fresh bread from the oven filling the home with the scent of flour and yeast. an intern, working together, and many hours of productivity. thick snow flakes fell from the sky, and she sipped a large mug of hot rooibos tea. monday evening, while he worked late, her daddy called her for a spontaneous date. he brought her a bundle of pink blossoms, and they ate chilli noodles with chopsticks at the trendy kitsilano noodle box and laughed together. monday night, her love came home and they were inspired by cultural creativity -- they draped her indian sari from the ceiling to bring color, definition and a little south asia to their home. as she fell asleep, she wondered why some days she has so many words to write, bubbling over with feeling, and why other days feel more quiet. monday was quiet... and so, she borrowed, another's words: be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and books that are written in a foreign tongue. do not now seek the answers which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. and the point is to live everything. live the questions now. perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer. (rilke)

writing and resting and cuddling: a weekend.

2011-02-21T11:44:00.001-08:00

saturday morning, again, she taught. she wore cosy leggings with a tunic. over lunch, she read him an article in new york magazine about the sartoralist and garance dore. always interested in the intersections of lifestyle and fashion and photography and documentation, it dawned on them that she might begin a chronicle of street style that inspires her aesthetic. downtown vancouver, they looked for passersby with remarkable fashion. out of hundreds, they found two. one man wore skinny black pants tucked into high top military-style boots with the laces undone, a grey knit with a shawl-collar, black leather gloves, carrying a caramel-colored leather duffel and putting on a shiny pair of aviators. one young woman, tall and as thin as could be, wore a white religious turban, an ivory tailored jacket, grey tights and black pumps, with a venti starbucks cup tucked into the crook of her arm, shopping for cashmere. in the evening, they went home. home is the flat with the deep, deep sink for washing tomatoes. home is the flat with the luxurious bath tub for relaxing. home is the flat with the indian-inspired cushions. home is the flat with raw sugar cubes and dark chocolate in the pantry. they made chicken souvlaki with herbed rice, greek yogurt and a gorgeous greek salad studded with black olives and crumbled feta. they played an award-winning film about an american in india and loved the cultural references. as the banghra music played when the credits rolled, they got up and danced, with their best attempts at bollywood-worthy moves. the next day, they rested. sunday is a day of rest. he slept until noon. she woke a couple of hours before him, and piled some journals penned by her seventeen-year-old self next to the bed for some reading and reflection. she is working on a project of writing the story of their life, documenting it in words and pictures, through the memories recorded in her journals. they made a brunch and they both caught up on writing. quiet tapping of keys. simple. the afternoon held writing and reading and napping and loving and bathing. this is rest. in the evening, they had dinner with his sister and her husband and their babe. he and the babe both wore grey stripes, and he cuddled her. with a sampling of herb-marinated mozzarella and new zealand aged white cheddar, they sipped german riesling. paella was served, richly colored of saffron and consisting of paprika-laden chorizo. they brought their wine from the table to the lounge, and they fed the babe and cooed her to sleep in their arms, sharing the warmth of her little body. the conversation turned to street food & local wineries & montreal & parenting & religious views... the night wore on, the babe slept, the four indulged in bowls of green tea gelato. before they knew it, many hours had passed and it was time to take the train back to the city, back to their home, back to the bed where they spoon their bodies and sleep.

one who loves.

2011-02-18T18:27:00.000-08:00

her friend is one who will spend days and days together, every week. her friend is one who tears up when passionate. her friend is one with whom to share cupcakes. her friend is one with whom to share conversations about great sex and divine spirituality. her friend is one who is not offended with different ideas and different beliefs, with honesty. her friend is stylish and confident. her friend is one who shares the same love for photography, for fashion. her friend is one who gives a soy candle scented with fresh fig & wild ginger, named lucia. today, she spent the whole day with her friend. sharing, conversing, photographing, styling, creating, giving. her friend is one who loves.

thursday, a collective om.

2011-02-17T12:32:00.000-08:00

thursday, another productive day. home cleaned, courier packages delivered, banking calculated, inquiries responded to, cashmere washed, silk pressed. he worked from home all morning, she loves him. and they shared a delicious tomato and basil omlette for lunch. she conditioned her hair with hydrating orchid extract in the glass-walled rain shower and wrapped a pink scarf around her flowy cardigan. she had a meeting at starbucks, where every other table was filled with creative and entrepreneurial souls doing the same. she interviewed & hired & photographed & introduced an intern. she kept up with fashion week, loving the palettes and textures. she finished processing an urban engagement session styled in grey. for dinner, she made pan-fried basa fillets with lemon-black-pepper-yogurt, steamed broccoli and buttery red potatoes with the skins left on. they spontaneously chose a focus features film for the evening, and enjoyed lavender earl grey tea and vanilla-cream-cheese cupcakes. there were thunder and lightening and a hot bath. they cuddled together under the warm duvet, and shared a collective om to let go of the day. he whispered in her ear as she was falling asleep, 'our life is beautiful. i love you.'

a simple day, loving life.

2011-02-17T03:53:00.000-08:00

tuesday, a simple day with brie and a striped scarf and a business seminar. she made him a pot of tea in the evening, she cleaned out the pantry and poured brown rice into glass jars. and as quickly as it came, it went, and it was wednesday.

wednesday, a wonderfully productive day... a long list of tasks, complete. groceries from the market ordered and delivered to the counter. a gorgeous kiss goodbye from her love. a big bowl of maple oatmeal with a sprinkle of ground flax. reading and loving beautiful writing and moving abroad and five day old babies. a cleaned home and laundered bedding with the sounds of current events and interactive theories of art, reported from london. a hot shower, a pair of dark skinny jeans, and a set of sparkling sapphire earrings clasped to her ears. she roasted roma tomatoes all morning in olive oil, and crushed them with onions and basil into a rich soup. she savored the soup at midday with slices of crusty sourdough loaf and butter. there was photographing and messaging and mending and sweeping and processing and scanning and calling. she folded fresh linens towels for the kitchen, warm from the tumble dryer. she stacked clean dishes. she worked and accomplished, and it was good.

an evening of wine tasting. walls of windows on the twenty-second floor of an apartment building at the sheraton. a stunning view of the city night life. vibrant red, modern kitchen. a group of twelve, diverse. refined and cultured conversations floating around the room: about le creuset; about homemade whole wheat bread with homegrown yeast cultures; about how to hold a wine glass; about the notes of cigars. the first wine, a sparkling chenin blanc from the loire valley to sip as they mingled. and then, the tasting began. four whites and three reds from emerging wine regions. before each, a short instruction on the history and production of wine in those regions. they soaked up knowledge from kosher practices to phylloxra plagues. there was swirling of glasses, there was a gorgeous accent that was a blend of swedish and farsi and australian. light, unusual israeli chardonnay tasted with handmade falafel, baba ganouj and tahini. a floral grecian boutari tasted with salty feta and olives. a south african chenin blanc. her favourite, a hungarian pinot grigio with a slight petillance and paired with hungarian salami and cornichons. between the white and the red, there was a tender beef brisket with tomato gravy, and there was a short lesson on corks and on corkscrews. chorizo and manchego were paired with a spicy portuguese blend from douro. it elicited a strong opinion, one rejecting it as having too much sun, too much fermentation. his favourite, a smoky and bold south african shiraz. the most interesting wine of the tasting, a nine year old lebanese blend with intense licorice aromas and smooth tannins. the evening finished with a mystery wine, poured and sipped. around the room guesses were made about the region, the grape, the cost. a wonderful evening of tastes and education and society. the doorman let them out into the night to walk and train home, giddy and kissy. at home, they brushed their teeth side by side in the mirror; she pulled on a black silk kimono and slipped into a bed of fresh linens

she felt wonderful, and declared that there may have never been a season of her life this beautiful... they are madly in love, live in the most gorgeous flat, are passionate and successful in their work, have traveled and have plans to travel more, are confident in their personal style, are financially sound, are open-minded in their beliefs about the world, have health and loved ones, are anticipating the near future of paris and babies... she is loving life more than ever.

valentine's day.

2011-02-16T15:32:00.000-08:00

a gorgeous, simple and intimate valentine's day, a holiday that she has adored since she was a girl. she woke up to a note handwritten in black ink: 'i heart you'. she pampered herself with a long shower and expensive shampoo. she poured pure almond oil from a green glass jar into her palms and massaged it into her face. underthings made of grey lace. a tea rose colored tulle skirt, a golden heart necklace. rain washed away her plans to photograph couples in love, so she rescheduled and basked in a quiet day. she remembered their last valentine's day, and the one before that in edinburgh. heavy, heavy rains pattering on the window panes. she walked through the rain bundled in white wool and a thick fur collar, with a large black umbrella. a man warming up with an earl grey tea walked past and she could smell the bergamot in the air. at the whole foods market she chose ingredients for love day sweets. she smiled at the mamas filling their carts with omegas and organics, wishing the best for their tiny babes; she noticed celebrations of love in the misty air. as the night fell, the flat was shaded in a rich cornflower blue, from the reflections of evening off city buildings. the stand mixer whirled cupcake batter and the home was filled with the scent of vanilla beans and cream cheese. he came home, also carrying a paper sack from whole foods. from inside, he pulled out a bundle of red tulips. he gave her a silk ribbon, colored in soft red, matching the tulips and she tied it in her hair on the top of her head like a fairy tale princess. she gave him a card that said i love you in a language that he knows and she doesn't: binary. they played solo piano radio while he cooked and she watched. they sampled organic sourdough bread from a local bakery. inspired by a gorgeous brunch, he made festive butter with a hint of wild blueberry jam. the sweet bread and butter complemented the intense, salty, brine of a selection of moroccan olive varieties, green and dark. he made a spinach salad with a balsamic vinaigrette, with toasted pine nuts, and with grilled curried yams. with the salad, there were light, flaky crabcakes, served with a pink grapefruit coulis. she laid the table with tiffany blue napkins and flutes of pomegranate-elderflower water. after the delicious meal, she iced her pink vanilla-bean cupcakes with a mauve cream-cheese-cocoa frosting. he kissed frosting off of her lips. they made a fort with chairs and thick blankets and striped pillows and the bed mattress pulled into the lounge. inside, they lit a fig candle, they turned on the first film they watched in a cinema together, atonement. they caught beautifully-filmed scenes between kisses, and turned off the film before the end to pull up the covers and sleep, just there, on the floor, for the night.

seven days in the life: simply as it is.

2011-02-13T17:30:00.000-08:00

seven days of life. monday, they awaited spring. bright tulips adorned the table and sunlight flooded the home. she admired styled photographs and soft lighting. she spent a long morning working from the warmth of bed, catching up on three days of details and inquiries. then, into the hot rainwater shower. she walked about in the sunshine, picking up fuchsia indian-inspired cushions for the home, listening to the monocle weekly. she loves culture, it is a part of who she is. monocle inspires her with its culture, design, politics, accents, travel, economics. she wore sunglasses, she stopped at the library. at home, it was time for a little sweetness in the afternoon. she whisked cocoa powder and dark chocolate into foaming milk on the stovetop. she enjoyed her hot cocoa at the table, as the sun set with a large sheet of white paper. she filled the blank page with thick, heavy cursive in black ink. words that were filling her: hugo, scandinavia, tea plantations, bright pink, modern design, refinement, leather buttons, sugar cubes, perspective, accents, tokyo, markets. anything that came to mind, spilled onto paper. she discovered an archive of simple foods, and admired the minimalism. tuesday she drew liquid liner onto her eyes and wore a silk scarf as a turban. vata craves soup in the winter, and so she sipped a hot mixture of greens. she got cosy in a crocheted vest, and met a friend at granville island to catch up in the cool breeze, surrounded by ocean and pigeons and live music. she listened to monocle, inspired by helsinki and finnish music and country branding and soft power. she stayed at the island for the afternoon, sipping a steaming almond rooibos at the granville island tea company counter. she read her book, she smiled at babies in prams. many eyes looked twice, perhaps because of the turban. she walked around the market, around the water until it was time for an appointment. her love took the afternoon off, and they soaked in the sunshine together. they drank espresso at home in the afternoon. their hearts were softened by a new life in a chocolate onesie. she found bold, bright styling on a mama-to-be. a lovely one who reads these words sent her sweet compliments, and a friendship blossomed. they are eager to watch that story unfold, as they are about to embark on a similar of their own. he accompanied her to yoga. they placed their mats in the front row and practiced trikonasana side by side. he found strength in sarvangasana, she found flexibility in uttanasana. their instructor serenaded the room with mellow accoustic guitar and soft voice during savasana. at home, they cooked together, with fresh limes and avocados. the next morning, he left early, and the sound of the clicking key-and-lock when he left woke her. she was awake hours before usual, but with a heart full of thoughts and inspirations, she savoured a few moments of the warm blankets and got out of bed to greet the early morning. she indulged in a breakfast of plain greek yogurt, so, so thick, topped with shaved dark chocolate. green & black's organic 70% cocoa, with a bittersweet edge and a hint of fruit on the finish. a cup of green tea and catching up on inspirations in words and pictures from around the world. she wore all black, from a cowl neck tee to black skinny pants with patent cap toe flats, accented with a golden silk scarf and a chain of big crystals overtop. his sister arrived with her babe, and they were blessed with another babe in their tub. their little niece went from striped pink pajamas into the tepid water. she was washed with bubbles and emerged smelling of honey. her dark, african hair spiraled into tight curls. they dressed the baby girl in a pink tutu, in a large white peony hairband and photographed her beauty. the little one fell asleep in the large bed, and the two sisters sipped green tea and shared stories of birth and life. when the sister and the darling were gone, she slipped on nude heels and left to meet her love. a little indian boy on the train caught her eyes with his grey ones. she picked up two grande teas in to go cups, and the couple trained to the univeristy where he would be speaking as an alumni. he looked trendy and polished in his striped cardi and brown skinny tie with his cup of earl grey. she was proud to see him on a panel with well-experienced company; he spoke among distinguished others, such as one with a doctorate in economic, and the multicultural advisor to the university's president who is also the founder of a magazine with a new edge on multiculturalism. the following day featured cashmere-lined gloves and a bookclub at a tea shop - graphic novels and coconut tea and vegetarian samosas. a discussion of style, spirituality, sexuality. connection between four diverse souls. she went home to a bottle of white wine, a skillet of paella and a husband to share life with. the following day she celebrated her sister, and the acceptance to the university of her dreams. a day of pampering, of shopping, of dining. and, the weekend had arrived. they reveled in two sweet days to spend together. there was homemade hot cocoa simmering on the stove, and an open balcony door to listen to the rain. there was an afternoon in bed, with a diptyque candle lit, playing and napping wrapped in blankets. he massaged her body, and she relaxed into his touch. in the evening they watched a touching film in bed, never let me go. they clutched each other and sobbed as it finished. they reflected on life and had one of those deep, juicy moments where their perspective is so clear. they looked into each other's eyes and felt, through the tears, such pure love. they talked about what life means to them and how they dream of exhausting all of beauty possible in it. they reflected on their past, called their loved ones and sank into hours of sweet emotion. they whispered, i love you, between sobs. a hot shower and a long sleep and many tissues later, life returned to its usual pace, the one that sustains them. but they felt changed, they felt raw and dreamy. she brought her passion for life with her to photograph a couple in love, in an urban yaletown setting, styled in shades of grey. there was sunshine after the days of rain. she read pages of her journals from her youth, stopping longer on pages seeing glimpses of the husband that she had hoped for and the artist that she would become. while he took a hot shower in the afternoon, she made a homemade affogato for him. vanilla ice cream topped with espresso. they pulled on their wellies and left the city to meet with friends. a couple and a babe. handmade whole wheat crust topped with tomato-oregano sauce and salty, crumbled feta. tall glasses of home brewed dark beer. and a toddling babe in her lap. that week she had a revelation. one about being in the moment, of acccepting the moment simply as it is. about not wishing for more or bigger or shinier or later... instead, being absolutely enchanted with the now. she had always savored the beauty in life, but this revelation was different. it came to her while standing under the rainwater shower, scrubbing with lavender bubbles. what if i were to let go of every want, of every dream? she wondered. truly let go, until all i have left is this very second? how would that feel? and so, she has endeavored to explore that sensation, of 'simply as it is'.

another weekend in the city.

