Confidence

Last night I had a boudoir photo session. And I can’t describe the new appreciation I have for my body. I’ve climbed several mountains, I’ve trekked 500 miles across Spain and ran two half marathons, and I’ve never had this sense of body love. I know that sounds incredibly vain, so let me explain. When I found out my time was 2 hours 8 mins for my 20 kilometer run I was beyond proud. And I worked for it: my body was utterly exhausted, my legs sore and my stomach famished. When I saw the ocean for the first time coming upon Finisterre, knowing my destination, my walk and my adventure was coming to an end, the woman I walked beside for the last three days, earnestly cried, and I felt what she felt: joy and relief. It was such as sense of accomplishment that my legs had the strength and my heart had the determination to walk across Spain. But the confidence I felt last night, when being directed in a matching set of lace, the boldness that came with trailing my fingers across my stomach and the certainty that came when I let out a fiery growl, when my photographer Kayla looked me in the eyes and demanded to hear me roar, was a type of confidence that I have never possessed before.

I reached out to Kayla when I saw that she had done other boudoir shoots. I’m thirty-one, I’ve always wanted to do one and I’m just about to begin training for my first ever, marathon. Always an avid photographer, Kayla is new to taking professional photos, and she is in the beginning stages of launching her business Kay-Jo Photography. I told her that being pretty and unphotogenic is a thing and if she’s up for the challenge so was I.  We solidified a date and I formed a game plan. For six weeks I’ve created a routine of Hugo walking followed by working out each evening. Admittedly it’s been a bit of a forced practice at times, as I’m more of a runner than a free weights kind of woman. Asides for a desire for a bigger bust, I’m mostly happy with my body. I generally eat healthy and I’m quite active, but this was a great motivator to push myself harder and take a break from my wine and cheesies love affair. I’ve always wished that there were squats for my boobs and after some research I learned push/pull-ups were the answer, so I added that to the workout. Salads, squats and water-water-water, were key. After the purchase of some austere but fabulous attire, I was ready for my session.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit how terribly nervous I was for last night to happen. I texted my sister and confessed that I felt like I was about to go on a first date. I was often awkward and uncomfortable in everyday photos, so looking good naked was a extreme concern.

The photo shoot was everything but awkward. The room of the shoot was full of good vibes. Kayla provided sincere complements throughout the entire three hours, which replaced my butterflies with self assurance. Her gentle directions were simple and easy to follow; I knew she had all my best angles. The poses she suggested, although a workout at times, were beautifully staged. I felt she was just as excited about the results as I was. Her encouraging remarks made me feel strong and bad ass.

Looking at these pictures with Kayla this morning created such disbelief. I was amazed by the beauty in the shots.  I could see confidence pouring out of me in the photos, to such a degree that it took moments to find myself in these bad ass portraits. The woman in these photos, she’s on fucking fire. The entire affair was incredibly empowering. During that time frame, there wasn’t a moment I wasn’t proud and in love with my body and for a woman, I know just how rare that is.

I am strong. I am strong in my values, opinions, workmanship and loyalty, and I am unapologetically myself. But there is a difference between being strong and being confident. And during that boudoir session, Kayla was able to findtune her technique and perfect her ability to provide direction, and I found my confidence with my body.

Kindly,

Kirstin - A badass

The Bad Ass

Accept who you are and revel in it.

Cake Mastery

My black Volkswagen lost all traction as I hydroplaned around an S corner on a back road, the mud taking me wherever it wanted. I made a mental note to apologize to the Hunter for ever nagging him about the way he drives my car, as at that very moment I was rallying my poor car down the telegraph road, desperately trying to keep up to my friend’s roaring Nissan because without her I was totally lost on the back roads. The woman drove as energetically as her personality screamed; I can recognize her vibrant laugh down the hallway whenever she walked into the office.

My adrenaline had yet to come down when I entered her house. I was still asking myself how I was going to get my car back up the mud pit I drove down when a blond haired flash of pink surged past the entrance hall. Overshooting her destination, Necia circled back towards me. “Hi Kirstin!” The tiny ball of fiery sunshine greeted me. After showing off her pink sequin dress with an energetic spin I walked up the stairs and entered her mother’s kitchen. Centered on the island were two nine inch cake circles. My friend, Elaine, owner of Sugarbug Creations, promised to show me how to make a bitchin’ cake – just in time for the Hunter’s birthday.

