Hawks frequently leave traces of their meals in my yard. Piles of feathers, usually, sometimes part of a wing. Some shrubs bear the unmistakable marks of a bird of prey that has been digesting in the branches above. From time to time, I even get to see one.

No one knows exactly what happened to this hawk, found by the side of the road here in California. The more sensational headlines surmise that the ingested bird managed to claw its way through. A more sensible theory is that the hawk was hit by a car, which caused the its crop to burst. But it’s certainly an startling photo.

The bear collection was vast and highly priced. After much picking through, I found two with no trademarks or logos. The stock agencies where I sell photos are strict about such things, and one will only take the images where the bears are facing away from the camera.

I passed up the quilts, which would have made great backgrounds. Then I got in line to pay. The woman took one look at the bigger bear.

Seller: That can’t be the right price.
Me: That was how I found it on that sofa over there with the quilts.
Seller: And look, the tag is on upside down. We wouldn’t do that.
Me: Silence
Seller: I mean, I can’t believe that bear would go for $15.
Me (not really wanting to pay that much for a used bear anyway): Silence
Seller: Let me ask (indicates other seller) him what he really wanted for this bear.
Me: You are holding some antique measuring cups for me.
Seller (gets cups): Oh yes, these. And the little pitcher too. Okay, let me add these up (calculates).
Me (thinking if she offends me once more, I will leave) Silence.
Seller (smiling): All right, that will be $20 (puts stuff in a bag)
Me (warily): Thanks.

It was a particularly trying shot: a small bear, a bunch of daffodils beginning to wilt, rubber bands and lots of tape for positioning, the tripod as high as it would go. After several futile attempts, the doorbell rang. I was up on a bench. The bear was releasing the tape, and listing to one side.

When I call out ‘Who’s there’, and no one says anything, I get the feeling there’s someone annoying out there. When I say it for the third time, and get a tentative but friendly ‘Hi there!’, I know for sure it’s someone affiliated with a certain religious group. I stand at a distance, thinking I might have to go get some more bunches of daffodils when a face peers through the slats of the gate.

Religious person: Hello, I’d like to tell you about . . .
Me: Do you see the No Soliciting sign right in front of you?
Rp: But . . . but I’m not a solicitor!
Me: Yes, you are. Soliciting.

The bear is neither amused nor sorry to be leaning over so much. The rubber bands are too tight. I resort to tying the flowers around its neck with string. Bingo.

A family member has been told by his doctor to shed the extra weight. Since the South Beach diet worked in the past, and is easier to take with a fellow sufferer, I decided to go along. Day 2, Phase 1. It’s going to be a long 12 days. But I found a box of sugar-free popsicles in the freezer this afternoon. From last summer, I think, and they look edible through the wrappers. No no, I’m not hungry enough to eat the wrappers, at least not yet.

So it is with some irony that I find myself making tarts for photos. Actually, they aren’t so hard to resist because cheese makes me itch. I spent a large part of the weekend looking for raspberries, but had to be content with strawberries. These early berries seem more fragile, and at least one carton furred up with mold before I could use them.

Currently, there are three tarts stacked on top of one another in the fridge. I’m out of the bought glaze. I’m on the last roll of toilet paper again. My tax person is hounding me to make an appointment, but I’m not ready.

Time for one of those popsicles.

In which there is mention of the Holgaroid, the Holgarama and how to persuade a Holga to adapt to standard 35mm film.

Note that this is under the ‘medical’ category.

Bear releases tend to be somewhat mundane events. Open the door, let the bear out, drive off. But sometimes, there’s a slight glitch. And when things go wrong, they go wrong fast.

Dinner was on the light side, and I watched the episode of Farscape where Crichton is in a coma and plotting revenge on D’Argo, cartoon-style. It was confusing enough to kind of take away my appetite. That was followed by the last episode of the MI-5 DVD series, the one where two important cast members are put in unholy jeopardy. My entire GI tract shuts down during these shows.

A few hours later, and I’m hungry. There are scones, both blueberry and apricot, but something in them makes me itch. Two slices of Marie Callender apple pie left, too, but I don’t want anything that sweet. The only real possibilty is a spinach salad with avocado, orange sections and homemade croutons, the latter being soggy after several days in the fridge. This was made for a photo session, and the avocado is still fresh and green, having had a lot of lime juice added to insure their pristine condition. Because it is my dessert, I added two large dollops of mayo.

Tomorrow I begin some serious work with the chocolate chopped last week.

Photographed by Taryn Simon, they include nuclear waste giving off an eerie blue glow known as Cherenkov radiation. A mentally retarded white tiger, the result of selective inbreeding. A peek inside the Cryonics Institute in Michigan.

From Wired.com.

Martin Schoeller doesn’t take the usual glam photos, and his images can be a bit disturbing if you are used to the prettier pictures. From Popular Photography’s Images from 2007.