2011-02-06T12:45:00.000-08:00

saturday, she taught english. a willing student, many hours of grammar. a tweed cape, a necklace shaped as a heart of gold. after, exhausted, he tempted her with a hot bath, an oil massage and a long afternoon nap wrapped in a soft faux fur throw. and, then the weekend had begun. they spent most of the day reading aloud to one another, stumbling on happiness, a book of psychology and philosophy of happiness. they read chapter after chapter aloud... in the bath, in the bed, curled up in the lounge chair with blankets. they allowed their minds to bend around the concepts, and were intrigued and inspired and challenged intellectually. they cleaned the home until it sparkled, until it was fresh. she loves that feeling. in the night, when she couldn't sleep, she wrapped her cold arms around his warm back and listened to the sound of his slow breath. their legs were tangled in the duvet. sometime on saturday he had told her about a sweet daydream of his; of walking up one morning to the sensation of a tiny hand pulling on his feet: 'papa! good morning!'. and so, on sunday, he woke her with the same gesture, his hands pulling on her toes, making her heart flutter with the thought of little feet pattering around their home one day. yet, now, they enjoyed the quiet and the time alone. during breakfast in bed, there were milky kisses. i love every single little part of your body, he told her, caressing her skin. she did not see the clock until they turned on the shower -- noon. he pulled on a striped cardigan. she dressed up in a black dress, a fur collar and nude heels. they danced and danced in the kitchen to his music. he twirled her, and her skirt fluttered. he held her close, and they slow danced, breathless. he took her out into the city and would not reveal their destination. when they arrived at the international airport, she laughingly asked if he was taking her to hong kong... he wasn't, but they did eat chinese noodles while watching the international flights take off and land on the runway. they stopped for an espresso at a new cafe they love: gorgeous wall paper, perfectly european bakery, black and white films projected on the wall, french accents an opulent tea salon in the back. the espresso is rich, tangy and fruity. the best espresso she has tasted in vancouver. it was a rainy, grey day, perfect for the warmth of cafe chairs. on the way home, they picked up a bundle of yellow tulips for her and a box of european-style low-top sneakers for him. at home, she decanted a bottle of bordeaux, an hour later he poured them two generous glasses. while he indulged in his weekly dose of black and white documentaries, she took her glass of wine and her book to the bath. he called her his mermaid. they met one another in bed, where she was rubbing lotion into her calves, where he whispered, you are the most beautiful woman in the world. look, this is our life. i love you so much, and where they drifted asleep to the sound of the dishwasher swishing and the clothes dryer tumbling.

a babe and an artist.

2011-02-03T22:03:00.000-08:00

monday. a day for starting the week, for bright new work. a day that began early and fresh, with cleaned floors. she dressed, inspired by monochromatic french. classic striped tee, skiny black pants. wavy hair left as is, red lip gloss, natural make up. crystal studs and cashmere wrap. a day for many cups of lavender tea, made in the press. a day for appointments and brisk air. a day for taking the afternoon off to live life with a friend. broken conversation over mugs of hot tea, interrupted by a toddling babe's games and cries for attention. black beans all over the floor for chubby fingers to grasp. as the evening grew dark and the little one grew restless, a babe in the tub. tiny little toes splashing in her deep bath; blond hair that curls when wet. and he came home, and they enjoyed spicy indian food together... brown rice and naan, potato masala and mushroom curry and paneer butter masala. soon, it was her own turn in the tub, filled to the brim with hot water. a thick brown towel for wrapping. the sweetness of gulab jamun to say goodnight to monday. nothing is more practical than finding god, that is, than falling in a love in a quite absolute, final way. what you are in love with, what seizes your imagination will affect everything. it will decide what will get you out of bed in the mornings, what you will do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything. (pedro arrupe)

tuesday. meet the girl next door. her faves are jeans, a white tee, cap-toe flats and pearls. and she loves tiffany blue. she's simple and classic. a quick chignon, tinted moisturizer, rose blush and a spritz of wild fig perfume. she uses the same face lotion she used when she was twelve. a large trip to the market yielded bundles of nourishment for the week. her love worked from home, and, because he had a winter cough, they dined on mediterranean vegetable soup. they grilled bread and spread french mustard and sliced swiss that was wrapped in brown paper. in the afternoon, she took a break to crumble butter with flour, to knead and to roll with her olive wood rolling pin from a street-side market in the south of france. she made cream scones, baked them until they were risen and golden and served them with wild blueberry jam in a vintage jar and dollops of thick greek yogurt. there were a few joyful tears shed over a filmed celebration that was not even their own. they watched it twice, thrilled for souls they do not even know. and, she found a young, new photographer who listed this very space, along with the wonderfully talented promise tangeman creative, as her inspirations in her biography. she was so, so honored.

wednesday. will life slip by if we don't write it? she wondered. perhaps. it was a day washed with fog. a frilly tulle skirt. there was a hot bathtub, a trip to the library to pick up a book. in the evening, once he was home and they were finished working, they closed their macbooks and reveled in disconnection. a peaceful detox from constant technology for fifteen hours. they spent the evening reading aloud to one another, about the history of marriage, from an early chapter from committed. they were fascinated by the social and religious and economic chronicle. they sipped hot tea, curled up in blankets and read and read and read and read. and it was so, so quiet. and calm.

thursday. she woke early to spend the first hour of the day in the tub with a book. she wrapped a thick nepali pashmina around her neck and donned a long tunic. she expressed her self as artist.,as painter. a portrait of the artist as a young woman, perhaps. a study in texture. feeling the paint soak into her fingers. a rag made from one of his white tee shirts, filling the canvas with intimacy of both him and her. together, somehow, both the artist and the muse, along with the beauty of life and all the souls of the earth. she sipped a large mug of assam. love loves to love love. her sister called with wonderful news, acceptance to the university of her dreams. there were screams of anticipation and giggles of pride and sighs of relief. hoping for spring, she cleaned in the winter. upholstery and towels and windows and drawers. her father came to visit, so she and her love and her daddy asked for a table for three at nuba. they love the one who wears stripes and whose eyes sparkle when she takes their order and who says 'yummy! delicious!' when she places their meals before them. there were tabbouleh and caramelized onions and pickled turnip and baba ganouj and tzatziki and grilled peppers and moist, earthy lamb. the evening ended with sampling champagne gelato, a kiss on the cheek and her sleepy dad snoring with the soft lamp on the guest bedroom. family.
friday. she wore a dress. compliments followed her everywhere, in the streets, in the shops. she went to sephora to play with colors and left with sapphire blue shadow rimming her eyes, making them shine. in the evening, her love called her sister to congratulate the university success and there was a special in-law bond in that unexpected gesture that warmed her heart. he hung her finished artwork in the guest room, and they added some pillows and a tulle canopy to the space. a quiet, simple evening around the home.

his day: dark espresso, philosophical mind.

2011-01-30T21:36:00.000-08:00

his day. waking up to sunshine so bright and warm, so opposite to saturday's grey rain. she woke before him, to write. when he had risen, he stood at the window, watching the sunshine, watching the city. she bubbled dark espresso on the stove, she whisked whole milk. she made him a latte in a wide bowl. his music is loud, is for dancing. i want your love. love, love, love. i want your love. a purple tie on a black shirt. a striped tunic over leggings with bangles and statement earrings. he is the romantic, he is the one who stops her in the middle of dressing and holds her and whispers 'do you know how much i love you? you are truly my sweetheart'. they went to a well-loved place for sushi at lunch. as they dined with chopsticks and sipped earthy green tea, they talked, they connected. a walk around the seawall, to downtown. sunshine so bright, needing sunglasses. winter so brisk, needing leather gloves and woolen coats. and home again, hot beverages in hand. he watched unknown foreign films in black and white while she cooked. ginger and garlic and chillis and onions. brocolli and carrots and mushrooms and sprouts. chow mein noodles. she whisked a peanut-lime sauce, tamari. again, they dined with chopsticks and sipped hydrating water, they talked, they connected. she washed dishes while he watched his obscure, thought-provoking films. she loves his deep, philosphical mind.

her day: making banana pancakes.

2011-01-30T01:06:00.000-08:00

some weekends, they play his and hers. one day is his, one day is hers. saturday was her day. can't you see that it's just raining, ain't no need to go outside. maybe we can sleep in, i'll make you banana pancakes, pretend like it's the weekend now, and we could pretend it all the time. midday. they had slept in. they woke up slowly, slowly. when they opened the curtains, there was a shadow of fog. rain, rain, heavy thick january rain. they turned on all of the lamps to warm up the grey, to light the space. they wore their pajamas for most of the day. i love to lay here lazy, we could close the curtains pretend like there's no world outside. we've got everything we need right here and everything we need is enough. just so easy when the whole world fits inside of your arms, don't really need to pay attention to the alarm, wake up slow, mmm, wake up slow. she played the song, she remembered when she first heard it years and years ago. before she had met him, before she loved. she had been a girl, and she had imagined the day of holding the whole world in her arms, of being so in love. and so it rained, and so they closed the curtains. there was no world outside. just love and a down-filled blanket, and candles filling the house with the aromas of a spice market. he drew her a hot bath. she washed her hair with a rich lather; comfrey root and rosemary and the sensation of a luxurious salon in her own tub. with an empty bowl, she tipped fresh water over her hair to rinse. moisturizing leave in conditioner, cocoa-scented body oil. he was in the kitchen, separating eggs, whisking whites. butter and sugar were simmered into caramel, bananas added to the pan were cooked gently. on the bed, he presented her with a banana pancake, topped with caramelized bananas and thick greek yogurt. beyond her expectations. beyond her dreams. later, there were films that made her cry. there was earl grey tea and china teacups and hot milk poured in first from a little white jug. they washed load after load of laundry. she dialed all of the modes on their modern front-loading machine delicates, handwash, wool, cotton. she smiled at baby wear. one day. as they washed the clothes, they organized her wardrobe. sorting, purging, modeling. inspired by fashion, she resolved to find more pieces that are high in contrast and high in sophistication. he is her expert stylist. with a sense of accomplishment, she reorganized her drawers, she rearranged the bathroom cupboard, she donated clothing to charity. this is the home that she always wanted to create, that she maintains: minimal, orderly, inspired. when the rain had eased in the late evening, they bundled up in layers of wool and went out for south indian food. vegetable samosas, paneer dosa, chutneys & raitas, daal and chai tea. so many spices blended so beautifully. they finished with his favourite, gulab jamun, milk balls soaked in sweet syrup hinted with cardamom and rosewater. perfection. in the night, he had a raw throat, and she recognized her love for him, when she wished and wished in all the world that she could soothe it. it pained her more than it pained him. that is love. rain all day and i don't mind.

friday: indulge, pamper.

2011-01-28T15:44:00.001-08:00

friday, was her day for pleasure. the day she takes to indulge, to leave work behind, to bask in being alone. in the morning, she browsed inspiring photographs, as always. she found a photograph of exactly what their little girl will look like one day... soft eyes, petite, a silk headscarf. she send him the image and his heart melted. as it was vancouver, it rained. she began her day with a yoga-pilates fusion class in an eastern-decorated studio. she resonated with the dance-inspired poses. in savasana, her breath was soft, so gentle it would not put out a flame in front of her face. relaxed, she sipped a bowl of coconut mango tea as she dressed. at his office, she met him for lunch. sweet potato soup, flax bread and hummus. the afternoon was suited for pampering. she had her brows shaped and threaded at the bombay brow bar. the bhangra music, the soothing rosewater gel, the temple massage from cold, indian hands. next, she had an appointment at skoah, the fresh urban spa featured in vogue and in the new york times. she sipped water, she slipped into warm white sheets with a bare chest. she was massaged and scrubbed. she was wrapped in hot towels, hydrated with a mask of cactus extract. refreshed and renewed. after collecting her drycleaning, stopping at home, some liquid eyeliner and a fresh outfit, she met him at the train station. they picked up starbucks and took the train east, out of the city. they shopped at a selection of jewellers for a wedding band for him, to replace the one that they have not been able to find for months. they were filled with the giddiness of their engagement as they tried on rings. he chose a simple, masculine design made of tungsten. the evening finished with dinner at the in-laws, her love's parents. he was nostalgic over red wine, reminiscing with his parents about his african childhood when he had played in the dessert sands.

four days of life.