We were combining an astonishing amount of butter, sugar and heavy cream together to make the icing, which would soon become snow, for this masterpiece of a B-Day Cake. Elaine explained that while on maternity leave she took a cake decorating course with some girlfriends. She had hoped to find a skill that would allow her to forget her current job at the Sawmill and work from home while raising her daughter, Necia. I added a splash vanilla to the kitchen-aid (as if I knew what the hell I was doing)  and a splash more wine to her glass when she admitted that things hadn’t turned out as wished, as she returned to work even earlier than anticipated when her husband lost his job to the local mine shutting down. Elaine slowly climbed the latter at work and her cake business took off. She’s previously made me a cake replica of my yellow sunfire as well as my most favorite cake: a Hot Mess Wine cake (an original, I’m sure).

Elaine sympathetically took the spatula from my hand. I had no hope of covering the two tiered almond cake with thick white icing without getting pink everywhere. The goal was to make sure there were no traces of the center: syrupy raspberry goodness and I was struggling hard on that front. It turned out I was more suited for tree creation. Her husband, Jeremy and her are now business partners in the cake biz, as he specializes in the details, like making chocolate blades for a chainsaw cake and giving me advise on my fondant tree pruning. They’ve been married a little under a year, and have an epic love story of being roommates who fell into a friendship tangled with jagermeister turned into a river-front house and three kids.

Elaine, who is from the Fort Fraser area, once crinkle eye laughed with me as she told me how she knew the Hunter over the years and escapades of crazy girlfriends and was quite happy that he finally found me (crazy or not, here I am). Him and I drank twisted tea’s sitting next to each other as we watched Elaine’s and Jeremy’s wedding ceremony. Every woman in the audience, myself included, teared up as Jeremy cried during his vows and Elaine grinned and laughed and that same, wonderful laugh.

I make indents in blue fondant and show the finished product to Elaine who approves of the toque, and I take pride in her acceptance. Cake decorating, never mind the baking, is so much harder than I had ever anticipated. And that’s sort of the thing about Elaine, during appetizers and passion parties she’ll provide you with uncensored details of her life struggles and accept all of your flaws in return. I keep joking that with all of Jeremy’s beautiful carpentry work, he should build her an industrial kitchen. If I’m being honest, I’m quite thankful her cake biz didn’t take off right at the start because I would have never have gotten to know her. And Elaine really is that strong women you know you’re so lucky to have in your life.

Truly,

One humbled cake master.

Eat the cake. It's somebodies birthday somewhere.

Cancellation Policy

“Now,” I look up from the questions on the paper before me “we’ve talked about all of the great things about you. You’ve shared your attributes and qualities, but what would be your greatest weakness?” I brush a lose stand of hair behind me hear “Some would say this was an area of improvement”. I smile nicely after the last word improvement and make direct eye contact with the person seated at the front of the table; we call that chair the hot seat. It’s actually not the most difficult interview question we ask, but certainly one of the most interesting. And the three of us on the interview panel listen to the response while gently taking notes during the interview for entry level production position.

My standard response during an interview is that I’m not great at setting boundaries in my work-life. Simply said, I have a problem saying no. In fact my boss just pointed this out to me on Friday. When people come to me for help, help with a question, a favor, a task, an extra project, it is just so dang hard to tell them no, regardless of how busy I am. My plate gets fuller, my days longer and in turn my wine glass gets emptier and my work dreams crazier.

The complete answer to this interview question is to not only admit your weakness, but discuss how you’ve been working on it. With my assertiveness issues, I tell them that I’ll ask my colleague or boss when this needs to be done by and calculate if I truly have the ability to get it done. I’ll explain to my colleague what is on my plate of work chores and tell them when I’ll have time to help them with theirs.

Boom. Interview question answered.

So, professionally, I know my weaknesses and it seems very possible to tackle them, but from my personal life, this is so much messier.

...

It’s the end of the workday and my fingers wrap around the doorknob to our new[ly]-to-use purchased house. I’ve been working my full time job and coming home to my second job: renovations. Hugo bounds to the door ready to go for a walk. I’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes before I go to yoga because I must go to yoga. I need go to yoga; I’ve already missed three of our weekly classes. Last week my yoga instructor Nicole kindly Facebook messaged me asking if I was planning on attending her class and I admitted that I was not. And I felt incredibly guilt ridden. When I was asked if I was going to sign up for a six week Active Flow Class I said yes, when I should have said no. And I think we all know where this is going. My greatest weakness is that I am an incredibly flakey person.

