As I rode along Royal York Boulevard this cool, crisp pre-autumn morning, my thoughts wandered from this photo (which I'd already planned on posting) to ice cream.
Ice cream.
I love the stuff.
I don't have it so often anymore, but when I do, I wonder why not. I'm trying to eat healthier these days, and I know there are so many "bad" things and "empty calories" in ice cream that it's become a guilty pleasure. Still, when I do have the occasional cone, I delight in the taste, the creamy texture and exquisite, cool feel of it. Is there a more perfect summertime (or anytime) treat?
There are so many flavours nowadays that weren't around when I was a kid; we had none of this "Bear Paw" or "Bubble Gum" or "Orange-Capuccino Delight" or whatever. Boring though it may sound, I think that chocolate is still my all-time favourite flavour. Ahhhh, savouring the sweet simplicity of the extract of the cocoabean...
My folks loved to treat us when we were kids. After church, we'd often walk to St. Aubin's in Ville St. Laurent (a "suburb" of Montreal) for a big pistachio cone (ice cream
had to be in cones - none of this "in a cup" business...).
Pilgrimages to Halifax (our grandparents lived there) inevitably brought us to the Public Gardens, walking about, savouring our cones, trying to escape bold pigeons who knew it was their
right to extract any foodproducts from park visitors.
Other times it was Point Pleasant Park, Black Rock Beach, sitting on a small stone wall at the edge of the sand, joyfully licking our ice creams that Mom bought us at the small canteen up by the trees. Seagulls watched us with great anticipation, waiting to swoop in for any remnants of our feast.
They moved back to Nova Scotia some twenty five years ago, and I think the thing my Dad delighted in most was the huge, cheap, scrumptious ice cream cones that could be gotten in every village along The South Shore. "For a buck you get the kiddy cone," he enthused on the phone, "and it's twice the size of what you get in Ontario, for a third the price - and it's delicious ice cream, like nothing you've ever had!" - and he was right.
In the ice cream department, it was Dad's job to teach
Cat ( a young kitten in those days) and I how to properly lick the cones, especially on a hot summer day. "Keep licking around the bottom of the ice cream, to prevent dripping. You twirl the cone, like this..." Of course, he'd have to give us a demonstration every time; the fact that he had to ingest some of the delicious dribblings was beside the point. "Here, you're dripping again. Give your cone to Dad and I'll clean it up for you." More licking, but we knew he was only doing it for our own good: "Okay, Dad, I think you've got it now. No more drips, you can give it back to me now? You don't have to clean up anymore. I'll take it now. Please? Can I have my cone back?"
In the ice cream department, it was Mom's job to say, as we were nearly done our cone, "Don't eat the last bit of cone. Leave it for the birds. Just throw it down on the ground, it's not littering. They'll find it: leave it For the Birds."
I still do that when I'm eating a cone outside. I bet Cat does to.
I'm in the process of documenting my bike, and I thought I'd start with parts that I think are particularly beautiful. I've always liked the seatpost and the stem.
At precisely six o'clock this evening, I will walk out the door of Critical Path Couriers here in Toronto. At that time, yet another long weekend will begin; the last long weekend of the year.
Taken back in the summer, on a bright sunny day (today as I passed through this area, dawn was breaking, and I still had my headlight on).
With nonchalant detachment they await the Breath of Beelzebub. The affect of his glacial expiration will free them of their cellulose constraints whereupon they shall roam the malls and shopping districts of the world, taunting and mocking the fashion-impaired (such as your humble servant) with ruthless efficiency.
I did absolutely nothing on the weekend relating to photography, including "processing" photos.
Has anyone noticed that this time of year the squirrels are acting weird? Maybe it's because they're fixating on their nuts (you know, for winter food storage), but they're running out into the street, right in front of my bike, making me swerve and brake and almost hit them.
I keep plugging Tim Hamel here, not just because he's a friend (which he is), and not just because he's one of the bike messengers to whom I dispatch (which he is); I plug him because:
I could have gone the Martha and the Vandellas (later covered by Jagger and Bowie) route and called this one Dancing in the Street, but that's way too obvious, don't you think?
For one thing, I think we should stop calling it Indian Summer, which is clearly a racist term. Perhaps we should refer to it as "First Nations' Warmth"? "Aboriginal People's Unnaturally Warm Autumnal Experience"?
I imagine a giant Acme Instant Brick Wall (a la Wile E Coyote chasing the Roadrunner) just to the left of the frame, with the boarder going ~splat!~, flattening against said wall, and sliding down the wall into a heap on the ground.
So says the People who kindly bring us Windows Vista.
Cool Mornings.
Looking past this gentleman's cyclo-fashion faux-pas for just a moment, I hope to be this fit when I'm his age (whatever his age might be - I'm guessing him to be older than me).
Lately, I've been working on digital B&W conversions.
Probably won't ever see her again. Got one quick shot as she sat on her bike, next to the streetcar, waiting for the lights to change at Queen and Victoria.
On the Ward Island Ferry.
From a distance, the Night Ferry skims silently across inky black waters.
Toronto's skyline from Ward's Island, one of the Centre Islands in Toronto's harbour.
Shut down the hall.
Chimping, for those of you who don't know it, is what they say digital photographers do when they check the LCD screen on the back of their cameras to look at recent shots taken.
The Monday morning ritual:
These are the last few photos I'll show of my daughter Claire at her soccer tourney last weekend. She's bottom left in the team photo, with the ball in the middle one,
Somewhere around a week ago I showed you a tricked out Cabbagetown Cat that I'd manipulated in photoshop.
My daughter Claire just finished her second year of soccer, and I couldn't be more proud of her. She tries her best, and works hard on every play. She's a backfielder, and as such, she's often the last line of defense; if a forward get past her, the goaltender's alone.
Their end-of-the-year tourney was this past weekend, and I was honoured to attend and enjoy the day.
Photography is a process. One day I like something, the next day I change my mind, and like something else more.
As I rode along Royal York Boulevard this cool, crisp pre-autumn morning, my thoughts wandered from this photo (which I'd already planned on posting) to ice cream.
I posted this one a couple of weeks ago, but I've reworked it a bit (didn't have Photoshop at the time).
A sheet was draped over a couple of chairs to dry after being washed. Naturally, Patches (aka The Divine Ms. P.) realized that we were doing it for her pleasure, so that she could play "camping out" in the living room...