2011-01-27T14:19:00.000-08:00

monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday. these are her days of work, work that she adores. work that she does in leggings on the couch, work that she does from a cafe in a silk scarf, work that she does meeting people in love and photographing them. this week, was one of productivity, of accomplishment, of joy. many sessions booked, many contracts signed, many more inquiries. her work featured, and admired. there was a quiche, there were wellies by the door. there was a a tea with an artist. at the french bakery that she had published. she asked to speak to the owner, the stubble-covered, young baker with the strong accent and earnest eyes. she showed him the publication and he flushed. in fact, he remembered her first visit months ago. he offered the two artists and writers a citrus-ginger brioche and they enjoyed the satisfying flaky layers of pastry while they conversed. she is so inspired by this artist, this writer, this photographer, this business owner. by her aesthetic, by her experience in life. she gleans so much by simply listening to the stories. and, when they parted at the front door and when their separate ways in the rain, the french baker realized that they were gone. he left the bakery to chase her in rain, to thank her for her publication, and to shyly ask to take her to a dinner. she smiled and showed him her wedding ring, assuring him she was flattered. and she was. she called her love with the story, and he understood, with a twinge of jealousy, why his vibrant, young and beautiful wife would be desired. he feet became numb in the cold weather. she went home to work, to produce, to create, to complete and to read. she painted her toes a bright pink color, named after a cocktail. in the evening, she ran. invigoration and energy. the following day, there was more production and creation. it was a week for completing tasks that had been pleading to be tended to for days, weeks, some even years. a day with errands, with purchasing cucumber melon hand soap. between the errands, she visited the top story of a book shop, with a new book in hand, stealing a few precious moments of quiet. meeting another connection in her industry, in a coffee shop with brick walls and raw wooden floorboards, inspired by a story of tibetan travels and the people of that land seen through a camera's lens. also inspired by the wedding photographs of their british friends, married in northern ireland. also inspired by reading poetic prose. simple, modern, insignificant. in the evening, yoga. always yoga. the heaviness of her forehead resting on her avocado colored mat. and she wore grey, and black, and grey, and black, and white. there were stripes, and fabric that stretches with the body. a teacher who looks into the soul. she built strength, her muscles shook, her nerves trembled. meditative, focused. a bottle of artesian water from norway, the finest water. she came home to the table set, to green tea scented candles burning. he had a blanket to wrap her in and soft, jazzy piano music playing. he was nearly finished making the meal: conchiglie with mushrooms and chevre cream sauce, topped with fresh parsley. romanced. on wednesday, when she was cold, she pulled on one of his knits. she was inspired by simplification and by voluntarily living with less. they are compelled by these ideas, as they know that they already live in unconventional ways. she was married at nineteen, he has already lived on three continents, they plan to travel indefinitely, they have no desire to own a home, they dwell in a small space with very few objects. they are interested in the people and the ideas that challenge them to think outside of their society's conventions. not every notion presented by that movement interests them or attracts them, but the concept of thinking beyond absolutely does. she cataloged the photographs of their life in the years past. they were reminded, looking back, at how much had changed. how their love has deepened, how their minds have expanded, how they have become more sophisticated, how the world is more grey. she warmed many pots of tea and sorted old photographs, to the sound of old music. nostalgia. she was hired by a reader of these words as a stylist and personal shopper, and she was honored to have her fashion sense thus admired. in the night they explored the concept of vulnerability. and, he learned french. french phrases floating around their home all evening. candles flickered. and she smiled, reading successful relationships are all about communication. and sex. both are forms of intimacy. successful relationships are all about intimacy. and thus ends my first lesson on successful relationships (from meg). and she agreed. one day that week, nearly at the middle of the night, they craved spontaneity. they ordered a white box of pizza covered in black olives to be delivered to their front door. they stayed up late with mad men and a thick blanket. the following day, the final day of her work, they worked at home together in the morning. she adores his company in the home, them quietly creating and solving side by side. indeed, they wore pajamas. the home was warm, they took a hot shower tohegether. he made them a smoothie with organic blackberries and greens. in the afternoon, while he was at the office, she worked in a nearby cafe. the young man next to her complimented the images on her screen and they discussed the art of photography. an unexpected connection. the sky over the water was a red as wild poppies. to the market, and a walk to home. her feminine tulle skirt ruffled in the wind, his masculine unshaven face scratched her cheeks. they let brown rice simmer and steam... well cooked and chewed slowly, zen is found in brown rice. as it cooked, there were brussels sprouts washed, piled in the sink, in a bowl. the outer leaves, discarded. simple. beauty. they crushed garlic, squeezed lemon, washed basa, browned butter, ground peppercorns, chopped parsley. a rhythm of being together in the kitchen. in the background, a british professor lectured on the state of the chinese economy. he disagreed with the academic aloud. sprouts became vibrant green as they cooked. he changed the background to music. to hide and seek with strings. to veloma. the meal, brown rice with sauteed sprouts and lemon-parsley basa cooked with a spoonful greek yogurt. she took an old copy of vogue italia and some style images etched into her mind to the bath. the dreamed of their future babes speaking french. they rolled down the shades over the windows, like eyelids closing for the night.

she relived her bridal beauty.

2011-01-25T10:27:00.000-08:00

photographs by: jamie delaine, michelle elisabeth and vanessa voth.

weekend: the young urbanites

2011-01-24T23:15:00.000-08:00

friday evening came, and it was the sweet weekend. there was a hot chocolate in the evening, there was cheering at his match. a well-earned victory; chatter on the sidelines with the girlfriends. warm boots, wrapped in a warm blanket. to keep her ears warm she wore the hat of one of the players, knitted like a sock monkey. saturday morning was greeted by her love's mother and a short photography session. tea was poured into an antique china tea cup, butter and gold, that clinked musically against the saucer, a song of elegance and delicacy. an afternoon in yaletown, in downtown. shopping at a boutique opening with flutes of champagne in hand. she hoped to find this striking piece from the kate spade spring lookbook. a rolled newspaper, a clutch. she fell in love with valentino bow-detailed pumps. the young urbanites were tempted by the street carts selling grilled hotdogs, filling the streets with salty smoke. they took their temptations to whole foods and stocked up on beef chorizo, on ripe tomatoes, on kettle chips seasoned with sea salt and black pepper, on vanilla cream soda in a glass bottle. they recreated the street cart fare at home, with a gourmet revelation. they spread french dijon mustard on warmed buns. she cooked the tomatoes with brown sugar and balsamic vinegar and garlic, reducing them until the puree resembled a sophisticated ketchup. sweet, savoury, crisp and beyond the street cart; enjoyed with a quirky little film, not a love story. they dreamed and dreamed. some days are for dreaming. other days are for living the dreams. saturday, was a day for dreaming. soft french music floating around the home. c'est quelqu'un qui m'a dit que tu m'aimais encore, serait-ce possible alors? sunday morning they played in bed, they lounged in the covers, they discussed brigitte bardot in her role for goddard's mepris. they made brunch. quiche filled with spinach and tomatoes and goat's brie, with a flaky crust. so often on the weekends he dotes on her, so instead she invited him to watch the indie films that he had been waiting to while she cooked alone. slicing brie, turning on the convection bake oven, chopping herbs. she made a large pot of vanilla oolong. she wore a silk scarf tied around her hair. they spent sunday in the eclectic neighourhood of main street, sipping on house coffee with cream, reading and creating. she finished processing the images from her beloved bridal session. and when they walked home, they passed some of their favourite places to be in vancouver. they spoke of how they would miss them, and how one day they will have favourite places in all of the cities of the world... late in the night, just before the weekend finished, she baked him a tray of her mama's chocolate chip cookies. soft, chewy, bittersweet, satisfying. for all the years i may have searched for who i am, i have found the answer in [this] year. i am capable. (kelle hampton) she is capable of living a beautiful rich life. a beautiful rich story.

all is coming.

2011-01-21T17:41:00.000-08:00

on monday, there was a run in the morning and fresh laundry from the weekend. a bright start to a new week. there was working on a macbook with a venti calm tea in the yaletown starbucks. productive, successful. a bridal photography event. he met her after work to stop by the market. they were inspired by india, and he laid out glass jar after glass jar after glass jar of spices -- curry powder and turmeric and cumin and cardamom and fennel seeds and mustard seeds. he stewed meat and onions and spinach and mushrooms and potatoes in spices and broth and coconut milk. she made a soft wheat dough and rolled small balls into handmade roti on the cold surface of stone counter top. he crisped and browned them in a hot pan, then held them directly over the gas flame until they were puffed with air, a look of authenticity. she made chai with hot milk and sweet black tea leaves and spices on the stove top. they lit a chai-scented candle and revelled in their little india, flipping the pages of another magazine, just come in the post, with her name in it and page after page of articles that she had assisted, read, advised, sourced or checked. tuesday was a day that slipped away from memory, slipped into productivity. slipped by with tasks completed and finances balanced. a day of the every day needs, met. there were moments of celebration, however. meeting with the two artistic souls of another photography business at acme cafe in gastown. a cup of peppermint tea, a talk of art school and brides and jose villa inspiration. later, she wished that she had caved and sampled one of the delicious desserts. her mind and body curved and stretched and focused in yummy evening yoga. do your practice and all is coming (sri k. pattabhi jois). ujjayi breath, creating warmth. long moments in eka pada rajakapotasana. the following morning, wednesday. her dear friend whom she had not seen in too many months joined her for a cup of rose & lavender tea. she was surprised by her friend's exclamation, i am engaged! they celebrated! she shared stories of her own engagement, a few years ago. she then also shared her own wedding dress. she invited her friend to try on the gown. the bride to be was beautiful... milk white skin, prominent collarbones and shoulder blades whispering secrets of elegance, french lace beaded with pearls. she offered the gown and the veil and the love to her friend for her special day; touched, elated. she was also asked to attend the day and photograph it. her fifth wedding for the summer. the girls sipped and giggled and shared. they inspired one another -- their styles and dreams so different, yet still resonating with the other's heart. her friend dreams of her future in australia with her love, building their own sustainable home with solar panels, growing their vegetables and caring for their chickens, having babies who are privileged to four passports due to their global parents. she is inspired by that life and is thrilled to see it unfold. the friend left some weiss schocolade from her german home. for the afternoon, she worked. in the evening her love hosted some friends from edinburgh. they men drank beers and made gyoza, while she escaped to sip tea with her own friend. they connect over story's of their life's work, over advice on being entrepreneurial. on thursday she wore her wellies in the snow and trekked from bank to post office to produce market, caring for her business and her home. she met him at his office, the advertising agency, to share a lunch; he made her a hot cocoa to sip. again, she worked. she set goals and assessed progress. less than five months into business and five weddings booked, ten thousand dollars earned. so blessed, so rewarded, so successful. she dreamed of a new camera. friday, the final day in the week. a day with little work, a day with play. five brides interested in the bridal sessions. one feature, and many comments, on a vancouver site. she began friday earlier than all other days in the week, she worked out in the morning. refreshing, west coast, black lululemon clothing. for the day, she donned a simple dress, tall boots and a nude silk scarf tied around her hair. she met her lovely friend for a day of shopping; she was serving as the fashion stylist of the day. holding and sourcing and searching and rejecting and approving. fruitful: tall cognac coloured boots, a thick and fitted winter coat in herringbone, statement jewelry in bold tones, silky camisoles in milk and turquoise, and a skinny belt in zebra. the 'stylist' refrained from shopping, other than a pair of unexpectedly elegant black leather gloves, lined with luxurious cashmere. after shopping and lunching and hours together, she was ready to end the day with a hot bath. she lay in the floral-scented bubbles and made outfits in her mind and dreamed of her newest clutch obsession by kate spade. she wanted to embark on a fresh cleaning of the home and to slip on a pair of heels to greet her husband when he arrived home from work... she was ready to begin the weekend. all is coming.

at the weekend, there was.

2011-01-19T17:56:00.000-08:00

at the weekend, there were wellies in the snow. there was a friday afternoon, when he finished work early and she took the day off, and meeting for sushi. they went downtown, as the evening fell upon the skyline, in the colour of deep navy blue. lights twinkled and the evening attractions lit up in brilliant colours. they curled up on upholstered chairs next to a fireplace on the third floor of a bookstore. his stack included the economist, intelligent life and monocle. her stack had the latest issue of vogue, and the best dressed special edition, and books about style, and lighthearted pages about french life. they sat close to one another, whispering, sharing paragraphs aloud, pointing to glossy images. they watched the city come alive beneath them. soon after, they joined in, the city nightlife picking up shawarma from the best hole-in-the-wall place they know. it was piled with tabbouleh and tahini and pickled turnip. they tucked messily into their foil-wrapped dinner, while holding hands, walking around the bustling city center, listening to the street performances, watching the people. there was an oil massage before bed, then being wrapped in flannel and cotton and down feathers.

at the weekend, there was a baby that likes to coo. there was a saturday morning. it is always saturday morning when the espresso maker bubbles at ten, and promises to fill the home with the scent of his roasted beans. it was saturday, when they slept and lounged in bed, when they made their way to the market, stopping at the jewish bakery for a hot sesame bagel smeared with melting butter. from whole foods, she picked up satsumas with leaves, and two bunches of tulips to liven the winter-laden atmosphere of the home. the baby came over, and her mama shared a meal with them. soft dough rolled out to be thin, topped with parsley bechamel, with spinach, with proscuitto, with finely chopped mushrooms, with black pepper, with grated asiago. everyone served themselves at the table. communal, a knife, a board, a parchment paper. dough baked, soft at the centre. asiago melted, bubbling, browned at the top. the baby kicked and cooed and slept and was adored. she mixed together a batter with coconut milk and coconut flakes and butter and flour. she baked little coconut cupcakes and topped them with frosting and shared them with the people she loves. on saturday there were wellies again, and there was a rainstorm. they got caught in the rain. soaked, and cold. to recover, she dipped her body into a hot tub filled with water and lavender oil. while she soaked, he put away dishes and lit candles. she emerged warmed, and her body scented with herbs. she read vanity fair, occaisionally stopping to read the most intelligent paragraphs aloud to him. he cooked, and presented her to a table with a dinner with candles. there was a luxury in having no hand in making the meal. he was romantic. and, at the weekend, there were many hours under a fleece blanket watching their latest obsession.

at the weekend, there was a day full of dreaming. sunday began with the same romance that had finished saturday... he offered her a breakfast in bed. a hot bowl of oatmeal to enjoy between the sheets. they read a message from their dear friend, the one who studies in paris, who teaches at st. andrews, and who was taking a week without schedule in the south of france, near st. tropez, with her lover, to write her dissertation. they envied her and resolved to move to europe soon. with paper cups filled with tea, they took to wandering their city for the day. they began in gastown. mostly, they walked on the cobblestoned streets. occasionally, they visited their favourite boutiques. in between, they took turns dreaming. she said one dream for their future, then he said one dream. they challenged themselves to continue for hours, pushing themselves beyond the dreams that surface often to reveal the deepest dreams that are not voiced frequently enough. learn three more languages. have a baby. live in tokyo. write a book. have a photography exhibition in an art gallery. dive in the sky and dive in the deep sea. live on a tropical island. work on a vineyard during harvest season. ride an elephant in asia. photograph for vogue. live in an apartment very, very, very high in the sky. back and forth, they dreamed and dreamed. often a dream was met with understanding by the listener. often the listener dreamed the same dream. sometimes, a dream was surprising, refreshing, new. they dreamed and walked their way to the dirty apron cookschool and stopped at the deli for lunch. grilled housemade bread topped with hummus and avocado and carrots, served with celeriac soup with pancetta and cream. a lunch date with a rustic table. they continued their walking and dreaming to window shopping at gucci and burberry, and wandered the downtown streets. she stopped at a chocolatier and purchased a classic truffle for herself and a caramel for him. she fed him his favourite sticky sweet frown a brown paper package. they walked over the bridge to home, watching the day turn into night, watching the skyline come alight. they cooked, they ate, they kissed, they slept on the couch to the sound of the laundry tumbling in the dryer.

tuesday, wednesday, thursday. remembering, a holy thing.

