jump jump.

I've decided that the jump is my signature move. Well not mine, but it's the move I like to make other people do when I'm shooting their wedding. Why? Because it's friggin' cool. If you don't like it, then please don't ask me to shoot your wedding. If I shoot, you jump. That's all there is too it.

Now the question is, can you jump with style?

(This image was taken today by my second photographer, Brekke Felt. She agreed to come along and snag all my wide angle shots because my beloved wide angle (Nikkor 14-24 2.8) is sadly in the shop. So I asked Brekke to lay down and snap up, and she did it!)

egg-actly what i'm talking about.

Did you know that regular store eggs come out brown and are bleached white?

I'm ashamed to admit my ignorance, but I didn't know that until Doug, my step-father-in-law-once-removed, handed me a dozen eggs from his chickens (that live in his back yard) and told me just that. He said, "Did you know they bleach store bought eggs white?" I said, "Really? That's weird. Why don't they just keep them brown."
"I dunno," he said. "Probably because people like the look of it."

Well, I thought about that. Not for too long or anything. It's not like I'm sitting around pondering the color of the almighty egg for days on end. It just struck me as odd. Why can't brown eggs stay brown? I can't say I ever gave it much thought...here I go with the thinking about it all again...and what I came to think about it is this:

I think brown eggs look mighty fine and real purty. Maybe if we all though that then we'd have speckly brown eggs instead of bleached white eggs. There. I done said it. I like brown better than white. Call me an egg-cist.

Holla' ya'll for the brown egg. 

Now don't them eggs look nice?

ruby and the giant peach.

Across the street from where I live is a half acre lot filled with peach trees. For the last three summers in a row I've been blessed with a crate of the most delectable, mouth-watering peaches from the small orchard. My kids and I have made peach fruit leather, peach jam, peach syrup and smoothies of all design. But what I've found is I like a peach best when I can sink my teeth into one fresh picked off the tree.

As soon as I brought in the bowl, my little girl was asking for one. She likes them just like me. Enjoy the photo spew...she was too cute to stop snapping pictures.

She's my little sweet peach.

Secret 3 of 100

3:100 thumbs up

I hitch-hiked on the North Shore of Hawaii. It was an unpleasant experience and not one that I would suggest anyone try. First, you never know who's going to stop. It could be a total stinker of a person...and then what? You have to share a small vehicular space with someone that smells so bad your nose hairs singe. Pee-You! I'm not saying that happened to me. It was the opposite in fact. A super nice man picked up me and my friends, and then drove us to where we were going...somewhere he actually worked. He took us right back to BYU-Hawaii. He told us that we should be safer and just pay the .75 cents to ride the bus. (Yeah, I'm cheap.) But he also explained to us the dangers. And he said enough to scare me witless. So no more thumbing a ride for me.

But that never stopped me from using a buddy pass.

Mark and I used a buddy pass to head over to Hawaii for my Grandma's funeral and an awesome wedding shoot. Unfortunately last night when we went to the airport and saw the backed up system of people trying to fly standby, we realized we couldn't buddy pass it back to Utah. So with a lot of prayer we were able to find an affordable one-way ticket home. So good bye Hawaii...we'll see when we venture into the buddy pass world again.

Aloha, erin

sisters sisters.

"...and I'm Julene."

Unsure about that reference? Click on this LINK.

While we were visiting the Big Island, Rachel and I stopped at Ross. While scanning the clearance rack (because that's how I roll), we found a ruffly red shirt for only $3.99. I bought it and brought it back to my Auntie's house. Then, once all my sisters saw it and my cousin, they ran out to the Ross and bought the same one because it was such a great deal.
Then while we were dressing for church, Leslie put on the new red Ross shirt. I thought it would be funny if we all wore it. So after a little persuasion, we all went to Rachel's (my sis that lives in Hawaii) church wearing the same shirt...and looking quite Lawrence Welk-ish.

So of course, we had to stop by the Laie LDS temple and snap some matchy-matchy sister photos. See below. But could you also not mention this matchy-matchy-ness to any prospective clients because I usually heckle anyone who would wear the exact same shirt as their sibling.

 Those were the nice sister poses...and now for the real "sisters sisters" photos.

So now don't ya'll go run out and buy the exact same shirt for each person in your family...unless you want awesome awkward photos like the ones above.
luv, erin

mariko's cupcakes.

Have you noticed how long it's been since I've posted? Yeah, sorry about that. I had a wee bit of an emo-mental break down caused by frantic editing leading up to a whirlwind trip to the motherland (a.k.a. Hawaii). All of which caused a serious blockage in my brain. For the last two weeks I've been mumbling nonsense and downing Diet Coke like it's the new water. Um...it is the new water, right?
Regardless, it all boils down to no pictures or posts for you.