I’ll agree to going driving into the city with my girlfriends, I’ll sign up for a $75 yoga course, I’ll commit to a night out dancing, only to fake out and cancel at the last minute. I’ll have legit reasons, truly. At the time I made the commitment I really did want to go. Or perhaps I have a hard time saying no to the person asking and then when the time comes, I can’t keep my promise. My life is in chaos right now with doing home reno’s in a time crunch and having a full-time job. But, is that really an excuse? I mean, I haven’t been doing renovations my whole life. And it seems this fault has been going on for as long as I can remember. Some days, I’m feeling incredibly introverted and I just don’t want to be all people-ey. But, I don’t bail guilt free. I feel awful about it for days, it's like the cancellation hangover. With that last Active Flow class, I walked into that yoga studio fearful that I was going to be shamed right back out the same way I came into those doors*.

And here’s the real problem. I’m not sure how hard I have been trying to change. The Hunter and I had a pretty solid argument about it a few months ago, before we were even living together. This wasn’t even the argument, but somewhere in the middle I was left speechless “You’re indecisive and you can’t commit to anything.” He spat, “Well unless it’s travelling” he sneered. And there it was. All of my ugly. I don’t know if he actually sneered, but did it ever hit home.

 So, I get it. It’s time to work on my weakness. Very slowly, I’ve begun truly thinking about what I’m agreeing before I say yes and think about the repercussion of bailing, because that's what it all comes down to. I want to be a good person and a good friend and I know how this effects my reputation when I change my mind last minuet. Accountability helps, although it makes me nearly cry, please feel free to call me out on it, when you make plans with me, you can confirm that I will follow thru. When I cancel at previously arranged plans I know I’m perhaps losing friendships that I’m not prepared to have happen. Acceptable or not, the impression I leave behind when I act like a flaky person makes me out to be someone I don’t want to be: unreliable, undependable. And that’s not who I am.

Admittedly,

A girl working on her flaws.

In terms of like, instant relief, cancelling plans is like heroine. - John Mulanie

*Nicole was lovely ask ever, but kicked my ass for an hour – Karma at its finest

A Home

It was a balmy -21C up here in Northern BC and the crisp air was creating a burn deep in my lungs with each inhale which was rapidly increasing with each step. In order to embrace our Canadian lifestyle, and to take the edge off my crazy with some physical activity, I diligently followed each of the Hunter’s footsteps up a steep incline. We’re essentially making homemade stairs by following our same footsteps with each climb. The toughness of the seven minuet hike was made harder with all of our gear, but the eight second ride down was even sweeter. The exhale of breath frosted my hair surrounding my face and I could feel the crunch of my frozen dreds as I unzipped my jacket to cool off as I neared our destination.  

On normal days, we had the luxury of T Bars and Chairlifts, but today we got to test our own man power as we climbed with our snowboards swinging lazily behind our arms, and I was anything but cold. The Hunter handed me a Budd and the cold bubbles burned my throat and tasted of victory. The beer was the trade off of having to manually make our way up our own private ski hill as we typically need to rock, paper, scissors who had the luxury of pasengering and who had to sober drive us home from the hill, and typically I was the latter. Today I took extra relish in a sip of fireball and a frosted beer – we were mere moments from our rental so there would only be stumble walking.

The Hunter’s phone pinged as he received a text message (even as I type the sound of his phone going off makes me think of real-estate) “They’re requesting the subjects to be removed within a week.” He looked at me quizzically as I handed him back the beer “I’m going to counter with a new offer and tell them we want two weeks to get the inspection, insurance and mortgage approved.”

I sat down and strapped myself into my board rather slowly to give myself some time to find my breath. He pointed down the steepest part of our private ski hill and told me to “straight line it”, telling me with such confidence that all the powder will slow me down. My nerves made me giggle as I swung my board in the same direction he pointed at. The sun was starting to set and my view was gorgeous. The pink colours were illuminated by our sea of white snow throughout the farm lands. It’s not the first time that day I thought of how lucky we were to be living in Northern BC.