2011-01-17T22:21:00.000-08:00

it is terrible how much has been forgotten, which is why, i suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.(anita diamant, in the red tent)

tuesday. a stream of thoughts. waking to the sound of his cereal, crunching. tie, shoes, sending him off to his important meeting. bathed. worked. an impression on her heart to volunteer, to donate her skills and passions to those who lose and who grieve. a long conversation on the telephone, a few tears for devastating stories and an application to begin to give her photography to this cause. in the evening, yoga. she arrived with heavy shoulders, and left with the lightness of peace. yoga is her strength. yoga makes her mind and body strong, floating in chaturanga. a room full of yogis, no space for one more sticky mat. during savasana, the sound of acoustic guitar and a soft voice coming from the teacher. vibrations of om. a few silver snowflakes danced on the edges of the wind while she walked home. inside their flat, the scene was set with a glass of wine on the counter, and with a pot bubbling on the stove. a recipe, from her mother, to remind her of childhood. a dishwasher filled with white dishes, and washing machine filled with white shirts. whirling, sudsing. natural soap.

wednesday. a day that felt like goodness. they woke up to a world covered in white. he worked in the home, they worked side by side. productive, encouraged, nourished. a green smoothie made with kale and spinach, replenishing her body. a long list, crossed off. pouring her heart into processing images. pages of trends from vogue. pondering the notion of ordering a clutch covered in nude feathers. in the evening, he visited with his mother over coffee. she, alone, indulged in a long bath, in a few hours of luxurious voluspa.

thursday. a morning run. more than one bath. perhaps three, all with lavender scented bubbles and a few drops of vanilla oil. the final day of productive work. ideas, creation, promotion, inspiration. a day of being feminine, of being natural, of being momentary. in the evening, she took the train to the outskirts of the city to meet with three others: the perfect bookclub, once again. they are a gathering of reflection, of exploration. she wore leggings with his wool socks and his white tee. a silk scarf and pearls for a touch of civility. they know her, she can simply be. first, they sipped miso soup in deep bowls and roasted organic bancha green tea in cups with small handles. then, they made sushi, rolling out rice with sticky fingers onto sheets of nori. they spread the table with avocado, with smoked salmon caught and cured by her father, with cucumber, with sesame seeds, with pickled ginger, with grilled tofu, with baked yams. with bamboo, they rolled their white rice and paper thin seaweed around these. some fingers lingered across the table to take a piece of tofu, or a slice of yam, to eat without rolling, without rice, without ceremony. they spoke about time, mostly, and how time is everything. timing is the fabric upon which their dreams and fates are sewn. there was an old camera, with black and white film, passed around. they spoke of letting go, of acceptance. they spoke of the controversy of identity. is another's perception the same as our own? one is intelligently theoretical, is motivated by detail, is searching, is a poet. one has youthful energy and curiosity and patience and grey nail polish that is not gloomy at all. one is an old soul with a new hair cut, with thick black frames, with a spirit that whispers about regeneration & authenticity & celebration & nostalgia. she is sensitive and romantic, and sees the beauty in all things. together, they are all are open-minded, are thirsty, are conscious, are spiritual. they shared thoughts on the red tent. they spoke of femininity, of relevance, of sex, of bodies. they were candid and vulnerable and bonded. could it be possible that they have met one another only a few handfuls of times, and yet that they share intimate notions, vulnerable secrets? they shared thoughts on the happiness project. they spoke of dreaming, of idealisation, of balance, of escape. there is a magnetic energy that draws them together, every month, for this time. when they leave, they feel as though they've been to church, to a most enriching spiritual retreat. perhaps they have. she told him all of these stories when she returned home. later, in bed, he imagined the hundreds of others living above them and beneath them, city apartment living. many would be asleep, he said, many would be in front of screens. perhaps one may be nursing a warm baby that smells of milk; perhaps one may be washing dishes in the deep sink filled with hot water and metallic bubbles; perhaps there had been a social gathering that had left a dining table with many empty wine glasses. every day life, happening all around them. and, they too, slept.

monday: moment, by moment, of the same tree.

2011-01-10T23:08:00.000-08:00

on monday there was a fresh start to the week. many tasks accomplished, a list crossed off. photos processed, no-longer-needed items delivered to a charity shop. meeting a new friend, over lunch. there were hummus and tabbouleh and haloumi, there were spicy grated carrots with raisins, there were belgian waffles. a friendship blossomed between artistic souls. they shared life, love. a summer wedding story, a hopeful-engagement story. wishes, dreams, goals, inspirations. beginning a new business, meeting jasmine star. stories set in countries all over the globe, uganda to the united kingdom. she is so richly blessed in this industry to meet with others who are creative and passionate and dedicated. a walk home in the cold, cold winter. a city scene before her. curled up in blankets, penning pages of handwritten black-ink-colored love to grandparents far away. enclosing photographs, pasting on stamps. she is grateful for four grandparents, alive and well, wise and loving, generous. he arrived home with ingredients from the market. simple pasta, simple salad, made of leaves and homemade vinaigrette. dinner together at the table, and a cuddle in bed before the dishes were cleared away. they were outside for only a few moments, between their home and the club, and their breath turned to fog. they were warmed with steaming air, a soak in the hot waters. one large tub to play in together. later, a wet bikini draped over the edge of the bath. hot, frothy milk whisked on the stove, steeping loose leaves and cornflowers and bergamot essence, a london fog. she was the perfect wife, ironing and preparing and folding for his important meeting in the morning. he scrubbed and shaved and lotioned. he took his pajamas out from under his pillow, like the good british school boy he was. she baked him cashew butter cookies, with bitter, dark chocolate in them. so inspired to live the life that she dreams of, every single day, moment by moment. a film to end the night. an every-day. nothing seemingly remarkable, and yet remarkable all the same, because this is life. life is composed of leaves of lettuce, of leaves of paper, of leaving the dishes on the table all evening. inspired by the day, she could not sleep. he breathed soundly in the dark next to her, and she wrote and wrote and wrote. furiously, her hands tried to catch up with her thoughts -- notions of a new business, where life intersections with photography. where life plus photography equals art -- this very action that she does every day, becoming more. perhaps. perhaps. if what i say resonates with you, it is merely because we are both branches of the same tree. (w.b.yeats)

weekend: at home, in the city.

2011-01-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

a weekend, at home, in the city. with a friend, a stack of fashion magazines, a hair salon, new inspirations. a cup of hot chocolate, cheering him on as he played on the field -- a thrilling six-one win. in their fifth floor modern flat, many hours spent in the covers with films. several hot baths, one that he drew for her with a fig candle and a hot mug of black tea. bright, bright sunlight. a cobb salad, inspired by new york. a smoothie filled with kale and spinach and flax and avocado. a photo session with an adorable family: high heels, pearls, kisses and a little bundle of joy. their favourite southern indian restaurant for spicy vegetarian fare: potato masala and paneer butter masala over rice with nan. a warm gulab jamun for dessert, with milky chai. hours walking in the city. they love this city, their hearts are urban. he had been craving an afternoon at their favourite cafe, with his book and a latte in a bowl; and so, they went. he read, and she played with photographs that inspire her, and they sipped. a local celebrity and her three adorable babies were sitting at the table next to them. the babies ate olives. in the evening there was a cosy blanket. there was kissing in the kitchen while dinner simmered on the stove. pedicure, bright red polish. they let go and savoured the days of nothing.

tuesday, wednesday, thursday: wear a dress.

2011-01-06T23:01:00.000-08:00

she woke up naked, to a small light kiss from him. stepping over the pile of pajamas that had been strewn on the floor in the night, she made her way into the shower. aveeno soy shaving cream that is scented like a soy milk latte. why not wear a dress on a tuesday? a shift dress with a skinny belt around the waist and a thick scarf around the neck, all in neutral tones and soft textures. she wrapped a thick blanket around her body, warmed almond milk spiced with cardamom, and edited the recent winter wedding she photographed. as she worked, the day passed quickly, and the sun set. she met her love where he was working, at a table with a paper cup and a mermaid. they worked together, next to one another, click, click, click, for a little while until it was the time for a kiss good bye and a refreshing walk in the cold, dark evening to lululemon. some black luon pants, a white tee shirt turning grey from so much love, bright pink polish on her toes, a sticky mat. surya namaskar, strength, focus, yin poses for many minutes. a teal scarf thrown over her eyes for more peace in savasana. yoga is her closest friend, her curious spirituality, her comforting home. she felt affirmed in this as she sipped cold water on her way home. she walked into a home that smelled of simmering and broiling. he had roasted tomatoes and garlic on a pan until they were brown and blistered. he had bubbled them in a pot with stewed tomatoes and handfuls of fresh italian parsley and a hint of cayenne pepper, and coarsely pulsed the mixture in the blender until it was a rich, hearty soup. they served up two bowls and grilled soft italian bread covered in butter. they spent some time together in productivity, filing and organizing and planning. they measured and ordered for him from the up-and-coming, bespoke indochino. and then they fell into sweet, slow relaxation in the hours before bed.

wednesday awoke with soreness all over, the residues of good, good yoga. into the shower, followed by her collection of natural products. spearmint toothpaste, cocoa body butter. in the afternoon, a bowl of hot soup. she pulled on her wellies and embraced the cold. a few hours in the rain, errands. socks and skin supplies for the man. a visit to the library for a stack of books, business and spirituality and asian cuisine. it was a rainy, grey day in vancouver, and time to go home. time to move the tasks on today's calendar square to tomorrow's. time to turn on the lamps and warm the light of the space. time to sink into a hot bath with dark chocolate covered espresso beans and the first few chapters of a library book. time to stay in the bath long enough to warm the water once or twice, and time to pull on white and grey pajamas hours before she usually would. just trust yourself. then you will know how to live. (goethe) he, also, had had a long, long day in its short hours, and so they fixed food for comforting. he rolled out dough into thin crusts on parchment paper while she made a bechamel and whisked in cracked pepper and handfuls of freshly chopped, fragrant parsley. they caramelized onions and mushrooms in olive oil with sea salt. they layered the creamy parsley sauce on to the dough, followed by thinly sliced capicola, the caramelized onions and mushooms, fresh spinach, crumbled blue cheese and a slight sprinkling of grated parmesan. crisp and balanced and chewy and salty and comforting, it was. they curled up in bed, early, hours before usual, with books and soft lamp light. she was reading a book about macrobiotics and craving the wholeness, questioning the philosophy. she read the whole book in a day, and drifted off to sleep.

on thursday, the most important moment of the day was good and quick. she booked a wedding in the early morning. a delightful celebration at the end of july with a black ribbon tied around a white gown. it was a day of achievement and of that sensation of right living. a hill run in the morning with a book in her ears. after, a bowl of whole oats and a kale smoothie. a few inspirations found... a documentary of the sartorialist. a photo of her friends surrounded by love, on their wedding day, in northern ireland one week ago. a tempting recipe for tiramisu. she returned to the work of the winter wedding she photographed. she processed and corrected and exported and watermarked until he arrived home. some brown rice into the rice cooker, some steamed broccoli, basa and salmon pan fried with onions and parsley. he left for his thursday football practice, and she soaked and lotioned and pajama-ed and wrote. she wrote this. and then she baked with cashew butter and dark chocolate and he admired her.

monday: the sight of the stars, published.

2011-01-04T12:07:00.000-08:00

this monday, the time came for the first moment of achievement in this new year. amid her sleeping late, amid his quiet tiptoes and bubbling espresso, there was the moment. amid a run in the morning, amid working quietly together all day, amid breaks for lunch and for kisses. amid the soundtrack with postal service and john mayer, amid his soft cotton white tee shirt by hanes. amid smoked salmon caught and cured by her father, amid their new favorite understated series late in the night. amid his daydreams about their life in paris: him holding the hand of a little three-year old darling, with an a-line dress, tights and flats, walking down cobblestone streets, looking for a patisserie, coming home to a loft space. (his daydreams, make her swoon). amid the everyday moment, amid an errand for fresh produce and bathroom tissue, between the aisles in the supermarket -- the moment. she picked up the latest issue of vancouver magazine, flipped to the last pages, and there it was -- a few short lines, a review for a new pastry shop, with her name in the by-line. her first print publication. a moment of achievement. i know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream (van gogh).

sunday: round little cheeks.

2011-01-03T00:44:00.000-08:00

sunday. she was comfortable in crocheted layers and leggings. the train station. a reunion with friends after a year of seperation. friends that, in edinburgh, were their family. in that one year that had passed, a baby had been created and birthed and celebrated. meeting him for the first time, little james robert. a little paper package tied up with strings. white tea cups filled with chocolate-hinted tea. lasagne made from fresh pasta sheets and ground pork and kale and ricotta, served around the table, in the style of family. after, the remaining fresh pasta cut into strips, fried in butter and coated with confectioner's sugar. an afternoon walk in the city, dusk falling on the skyline turning the shiny buildings cornflower blue and making the snow capped mountains sparkle. there were chocolate milkshakes, sophie the giraffe, cuddles and cooing. there was conversation, there were blue-grey baby eyes. the babe fell asleep in her love's arms, sucking his little thumb. there were pajamas patterned with rhinoceros. and, there were round little cheeks and tiny little toes sleeping in their home, and all was well.

new year's eve, new year's morning.

2011-01-01T21:15:00.000-08:00

three couples: him and her, in the city. their friends, from her hometown. and their friends' friends, expecting a baby soon. the night began at the pourhouse, on the cobblestoned streets of gastown. a cosy little gastropub, recommended by the n.y.t. walking through the restaurant doors was like walking into december 31, 1919. black ballons hung from the ceiling. she wore a pleated black dress, fishnet stockings, high heels, long beads around her neck, eyelashes thick with mascara, and a feather hairpiece wrapped around her head. he wore a black shirt and tie, and parted his hair to the side. they were greeted with champagne coupes filled with cocktails -- rye and citrus and bubbly. delicious. a crabcake with arugula and grapefruit hollandaise. espresso braised short ribs. local duck breast with savoy cabbage and ligonberries. at their flat, hundreds of candles, tealights everywhere. diptyque figuier on the counter. voluspa black figue & chypre in the bedroom, next to the tibetan statue. she made fudgey chocolate cakes in white, ribbed ramekins, served with sea-salted-vanilla ice cream. a bottle of white wine, then another, then another. so much converstion, they nearly missed the midnight celebrations... six voices counted down. ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. kisses, kisses, kisses. happy new year! he popped the bubbly and poured it into five flutes. three girls gathered on the sofa to giggle and feel the baby kicking. conversation, until the wee hours: the world, sex, culture, media, marriage, success, babies, identity, passions. the hours passed and passed, and so he pulled together a few things from the kitchen -- a wooden board spread with french bread, fig jam, a large wedge of stilton blue cheese, and some pecans. she laid out a tray of chocolates. the night wore down, and four sleepy, happy ones left for their downtown hotel. after a refreshing sleep, he brought her breakfast in bed. orange juice thick with pulp in a flute, crisp triple-hickory-smoked bacon, soft boiled eggs. rich, smoky, celebratory. a hot bath later, the two met the four downtown for coffees and walking in the brisk air...

they already feel it... two thousand and eleven may be their best year yet.

the days between the holidays: resolve to celebrate.

2010-12-31T17:34:00.000-08:00

in the days after the holiday, there were friends, and the family of friends. a spontaneous table for ten, hospitality, artisanal pottery cups with tea and coffee, hours talking and sharing and inspiring. monday evening, they returned to their home. her father requested a meal from the sea, and so he sauteed shrimp and talapia and cod and sole. he whisked a thick bechamel and added chopped dill. there were fresh, nutrient-rich broccoli florets steamed and sprinkled with sea salt. later in the night, when there were only two in the flat, she lit candles and dimmed the lights low. he sprawled his body across the sofa, and she alternated between unpacking the bags and cocooning herself inside his arms. he turned on a dramatic series set in the nineteen sixties, and they became intrigued by the characters, by the emotions, by the history, by the fashion. on tuesday, she and a lovely other, shot a winter wedding in a chapel. there were white blossoms, clear skies and manolo blahniks. when the couple left the chapel doors as husband and wife, the bells in the steeple rang for all to know. after a long day of shooting and processing, he took her out for lebanese food at nuba. she ordered a plate piled with lamb, tzatziki, tabbouleh, hummus, pita, greens. she sipped a freshly pressed cocktail of carrot, beet and lime juices. they reflected on what they might strive for in the upcoming new year, and what had changed since the january of this one. they reflected on the end of her university degree, of the beginning of her photography business; on the confidence in their personal styles; on their beautiful, modern flat. they looked forward to more romance, more spirituality, more connections, more simplicity -- and next autumn, a dream come true. on wednesday, there were moments and organic satsumas, with thick, peelable skins and leaves and stems and sweet, succulent juices. this year, i resolve to celebrate big events & little adventures. (kate spade) they worked from home together, quiet, sharing the same space. a green mixture in the blender, whirling kale and spinach and almond milk and cacao and flaxseeds together into delicious nourishment. there were inspired pages of fashion in vogue espana. there was sushi, there were errands, collecting tea lights and black pepper in the cool sunshine. the mountains were clear and crisp, a backdrop. there was a short caramel machiatto and a meeting with a couple who will be wed in july. there were moments of quiet in the home, there were thick slices of apricot cake made by her mother. as they read and as they worked and as they loved, the hum of the heater was the soundtrack to their warm winter life. on the last evening of the year, they pondered the names that they would one day give to their children... anaïs lucia, a girl. athos grey, a boy. may they be blessed.

christmas: all is calm, all is bright.