But now I'm back. And back in sweet style.

Today I was at church. I saw a girl. Not just any girl, but one that I've secretly loathed because of my insane jealousy issues. She is smart, funny, pretty, and uber-talented in the food blogging world. Oh, and she's a mom of two perfectly amazing children. Grrr...just thinking of her makes my blood boil.
What was this post about again? I'm having a hard time seeing through the red haze.
Oh right, Mariko's cupcakes.

So I saw this girl. Mariko is her name. And she said to me, "Hey, show me how to shoot some sweet-as food." (She didn't really say those exact words, but I can't be bothered to write the truth right now because it's tedious and lengthy. I'm sure it went more like, "How are you, Erin?" And I responded with, "Fine. Just fine. How's your friggin' awesome kids?...Oh, perfect as always...Yeah, and you're still smart...great. That's really great...".)
After a short chat she asked if I would come demonstrate how I shoot food. And frankly I was jumping for joy inside. Is there really something I can show her? Holla' ya'll. I said, "Sure. Make some cupcakes and I'll come over." (I'm pretty sure that's what I really did say.) And voila! She made them. I went over. And I shot her.

I mean, I shot her cupcakes.

Here's Mariko's yummy cupcakes coming straight to you from the motherland of Hawaii!

Aloha, erin.

Tutu.

Tonight my Grandma (the only Grandmother I've ever known) passed away. My boys lovingly referred to her as Tutu and tomorrow when they wake up, I'll share with them the somewhat unexpected news. But now that it's so early in the morning and I'm still awake, I can't help but feel a deep ache of loss, regret, and sadness over her passing. I usually keep this blog light hearted, but right now my heart feels full and somewhat broken. I know her passing is for the best and she's finally reunited with the love of her life. But still, I can't help but miss this wonderful woman that I named my one and only daughter after.

Dear Grandma,

Two years ago I took you to see one of your most beloved friends, Auntie Abby.

After a wonderful chocolate pie and turkey lunch, I drove the old saddle road to get back to Kona. I never counted on the cops being around, or them clocking me at 87 in a 45. I wondered what you would say when the cop approached the window and I rolled it down. You just looked at me and let out a slight chuckle. "See I told you to slow down," you said without a trace of anger. "But you go and catch the crook."
I laughed at your reference to my speed, tried to talk myself out of that ticket, and failed. The rest of the evening we told our ticket story over and over again to everyone at Uncle Aley's home. I thought the ticket was unjust, but your comment was so funny. Since you never learned to drive, Grandpa drove you every where. I have handfuls of memories of you telling Grandpa, "Eh Daddy, catch the crook." I'm just so happy I finally have my own crook story to share.

Since Grandpa died, you haven't been the same. And I'm sure now you are so happy to be with him once again. And I want you to know even though I broke down at the Walmart tonight when I heard that you passed away, I'm happy for you too.

My one regret is that I didn't listen to the small voice that spoke to me over the last few days, telling me to call. For that I'll be sorry until the day we meet again. You have been a force in my life. I love you always. Erin

hold out your hand so i can spit on it.

When I was younger my cousin Amy spit on me. For real. Alright, her act of spitting may have been perpetuated by my spitting on her first, but still it was gross. And frankly I don't entirely recall spitting on her, so in my mind she's the spitter and I'm just the innocent child bystander. Now that I'm older and wiser, I don't spit on my cousins or anyone else for that matter. And they don't spit on me. Why? Because I still think it's gross. 

So when my four year old boy spits on the window in the car, I think it's gross. And I tell him not to do it again. 

When he spits on his seat, I think it's disgusting. And I snap at him not to do it again...or else.

When he spits on my newly mopped kitchen floor, I think it's down right horrific. And I yell, "Don't do that again. Now go to time out!" (Then I throw my hands in the air. Serenity Now!)

But, when he spits on his baby sister, (just before losing any shred of parenting sanity) I think, somebody needs to teach this kid a lesson about spitting. And then I do the only thing that comes to mind. 

"Teddy," I say. "Hold out your hand."

He spreads those trembling four-year-old fingers. "Uh, why Momma."

I don't answer. Using the spitting ability once cultivated in my youth, I hawk the biggest loogie I can and spit it in the palm of his hand, making sure that it doesn't drip off the side and further the spit problem in my home. 

"Hold that," I say in Mommy Death-Con 5 Commander mode voice. "Keep that spit in your hand until you think it's gross enough that you will never ever again spit on your sister, your brother, the house, or the car. Do you understand?"

