In December I accompanied a friend to a Christmas party for a small catering company. Each year they hold the soiree in their headquarters/kitchen/cafe space, and I was in awe—nothing excites me more than industrial kitchen equipment. People somehow find this odd—to me it seems perfectly reasonable. Giant stainless steel utensils and heavy-duty food-prep machinery are nothing if not downright sexy.

A few years ago I started a little cookie company, Bee’s Knees Cookies—it was great fun but an even greater amount of work, so I have reverted to baking only for friends and those I want to (literally) butter up. Like, for instance, the men working in my attic at the moment—them I want to keep on my good side, so I shall make muffins. And I shall make them in this, my most beloved beast. Sure, I could make them in a less-than-six-quart bowl with a wooden spoon, but I won’t. Just the sound of it starting up sets my lower lip aquiver… is that wrong?

Last night we got a lot of snow (by Vancouver standards), and the university I work for, bless its academic heart, declared it a snow day. Is there anything better than an unexpected day off?

Smack dab between my house and my mom’s is a great little pizza joint, so we pulled on our snow boots and met there for lunch. While we were eating, the Blackberry I recently inherited started ringing. I haven’t quite mastered it yet—it wasn’t showing any missed calls, but kept ringing, and each time I pulled it out of my bag, it had already stopped. So I left it on the table—but the next time, it seemed like the ringing was still coming from my bag. The only things in there were my wallet, my camera and a sketchbook and pens. Not a lot of ringing-type items. But sure enough, it rang again—and this time, my mom picked up the Blackberry and held it to her ear, and I did the same with my camera (I even said hello just to ham it up—but I was actually half-expecting to hear something). The ringing was coming from neither. We were completely flummoxed, but then finally I saw in the mirror on the back wall that the door had just opened. “Could it have anything to do with the door?” My mom was laughing too hard to say it, she just pointed to the little alarm box on the wall just above where my bag was sitting. What a gong show—but I’ll bet it happens all the time. You could do a fantastic photo series by sitting across the restaurant and taking photos of all the gadgets people in that booth listen to when the door opens.

The strangest thing was, once I got home, my doorbell started ringing every now and then with no one there—I ran to the doors several times, but nothing. Then, the last time, I swear I heard a little voice say “hold still!” As soon as I heard that, I knew precisely what was going on…

When I was about three years old, I fell in a hornet’s nest. I was running through the trees, tripped, and was instantly covered. We lived about 10 miles outside of a small town at the time, on Kootenay Lake, and the next property over had a tiny cabin on it, which a stranger had recently rented for the summer. He kept to himself—my parents thought he was a little odd, but he seemed harmless enough. Until this day, when my mother heard me screaming and ran out to find this fellow running through the bush carrying me. She started hollering for him to put me down—only when she got closer did she realize I was covered in stinging insects, and so was this guy, I’m sure. My poor mom, can you imagine? And the poor guy. And, hey—poor me! They rushed me into the hospital in town, where I was fortunate enough to have an unusually mild reaction to the stings.

I now live on the top floor of an old house, and somewhere up in the roof are some hornet-y guys, there aren’t tons, but in the summer there are always a few in the attic, often dozy—easy to step on. I read that if you get stung a bunch as a child you’re much more likely to develop dangerous allergies later on, so I figured it would be smart to get tested. A few months ago I went to a clinic where they gave me the venom test, and the lab technician confirmed that I indeed had an allergy, the absolute last thing I wanted to hear. Ugh. How was I going to be able to relax in the house now? I would have to carry an epi-pen everywhere, and be super careful all summer—but then when I went to the allergist for my follow-up, he said that while I did react to the venom, I still had lower-than-normal reaction. It was like waking from a bad dream—and so much better than just hearing the good news straight away, because now I really appreciate not having to worry.

It also means I can live in harmony with the hornets. Okay, okay—I will strongly encourage them to get the hell out, let’s be honest—but at least I don’t have to wear one of those white beekeeping suits with the smoke pot when I go to the attic. And besides, once you see them up close, they really don’t seem so threatening…

A good 25 years ago, maybe more, my parents spotted an old wooden cabinet, painted blue, in a second-hand shop in Calgary. It turned out to be a Hoosier, a small-scale baking cabinet from the early 1900s. Apparently these became very popular during the depression, when people could no longer afford to have cooks, and so housewives began doing the baking themselves. They were called Hoosiers because they were made exclusively in Indiana, and, ironically, the original cabinet was designed by Gene Hackman’s great grandfather.

I’m kidding.

It came with several of the original jars, and all of the built-in attachments intact: a flour sifter with a glass front on the storage unit so you can check the levels, a sugar bin with a slide on the bottom so you just slip your bowl underneath, and tin-lined drawers with punched tin covers to keep the mice out (and rats—that means you, Pasquale). It has lived in several locations over the years, but when I moved into this old farmhouse, it just fit in so perfectly that I finally inherited this cabinet that I love so much.