2010-12-26T23:52:00.000-08:00

the festivities began in the city, the day before the eve of christmas. his family - a mother, a father, a sister, a brother in law, and a babe. his eyes lit up at the sight of his newborn niece, he cradled her gingerly as often as he could, all evening. some local beers were brought to share. she baked dark chocolate delicacies, rolled in chopped pecans and filled with caramel. two trays baked, and not a crumb left at the end of the evening. a pot of hot tea was passed around with milk and raw sugar. the seven were joined by another four, his relatives, in a distant city, in africa. they marveled over the screen that allowed eleven to be together for christmas. they saw the lovely little girl that they had fallen in love with in england, two years ago -- she is know grown and beautiful, four years old, with barely any hints of baby in her. the couple was blessed with a gift, a basket of gourmet ingredients - raw sugar, artisan balsamic vinegar and more. there were 'happy christmas'es, kisses and goodnights, and they tucked themselves into bed, ready for christmas eve.

after a day of working and errands, they paused in the afternoon to order two grande beverages and buy tickets for the train. they rode through the already dark landscape, from city into suburbs, into country. his reading, the economist 'world in 2011', hers, vanity fair. an hour outside their urban home, they reached their destination -- the small town she grew up in. they went in the red front door, dropped their suitcases and were greeted with choruses of 'they're here!' like in the films about christmas. reunions with parents and sister. a home that smells of peppermint and cranberries. mistletoe hanging from the doorways. a large, black family dog barking and jumping with excitement. like out of the pages of a magazine, a large, lush tree decorated in beads and bulbs and lights -- red, gold, ivory and sentimental. everywhere, thick greenery, twinkling lights and sparkling red bulbs. her mother knows how to make a home, cosy and celebratory. they dropped off the duffel and the suitcase, in their room. she slipped from fur-lined boots into nude heels. she wore a soft pink skirt, inspired by the ballet. the whole family rode together to the church and joined the other thousands gathering to celebrate, dressed in their sunday morning best on a friday evening. newlywed couples spending their first christmas together, families with babies that needed soothing during the service, ones who had been attending the same christmas eve event their whole, long lives. so many stories in the pews. hark the herald angels sing, six lit evergreen trees on the stage, a striking violin. he held her hand, she sang the carols loudly. babes dressed as sheep, a children's nativity story. bright lights, electric guitar, thousands of voices raised. their first time at church all year, stirring up emotions both of peace and sadness. the church of her youth, familiar faces. at home again, traditional flavours from her childhood; for him, simply a cold glass of eggnog with honey rum. the fireplace turned on. the tradition of one present on christmas eve -- a carefully wrapped box for each one of the five in the family, filled with comfortable flannel to sleep in. various patterns of plaids and florals were unwrapped, exclaimed over, the softness of fabric touched and shared. hers were ivory, covered in pale grey branches of magnolias, with small pink dots. a thick grey ribbon tied around her waist, a lacy black camisole to match. she pulled on the pretty layers of florals, pulled back the yellow quilted blankets on her childhood bed to reveal blue rose pattern sheets. she laid her head on the pillow and inhaled the scent of her mother's laundry soap, fresh, familiar, home.

merry christmas, baby. she awoke to him whispering in her ear. soon, they heard the parents jumping on her sister's bed in the next room, as excited as children, slipping over the edges of a single bed despite their daughter's squeals and protests. the mother stayed to rub her back and open good morning conversation, while the father went next door to awaken the couple with laughter and eagerness. the espresso maker was warmed up, the toast popped out of its heated slots. after thick slices of cinnamon-raisin bread smeared with melting butter, and tall foamy mugs of vanilla lattes were made for everyone by her love, they gathered around the tree to open knitted stockings. his couldn't be found, and so his treats were stuffed into a grey wool sock. inside, he found a bottle of french red, and a wedge of english blue. soon followed presents, and presents, and more presents; paper ripped, ribbons strewn. the younger sister opened a tall steel coffee tumbler, stylish nude pumps, thick knitted sweaters and leopard-print lingerie, confirming her image as the freshman uni student. they had wrapped a special gift for the father, layers and layers and layers of boxes and wrapping to reveal a small lump of coal at the center. there were dark purple ties, there was handmade chocolate-scented soap, there was olive body butter, there were jewels. he was spoiled with a card to exchange for the revolution he has been wishing for. she was spoiled with a card to exchange for bombshell brows, with brow makeup, with lipglass in 'posh it up', with dark chocolates, with candles spicy and sweet, with a thick italian wool blanket, with jo malone and with diptyque. it was her love that gifted her with the most exquisite candle in the world, scented by les figuiers. another gift touched her deeply; a pair of knitted slippers, made by the hands of her ninety six year old great grandmother. pink and white, with a white button, accompanied by a note that these would be the last pair of slippers her frail hands would knit. they hoped that she would stay well until their first baby, and that five generations may be united together in peace and perspective. once all the boxes and papers had been put away, she arranged platters artfully for their wine and cheese in the afternoon. he poured bordeaux in newly gifted wine glasses; she sliced aged sausage and proscuitto. camembert, firm goat's cheese, smoked mozzarella. olives, cornichons. mandarins, grapes. baguette, water crackers, pita. hummus, artichoke spread. fig jam, marmalade. the table with laid with care, and all gathered around to pile small, square plates with tastes of everything. after the midday tastings, she went for a long, luxurious nap. as she drifted in and out of sleep, she heard four other voices laughing and playing together in the kitchen. he interrupted her sleep with a wine-hinted kiss, deep and heavy. she took a hot, hot shower and slipped into a little black dress. he wore a plaid tie in shades of plum and aubergine, a gift from her sister. after clasping crystals to her ears, she tied an apron around her waist and joined her mother in the kitchen. the apron, decades old, was one that her mother had worn before any of her babies were born. an apron with a peach ribbon, with blue flowers, speaking of years past, vintage. five pairs of hands in the kitchen, washing brussels sprouts, scrubbing carrots with stems. there was homemade cranberry sauce with a hint of citrus, there were handmade perogies stuffed with potatoes. the father carved the turkey, the nthe mother stirred the gravy and plates were piled high with comforting, traditional, winter family fare. her love uncorked the new world syrah, and wine was poured into newly opened wine glasses. the evening finished with a gathering in the family room, for homemade videos from christmas of nineteen ninety three. in them, she was a five year old darling unwrapping her easy bake oven, and her sister a toddling babe with few words. she was enamored with her young self, so curious about what had changed and what had remained the same in the past many, many years. while fashion and lifestyle had shifted, traits of her current life were so clearly evident in her little self. there were plans for fondant chocolate cakes, but the meal was so rich that they were forgotten for another day...

on the day following christmas, her father asked her to rake the leaves with him in the yard. she borrowed a pair of thick socks and hunter wellies from her mama and took up her rake. the two raked quietly for a little while, but they both knew that they were not raking for the sake of the garden, but rather to be together. since she has grown, they spend few moments that are purely daddy-and-his-first-little-girl. the quiet turned to conversation: encouragement, advice, respect, dreams, worries, memories. there were tears, and they were beautiful. a moment of wisdom shared.

days, and days, perhaps a week: words.

2010-12-23T15:03:00.000-08:00

to pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

days, and days, and days. perhaps a week. or a little more. a run on the treadmill. a fresh, clean home. meeting him for sushi in yaletown. working in the starbucks. the most wonderful brussel sprouts sauteed in olive oil with sea salt and romano. thick mushroom soup with cream and saffron, a hunk of bread to tear at on the side. a swim at the club, playing in the water, laughing as he pulled her under, a soak in the hot tub. baking dark chocolate pecan cookies filled with caramel, a spoon finding its way into the bowl for tasting. life in the everyday, in the running, in the chopsticks, in the strands of crocus stigmas, in the playing, in the tasting, in the breathing fast and slow. you do not have to be good. you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. and did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? and have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? and have you changed your life?

a holiday party that lasted long into the night, until the wee hours. conversations with the perfect bookclub about the ways of the world, the religions in it, and the complicated faiths of our hearts. hazelnut butter cookies with milk chocolate chunks, a gift exchange among friends passing around wine and laughter and holiday music. photographing an adorable couple, on the beach, fog rolling away to reveal a majestic range of mountains, boats tugging along the ocean, cold toes in the sand. a kiss goodbye on a friday morning that was deep and passionate and endless, not wanting to let go. there was a golden skirt with shiny wellies and a black trench.

in love with the art of photographs: light is this beautiful living thing. it wraps, it plays, it suffuses, it cascades. i am self taught, and as i worked on my craft over the years, i never focused on shooting the object. instead, i focused on capturing the beauty of light as it played around the object, often through the object, sometimes underneath the object. light dances, and as a photographer i become its dance partner. (jasper johal)

and, many days that she did not want to write. at times, the pressure of telling the story shapes the tale itself. yet, on one of those days, there was beauty found in her words. one in france wrote about her work: je n’ai jamais vu de photos comme les siennes, dans le sens où jamais, devant le travail d’un photographe, je ne me suis dit sans même l'ombre d'une hésitation "j’aurais aimé en être l’auteur". comme j’aimerais prendre des photos comme les siennes... ells ajoutent à la réalité une beauté que l’on ne voit pas tous les jours. les photographies en noir et blanc sont prodigieuses, qu’elles mettent en scène des paysages ou des gens. dois-je préciser que son mari et elle sont photogéniques comme il n’est pas permis de l’être, que la garde-robe de robyn associe le classique indémodable et la fantaisie que j’aime, que la sobriété du blog va de pair avec une mise en valeur de l’essentiel ? meme les notations scripturales, je n’ose pas dire les phrases car elles sont tantôt nominales, tantôt introduites par un participe présent, sont une évocation immédiate de moments délicieux et d’un beau regard sur le monde. and, she was so touched to touch another soul. this is art. still, the days without art passed, and more words from others added to her story. a note from a fifteen year old girl who dreams of growing older, of being passionate, of writing and of photographing -- a thank you for inspirations to pursue her young dreams. incredible. reminded of all of the notes and comments that have been shared with her from readers all over the world, she collected them all in one place and breathed in this community. another wrote: a fairy tale narrative. i think it is wonderful the way you pull all of the marvelous things out of every day life and then convert them into a charming story. you are truly artsy at heart, and i appreciate the zest you have for life. i wish you and your husband the best, as you continue to explore life. know that your spirit is appreciated. and another. another, somewhere far in the world, may you continue to find beautiful perfection in every transcendent moment. another, a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful life you lead. so many words, so many countries. most days, she writes as an outlet for the creative and appreciative soul inside of her. she writes, for the same reasons as mary oliver, ten times a day something happens to me like this - some strengthening throb of amazement - some good sweet empathic ping and swell. this is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing i know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness. yet, some days, it is warming to know that her words, and her photographs, are not merely reverberations between herself and the page. documentaries of moments, this is her passion. it is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others by drawing it. ...and van gogh...was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care. he made it as much like what he loved as he could. by painting the sky, van gogh was really able to see it and adore it better than if he had just looked at it. there is something necessary and life-giving about 'creative work.' a state of excitement. and it is like a faucet: nothing comes unless you turn it on, and the more you turn it on, the more comes. inspiriation does not come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving, but it comes into us slowly and quietly and all the time, though we must regularly and every day give it a little chance to start flowing. (brenda ueland)

and, she continues to document. saturday, they left the home early to collect and deliver, to get warm bagels in brown paper bags from the jewish bakery. he wore green wellies and a newsboy cap from scotland. she met with a bride, and one of her bridesmaids, to giggle over orange blossom tea and girly wedding details and plan one of the most special days of that life. she left, adoring her job, so pleased that this work is what she calls her career. a saxophone played holiday music as she boarded the train. there was a quiet day, of laundry tumbling, of clean dishes put away in cupboards, of documentaries all afternoon. there was a moment, right before falling asleep, where he held her close and inhaled her into his lungs. your breasts smell of brown rice and temples, your ears smell of moving to a new city, your neck smells of a baby that is not your own. they wrapped themselves in a thick blanket.

and after many, many, many days had past since she had written, she woke up with a feeling, that, one day, they would leave this city, and she would ache desperately to remember this gorgeous day-to-day life on the west coast. and so, she wrote. she wrote of mountains so crisp and majestic, capped with snow, standing out against the city skyline over the ocean. she wrote of visiting the whole foods market and shopping amoungst the lulu-clad smoothie drinkers, the diamond-adorned yuppie mummies, and the patchouli scented nature-lovers. she chose brussels sprouts, cabbage, fennel, lemon for a simple, winter meal that evening. carolers wished her a merry christmas in smooth voices. at home, she was inspired by ones who shoot intimate photographs and follow their dreams. she was inspired by ones who make stunning short films. one, she already loved, and others, newly discovered. i know many lives worth living. she put away dishes, the rhythm of daily life in a home. a pedicure, hot pink polish. a ballet inspired ensemble, with a nude tulle skirt, opaque black tights, nude pumps, a fitted black camisole, a strand of pearls at the wrist, and a large nude cashmere scarf knotted thickly around the neck. she met with a sister and a babe, and shared life over cups of tea. an orange ginger scone, one studded with currants, thick cream and tea-infused jelly in a small tagine-shaped dish. they went home to meet with a brother and a husband, to chop and wipe wet hands on linen and to sautee in olive oil. a dinner for four, plus one baby kicking her little legs and smacking her lips. simple winter food was a menu of handmade organic perogies with paprika and cottage cheese, sauteed brussels sprouts, winter salad of fennel and red cabbage and asian pear and romano. while the new parents cuddled and coddled, she stole kisses from her love, whom she had missed all day. after the babe had left, he revealed his deep and quiet love for that little one, counting down the minutes until she would be in his arms again, marking the time he spent with her in the crook of his elbow, warm and heavy and mesmerizing, as the most treasured part of his day. and his love for that soul warmed hers.

another evening there was a beef stew with red wine and mushrooms, simmering on the stove for hours. she wrapped presents under the tree, in thick shiny paper with thick shiny ribbons tied into thick shiny bows. while she was undressing for bed, he swept her, her cotton shirt still hanging from one arm, onto the carpet in front of the closet, and there was laughter and rolling and cradling of her head in a warm palm -- this is life.

our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. we ask ourselves, who am i to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? actually, who are you not to be? you are a child of god. your playing small does not serve the world. there is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. we are all meant to shine, as children do. we were born to make manifest the glory of god that is within us. it's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. and as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. (marianne williamson). there are lives that inspire her to live more, to be bold, to rock life regardless of unforeseen circumstances. her life is already beautiful, she knows, and yet, she is inspired to live with boldness. to living deeply, even more, to know fully who she is, deep inside. and someone's face, whom you love, will be as a star, both intimate and ultimate, and you will be both heart-shaken and respectful. and you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper: oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two beautiful bodies of your lungs.

and, there was a birthday, a mama's birthday. there was shopping and middle eastern food downtown, there were sisters dropping off their mama at a spa for hours of relaxation, of botanicals. she emerged refreshed, polished, glowing. there was a dinner with a whole family at the table, sharing gifts and stories and lobster ravioli. she is a woman so celebrated, so loved by her dearest one, by her children, by her community. generous, she is generous with her heart. she imagines how she once was so small, the size of a seed, inside of that woman… perhaps, that young mother felt, every day she was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of god, one of which was this baby, now grown, now loving her so deeply.

in the morning, the light of the christmas tree, raining, he left wearing wellingtons. she is curled up in bed, writing, of the days and days and days, collecting thoughts and memories and inspiration in one place. words are the thunders of the mind. words are the refinement of the flesh. words are the responses to the thousand curvaceous moments— we just manage it— sweet and electric, words flow from the brain and out the gate of the mouth. we make books of them, out of hesitations and grammar. we are slow, and choosy. this is the world.

monday, tuesday: do you cherish your silky life?