We’ve been house hunting for quite some time and the only thing we were sure of is that we didn’t really know what we wanted in a house. After viewing several houses, it took us admitting that the house we wanted in five years, which would include a shop with property looked awfully different than the house that would suite us best right now.

And then there we were, in between quick rides down the hill, we found ourselves making an offer on a super-duper fixer-upper, located in town and without a storage shed in the back yard. Reno’s will take place slowly but surely and it will make an excellent rental a year from now. The Hunter and I know this opportunity will not come without its challenges: we both know my painting skills are average at best, and I’ve admitted that I have no idea how to, well, fix up a house, but I’m willing and eager to learn. We’ve sat down and detailed the monthly expenses associated to being home owners, and the benefit of purchasing a house that most people wouldn’t care to move in immediately – except we aren’t most people, as neither of us have standards when it comes to materialistic things, such as a house* – we will still be able to pay for a house and travel the globe, which is such an incredible win.

I take a deep breath and rock my board front to back in order to get it moving and I doesn’t take me long for my board to pick up the pace. My insides clench; I hit the first dip with amazing speed and I let out a wild scream, but the Hunter’s promise stays true and the powder slows me down just before the final hill as I let out a final cry that ends in a giggle as my board comes to a stop.

And I suppose that’s our balance: by the end of that day our offer was accepted. The high from snowboarding in our backyard and the buzz from the alcohol continued through the evening from the adrenalin of becoming home owners.

And here we are, we move in later today.

Truly,

Two very happy homeowners

Find someone who is home and an adventure all in one.

*my sister calls me a brand whore when it comes to Lululemon, but I feel like that’s a song for another time.

German Genes

The various sauces were mixing together and I was loving it. The creamy sauce from my green beans were slowly making their way towards the gravy that was sloshed all over my potato dumplings, and the juices coming off of the duck were completing the trio of flavors perfectly. My knife sliced into the dark meat and I closed eyes just as I placed it on my tongue, savoring the rich flavors of something I’ve never tried before.  Dammmmn I slowly crunched through the duck skin and I opened my eyes to see silent tears spill down my four year old niece’s cheek. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “I just miss my mom” she quietly explained. And I could relate.

A week before the Hunter and I were booked to head to Smithers, BC for a two days full of snowboarding with Charlie and Charlie’s gal and one night wandering around the town center checking out breweries’ sure to create some good memories. We found out our schedule was double booked on Family Day weekend, my mum forwarded me a flight confirmation and was scheduled to come to town. We would compromise: a night in Smithers and a night with my mum – making a German meal.

Our teacher would be no other then my bold, no-nonsense friend, Julia. She offered to show me how to make a traditional German meal and my mum showed immediate interest. We softened her with good beer and cheap Champagne. Julia learned how to make the traditional meals (schnitzel and potato dumplings) from her father, who I’ve actually met a couple summers ago. He nonchalantly taught her the basics, and when she ran into a hurdle, like how the hell do we cook a whole duck, she would give him a quick call overseas and he would provide some advice.

Once whole potatoes boiled, Julia sent my mom and I to work on pealing the hot spuds while sipping our beers, where we shared a cutting board and got caught up on life. Julia is one of our few female supervisors’ at the company I work at. We share a love for champagne and dogs (she has two) and unloading about work. We’ve both had to fight to prove ourselves in the male dominated industry we’re invested in, career wise. I’ve relied heavily on her when it came to turning my job into somewhat of a career as well as relationship hiccups and dog problems. She’s as strong as they come and I am so lucky to have her on my side and in my life. She also makes bitching German pancakes, especially after a girls night of too much spirits.

 After combining the mashed spuds with starch we formed palmed size balls and placed them into the almost boiling water. Once they floated to the top, they were ready. We mixed together gravy like substance for some boiled beans and took the whole duck out of the oven.

The Friday before my mom was scheduled to fly in, I was sitting down with the Hunter to eat some kind of bean-based-appetizer-turned-into-a-dinner (it’s my specialty) and I quickly admitted to the Hunter that I lost interest in our Smither’s stay-cation; I wanted to spend time at my sister’s house, where we could go to the local ski hill fifteen minutes from her house: I missed my mum. He placed his mitt like hand on my knee and said we should definitely spend the time at my sister’s with my mum.