His chin trembles and his big brown eyes grow to the size of moons. "Yes Momma." 

I look at him, tempted to swipe the saliva off his palm and send him on his way. But I resist his innocent charm. It's an act, I tell myself half-crazed with spit abhorrence. Spitting is gross! Four minutes later I decide maybe the punishment was a little harsh, but I doubt my little guy will be spitting on you anytime soon.  

  

wishin' and hopin'.

That pretty much sums it all up.
Sure, it would be great if the world was at peace and people gave hugs instead of slugs. But why not throw a little self-love in my wishing too? One day I wish that a literary agent will find my manuscript in his/her email inbox, and after reading through the entire novel in one sitting (because it's so uber-amazing the agent wouldn't be able to rip his eyes away) the agent will then call me on the phone and ask beg to represent my work because of it's complete awesomeness.

And yes, I would like the agent to actually use that term.

Is that so much to wish for?

I don't think so...but I hope the second half of my wish comes sooner than the first half.

secret 2 of 100.

When I was fourteen I was arrested.

It involved my best friend, two older boys, one stolen van, and possibly a little Mary Jane (if you know what I mean...but since this is a family blog I'm not going to elaborate.)

Nuff' said.

Have a great Thursday. Obey the law.

moose tracks.

Yesterday I shot my second moose this summer. Talk about an awesome shooting season. As I drove down the Alpine Loop headed home after shooting a family, I was feeling quite ravenous. My stomach's hunger growls almost kept me from seeing the young moose standing a short ways off. In mid 'where-should-I-eat-out' conversation, I spied the young moose beauty. I swerved to a stop and whipped out my sharp shooter. It took seconds to snap on a 70-200 mm. With the right lens, I dared to step out of my van, sneak around the back, and shoot this moose beauty while he/she (who knows?) ate. 

I love me some moose!

On another note, if you were wondering where me and the hubs ate last night it wasn't the OG. Though, admittedly that was my first, second, and third choice. Mark put down his size 9 foot and we ended up at Costa Vida. Yeah, I'll admit that I might have announced their food tasted like butt as soon as we walked in the door, but I quickly changed my mind after I tasted the food. It was excellente (that's excellent in Spanish). If you're in Pleasant Grove and you want somewhere to eat...that is also now on my approved eating locations...go to Costa Vida. 

luv, erin

secret 1 of 100.

Today I'm starting down a new path in life. And by the title of this post, I'm sure you're wondering if that's the secret. The first of a hundred that I'll share on this blog. The answer to your silent inquiry is no. That's not the secret. However, it should be noted that I'm starting something new. I've always used this blog as my spewing ground, shooting into cyber-space whatever comes to mind with little to no focus. If we've met in person, you've probably already noticed that to be an everyday occurrence when we're conversing. What can I say? Go ADD.
But today I'm focusing. I'm hankering down and truly committing to something. I'm committing to one-hundred little somethings. One hundred truths about myself or those around me that you probably don't know. Why? Because at heart I love gossip as much as the next. No, that's not entirely why. I don't even know why except that I have secrets, boy do I have secrets, and I want to share! I may not even share a secret a week, but eventually I'll share all one hundred. And when that day comes...well, it'll come and you'll know one hundred secrets. So, um, yeah. I guess that's about it.

1:100 Gas Girl
When Mark walked me to the door after our first date, I totally farted. Not once, but twice. And yes, it was loud. He had said something funny, and as I laughed, I just couldn't hold in the gas that was pressing on my insides with unbelievable paining pressure. The laugh caused me to relax enough to, well, let it all out. Not knowing if he heard, but certain he must've, I turned the door knob and slipped inside without saying another word. I didn't give a rat's but cheek if he thought my departure was abrupt because I was more concerned that he'd never want to take out the gas girl again. Mortified, I shook my head and after a few seconds erupted into a fit of laughter. Because even though part of me wanted to sink into a hole in the earth, a bigger part of me considered the scene from another angle. Particularly the one of any one of my neighbor's. 


Obviously Mark asked me out again. And after that first date he never made any indication that he heard the world's worst faux pax to be made on a first date. So I kept that secret closest to my heart for years into our marriage. And when I finally broke down and told him, he had no clue what I was talking about. Or so he said. 


I haven't shared this story with many others for fear that they might look at me differently. If that's the case, than so be it. Because now you know secret 1 of 100. 

huntress.

Once I dated a guy who was a hunter. He sent me a picture of himself sitting on top a deer or a buck (I have no clue about these things really) and the poor deer-buck was dead. Blood and guts and all were exposed. Gag, right? That poor deer-buck animal was a goner. It's wee little offspring were left to wander through the woods alone.