2010-12-14T17:45:00.000-08:00

waking up refreshed. putting away platters and cake plates from a party. planning the christmas meal. alot of this. and a little of this. spinach salad between working. all day in the office. a hot bath drawn by him, with a sprinkling of vanilla essential oil. an armchair pulled up near the bath, him reading to her from my french life. a chilled beer. roasted tomatoes in olive oil and sea salt for a soup, coarsely pureed with garlic and basil. poignant aromas in the kitchen. toasted nutty bread. reading words and poetry to one another in the evening. some james joyce, mostly mary oliver. do you love this world? do you cherish your humble and silky life? do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever?

waking early to kiss him at the door, off to his work. she working away with piles of papers and files of photographs, soaking in this work that she loves. pulling on high heeled boots and a thick scarf to go downtown on the train. putting up the umbrella, caught in the soft rain. a few little errands of everyday life before meeting vanessa, sans babe, for a quiet tea at the urban tea merchant. a cup of je t'aime and a cup of rose congou, two chocolate scones with devon cream and tea infused jelly, two macarons -- one caramel with fleur de sel and one poppy flower. the hours passed by, more hot water brought to the table, and before they had realized, the afternoon had slipped away into conversations intimate and frivolous, slipped away into friendship. she hurried to spend the rest of the day finishing, finishing, finishing. in the evening, she turned on the whole long grain rice, he splashed soy sauce in the hot pan with the salmon. they stirred in greens and cracked pepper and warmed up with bowls of health. they spent hours and hours curled up on the couch, in each others arms, talking about their views on the world, looking through images of the christmases past, wondering where they would be in the christmases to come.

saturday and sunday: mix and mingle, making spirits bright.

2010-12-14T00:41:00.000-08:00

saturday, sleeping, then running. hot oatmeal, then hot rooibos. shampoo, then lather, then rinse, then repeat. unpacking the suitcases, then eucalyptus laundry soap. two bundles of fresh flowers in brown paper, one bundle of bright pink roses, the other of bursting yellow mums. threading at the bombay brow ba r, then rosewater massage. fresh angel hair pasta, then rich roasted pepper sauce. twinkling christmas lights, then wrapping gifts in gold, orange and shimmering pink ribbons. curling up in bed with a warm grain sack at her feet, then sleeping.

sunday, she made oatbars while wearing nothing but a silky black kimono. oats, graham crackers, white chocolate, dark chocolate, tasting the batter. there were blossoms in all the rooms, peppermint soap near the sink and sufjan stevens' songs for christmas playing on the speakers. six arrived with eight dozen cookies and two baby girls, one with the tiniest of buckles in her curls. conversation mixed and mingled over creamy brie, over cranberry & pumpkin seed crackers, over grapes. spirits were made bright with sips of elderflower presse, and pellegrino. two pots of tea, one made with celebrations (black tea with chocolate and vanilla), and the other made with love (rose and chamomile and lavender). a jug of soy milk, a jug of whole milk. the babe was passed from arms to arms, to cuddle and to feed and to be held closely and warmly. there were red velvet discs filled with peppermint cream and crushed candy canes. there were crinkled mocha balls, and drops of minty dark chocolate covered in powdered sugar. gingersnaps sparkled with thick crystals of sugar. sweet and festive cookies were exchanged, put into boxes to bring home to loved ones. variety and ginger and peppermint celebrate the holidays. when all of the guests had gone, and the babe had stayed for one long cuddle, she drew a deep, hot bath. rest.

holiday, eleven: the inspired end.

2010-12-12T23:47:00.000-08:00

the final day had come. the last day in the white sheets, the morning of folding and packing into bags and cases. he played their favourite mumford & sons album while they prepared and zipped and closed. they were reminded of two winters before, seeing mumford for the first time in an underground bar in edinburgh, before the music was known around the world. they feel like marcus and his sweaty brow belong to them somehow. they picked up pastries, and played 'breakfast at tiffany's' on fifth avenue -- admiring the window displays with large sunglasses. they soon went in and admired the sparkles and dreamed dreams of little blue boxes. as the time of their flight approach, they waited with a bottle of ginger kombucha. she discovered the style of kendi. she pulled on her cosy, fur-lined roberto cavalli boots for the long hours of travel ahead. they watched a lecture about poverty that made her cry, and then one about beauty that left them in awe. a subway, a train and a plane and they were soaring through the night sky, watching the moon beside them, remembering, the difference between fear and excitement, is breath. they left a city that once intimidated her, but now is a place that she would love to live. she arrived hesitant, but eager to experience the big city, and left with a confidence, empowered, knowing that that big city could now be hers. they dreamed of living in a little flat one day in soho or nolita, with exposed brick and beams, with a bakery down the street, with a stylish little baby loved in their arms. new york city, you're so pretty, all your faces, going places, and i believe if you fall in love, i believe if you fall in love, you should jump right in.

holiday, ten: simple, slow.

2010-12-12T20:31:00.000-08:00

a slow day, a simple day. the first half spent in their bed, sleepy, reading, playing, laughing, dreaming. as the nearly last day arrived, they realized that they were a little sick for home. he dreamed of a coffee in his stove top espresso maker. she called home their refuge, and he disagreed, saying his refuge was her, his wife, and wherever she is. she sprayed on chanel no five and slipped into jewel-toned lace beneath her layers. crystal earrings from india, cashmere scarf to keep warm. they went for brunch at the bouchon bakery, by thomas keller. smoked salmon with dill cream on brioche, butternut squash soup garnished with maple cream and toasted pumpkin seeds. posh couples and models at the tables around them. they wandered into the west of greenwich village and fell in love with its brick buildings, its green spaces, its shops. they stopped for a carrot cupcake at the magnolia bakery, studded with walnuts and topped with cream cheese frosting. they collected her pumps from kate spade on fifth avenue. wrapped in striped tissue in a fuchsia box. once again, he craved neapolitan inspired pizzas, and wondered how he would ever leave this city with such abundance of it. they ordered a pie with san marzano tomatoes, bufala mozzarella, at night, they curled up in the bed, he with a dish of frozen yogurt and the economist, her with a steamed mug of eggnog and pages and pages of writing.

holiday, nine: from wall street to soho.

2010-12-12T17:18:00.000-08:00

the ninth day began with his dream, visiting wall street and the new york stock exchange. he took in the sights and sounds, and wondered one day if he may work in such a center of financial energy. a short visit to the statue of liberty for tourism sake, and then it was the day that she had been waiting for -- he grabbed a coffee and offered to hold her bag, and she shopped in soho. they wandered in and out of shops - well known designers and little known boutiques. the subtlety of diptyque candles, the soft colors of james perse, the creative brilliance of anthropologie, the lace on lingerie in a little shop they cannot remember the name of. between the hours of shopping, they stopped for a cobb salad piled high with avocado and blue cheese. she admired and tried on. she wore a silk scarf tied around her head with big sunglasses. he wore dark jeans with a white belt. she fell in love with the perfect pair of patent aqua pumps at kate spade, and ordered them to the fifth avenue store. once they were exhausted from all of the fashion, he asked for a table at lombardi's, which may have new york's best italian-style pizzas. a crispy, blackened crust came out of the wood-burning oven topped with plum tomatoes, sweet italian sausage, fresh basil leaves and stringy mozzarella. they were walking through the dark in nolita, towards the nearest subway station, when the little cupcake bake shop beckoned them to walk through its quaint doors. they shared one 'mott street cupcake' which was inspired by the espresso, chocolate and sponge flavors of tiramisu, with a light mascarpone frosting. this was the best cupcake that they had ever tasted -- the cake itself, lighter than air, the frosting, tart and complimentary to the coffee notes. the night finished with skinny jeans, high heels and a dirty martini at the trendy hudson bar. they began to long for home, and only one more day of new york was left...

holiday, eight: tasting the big apple.

2010-12-11T23:59:00.000-08:00

on the eighth day, almond danishes filled with soft ricotta in hand, they wandered fifth avenue. she admired the jimmy choos in the shoe department in saks. the new york public library was grand and beautiful, featuring a special collection on islam, christianity and judaism. they were inspired by the parallel histories and scriptures, inspired by the coexistence of the three faiths. they grabbed a strong cappucino at stumptown coffee, the cafe in the ace hotel that sells the beans roasted in brooklyn. a hipster, indy vibe, drinking the coffee at the stand-up bar. around the corner, the ace hotel's no. 7 sub -- the beginning of their tasting tour of new york city. their sub was filled with braised pork, with yams and with marshmallow. unique, quirky, delicious. the made their way down to east village for the city's best lobster roll, thick, fresh pieces of lobster and creamy butter on a soft roll. this one was recommended by susie theodorou, the incredible food stylist that she once worked with on this book. the stylist also pointed them towards a few other favourite spots on seventh. next, they followed her suggestion for porchetta, pork cracklings on greens with cannellini beans. this hyper-specialized, tuscan inspired shop uses antique china and happy, organic pigs. finally, just as the stores on seventh were closing, they slipped into abraco for a piece of cured olive shortbread, sprinkled with coarse sugar, and wrapped in wax paper. salty, crumbly. satisfied with the myriad flavors of the big apple, they took to walking through the city for the night. down to the lower east side. fire escapes, bicycles, cigarette smoke in the air, people of all colors. we really are in new york city, she thought. this place that so many people talk of, write of, sing of, dream of. we're here. they crossed over into chinatown. dried fish, i heart ny tee shirts for three dollars (she took one), a toothless asian man grinning in a chinese bakery. next to chinatown was little italy. burly men, hanging cheese, crying offers of restaurant hosts hoping to give the couple a table and a glass of wine. after a day of many tastes, of many streets, they spent the evening still and quiet.

holiday, seven: late autumn in new york.

2010-12-11T23:23:00.000-08:00

after an early morning on sunday, monday morning was the opportunity to sleep in, to stay curled in bed until late. when they finally arose, they found their local pain quotidien, with a bakery and communal table. she began with a pot of fresh mint leaves steeping in hot water, he began with a foamy cappuccino. a young mother pushed a gurgling babe in a stylish pram, the woman at the table next to them placed her birkin on the table and draped her fur over the chair, an investor ordered a double espresso as quickly as possible. for brunch, they ordered a prosciutto tartine with olives and buffalo mozzarella, a glass of bubbling prosecco, and a tartine spread with rich, thick housemade ricotta, dotted with black mission figs, black pepper and drizzled with acacia honey. they finished with a dense, syrup-saturated pistachio tart. they bundled up in layers and wished warmth down into their toes ask they wandered through central park, taking in the vastness of this midurban retreat, imagining summertime picnickers and hoping to be amoung them one day. over hills, under trees, up stairs, down through tunnels. a quintessential new york pretzel from a street cart vendor. they absorbed the class of the upper east side with its doormen, luxury cars and little school girls in private school tartan. a wander through dean and deluca, admiring all of the best tastes of the world, finding some products from home. a cup of chamomile tea in hand, they window shopped down madison avenue, stopping to browse the louboutin collection, or the diptyque collection. the hours slipped away as they saw and remarked and wondered. soon, night had fallen and they returned to the hudson for warmth. they stopped at the concierge to make a late night reservation for nobu. a party in the hotel bar and music in the elevators set the vibe of their trendy hotel. as she got dressed for dinner and put on a top covered in black sequins, he found this tiffany holiday film and shared it with her; there were smiles and little butterflies. they saw new york, they saw themselves in the scenes, they were inspired. just after nine, they left for the original location of nobu, eager to experience this sexy japanese fusion adored by the celebrities. they wondered if they might fall in love, and agree with vogue, jean-georges and kate winslet. he sipped japanese beer and ordered the sashimi platter, which came with a variety of raw fish including yellowfin tuna, spanish makerel and octopus. slippery, chewy, subtle. she tasted the softshell crab roll, the sweet potato tempura and prawns kushiyaki grilled with anti-cucho. hot, crisp, spicy, sweet. they finished the meal with green tea and zen: green tea mousse, almond sponge, chocolate praline crunch, green tea cremoso and adzuki bean in a cocktail glass. an excellent menu, incredible flavours.

holiday, six: new york, new york!

2010-12-11T18:35:00.000-08:00

one belongs to new york instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years. far, far too early the next morning, the taxi arrived and they put all of the final books and jewels and shoes into their cases while he played 'we speak no americano...' to transform sleepiness into energetic dancing. she picked up a chamomile tea from the hotel front counter. she wore her birthday pearls on her ears, a suit dress in warm oatmeal, a golden silk scarf knotted around her neck, tall boots, a woollen cape, large sunglasses and that feeling of refinement of a woman travelling with class. they boarded a small plane and the sun rose. as they climbed above the clouds, the shine of the sun glinted off of the wings of the plane. montreal faded away, and they soared over rippled waters and vast land until they landed smoothly near new york. they boarded the train into the big city, and she slept soundly while they glided along the tracks from suburban into the energetic centre of manhattan. as they arrived at the hudson hotel, they were immediately impressed by the sleek front, the design including bright yellow glass, an escalator into the main lobby, a massive sparkling crystal chandelier, ironic artwork, a bar with a muralled ceiling and lit flooring, a dining hall inspired by an elite ivy league cafeteria and a library with a roaring, crackling fire. a wonderful friend of theirs came up the escalator, and they hurried to hug and kiss her and excitedly exchange little gifts. they had not seen her since two springs ago in edinburgh, when that sweet east coast girl and her brilliant boyfriend were their champagne and caviar friends, were their talk-about-everything friends. they had cuisined gourmet meals together weekly, they had traveled a long weekend in london together. this time, the boyfriend was on the west coast, working on an economics ph.d. at u.c.l.a, but his girlfriend was there with them, and the three were thrilled to be reunited. she brought them to soho to a little italian bistro where they dined on lobster bisque, on chicken breast with balsamic reduction and warm orzo salad, on penne with prawns and scallops and roasted peppers. they wandered the shops and boutiques of soho, stopping to scrub their hands with fig cocoa sugar scrub in sabon and to admire grungy-chic baby boy's clothing. new york city is certainly where to live to have a stylish babe, they remarked. the three ended up in an espresso bar with alfajores filled with dulce de leche and coated in shredded coconut. once they hugged and kissed kacie goodbye, they walked back to their hotel, and she thought, surrounded by every culture, by so much energy -- this feels like the centre of the world. they picked up a sunday times and relaxed on the bed; he pulled out the finance and business sections, and passed her sundaystyles and arts & leisure as she filled the bath. when night had fallen, they craved something warm, something local, something casual, so they followed the suggestion for the best, secretive burger joint. through the high-class lobby of the parker meridian, there is a red velvet curtain that holds an unexpected diner. and, while the hotel's fine restaurant was empty, the line up to sit in the small, grungy burger bar was long and deep. they waited their turn, curious about what they would find behind the walls -- soon, they discovered a dimly lit space with a handful of tables, grafitti and movie posters plastering the walls, the menu handwritten with marker on a torn piece of cardboard. two cheeseburgers, medium-rare, with the works. and a vanilla milkshake, a paper bag of crispy fries. he surprised her by paying an extra dollar and leaving the counter with a giant pickle too slippery to hold in one hand - sometimes, this is love, the novelty of the largest fermented vegetable she'd ever seen. all kinds surrounded them, foreign and local, in suits and in rags. the front counter called his name and they were presented with salty, sloppy food wrapped in wax paper, chased by long sips of thick and creamy milkshake. perfection. from the smallness of the burger joint to the largeness of times square. he comes alive in this city, he feeds on urban energy. he held her hand and pulled her through the streets, the screens, the tourists, the lights, the taxis, the streetcarts, the skyscrapers. she laughingly played along, overwhelmed, capturing the sights out of focus... she preferred the energy of a quiet hotel room on the eleventh floor with thick white sheets and his soft white tee shirt on her body.

city guide: new york city!

