Hey, blog world. I don’t think I told you of my plans for this, but I’m in London, U.K. right now. I have an entire month off work, and I decided to take advantage of the time and pay a visit to some of my best friends who are currently residing “across the pond.” Namely: Ariel and Natalie. I just arrived this morning, and, after making myself well acquainted with the London tube, found myself on the first adventure of my trip.
I only found out about the Columbia Road Flower Market about a week ago when Momentum Mag posted this video on their Facebook page, depicting a cute English hipster biking in the neighbourhood. I immediately marked it down on my list of places to visit, and, just as I was about to text Ariel about this newfound destination, she sent me a text proposing we pay the market a visit on my first day in town (the flower market is only open on Sundays). How’s that for a coincidence?
The flower market is about a 10 minute walk from where Ariel, Natalie and Conor live. As you draw near, there are some sure fired signs you’re heading in the right direction. All things floral begin to appear; being carried in bicycle baskets, strollers, and canvas grocery carts. My favourite was a gentleman who was walking with a tall house plant. Its top was blowing in the wind and would occasionally brush the trees above the sidewalk.
The market itself was quite something to take in. Columbia Road is already narrow, a length of street lined with artsy-looking storefronts and food places. Compound that narrowness with bunches of roses, tulips, hydrangeas, herbs and general greenery on each side of the road and you’ve got a bottleneck maze that reminded me of Ottawa on Canada Day. There was live music every block, from an accordionist playing the main theme of “Amelie” to a guitarist strumming and singing the “Jungle Book” song to a gathering of young families.
While the flowers were predictably gorgeous, one of my favourite parts was something Ariel warned me of ahead of time: the flower sellers with thick Cockney accents peddling their wares onto the hordes of people. It was like Adele had been multiplied into an army of florists, their voices ringing in tandem across the crowd. Though I’m trying not to journalism-out this trip (it is my vacation, after all), I just know I’m going to return next Sunday, microphone in hand. You have to hear it to believe it.
The Cockney florists put their booming voices to use when a mother and father lost track of their 10-year-old daughter, Alice. The concerned parents were yelling out her name, at which time the flower vendors took up their cause. “Oy! Everyone stop for a moment! We’re looking for a little girl, Alice. She’s wearing a cream jumper and red leggings!” This amplified across the market, the vendors passing down the message in an intricate game of “Telephone.” Ariel, Nat and I didn’t stick around for long enough to see a resolution to the search, but I hope with all my heart Alice was found.
While ducking out to avoid the crowd, Nat and I also discovered a sewing shop that sold an assortment of all things Hilary: pastel-coloured buttons, assorted packs of ribbons, fat quarters, other fabric… We bought two packs of ribbon for 10 quid, and have already re-fashioned some of them into DIY watch bands (coincidentally my $10 vintage watch broke in two places just this morning). As Nat put it, “you’ve only been here for a day and we’ve already made a craft.”
Much more to explore…but tonight, we’re relaxing at the first of what promises to be a marathon of pub visits. Cheers!
A pleasant surprise awaited me at the Ottawa Antique Show last weekend. I was back in town for a long-overdue visit with some good friends, one of whom (Christine) accompanied me to the antique show that was being held in the Fieldhouse at my beloved, former university, Carleton.
Entering the show, there were tonnes of great, one-of-a-kind (at least in 2013) finds, including ceramic busts of Mounties and daschunds, beautifully-beaded cardigans and blazers, and depression glass in a multitude of jelly bean colours.
Just one of my purchases from the day. You know I’m a sucker for all things paper craft-related
Christine, always an expert on all things fashionable, vintage, and cool, strolled alongside, giving a fascinating history lesson at each table. I learned about how Vera Neumann, finding herself short of linen during World War Two, re-fashioned surplus parachute silk into her renowned, boldly-printed scarves. Christine also told me about her other favourite scarf brand: Echo, which was founded by Theresa and Edgar C. Hyman on their pre-depression era wedding day. Their site actually has a pretty cool historical walk-through, if you’re interested. I ended up buying an oblong Vera scarf, with a brightly coloured blue and grey pattern criss-crossing the silk. It reminded me of another scarf I already owned. Despite my new breadth of scarf knowledge, however, I still plan on wilfully committing the ultimate sacrilegious act. I wear not the scarves on my neck, but rather tie them around my waist, wrist and luggage in order to serve as belts, bracelets or identifiers in this otherwise far too monochromatic world. What kind of lady am I?