Now that many moons have passed since I dated hunter-boy, I too have gone the way of the huntress.
Well, kind of.
I recently shot an animal. And I have the picture to prove it. No, it's no deer-buck animal. But a Moose!

Yes, ya'll. I done gone and shot me a Moose. 

Now who's the huntress? 

Boo-yah. Ya'll come back y'here.

(Something about shooting wildlife has inspired the hick-lovin', animal-huntin' side of me.)

"bare" tales from the great outdoors.

If you haven't met my hubby, Mark the Shark, you wouldn't know that he can grow a beard in about two hours. Or that he somewhat resembles Tom Cruise (and he's told this daily). Or that he's one of the most helpful people out there. If I need something done, Mark's my man. Ha ha. Snort. But really. He is my main man. He's built things for me, crawled out of bed in the middle of the night to get me a drink of water, and even helped me put my shoes on when my body was too bloated with baby to move. Mark's helpful nature is one of the reasons I fell in love with him. In short, Mark would give someone in need the shirt of his back.

So...

Last night while helping me at a bridal photo shoot, Mark did just that. I wanted her to sit on the steps, but they were dirty. So Mark, being the guy that he is, took off his shirt and placed it on the steps.

this is me for real.

I posted this earlier on Facebook, but it makes me laugh so hard I thought I would share it here. My friend Finny caught this true life shot of me at a recent wedding. I'm not sure whether I should be appalled that I'm looking so freakishly blissful, or that some young boy appears to be checking me out. Either way, all I can say is: That's right boys, I still got it.

truth...or something like it

Some days that's truer than others. Of course, I'm still cutting back on my DC habit.

some like it hot.

I love salsa. I like it hot...relatively speaking. I don't want my lips to melt off my face and my tongue to shrivel into a blackened stump from the fire in the peppers, but I don't mind a nice burn across the creases of my mouth. I love my salsa to burst with cilantro and to hold a hint of lemon or lime in each bite. I want there to be a kick and to be complimented with the perfect greasy tortilla chip. Oh, just writing this post makes my mouth water. 

In order to feed my summer salsa craving I planted a "salsa-lovers" garden. Big Boys, Early Girls, Celebrity and Roma tomato plants are surrounded by a couple tall cilantro clusters, sweet Walla Walla onions bursting from the ground, two bell pepper plants, and one serrano plant. In another month my house will become salsa central and Salsa Fest 2011 will begin. (Stay tuned for updates of this years Jam Fest 2011 that went off without a hitch. Strawberry Jam rocks!)

Anyway, the purpose of this post isn't for me to brag and brag some more about my pint sized garden that will only be good for supplying my love of salsa. Basically I want something from you. I want your recipes! I'll share mine first...and granted it's not the best or I wouldn't be asking for yours. But it's decently good. So I'm begging you, if you have a great salsa recipe please share it.

Erin's Supa' Awesome Salsa 

(Winner of Summerill Salsa Fest 2010)

8 roma tomatoes
1/2 large bell pepper
1-2 garlic cloves
1 small walla walla sweet onion
1/2 serrano pepper or jalapeno
1/2 lemon (squeezed for it's juice)
1/3 cup of chopped cilantro
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper

Directions: 
1. Buy yourself a food processor. It makes the salsa making process so much faster. And it's pretty cool when you get to press the "pulse" button over and over again.
2. Pulse (this is like intense chopping) the bell pepper, garlic, onion, and serrano pepper until evenly chopped.
3. Cut your roma tomatoes into quarter-sized chunks, then add to the food processor. Pulse until your salsa reaches the consistency you like.
4. Add chopped cilantro, lemon juice, salt and pepper. Pulse a couple more times until it's all mixed and looking like a good-lookin' salsa.
5. Get out some real nice tortilla chips and dig in!

If your salsa recipe is better than mine, please share.

so very cheesy.

I love to take wedding photos...and I love all my cute couples...and I think all their pictures are to die for. Gush, gush, gush. Yeah, I get that I sound like a total sap. Cheesiness to the max. But it's the truth. Well, most of the time. I'll not be speaking of any bride-zillas here so you can go elsewhere if you think this post has anything to do with the bride I encountered last week that nearly ripped my head off because I merely mentioned she might have to wait one minute longer to take a certain picture. Please, like I'm working on her time schedule. When will these brides learn that their wedding day is MY day? Mine, mine, mine. Where I'm the photog rockstar and they're just a momentary blip in my shot. 

 

Uh, did I just say all thought in out-loud cyber space? 