2010-12-11T01:03:00.000-08:00

one belongs to new york instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years. manhattan. the fire escapes, bicycles, cigarette smoke in the air, people of all colors. we really are in new york city, she thought, this place that so many people talk of, write of, sing of, dream of. we're here. and being in new york feels like being in the center of the world. for more on what they saw and experienced, read the entire story and view more images of their east coast holiday...

sleep.

the ace hotel: boutique hotel in the center of manhattan. young and indie, the vibe of this space draws creative types. the decor is bold and eclectic and vintage. excellent, unique dining options and stumptown coffee roasters are features of the hotel.

the hudson hotel: located in the stunning columbus circle, this upscale hotel is amazing for its energy. unexpected, ironic design features, such as neon yellow glass paneling and escalators and antlers and grass growing on the ceilings and a massive crystal chandelier illuminated with lightbulb holograms. yet, along with the fun, there is still a sense of refinement. heels and birkins and furs parade in the lobby, and the service is attentive. in the summer, take advantage of the sky terrace; in the winter, pick up a new york times sunday styles and cosy up in the library with the fire roaring. a room on one of the top stories means a stunning view of below.

eat.

nobu: sexy japanese fusion adored by the celebrities. order japanese beer, the sashimi platter, with yellowfin tuna and octopus, the softshell crab roll, the sweet potato tempura and prawns kushiyaki grilled with anti-cucho. an excellent menu, incredible flavours.

per se: with three michelin stars, this is the urban interpretation of thomas keller's french laundry. perhaps the best dining experience in new york (perhaps one of the best dining experiences in the world). obsessively detailed and perfectly refined. nine course tasting menus that offer a few tastes of a distinct flavor, before one is gone and the next course has arrived. a surprising delight for the palette. [reservations essential]

le pain quotidien: whether for an espresso, a ricotta-filled almond danish, a long leisurely brunch or a cobb salad at midday -- perfection. rustic, french asethetic and long communal tables shared by posh mamas, ladies in fur and hurried business men. for lunch, have a glass of bubbling prosecco and a tartine spread with rich, thick housemade ricotta, dotted with black mission figs, black pepper and drizzled with acacia honey.

porchetta: this hyper-specialized, tuscan-inspired shop uses antique china and happy, organic pigs. all they serve are pork cracklings on cooking greens with cannellini beans. organic, cultural and inspired.

no. 7 sub, in the ace hotel: a take-out shop that sells subs and homemade sodas. exhileratingly innovative, the ingredients are the likes of pickled blueberries, candied wasabi and fried lemon. try the braised pork ribs sub, filled with yams and marshmallow. unique, quirky, delicious.

luke's lobster: when on the east coast, have a lobster roll... this shop in east village has the city's best lobster roll -- thick, fresh pieces of lobster from maine and creamy butter on a soft roll. rich, preppy, decadent.

italian-style pizza is a must in new york city... perhaps the traditional lombardi's, or the little known la pizza fresca... anywhere with a wood-burning oven. a thin crust with san marzano tomatoes, fresh basil and buffalo mozzarella. simple, yet addictive.

the burger joint: a well-hidden secret, worth finding. through the high-class lobby of the parker meridian, there is a red velvet curtain that holds an unexpected diner and what is known by locals as the best burger in new york. and, while the hotel's fine restaurant is empty, the line up to sit in the small, grungy burger bar is always long and deep. a dimly lit space with a handful of tables, grafitti and movie posters plastering the walls, the menu handwritten with marker on a torn piece of cardboard. all kinds of people dine here, foreign and local, in suits and in rags. order a cheeseburger, medium-rare, with the works, a creamy vanilla milkshake, a paper bag of crispy fries. for the sake of novelty, order a single pickle, larger than any other pickle you've seen.

indulge.

abraco: if you're in the east village sampling the best flavors of new york, stop here for a piece of cured olive shortbread, sprinkled with coarse sugar, and wrapped in wax paper. salty, crumbly, memorable.

magnolia bakery: an old-fashioned bakery in greenwich village and famed for being where the cupcake trend began... with appearances in pop culture, and a scene with carrie bradshaw enjoying a magnolia cupcake, this little shop is popular to visit, and the cupcakes are delicious.

little cupcake bake shop: this bakery in nolita makes the 'mott street cupcake' which is inspired by the espresso, chocolate and sponge flavors of tiramisu, with a light mascarpone frosting. the best cupcake that they had ever tasted -- the cake itself, lighter than air, the frosting, tart and complimentary to the coffee notes.

bouchon bakery: a boulangerie by thomas keller, with handmade french-inspired treats. precise baking, gorgeous open aesthetic and beautiful sweets.

holiday, five: aurevoir montreal!

2010-12-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

the last day of montreal had them lounging in their white sheets all morning. they indulged in breakfast in bed, a spread of pastries and grainy bread, and yogurt with honey and blackberries. she sipped his cappuccino and got foam on her lips. he practiced his french, identifying the items he knew le pain, le cafe, le miel. he laughingly created phrases, neglecting conjugation, but adding passion and a strong effort at an authentic accent. they played in the bed until lunchtime, and pulled on their wellies to go out in the light dusting of snow fallen on the cobblestone streets. she braided her hair and wore a camel scarf striped with electric pink. on their way to lunch, they stopped into a quaint boutique and bought handmade fleur de sel caramels for their friends. they returned again to o+g for imported italian beer, for strawberry vanilla lemonade over ice, for carrot mango soup with a hint of spicy cumin and for a panini filled with smoked ham, braised pork, gruyere and handmade mayonnaise with lime, cilantro and chipotle. they wandered through the cold air, bundled up in many layers. the bitterness of the coming winter bit at their fingers and noses. they watched the horses and carriages and ice skaters and christmas market goers. and once they were too cold, finished marvelling at the east coast in december, they needed warmth. they curled up on the chairs of le petit cafe for decaf americanos with cream and a shared dark chocolate valrhona dried cherry cookie. after another afternoon of relaxing and nothingness and the pleasures of vacationing, they found a warm little pizzeria with brick walls and candles and ambience and a thai chicken pizza with lemongrass. they huddled for warmth by the edge of the river, where the skaters were skating and the babies' cheeks were turning rosy. the most spectacular fireworks that they had seen exploded above them. strains of incredibly moving instrumentals provoked the bursts of light in precise timing, creating a composition of colour and light that was truly art. a festivity for the holidays. before going early to bed, they arranged their taxi and asked for a wake up call and said good-bye to montreal and to their le petit home there -- young, small, cosy, modern, intimate, luxurious, attentive and delicious. bonne nuit, montreal, c'etait un plasir.

holiday, four: montreal-culture-essential.

2010-12-10T13:12:00.000-08:00

on the fourth day, she woke up to hot milk. she wore a faux fur hat, and turned all the heads and caught all the eyes. they wandered the aisles of a food market in the morning, with a crepe au citron et sucre in hand, wrapped in white paper. they found a little boutique, espace pepin, selling clothing and art and textiles and bath treats. she picked up some handmade dark chocolate soap and a bath and massage oil scented of chocolat et vanille. they wandered in and out of all of the trendy neighbourhoods, the streets with shops and cafes. they looked in windows, they walked down a quiet alley way, decorated with tattered newspapers and colourful grafitti. for lunch, they stopped at a local favourite that offers dozens of poutines. their order of a classic satisfied their curiosity about that montreal-culture-essential… salty, creamy and crisp. a tall stack of napkins for dirty fingers. another typical food tempted them in the jewish neighbourhood -- montrealers preferred bagel shop, open twenty four hours every day. twenty large sacks of flour in the doorway, a fire burning oven at the back, a large man slicing strips of dough, a long wooden paddle flipping the baking circles, and a trough of warm bagels sprinkled with poppy seeds. she chose a sesame-covered one, hot from the oven, and melted butter right into its soft, chewy centre. the streets of montreal are scented of rising bagels and baking pastries - sweet and sticky. in the afternoon, they returned to the hotel, where he opened the chocolate oil and massaged her body. long, firm strokes across her back, the sheets aromatic. they gathered their thick books, his atlas shrugged and her mansfield park, and took them to a cafe for hot chai tea, for a latte in a glass, for a cherry scone studded with chunks of crystallized ginger. after dusk had fallen, and the cafe had quieted, she changed into her sheer black dress, fishnet stockings and dabbed red stain upon her lips. for drinks and tapas-style dining, they settled into their reserved table at the pullman wine bar. the vibe was young, the table next to them was popping bottles of bubbly. the walls were concrete, the variety of specialized shapes of wine glasses on the wall numbered more than twenty. the wine cellar had glass walls, boasting its collection. he ordered port, ruby, quint da passadouro. she ordered a small flute of champagne, brut selection, macro chauvet, france. the citrus and yeast flavours so complex. they sampled many beautifully presented courses: chorizo with sea scallops, green apple and quince preserve. fried cod brandade with spiced mayonnaise. mozzarella and pesto stuffed suppli. a cheese platter with four delicate tastes, including goat's cheese and apple puree, a local style of camembert with quince paste, ash-covered cheese with walnut puree and a blue cheese with figs. the last was their favourite, and it lingered on their tongues. they finished with a white rectangular plate with four bites of desert - each one was a red wine soaked fig on an almond graham crust topped with marscapone cream. artful and poignant. out on the busy streets, he hailed a taxi back to le petit hôtel.

city guide: montreal

2010-12-05T17:44:00.000-08:00

montreal is culturally and historically situated between america and europe. she fell in love with the quaint, artsy vibe in montreal. he adored the references to french culture. read the entire story and view more images of their east coast holiday...

the best of montreal

- sleep -

le petit hotel: inviting, young, artsy, luxurious. the lobby is lit with the soft light of chandeliers bouncing off of murals. the reception desk is one with the espresso bar. the dinner recommendations are eclectic and cultural. stone and brick walls, minimal and modern, monochromatic with pops of hermes orange. intimate. soft piano jazz music plays in the rooms, waiting the arrival of guests. aveda bath products scented with herbs. decadent pastries at breakfast.

- shop -

boutiques in old montreal: espace pepin sells local clothing, art and bath products. gorgeous soft aesthetic with muted colors, thick textiles and draping tulle. the chocolate and vanilla bath and massage oil is aromatic, rich and luxurious. zoneorange sells modern, cultural accessories and creamy handmade fleur de sel caramels.

- eat -

bagels: the traditional jewish fare is well loved by locals, and they apparently all gather at fairmount bagel or st. viateur bagel -- everyone has a distinct, defining favourite. twenty large sacks of flour in the doorway, a fire burning oven at the back, a large man slicing strips of dough, a long wooden paddle flipping the baking circles, and a trough of warm bagels sprinkled with poppy seeds. hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of bagels being made by hand every hour - an amazing spectacle.

olive + gourmando: part cafe, part bakery, part bistro. every part remarkable. the vibe is young, indie. the menus written in chalk, organic products lining the walls, a stone basin and citrus soap from marseilles. order a panini with garlic chicken, portabello mushrooms and grilled red onions. earthy, salty, thick. or, share a salade caesar d'hiver with kale, chard and other dark leafy greens, hinted with capers, crusty croutons and shaved parmesan, lightly dressed in olive oil. local wine, imported italian beer or strawberry vanilla lemonade over ice. for dessert, a bar of graham crust, caramel, dark chocolate and fleur de sel from the bakery counter to enjoy with espresso. perfection in a crowded little shop in vieux montreal.

the pullman wine bar: the walls are concrete, the variety of specialized shapes of wine glasses on the wall number more than twenty. the wine cellar has glass walls, boasting its collection. perfect champagne, brut selection, macro chauvet, france, with complex citrus and yeast flavours. sample many beautifully presented courses, tapas-style: chorizo with sea scallops, green apple and quince preserve. fried cod brandade with spiced mayonnaise. mozzarella and pesto stuffed suppli. a cheese platter with four delicate tastes, including goat's cheese and apple puree, a local style of camembert with quince paste, ash-covered cheese with walnut puree and a blue cheese with figs. a white rectangular plate with four bites of desert - a red wine soaked fig on an almond graham crust topped with marscapone cream. artful and poignant.

o noir: the unique concept is to experience blindness. eat in complete darkness, served by a blind man. without sight, all other senses are heightened. texture, taste and aroma are emphasized. complete blackness unforgettably inspires imagination and emotion, evokes fear and trust.

holiday, three: they were blind, and now they see.