BUT right, I was supposed to be discussing how I got a little glimpse into Sudbury’s past while visiting an indoor recreation facility in Canada’s Capital. I do get sidetracked sometimes. When browsing the booths at the antique sale, I came across two whole tables of the most meticulously organized postcards. By meticulously organized, I mean they were sorted by each county in Ontario, by each province in the country, and by each country of the world (not to mention further categories classifying boy scout images, girl scout images, transportation (public), transportation (private), ETC). The images on each spanned decades, and every card was carefully contained in a thin plastic casing, as to not be destroyed by our modern, greasy little fingers. I awaited a spot at the postcard drawers and, when it was my turn, darted towards the Sudbury section. Oh vey! Discovery abounds. Since moving back to town nearly a year ago, I’ve become fascinated with the history of this fine northern community, particularly its downtown core, which, in the most bleak of historical moves, has been reduced to a shade of its former glory. We were a mining boom town. The main stretch used to be alit with neon lights, people could stroll from department store to department store, perhaps stopping at one of the fabulous-looking hotels that are now a dental office and Shopper’s Drug Mart (the Balmoral Hotel which then became a Zellers, and the Nickel Range Hotel where King George VI and Queen Elizabeth stayed, respectively).
Durham Street at Christmas, courtesy of a posting on the Sudbury’s Fine ‘Past & Future’ Let’s Reminisce Facebook page
Threads of inspiration and historical yearning were again tugged upon when I discovered the Facebook page, “Sudbury’s Fine ‘Past & Future’ Let’s Reminisce.” So great were the photos on that page that I tracked down the founder, Noella Church-Beaudoin, to interview for our morning show. Yes, I fully appreciate the irony of taking stock of a city’s past from the perch of one’s computer chair. (Coming back to this blog post now after spending an hour browsing the Sudbury library’s archives. Check it out! I particularly like the corner of Durham and Larch streets where I had never before appreciated that the SRO/Old Rock has maintained the magic of the former Eaton’s Department Store).
The Eaton building, circa 1930’s. Courtesy of the City of Greater Sudbury Heritage Museums CollectionCBC!!!!! Taken over a decade ago (1999), but the building still looks identical. Courtesy of the Main Branch of the Sudbury Library
SO, as I flipped through the yellowed images that sat in this antique show drawer in Ottawa (yes, we’re back to 2013 again), I was excited to find a few shots of downtown Sudbury, as well as of Bell Park (a central green spot near Ramsey Lake by my parent’s house). I even picked up a few shots of Creighton Mine and the Copper Cliff smelters because, what would a Sudbury postcard collection be without a few shots of smoke billowing out of concrete cigars?
My postcards (featuring a date stamp from 1936!). Click to see a bigger version.
I ended up buying seven of the cards, and would have bought them all, should they have not cost about $5 a piece. I am currently in the midst of framing them so that I can carry a portion of one of my hometowns around wherever I should go.
PS: I know this blog post will have only minimal significance to a select number of people. But come on, I can’t be the only one that has been fascinated by how development has eaten away at the history of a place. Right?
By the way, the rest of my weekend in Ottawa was just the absolute best.
A new (to me) Russian nesting dolls mural in the GlebeFinally got to restock my coloured paper supply at the irreplaceable store, The Papery (this is now the background on my iPhone)
As well as antique-ing and afternoon beer-ing with Christine, the two days brought about a fancy dinner with Ella at Play Food and Wine in the Market (beef tartar, tuna tataki, spicy lentil fritters, tender pork belly, WINE), brunch, gelato, canal walks and elbow balloon-popping (don’t ask) with my old roommate Freya, and a surprise, last-minute pho dinner and bunny play date with Iman. So much fun.