 

Pardon the serious tangent. The truth of the post is this, sometimes I really do love my brides and grooms to death. And sometimes I shed a tear. Like when I snapped this shot:

Sometimes I cry. (Note: should you mention this fact to anyone I'll deny it. I'm no sissy photog.)

So when my close friend's little sister gets married to an awesome guy, and then she shares a tear-jerking dance with her father...sometimes I get a little misty-eyed. Or a lot. 

And it's those times I realize that I love photography even if sometimes I get stressed; sometimes I feel as if I don't have time to pee; sometimes I wish I was writing instead of shooting; sometimes I want to just turn my ringer off and spend two hours taking a hot bath. 

Sometimes it's so worth it to be a photographer. And one of those times would be when the awesome father of the bride (pictured above) includes a little bonus on top of my wedding fee. A bonus that's not at all too cheesy for me and my queen of cheese. 

When the bonus is a can of COUGAR GOLD, then I say it's pretty darn great being a wedding photographer! 

feat. and sore feet.

Today I ran 10 miles.

That's the darn truth. Just ask my aching legs and sore feet.

10 miles is also the longest distance I've ever ran. Ever. I'm not one of those running moms. You know, the type that actually like to go on a run for fun after a long day with the kiddos. Blech. I hate running. I'd rather stay at home with the kids, wiping booger noses and cleaning up poop. Up until the last couple months it would be safe to say that I loathed running. I spat at anyone who would suggest I even take up the sport. Ok, well maybe that's an exaggeration. I only considered spitting on others. Of course, my refined nature wouldn't allow such a hideous act. So what did I do? I decided to face my fear/hate head on. Awhile back I posted that Mark and I had signed up for the Timp half. With the date approaching, I've been training like any other non-runner would need to train. Now after months of practice, I tolerate the activity. And I do this for one reason, and one reason only.

When I'm done running I feel AWESOME!

And today, with a 10 mile feat under my belt, I felt like AWESOME-squared.

wedding day nightmare.

Did your wedding day go off without a hitch? Was it everything you ever dreamed of? Or did something disastrous happen? Because if the latter is the case, believe me, I completely understand...I'm not saying my own wedding day was an absolute debacle, but I've been to enough weddings to tell you that sometimes...a lot of the time...things don't go as planned.

As in this case:
Monday I arrived at the designated location at 3:30 pm to shoot my lovely bride and handsome groom. Because they didn't have a bridal session, we shot their bridal type images before their ceremony which was to start at 4:00 pm.
First, let me say that it usually takes a few minutes to start shooting. The bride needs to be prepped and then placed in the perfect location that will enhance her loveliness. So basically when I say that we didn't start shooting until 3:45, I'm really saying that it's not because I'm slow. I am not slow! (Sorry, personal issues.)
The shoot continued for 10 or so minutes before I realized my lovely bride didn't have her ring on.
I said, "Hey do you want your ring in these shots?"
"Yes," she said.
And off her sister went to fetch the rings.

5 minutes later:

I glanced over my shoulder and saw my lovely bride's sweet sister with a look of pure petrification on her face.
"Um, Matilda (this is a fake name...but totally cool, right?) what's wrong?" I asked.
"If I tell you, you are going to freak," she said, voice shaking as much as her hands.
Um. Like that statement didn't just freak the bejeezus out of me. Sure.
"No worries. I won't freak," I said. Total lie. "What's up?"

INSERT: As I spoke the wind blew through the field tossing around weeds and wild flowers. Yes, we were standing in a field full of tangled weeds. Awesome...but not ideal for that day's shoot. You'll see.

"Well," she began after much coaxing. She pulled the ring pillow out from behind her back. "The rings are gone. They were on the pillow in the car, but after I walked across this field and jumped over that ditch there, they disappeared."
Holy freaking Moly! You've got to be kidding me, right? Right!?! No. It was the truth. My eyes grew to the size of saucers and I immediately rushed to her side, dropped down to my knees and started searching the field. My bride, bless her sweet soul, kept her composure as her fiance helped me dig through weeds. She even stayed calm after I called in the Calvary to help me search. Friends and family members of the bride came down and dug through the field.

45 minutes later:
I found the bride's ring. I wanted to cry, shout, jump for joy...at least be rewarded with some type of Hart's drink (this didn't happen). We kept searching for the grooms ring.

Alas, we never found it.

The wedding went on as planned, aside from the huge bump. But now I think, as I look fondly on that day, how bad can your wedding day really get? I suppose there's a lot more worse things that could happen than losing rings. But for your sake, I hope not.

luv, erin