2010-12-04T10:56:00.000-08:00

they spent morning hours, afternoon hours and evening hours in the bed, enjoying one another, resting. travel is the moment when the gravity of time is lost. there was a soft white duvet filled with thick feathers. they took a very hot shower together, playing in the water. streams of water, various pressures, covered them in all directions in this shower meant for luxurious relaxation. hotel living was punctuated with hot cocoa and grainy toast, nestled next to the window, the whirring of the espresso machine, pastries under glass and fresh linens every morning. their boutique hotel was one that played jack johnson and sufjan stevens softly in the cafe. at midday, they sought a local gem, olive + gourmando and discovered what would become one of their favored spaces for lunch in all of the cities that they have travelled. the vibe was young, indie. the menus written in chalk, organic products lining the walls, a stone basin and citrus soap from marseilles. they ordered a panini with garlic chicken, portabello mushrooms and grilled red onions. earthy, salty, thick. they also shared a salade caesar d'hiver with kale, chard and other dark leafy greens, hinted with capers, crusty croutons and shaved parmesan, lightly dressed in olive oil. they chose a bar of graham crust, caramel, dark chocolate and fleur de sel from the bakery counter to enjoy with espresso. perfection in a crowded little shop in vieux montreal. the festive spirits were made bright by horse and carriage rides through the city. they found a local art exhibit and spent much longer than they expected with the photographs, the paintings, piecing together the raw love story of the artist and his model. at the university, they fit in with the young students in skinny pants, tall boots and scarves, minds open with the promise of potential. the energy of learning surrounded them on the campus, and they were inspired. in the evening, they chose a memorable dining experience: they ate in complete darkness, served by a blind man. without sight, all of their other senses were heightened. the first moments were terrifying as they were guided to their table, leaning on one another, trusting their path. over the hours of dinner, their fears lessened and the darkness became more natural. they sat next to one another and held onto each other's body in an effort to ground themselves. each dish that was placed in front of them was smelled and touched before it was tasted. they relied on the sound of their forks touching the plate to find the next taste. water glasses were mysterious - full one moment and empty the next. the butter, which landed on their bread and their fingers, was saltier than usual. the napkins they wiped their hands on were rougher, the goat's cheese, silkier. for the dessert, they had chosen to be surprised, rather than order from the menu. their first taste made them aware of the chocolate and espresso, and of the mousse-like texture. it was her identification of a spongy lady finger that made them recognize the dessert as one of the lightest, most delicious servings of tiramisu that they would ever taste, and yet never see. when they had first been submerged into darkness, irrational voices convinced her that the blindness may be permanent, and yet, they had adjusted more quickly than they had expected. what surprised them most, upon leaving the restaurant and rejoining the world of sight, of lights and shops on the busy st-catherine's street, was how quickly their blindness was forgotten. after only moments of walking down the sidewalk, the darkness was a vague memory and sight was their familiar sense again. yes, travel is another way of seeing.

holiday, two: exploration in montreal.

2010-12-04T09:58:00.000-08:00

a day of exploration... warm pain au chocolats and lattes in the hotel. wandering near the water. admiring the architecture of vieux montreal and notre dame. delis and boutiques and locals. being mistaken for locals. paper birds hung from ceilings. a table of italian, with wild boar tartare and the best minstrone they had ever tasted (rich, salted, warming, cleansing) and pastas and grilled seafood and italian cakes with cream. the metro. evening falling before four o clock in the afternoon, turning to heavy, heavy rains. escaping the weather back to the hotel for curling up in the duvet. relaxation indoors, exploring one another, until putting on a dress and eyeliner. his silk tie was patterned with ivory dots. they went to the indian restaurant down the street and were sat next to the window. they watched the snow fallling as indian fare was laid before them: pampadums with almond sauce and tamarind chutney, pakoras, curries and kormas with lamb and vegetables, charred naan bread. he spoke in english, she spoke in french and they savoured the sweet and spicy meal with conversation of their future travels, of their dreams for the coming years. they walked down the quaint cobblestone streets in the snow and retreated with hot peppermint tea in their room. she drifted off to sleep early while he watched an independent film that provoked his mind and his heart to remember that life is fleeting. she felt his touch late in the night, he had been moved by the film to breathe into her neck whispering of his love for her. in the morning, he would tell her of his reaction from the story: a profound passion for life, an insatiable desire to have a babe, and an inspiration to care for her so deeply.

holiday, one: the travel and arrival.

2010-12-01T08:06:00.000-08:00

they arrived in montreal. the morning began with packing in the last moments, a short taxi and train ride to the airport, a steamed soy milk sprinkled with cinnamon, a tie on him and a wool cape on her. she felt so blessed to have a family that they love so much that they call again and again for last minute goodbyes and to send hugs and kisses. on the plane, she was comforted by african red bush tea, by dark silence. he read the economist, she turned down corners of pages in vogue. while flipping through the in-flight magazine, they became giddy when they noticed an article mentioning the cookbook that she will be published in this year. after landing, collecting their luggage and hailing a taxi, she spoke in rapidfire french, asking to go to the address of their boutique hotel in old montreal. her reaction as they drove into the city over cobblestoned streets was, if vancouver is geographically and psychologically situated between america and asia, montreal is culturally and historically between america and another continent. europe. the hotel: inviting, young, artsy, luxurious. the lobby was lit with the soft light of chandeliers bouncing off of murals. the reception desk was one with the espresso bar. the dinner recommendations were eclectic and cultural. stone and brick walls, hot lemon tea. as they opened the door to their room, soft piano jazz music was playing, waiting for their arrival. the space was minimal and modern. all monochromatic with local art and a scandinavian-inspired chair the colour of paprika. he found the small in her back, and that sweet spot beneath the neck that dips at the center of the collarbone. she let the hot water of the massage shower soothe her muscles. she lathered up with aveda bath products: aromas of earth and honey and mint and herbs. they walked down the street to a polish cafe for authentic pierogi and czech beer. exhausted from their day of travel, they slept in the bed as soft as a cloud.

monday: a new way of seeing.

2010-11-29T15:18:00.000-08:00

the suitcases and bags are open on the bed, the fresh laundry is folded, the kitchen cupboards are empty. one more evening to prepare; in the morning, they fly to the east coast. one’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things. (henry miller)

the days between.

2010-11-29T13:11:00.000-08:00

there were days between the beauty of monday, the celebrations of thursday and the anticipation of upcoming travel... there was a tuesday and a wednesday and a friday, saturday, sunday... and those days were lived with homemade german cinnamon pastries delivered in the morning. more sweet cuddles with her favourite babe. the sensation of blessing washing over her as she cradles the little girl. reading a book about stories and pondering the way that creating a story can propel life. creating an affogatto with freshly brewed espresso poured over a scoop of haagen-dazs coffee ice cream. the sensation of him washing her hair with fragrant shampoo as they showered together. the memory of salty, crumbly feta and olives black as night. early evenings as the darkness falls in the afternoon. packing their bags for an upcoming holiday. the glimmering of the christmas tree. dinner with an inspiring artist and conversations of art and life over tapas at bin 942: pomme frites piled high drizzled in balsalmic vinegar, amuse bouches of parsnip puree with truffle oil and deep-fried green olive, lemongrass mussels with sake and keffir lime leaves, grilled focacia bread, warm spinach salad with grilled greek cheese and mushrooms. there was a book about french life with pretty pictures. they ran a hot bath for two and added a handmade bath ball that frothed and bubbled to fill the air with apples and snow and linen. the ritual of ordering cups of hot water to sip all winter began early as the temperatures dropped and the first snows covered the city. there were croc-inspired wellies and a herringbone cape. there was a little restaurant in yaletown that serves cotton candy cocktails. there were brisks walks in the wind. baby mandarin oranges, so sweet and tart. a marathon of documentaries, including one that touched them.

her graduation day: tuum est!

2010-11-26T14:04:00.000-08:00

the day began while she was still waking in the dark room and he was in the kitchen. she could hear the clanging of pans and of dishes. he brought her breakfast. she drank cold, freshly pressed organic orange juice thick with pulp. she took a hot bath and pulled on fishnet stockings and her little black dress. a string of pearls, pearl earrings, black patent pumps. they called a taxi to drive them to the trendy blow our bar, blo. ginger shampoo and peppermint conditioner and a lovely blow out, voluminous and curly, inspired by hollywood. the world was snowy and white, covered in the magic of dreams and opportunity. he picked up a hot soy-hazelnut-latte for her to sip while being pampered. soon, she was robed in black, hooded in royal blue and ready to walk across the stage to her future. as the assembly in the elaborate concert hall stood, she felt the privilege of education sink upon her shoulders. so few in the world have the chance to study as she did; she is so blessed by location and intellect, by resources and support. she crossed the stage with her degree in hand. the audience clapped to celebrate her achievements in language and literature; the tassled was moved from one side to the other, and it was done. she is a graduate. that day, and forever. tuum est. photographs in the snow followed by a warm lunch in their favourite middle eastern restaurant. her whole family sat on cushions in the back, closed in by a thick velvet curtain and coloured tassles. trays with buloni, rice, roti, wild salmon curry, lamb, and more afghani tastes were brought to the table. he ordered a rosewater lassi to share with her sister -- her little family was one, in celebration and love. her sister remarked, you have always been my greatest role model, and her heart ached in honour of such a position. her family began their journey home, so the couple spent their afternoon playing in the snow -- thick socks and warm boots and fur hat and warm scarf. they discovered a new bakery that reminded them of europe, and that had fruity, smooth espresso. as a gift, he wrote her a letter on a black and white card with paper as thick as pride. he wrote about the first conversations that they had had, when she was a young teenager, aching for more knowledge of the world. he wrote about his . they poured flutes of sparkling white jasmine tea to toast to her success. he brought her to the downtown jewelry shops to choose a piece that would mark the celebration: she chose a pendant of sparkling crystal to hang beneath her collarbone. in the evening, he took her for dinner at the artsy boneta in gastown -- so perfect for her. in fact, it became one of their favorite places to dine in vancouver. because of the beautiful design, the architecture, the art. because of the way that the host remarked upon her entering 'although it is early, i have already declared the outfit of the night. you look fabulous!' and the way that the servers crowded around to compliment her style. because of the excellent menu and wine list. because they made her a custom cocktail from the bar with elderflower and citrus. he sipped a couranconne cotes du rhone plan de dieu 09 that smelled of raisins and had a strong finish of licorice. because of the artful, perfectly balanced cuisine: they started with a beet salad that was a work of design on the plate -- three colours of beets arranged on a square of painted beet puree, with bull's blood lettuce, goat cheese panna cotta, hazelnuts, and cider vinegar. then, she ordered the butter poached lobster, with boudin noir, cauliflower puree,brussel sprouts and bisque. his duck breast and braised leg, with wild rice, farro, black trumpet and sunchoke was salty and tender. at the end of the meal, he lingered over a tarte tatin with caramelized apples on housemade puff pastry and she had the valrhona chocolate bento box: a tasting of four unique flavours. dark chocolate brownie with local hazelnuts, white chocolate panna cotta with cherry blossoms, dark chocolate mousse with earthy japanese yuzu and housemade milk chocolate and green tea ice cream. celebrate, celebrate, celebrate. tuum est.

monday: captured beauty.

2010-11-24T15:50:00.000-08:00

monday began with saffron milk. monday ended with indian biryani and a literary film in italy, india and indonesia. in between, monday was filled with so, so much love for this little girl. click. her beauty captured for all time. she watched her love cradle the baby while making espresso at the stove; her heart melted with love for him. some days are meant to be counted, others are meant to be weighed. (elizabeth gilbert)

weekend: i want to celebrate. in black & white.

2010-11-21T13:11:00.000-08:00

soy cocoa with cardamom on the stove. watching his football game in the bitter cold and a faux fur hat. meeting a lovely friend for hot chowder on granville. vanilla-hinted winter ale. meeting a fashion stylist. herbed dough covered in spinach, proscuitto, tomatoes, olives and feta. her husband in original hunter wellies. hot eggnog and warm cashew cookies. soft piano music. cuddling in bed until midday while the snow fell magically outside the window. brunch with cloth napkins and foamy lattes and cracked black peppercorns and creamy organic butter and chicken-apple-spice sausage from whole foods. a politically inspired film. leaving the bed unmade all saturday. i want to celebrate and live my life. crawling back into bed after brunch for dreaming and pleasure and and scars and tears and hopes and memories - a portrait of intimacy. a tree decorated in hermes orange bulbs and glittering gold ornaments. slushing through snow in boots. picking up a few artisanal chocolates to taste: anise, lavender, cardamom and an orange blossom truffle. the licorice and floral and spicy scents beckoned while they ordered coffees and settled at a window-side table at coco. he fed her bites of a warm pain au chocolate dipped in hot milk. he read and she watched the people. walking along mainstreet, the city twinkling with lights for the festive season. rosy cheeks. inhaling the aromas of carrots and coconut milk and ginger and saffron as a vegan soup simmered. burts bees lip balm made from honey. going to bed, he said to her 'let's go to the bed, now darling. i'll smell your hair. you'll feel my hand on your belly and we'll sleep.' a bath so long that they forget the time, converse for hours, and emerge with pruny fingers and toes. a french press of loose leaf earl grey. a full moon shining low and large above the city skyline as they cross a bridge into downtown. bread with wild blueberry jam and creamy camembert. a cup of chai from the granville island tea company with added fresh ginger. a white coat, a silk scarf tied in the hair. wandering the granville market and picking up a bowl of tamarind curry and coconut potatoes to eat outside on the water in the cool sunlight with the babes and the gulls. the pages of the french laundry cookbook. thick wool socks to brace against the cold. an afternoon in kitsilano on fourth avenue. trying on trench coats at burberry. flipping through foreign editions of vogue in a bookshop for the editorials. the aroma of roasting chesnuts in the city streets. jazzy holiday music in the shops. coming home to a cosy, warm flat and hot water with a slice of lime.

thursday: his and hers.

2010-11-19T15:57:00.000-08:00

another day. toasted ciabatta with wild blueberry jam. cold feet in the windy rain. a bagel from the local jewish bakery. cooking warming chorizo, filling the kitchen with the aromas of paprika. making lists of the wonderful places on the east coast and anticipating their upcoming holiday. they went to the market to collect ingredients for the upcoming days and she slipped many treats into the basket, a jog of classic eggnog, a pint of hagen-daaz coffee ice cream, a wedge of creamy brie, a bar of thomas haas matcha chocolate. he made a homemade eggnog latte and invited her to sip. she took a bath so long that her fingers were pruned, and that the tap was turned on again and again to add heat to the cooling water. as the first snow fell, she baked a tray of cashew butter cookies, dusted with some raw sugar. she found these words that they wrote after a conversation over coffee on a granville island date during the summer... the color that she is drawn to is white, and it's various tonal compliments, cream and ivory and shell and porcelain and bone and milk, because it is pure and elegant, it is clean. the color that he is drawn to is black -- mysterious, stark, sexy, deep, sophisticated, passionate, polished. the hot beverage he most prefers is a homemade latte, from his italian stove-top espresso maker, enjoyed at dawn; the beans a dark roasted indian malabar, with scottish whole milk, a sprinkling of raw sugar and a touch of vanilla. the hot beverage she most prefers is a steaming cup of spicy chai tea from the local middle eastern restaurant, sitting on the cushions in the back on a cool, rainy evening. on a saturday morning, she can be found in an outdoor market, in dark skinny jeans and a white trench coat, carrying a bundle of fresh cut flowers wrapped in brown paper, sampling local cheeses and choosing produce. on a saturday afternoon, she can be found enjoying lunch at a small, unknown bistro, sipping wine and sharing conversation. on a saturday evening, she can be found with him. on a saturday morning, he can be found inside his favorite cafe, the french one with the eclectic antique chairs and the perfect pains au chocolat. on a saturday afternoon, he can be found watching foreign, thought-provoking films. on a saturday evening, he can be found with her. the drink in a stemmed glass that he prefers is a rich port whose grapes have been stomped by feet. the drink in a stemmed glass that she prefers is a flute of champagne, light and bubbly with aromas of fresh bread, or even a sparkling glass of elderflower water. were annie leibovitz to photograph her it would be a scene in a morrocan dessert, with flowing white fabric, rich jewels and a babe at her breast. were annie leibovitz to photograph him it would be a scene of an espresso, a scarf, an outdoor cafe table on a cobblestoned street in paris and a philosophical novel. she loves this life with him, sharing his and hers together. photograph by vanessa voth.