Freya and I in the Byward Market, halfway through a beautiful spring walkFred! One of Iman’s darling bunnies, who doesn’t love me half as much as he loves the yogurt drops I’m about to give him
Here I am, back with my first blog post in nearly two months. I’ll be perfectly frank with you – for the first time in almost three years, I didn’t miss blogging. As the initial days and weeks trickled by without an update, I did feel like a neglectful parent. But soon I was so absorbed by work and life around me that I didn’t think twice of Hilary Makes or blogging. Throughout university, blogging was an escape, an excuse to stay up late and bake a ridiculous amount of cupcakes to bring to class. It was a way for me to express creativity when frustrated with assignments (not to mention procrastinate) and feel like I was carving a niche for myself. “Oh yeah, you know Hilary – she’s the one with the food blog!” was the general introduction at group gatherings. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not sure where the blog fits into my life anymore. I don’t have a lot of dispensable time, and so it has sometimes become more of a burden than a blessing to have around. I’m going to keep posting here, just with less frequency (and likely less words) than before. I’m not ready to give up on this little home just yet.
Anyways, here’s the actual post:
Today I discovered a new place. And by discovered, I mean I had been driving by the location approximately twice a month or whenever I was borrowing my parents’ minivan. I would cruise by and crane my neck over the passenger seat, focussing my attention for those two seconds on trying to peer through the glassy window to get a sneak peek of what upcoming treasures the place may hold.
The restaurant’s exterior sign (actually, I thought it was solely a bakery at first) has intrigued for months.
This weekend it finally opened. I immediately jumped at the opportunity to visit, and invited my mom along for what was planned as our cute mother-daughter date.
My pretty mom!
Walking into Rose Apple, you could tell the owners had been assembly the place since September. The details were all there, something that can sometimes be lacking with newly-opened restaurants. Chalked full of interesting wall art (a giant whisk! bird decals!), it was charm at first sight.
Some literal decorations, too
Transformed from the Indian restaurant and fish market of 1543 Paris St. past, Rose Apple’s decor is bright, peppy, and fun. Each of the walls are slightly contrasting in nature, but I suppose that goes along well with the fusion theme. The tables are a clean, cafeteria white, with most chairs cushioned in gumdrop colours.
Oh yes, and cupcake-shaped salt and pepper shakers. As you can imagine, these won me over.
My mom and I estimated Rose Apple has seating for about 50-60 people. We took turns counting the tables and seats under our breath, looking as though we were Professor Quirrell murmuring an incantation at a Quidditch match. There’s a diversity of seating options, too. My mom and I were at a two person table, but another larger party was seated comfortably in the opposite corner in a trendy-looking zebra booth that bore just the right amount of animal motif.
White walls section off the restaurant, and are thoughtfully placed to create an air of privacy while not interfering with the open flow of the space. The best part about those dividers is that they’re moveable, meaning I’m already fantasizing some intimate party being held here…buffet in the front, DJ in the back. While the seating primarily caters to the lunch and dinner crowd, there’s also a counter along the front window with bar seats – a sunny invitation to come back, drink tea, and write. Plus, iPhone told me there was a guest wifi account. If tea isn’t your thing, Rose Apple is also licensed, which means a solo afternoon date and an evening return to spend time with friends.
The restaurant is also a family affair.
Sumitta, Milin (19-months-old) and Mookie
It’s co-owned by two – Sumitta and her cousin Pipat (Mookie, pictured above, is Pipat’s wife). Mookie’s two daughters were also occasionally spotted behind the cash, 19-month-old Milin, and her other little girl. Both were wearing lots of Hello Kitty garb, which means I loved them even more. Mookie and Pipat are the duo behind My Thai Palace, a successful Sudbury restaurant where I have been going ever since I moved back to the city in order to satisfy my pad thai cravings.