 I wiped the tear off of my niece, Natalie’s, cheek as Julia asked how long it had been since Natalie had seen her mother. About an hour, my mum explained with a smile. I asked Natalie if she wanted to cuddle with me. She said she wanted to cuddle with her Gram C. 

Always, 

A girl with German in her genes. 

For the love of food and Jeans

The Vacationer(s)

“Are we going to miss our flight?” For someone who was so reluctant to agreeing to this trip, there sure was a heavy amount of fear laced throughout that question. About a mere nine weeks ago, the Hunter and I gave the go ahead for our travel agent (another first) to book our all inclusive vacation in Cancun, Mexico. That’s right, vacation. I hadn’t been on one of these babies since circa 2011, which was a whole other lifetime ago: I was a traveler, not a vacationer. And since I’m in mid paragraph of complaining about what most people merely yearn to do, I’ll just take it one step further and admit that my hesitancy to book this seven day retreat came from financing or there lack of, in that the expenses didn’t come out of my bank account, but the Hunters. That’s right folks, he paid my way after my insistent promise [on repeat] that I’d pay him back immediately.

And from beginning to end the trip was nothing less than incredible.

We flew into Vancouver in the afternoon where the Hunter and I walked sloppily around China town tasting all it had to offer. From trying cray fish and noodles to adventuring out to find a Rachel Hollis’s highly recommended book [by both my sister and the Hunter’s sister] Girl, Wash your face it was such a simple experience on how much fun adventuring new territory will be with the Hunter with future endeavors. We met up with the Hunters family the following morning, where our trip hit our only real bit of turbulence as we only just made it to our gate at the airport – apparently traveling with eleven people is a bit more tricky than solo travel struggles, with larger luggage, more personality and bigger laughter.

The resort was almost as beautiful as our ocean view from our room and coffee never tasted more delicious than sipping it from the deck of our room. Highlights included trying paddle boarding and partner yoga. The Hunter argues that there should be a class called Competitive Yoga, as he struggled with his patience as we struggled with some of the poses, while I laughed the entire time. I was also pretty proud that I could withstand his weight when I was encouraged to do the cat/cow pose while I supported his upper body with my own. I had a glorious time and, as always, he said he was happy that I was happy.

We were lucky enough to take a family trip, where the eleven of us had our private catamaran, which was truly a once in a lifetime experience; once we got accustomed to the rough sea (hello gravel), we enjoyed lounging on the front of the boat where we caught some waves and rays and also had four dolphins great us, which was probably one of my top five moments of Mexico.

Our evenings were spent sipping sweet beverages and chatting with the Hunter's cousins well into the night. The days were spend walking the beach and lounging in cabanas where I got to know the Hunter's world travelling Aunt (woman after my own heart) and quiet but catty Uncle. The three kids bounced around between adults, where they’d sometimes go snorkeling with the Hunter (forever a water guy), I'm proud to say that I put on a pretty intense handstand competition in the pool with the kids and I.

On the morning we were heading to the airport the one of the boys told me how he didn’t want to see the Hunter and I leave. I told him how sad I was too, but quickly reminded him that we would get all eleven of us together soon for a pizza making session accompanied by popcorn and a screening of all the photos we took from the last seven days. I told the Hunter several times in Meixco how wonderful it was to be able to spend the time to get to know his people all that much more. Thanks to globe trotting I’ve made so many connections with people all over the world, so for me, it's a new perspective to spend so many intimate hours together with people in a different country and this time 'round, actually know that we would see them again, and soon.

Ciao Bella

It's a hang on kinda ride, whispin' in through space and time,
Rockin' this big old rock just tryn'a have fun
So let's drink another beer, here's to another year, 
Let's take another crazy trip around the sun

- Kenny Chesney, Trip Around the Sun

Soul Food

I inhale with shock; The Hunters’ BFF throws down a slab meat on the cutting board. From my fingers to elbow, it’s longer than that and twice the width of my lower arm. The Moose has been hanging in quarters in their cooler for just over a week now. The Hunter, well, he hunted it. I offered to help because I wanted to help. I listen attentively and with thankfulness as the Hunter’s BFF rightfully puts me back in my place when I say something sassy, “You must learn before you can do” he gruffly responds. From a guy who I’ve watched throw up last night’s sushi off the chairlift for ten towers, these are wise words in stern tones that I’m not used to.