That’s right, Phyllis, I know what you’re thinking—I still haven’t put the hardware on. One of these days I’ll order the missing pieces, perhaps this will prompt me.

But probably not.

In this sequel to the well-known bestseller about the struggle between two of sport’s greatest legends, we take a deeper look at what motivates our two heroes, really getting to the bottom of the hare’s grandiosity complex, and the tortoise’s self-esteem issues. A riveting read for all ages.

The Illustration Friday theme this week is “tales and legends”.

Oh, and my sieve-like mind nearly forgot (okay, DID forget for a bit): the wonderfully talented Linda was kind enough to pass along the “You Make My Day” award to me—I will formally pass this along to five others shortly, but in the meantime please check out Linda’s blog, Sketched Out, for some fantastically clever drawings. She regularly makes me day too!

I have been cleaning out my attic, in preparation for a (motley) crew to come in and start renovations—we’re fixing it up so it can be my studio. Going through some boxes up there, I came across some sheets of black paper—which seemed perfect, since I had been thinking about trying to make a paper crow. When I saw the Sugar Frosted Goodness theme this week was “hats”, well, it had to be.

The photos are terrible, I will take some more tomorrow when it’s lighter in here. But he’s now sitting on a shelf amongst bottles of wine, and I must say he looks right at home—and dapper as hell.

Not far from my house I have spotted this old maroon Falcon parked a few times, and each time I think to myself, I have to remember this one for a drawing. Recently I was walking nearby with my camera and thought I should go check if it happened to be there. I crossed my fingers and felt so fortunate when I turned onto the street and could see it up ahead—it felt like a stroke of good luck, like I was destined to draw this lovely old beast today. Of course once I got close enough to see that the inside is rotting into itself and it likely hasn’t moved in a decade, the whole thing felt a wee bit less fated…

A couple of weeks ago I came across the wonderfully-named blog Who Needs Friends When You Have Pens, and read about the Parker Slimfold fountain pen. It’s a lower-end pen, certainly, but has a flexible gold nib, so it seemed like a good one to try—I like the idea of a nib that allows for a thick-and-thin line. I bought one on Ebay, and it arrived today, in its original box (with instruction sheet) from the early 1960’s. It has never been used or filled with ink. I filled ‘er up and played around a bit, and it is so different from anything I have used before—it’s going to take awhile to master, but I must say I’m beginning to understand this fountain pen obsession. I love the smell of India ink. Above are a few of my test-out-the-new-pen doodles.

I also finally gave in and bought a new Rapidograph, since I managed to somehow lose my old one. My $3 pens I have no trouble keeping track of, but my favourite and more expensive pen went missing not too terribly long after I got it. I keep expecting to find it in the bowels of the closet or amid the dust bunnies under my bed, but no dice. So, I got a new one. It had been long enough that I had forgotten how fantastic they are to draw with—if you’re into thin lines, these boys can’t be beat…

Things have been so crazy the last while, I haven’t had much time beyond draw-scan-post—so not only am I behind on all of the blogs I regularly visit, but I also completely missed the fact that I made my 100th post the other day. I must admit that lately I have had moments of “why, oh why did I say I would draw something EVERY DAY???”, but they have passed, and I’m feeling energized again (thanks in part to new pens). I’m proud to say I have managed to stick to my self-imposed rules that the drawing must be completed the day it is posted, despite sometimes really, really wanting to go to bed instead. Thank you all so much for continuing to visit—and for leaving kind comments and birthday well-wishes—I promise to catch up with your blogs soon.

Bats always remind me of my dad’s terrible (tall) tales of torture, perpetuated by his brother, five years older. They grew up in a small town in the interior of B.C., and in the main downtown area there was an abandoned industrial building that my dad’s brother and friends used to hang out in. After dark, they would throw small stones in the air under a streetlight, and when the bats swooped down at them, they would smack them with a stick to stun them, and then put them in the building so it was full of bats. If you think that’s the bad part of the story, read no further.

The legend goes, one day my dad snuck in to read their comic book stash that they kept on the second floor. He was caught red-handed, and so they tied a rope around his neck and attempted to push him out a window. He says the only reason it didn’t happen is because, in desperation, he threw his arms and legs out spread-eagled and they couldn’t push him through.

He has memories of running down alleys with darts hanging out of the back of his neck, and of being hit with a rock (thrown by a girl, no less), and being knocked unconscious into a puddle. His brother apparently made no attempt to pull him out—luckily some other kid happened past.

But my all-time favourite tale is of a country car ride, when his door kept rattling. His mother called back to him to stop playing with the doorknob, and it was only then that his brother said “oh, he fell out a few miles back…”

Usually jovial, spunky and confident, every so often a pig just feels, well… plain old plain.

The Illustration Friday topic this week is “plain”.