This dessert case is where my mom and I hovered when we first entered Rose Apple. I crouched and took photos as my mom did her part to ask the new staff questions about every last dessert. Flaky green tea cake. A cake with layer upon layer of crepes stacked high with whipping cream as its mortar. Pumpkin and mango puddings. Spoons with a berry crumble lined in front of the cash register. That plate, and several more, were refilled throughout our lunch. We left our seats both before and after, hungry and stuffed, to sample more. My favourite was the crepe cake, delicately dripped with a tangy strawberry coulis. A dessert lasagna.
Okay, but let’s talk main courses. Rose Apple markets itself as an “Asian fusion” restaurant, which is sometimes disconcerting since I once read it’s always a tad unpredictable how people decide to interpret the word “fusion.” In the case of Rose Apple, fusion meant Chinese-Thai-Italian. My mom got the crispy wonton pad thai ($14.95) which was a heaping bowl (seriously HUGE) of deep fried wonton papers piled high will pad thai noodles, shrimp, and all the fixings. I think I’ve been converted from a potato chip lover – please, just please, give me a bowl of deep fried wontons with a sweet chili sauce. Since some of the wontons were buried beneath the “all the fixings” part of the dish, some of them went from crispy to soggy. Still, I found myself frequently reaching across the table to clumsily take some of my mom’s dish.
Mom’s dish
I got the massaman chicken ($15.95) – stewed chicken drumstick with a sauce of coconut milk, massaman curry paste and peanuts, served with a steaming bowl of jasmine rice. It was spicy. The dish had a single “chili pepper” rating on the menu, but I foolishly brushed it off. I can do hot, I thought. Oh dear. It was a building heat, one that made my forehead sweat, nose drip, and tongue burn.
Prices were a little high for lunch, but right on the mark for dinner. Plus the portions were huge, so you don’t have to worry about being skimped in value.
My dish
After dinner we basked in the contentment of our full stomachs. I drank a quick cup of coffee (I didn’t want to fall asleep in the movie my mom and I were going to see) in a mug that looked as though it were stolen straight from an industrial design student’s workshop.
Good design, good function
I’m looking forward to my next visit to Rose Apple, and will probably pop by one day next weekend for coffee and cake. New openings like Rose Apple show progress in Sudbury – and not just any progress, but a move towards bringing something innovative and different to the city. Opening Rose Apple is surely a risk (as is opening any small business, I suppose), and I hope Sudburnians will learn to adapt, try new things, and swing by for a visit.
Hours:
Monday: closed
Tuesday-Thursday: 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.
Friday: 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.
Saturday-Sunday: 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.
For weeks now, CBC Sudbury web editor Wendy Bird and I have been plotting her family Christmas photos. Before I had even been to the place, Wendy had suggested Anderson Farm Museum in Lively, just west of Sudbury. A visit to the former dairy farm location for a remote broadcast of our morning show convinced me that it would, indeed, be a lovely place for a photo shoot.
And so it was, and I’m really hoping Wendy is happy with her family photos. But that’s not what this post is about. It’s about what was discovered before and explored after the photo shoot: The Walden Pensioners Woodshop.
I had curiously peered through the open door of the small brick building prior to Wendy and family arriving. After my photo subjects had left, I did what I do best and rudely smushed my face up against one of the windows, peering in like a mischievous five-year-old. It was then that I was invited in. Intended purpose of face smushing: accomplished.
As I suspect is often the case when one enters a woodshop, my first remark was based on the smell of the place. I thought it smelt great, though was later told the scent was largely that of varnish, and that by liking the smell I’m probably predisposed to become hooked on sniffing some chemical. That beloved varnish smell mingled with that of sawdust and paint, an alluring cologne, its label titled “why yes, I did make this with my own bare hands.”
Workshops of any sort are like a wonderland for me. I’m the type of person who has to look at everything, touch everything, and, in turn, share what I see with everyone else. Yes, I was that irritating toddler in childhood home videos that insisted my parents saw everything I was doing. I just really like discovering things I think are neat, and don’t want anyone else to miss them. Including you folks.
