Bloorp.

My parents thought it’d be a good idea to give me a bottle of creme de menthe that had been sitting in their dusty basement bar for at least 20 years. I’m not sure why.

But here it is, and the novelty factor is what made me keep it. Along with several of the other questions — and answers — that inevitably came along with it:

Yes, this picture was taken on the floor.

No, I don’t know why I didn’t just put it on the table.

Yes, it is unopened.

No, I have not (yet) opened it.

Yes, I’m worried that it took on radioactive properties in the last two decades.

No, I will not be opening it anytime soon.

Since I’ll never be able to tell just by glancing at its unholy green hue, it may be safe(r) to say that some bottles are just better left unopened.

The moment Grandma saw her sister moving on the computer screen, she let out an excited squeal.

On Christmas Eve, my genius cousin Kris arranged this surprise with extended family members to get Rosie on Skype, when it was Christmas morning on her side of the world.

Video chatting came naturally to both of them and my heart nearly burst as I watched how happy Grandma was to see her sister.

The whole family came downstairs to watch, snap pictures (as you can see my uncle doing in the background) and take our turns saying hi and Merry Christmas to Rosie.

Grandma threw her arms delightedly around Kris for making this happen and I couldn’t wipe the big silly grin off my face.

Old people using technology is cute, okay?

When I encounter a restaurant that offers a completely unrealistic eating challenge, I can’t help but wonder what deluded masochist would be so ready, willing and able to tackle ungodly amounts of food.

Then along came my cousin Mark.

Mark, he of steak and Jell-O-filled plates. He whose sky-high piled meals cause  paper plates to literally bend under the weight of the food. With his boundless energy and active lifestyle, he manages to keep a trim figure — one look and you’d never guess he could eat his weight in food.

Last month, he came pretty damn close.

It was his sister Kris’s birthday and a bunch of us gathered at RealSports Bar and Grill, where we discovered The Hail Mary on the menu:



That’s right: 67 oz steak. One pound of fries. One pound of coleslaw. One hour.

It began as a joke. He even dared to utter the phrase, “I’ve always wanted to try that.” But as the jokes progressed, they soon become, well, not jokes at all.

Then he spoke the inevitable words: “I’m gonna do it.”

We weren’t sure if he was serious, but he shut his menu with such conviction that we knew he’d made up his mind.

“DON’T DO IT!!!” cried Kris, arms outstretched.

He wouldn’t listen. It would take an hour and a half for the steak to cook, meaning he had an hour and a half to mentally prepare himself. (And you can bet there are pictures…)

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Few things are more beautiful than a man and his piano.

Matt’s supremely gifted uncle Tom Baker is also a former musical director for The Second City Toronto (keeping it all in the family, you see). He is the most wonderful pianist and has released a few solo piano albums, which we gave to my jazz-loving father .

We visited him and his wife earlier this week in the country, an hour and a half out of the city where they own a sprawling 50 acres of land. Also in their possession are a number of gorgeous instruments, from a grand piano to a dulcimer (dulcimer!) to a bass recorder.

While playing around with the instruments, we mentioned how much Dad loved the CDs and I wondered if Tom was at all familiar with the song “Emily.”

He was out of the room when I leaned over to ask Matt. As if on cue, he reentered the room and Matt asked the question for me, “Do you know the song ‘Emily?’”

With hardly a moment’s hesitation, Tom made a beeline for the piano room and the sounds of My Song filled the air like they’d been there all along. My heart swelled and I was rooted to the spot.

There was a sudden pause in the melody and we heard Tom cry out, “Oh, shit!” as he tried to remember the rest of the song. Matt, his aunt and I all burst out laughing, then we moved closer to the piano room to watch the music man at play.

But as you’ll see, the song eases its way back into his memory, making it very hard for anyone watching not to smile.

When it was over, Tom rose from the piano, looked at me and said, “I think I’ll put that on my next album.”

My friend Jim did just that earlier this year. I can only keep my fingers crossed that Tom may do the same.

Somehow my blog has turned into the family edition. Considering the posts I’ve planned for the near future, that’s not about to stop anytime soon, but I’m okay with that.

This photo of me and my cousins — minus one, who had left early — was snapped at Kris and Gino’s wedding in August by the amazing Claudia Hung. We’re all so rarely in the same place together since some of them live south of the border, so it makes me super happy this picture exists.

You get one guess and one guess only as to which one is my weird ex-Marine cousin and I’m willing to bet you knew before you read this.

I wouldn’t call a joy ride on a pocket bike a traditional Thanksgiving activity, but this is my family we’re talking about.

Thanksgiving weekend was beautiful — expanded bellies excepted, of course. The sun was pretending it was still summer, creating the perfect atmosphere for a spin around the block.

My cousin Mark obtained a pocket bike from a friend who said it was broken. (In his case, not knowing how to start the engine is considered broken.)

I watched my other boy cousin take a spin, followed by my brother, and was immediately consumed by envy.

So when Mark turned to the girls to see if we wanted to try, they shook their heads, saying they were “scared.” Then I stepped forward.

Within seconds, I was flying down the street, wind whipping through my hair and the bike’s motor so thunderous that surely all the neighbours within a five-block radius must have been muttering something about getting these damn kids off their lawns.

I never really understood the appeal of motorcycles. Even though it was just a little pocket bike, I experienced an unusual freedom and even — dare I say it? — a sense of power that you don’t quite get on a regular bike. At least, that’s how I felt. And it was awesome.

This might be a weird question, but what does an authentic Chinese bicycle look like?

—

A Fredericton cabbie to my cousin Kris when she was on a business trip in New Brunswick last week.

Really? Really? The same cabbie also turned to her earlier and said very slowly, “Your English. VERY GOOD.”

I found a banana in my pocket.

—

It’s not a euphemism. Dad actually found a piece of a banana in his pocket when we were about to leave Cleveland. Grandma, brother and Mom look on with unidentifiable expressions in the background.

Emily. This is Leo. Andrew said you’re going to bring bubble tea. Where is it?

—

He immediately hung up after that. This is the exact transcript of a voice mail message that my ex-Marine cousin left for me tonight. At least it wasn’t about pancakes.

In any case, weirdness runs in the family.