I love to cook. I love to cook almost as much I love to eat. I know I don’t necessary look it – don’t ever trust a skinny chef is notable quote. But, I just love the end result of a good appetizer or the beauty of a lavishing dessert. There’s nothing I’d rather do more than get tipsy while standing over a cutting board with wine in one hand and confidence in the other, as I’m chopping this spines of celery and dropping them into a simmering pot for a stew of a sort.  There’s something so therapeutic about spending my Sunday morning making banana chocolate chip muffins and prepping a lunch meal or two for the week to come. I’m a hot mess with ninety percent of my life, but bring it, Monday; I’ve got lentils ready for ya!

It’s killing the feminist in me about how good I am keeping house. But it’s come to good use the last few months. The Hunter has been in a never ending battle with my new-to-me Volkswagen. I hadn’t ev

en driven it over 100KM’s when the dash lit up like a Christmas tree. He’s confident the codes were deleted at the time of the sale, and the duo who sold me Betsy knew about at least some of the issues - oh her grocery list is long. Karma has balanced it out as the Mill they’re at is shutting down a production line, which means at least half of the employees are about to be laid off. I’m confident that with the seniority of these two young bucks at least one of them will be left without a job. So, while the Hunter has spent countless hours and some pretty thought up swearwords makin’ Betsy run, I’ve been Pink-jobbin’ it - hard.

One of my favorite things to do is invite my people over and eat a feast of different foods while socializing. And it’s even better when they show up to help cook. My two strong-willed, unmarried girlfriends and I meet up monthly to cook together and spend the night full of good carbs and liquor. I’ll regularly bust out some hippy/head banging music, open a bottle of craft beer for myself, crack a Bud and hand it to the  Hunter as we get caught up on our rock star week, or take a breather from our crap day while working on a creation to feed our stomachs and souls.

Food is so very social and such a strong part of any culture. I’ve become aware of this with my mostly plant-based lifestyle, and people have said the same with their own food restrictions. Megan and I usually go to our default Asian salad wraps when we get together as we don’t have to worry about meatless preference or her lactose defects. There is something else I would like to get out of the way and lay it all on the table: since The Hunter and I have combined pots and pans, I’ve decided that although I am still focusing on a plant based lifestyle, I’ll eat what he catches and kills himself (you ever had home grown/butchered bacon. Holy fuck). On family and friends tables, I will happily eat the animals that have had a happy life, otherwise, without complaint, I will happily pick out the meat parts and feed to someone else (the Hunter or the person across the table from me), be it bacon in the perogies or sausage in soup, I’m pretty laid back on the cross-contamination debacle.

Despite being a frequent flyer, trying different lifestyles and different food, I view my cooking abilities to be quite limited from a cultural perspective. And this is where 2019 comes into play. For next twelve months, I want to learn twelve different meals and blog along the way:

1. Mennonite perogies with Janine
2. Samosas and Masala with Roshni
3. Sushi with the Kubos
4.  Make/decorate a Sugarbud Creations cake
5. Pizza on a BBQ with Mike’s Auntie Fern
6. Becca’s Bunny Stew
7. Granny Evdokimoff’s Borsch
8. Fernando’s Empanadas 

And this is where you come into play. As you can see above, I do not have a list of twelve (and several of these aren't confirmed), so I’m reaching out, as I am Force Friending you and your friends to perhaps invite me over (or I’ll invite you over) to teach me how to create your own special feast (I can provide ingredients/funding for ingredients). It doesn’t have to be food from a different culture, just something unique.

The Hunter’s brought up butchering on several occasions, and this ritual-like process sounds just as important as the hunt itself. A group of us come together to cut up and package the meat as efficiently as possible; The quote ‘It takes a village’ is incredibly fitting, as no one person has the stamina, time or freezer space to butcher that much animal. The Hunters’ BFF throws down a slab meat on the cutting board in front of me: It’s the tenderloin - the nicest cut of meat and he’s about to talk me through how to butcher it. I’m eager to please and the fireball I sip directly from the two-six burns away my nerves. My knife cuts swiftly and smoothly into the flesh. I exhale.

Cheers,

a Chef 

Meh... he'll still do me. - Me, serving myself seconds