Before we continue, a slight but still somewhat-related digression.
While most DIY destinations appeal to me, I’ve always had a particular soft spot for wood working. When I was in grade seven and eight in Timmins, my middle school had the most wonderful requirement that involved us being enrolled in a wood shop class for half the year. Some of my most fond school memories came from shop class. The class was run by Mr. Laurila – a wood shop veteran and a great teacher. In looking up the spelling of his last name, I came upon his obituary, a sombre reminder of how short life is and how old I’m getting. To me, it takes a special kind of person to manage a horde of 14 and 15-year-olds under normal circumstances, not to mention when you add in spinning blades, burning soldering irons, and flying wood chips. I will be forever in gratitude of Mr. Laurila’s patient and understanding nature in a class that I truly believe kickstarted my love of creative, hands-on work. Anyways, in my time in shop class I made many things: a small coffee table, a maple leaf-shaped clock, a business card holder for the lawn consulting company my best friend and I were operating out of her basement crawlspace, numerous really tacky rings (during the plastic work portion of the grade eight class), and a decently sized bat made of balsa wood which, for whatever reason, still sits in the top drawer of my bedside table. The whir of machines and the hum of wood shop ventilation always bring me back to the extra lunch hours spent in the shop, which is where we resume our present day story.
I spent the next two hours in the wood shop, where two of its members, Dave and Greg, were patient enough to answer each and every one of my questions, even going as far as to look in photo albums and old documents when the answer to my inquiry wasn’t accessible in their brain banks.
Greg, proving that you are never too old to goof around
Though no document provided a conclusive date, the consensus seemed to be that the wood shop had been around since 1981. Today, the shop operates as a club, where senior gentlemen can sign up as members for $50 a year, thereby being granted access to the shop’s many machines, from wood planers to bandsaws. Though there is the annual membership charge, Greg says he hasn’t paid it for the majority of his 10 years as a member. That’s the case with most members, apparently – the shop also operates as a community repair/project destination, and members can subtract the paid manual labour they do for non-members and apply a certain amount towards their yearly fee. Greg completed two of these off-the-street projects during the short time I was there.
A lot larger than it initially appears, the woodshop extends into the attic, where scraps of wood are kept in the old barn loft. Dave is kind enough to show me around, and I breathe the aroma of leftover cherry and cedar and maple wood. I touch a few of the blocks, an unsplintered bliss.
I love writing about discoveries like this, although here’s an insider look at how I work…Personal narratives are easiest written when I’m actually living them. I’m at my best when I’m exploring some formerly unknown place or talking to some new person, frantically scrawling notes across paper as fast as my hand will take me. In the case of the Walden woodshed, I had foolishly gone into the morning without my usual notebook-stuffed bag, my head cold muffling the part of my brain that would normally remember such important things.
There is little I like less than finding myself in an interesting place, only to encounter an inability to properly document my surroundings. Luckily this time around the writing gods decided to do me a solid. Reaching into my coat pocket, I found a tiny piece of paper I had used the day before to write down an address. No more than two inches by five inches (and not completely rectangular because there was a squiggly edge and diagonal bit that ate away at valuable corner space), that piece of paper became my Moleskine for the morning. Messiness ensued.
Scribbles
I could describe more of the woodshed to you, but I think I’ll let the pictures do the talking. I’ve already rambled for about 700 words too many, as always seems to be the case. In fact, I think you’ve probably all stopped reading by now, anyways. Workshops are excellent photo spaces, particularly for someone with a penchant for organized clutter, clean lines, and geometric shapes.
I have an entire month off work, and I decided to take advantage of the time and pay a visit to some of my best friends who are currently residing “across the pond.” Namely: Ariel and Natalie. I just arrived this morning, and, after making myself well acquainted with the London tube, found myself on the first adventure of my trip.
Hilary Makes 