I’m sure there were many preorders for the MacBook Air soon after it was announced. For a few minutes I thought about doing it myself. Such is the power of hype. Now that things have settled down a bit, some, like Paul Boutin at Slate, are saying the Air should have some of the features of the iPhone, including its ability to access the web with tremendous ease.

My old G4 Powerbook is showing its age. I need something that will process my ever-increasing photo processing needs, so I’m going with the 17″ MacBook Pro. The smaller screen of the Air would mean I would have to spring for a separate monitor. Don’t want to lug around a monitor from room to room.

Now you might think that this would be news only if the owner were French, for example. In which case, the owner would ignore the cat.

In this case, the cat belongs to a Chinese grandmother, who claims it can say ‘Laolao’, which means grandmother in the dialect of its owner.

It also can say ‘gan sha ne’, which translates to ‘What are you doing?’ Can a cat make the hard ‘g’ sound? Could we see a video, please?

How many cats in the world are asking their non-Chinese owners, ‘What are you doing?’ You have to admit that gan sha ne is probably a lot easier for a cat to say than ‘What are you doing?’ or ‘Where is my food?’

Last week, I made wontons for a photo shoot. I didn’t get around to cooking any, leaving them in a couple of plastic bags in the fridge. At some point over the weekend when I was sick, a family member placed some heavy objects on top of the bags.

Today, I am still queasy, and discovered the wontons. Had I been a bit more careful, I might have a photo op with wonton soup, but alas, they were all glopped together. Even after I dropped them into broth, they insisted on remaining unified. After breaking them apart as best as I could, I have a soup that is unappetizing to look upon, but tasty.

If you can’t get out to the henhouse and seize a chicken to make a proper broth, Trader Joe’s is a fine substitute.

When I’m in the food picture-taking mode, the fridge is filled with pretty stuff. Currants, blueberries, uncooked but filled wontons. Shrimp patties with salmon and cilantro. Fresh dill. Fresh mozzarella. Creme soda. There would be strawberries, but even in California, January is not such a great time. I know, because I shopped last night in vain.

Outside the fridge, there are wondrous-looking biscuits from Whole Foods. Sourdough rolls from Trader Joe’s. Avocados. Cara cara oranges. Baby yellow potatoes. An enormous assortment of Christmas hard candies.

Of course, it depends on what family members have been trained to recognize as ‘Don’t touch that open-faced sandwich’ or ‘The pudding has stuff that’s not food’. So far, no one has actually eaten anything destined for photographing. Maybe because the grub I usually dish up for meals looks nothing like what I take pictures of.

The sun was out. This was not in the forecast. Taking advantage, a family member and I headed out for groceries. My rain jacket was still a mess from numerous trips out to take pictures in yesterday’s downpours, so I just wore a waterproof vest. First mistake.

A couple of seconds after leaving the car at Costco, the umbrella inverted itself. Inside, it was as if the apocalypse was arriving tomorrow, with gridlock in the aisles, hostile-looking people pushing carts aside in their rush. At the banana section, one whole side had only green ones. The other side was really picked over. I clumsily pushed one box aside. Second mistake. Immediately, the woman next to me reached over and got the two best bunches. Not a word. I uncovered another box as a man pressed in, waiting to do the same.

I heard a shopper say to his wife that they needed toilet paper. Family members know that I stockpile enough to last till the apocalypse.

I wonder if it fell from near the top of the redwood tree. Lots of heavy branches litter the yard.

We’re not talking beef bouillon as comfort for the ill here. What we’re really going to discuss is meat, mostly of the pig variety, placed directly into an alcoholic drink.

Some time ago, I mentioned the bacontini, a favorite of those who prefer a slight fatty sheen to their refreshing beverages. But at this site, items bringing an extra punch include ground pork, sweet Italian sausage and Spam. Yes, that Spam.

There are photos. One looks like squirrel brains at the bottom of the glass.

With a camera, a chainsaw and a high-powered rifle. Via Metafilter.

There were 6,000 stuffed animals by a self-taught taxidermist, placed in domestic situations such as card playing and taking meals. The auction house sold it off in lots for 336,000 pounds, although an artist, Damien Hirst, offered a million pounds for it all. The owner of the collection is now suing the auction house.

You can see samples of the collection here.

Should any aspiring taxidermist, self-taught or professional, wish to recreate some of these scenes, he is welcome to begin trapping from nature’s bounty of small animals on my property. They are currently in their prime, fat and sleek of coat after a mast year in the oaks. Haste is urged, because they are reproducing at record rates.

The first time I passed SantaLand, a father was the physical buffer between his wary child and the red lap. I caught the silhouette - the suffering Santa, the beaming Dad, and the frightened child. As I hurried by again, well-dressed, experienced children were smiling into the camera. The last time, there were three sibs on the lap. Two older sisters flanked a toddler in the middle. His eyes were full of tears, and he was trembly, but the parents were begging him to be good and smile, so he tried very hard, but the tears just hung there, shining and threatening to spill over.

Some very interesting Christmas cards this year.

It’s that time of year when strange and unexpected things can happen.

I’ve been to Keeble and Shuchat’s three times. The first time, the staff completely ignored me due to the highly visible aura of ignorance around my entire body. The many stories about their snottiness seemed to be quite true. When I was looking to get a light tent, I wandered in again, just to check what they had against what was available online for lots less.

The third time was, of course, the charm. Having placed my order at Cho’s for potstickers and eggrolls, I had a little time to kill. K & S is just down the street. I decided to test the mettle of the help, who began melting away as I approached a counter. Any counter. One lone fellow stayed behind, certain to be the brunt of many a joke for even speaking to a woman. Surely, if a female photographer was full of herself, and wanted to be taken down a few notches, K & S is the perfect spot.

I asked to see one of the vintage cameras at the very top of the back shelf, a Rolleiflex in excellent condition. After all, this being Palo Alto, I could well have the price of the thing tucked into a compartment of my trendy running shoe. He was overweight, fretful. Nervous that I was actually handling such a camera. I held it for almost ten minutes, which is how long Cho said it would take.

Then I went to get my potstickers.

From time to time, I find one in an Asian store deli. Over the summer, as a matter of fact, I spotted a glorious one. (I am always looking for photo subjects.) Alas, there is a language barrier. The proprietor failed to fully understand my meaning, perhaps. I certainly failed to grasp why anyone would pay the price I thought he suggested. The transaction was not to be.

This morning, another head rested in a metal pan next to the ducks and assorted cooked meats. For $5, it was mine. I nodded. Before I stopped nodding, I heard a CHOP! Then another CHOP! I waved my arms wildly, No, No, I want it whole! Stop!

He stopped, the head was wrapped, I paid. I pictured a split down the snout, and thought, with a little luck, maybe I could Photoshop it all back together. The family member accompanying me said he thought the ears had been removed.

The chopper and his friends were smiling behind the counter. We asked for the ears. He looked blank, then waved over a counter person who spoke English. Ears, I said. I need it all for a picture. Ah, she said, and the chopper located the charred ears from some unseen location.

Tomorrow, with a few toothpicks, possibly duct tape, I will try to reattach the parts. There might or might not be a photo posted.

Yes, yes I know online shopping is best for people like me. But then I’d miss all the drama.

I got some at the farmers’ market bakery, and they were attractive and, uh, delicious. We wound up eating several, and by photo time, only three were left. They were bendy in the middle, and didn’t have quite the look I wanted, being made of puff pastry.

Friends had told me some time ago about a local restaurant famous for its breadsticks. I stopped by tonight, waiting patiently while the man behind the counter took an order by phone. When he finally looked up, I asked how many breadsticks came with an order to go.

Man (very Italian): You want side order or whole?
Me: Not whole, I want just the breadsticks to go. How many per order?
Man: Three. But that not what you want.
Me: (Raise eyebrows)
He staples the phone takeout order to another piece of paper, and turns to the cook in back. They confer. For a long time. The place was deserted, but I think it was closing time, or very near. Finally, he turned back.
Man: Now, what you want again. Breadsticks.
Me: How many in a side order?
Man: That not what you want. No. I tell you why. You order side of bread, you get three piece. Cost $8.00. You want big whole order.
Me: No I don’t. I want the small order.
Man: No no. Come, I show you. (He goes over to a refrigerated case full of small tubs of a yellow substance.) You see that.
Me: Yeah.
Man: You order side of bread, you get three small piece and the little bitty tub of cheese spread.
Me: I just want to take photos of bread sticks.
Man: (long-suffering look)
Me: So I only need a few.
Man: Come with me. (He goes to another refrigerated case, and takes out a round of dough cut into wedges.) You see. You buy for a dollar more, you get all this, and the really big tub of cheese spread.
Me: (tempted) I’m sorry, I really thought you had the bread in sticks.

All the way to the car, I kept thinking I should go back and buy the whole thing and the big tub, and just plan a meal around it. Maybe Sunday.

So you think your workspace is cramped and airless. (Mine has termites chewing through the ceiling above my head.) Check out the 12 winners in the Wired News Saddest Cubicle Contest.

Today around lunchtime, I’ll be sedated. My very excellent dentist, Dr. Amy, will be working on teeth she has worried about for a long time.

The bright side is that this will be the last lengthy appointment (no more root canals). But I’m having a lot of difficulty focusing on work this morning. I ate pancakes laden with El Rey chocolate. Should have gotten a shot of the oozing, molten chocolate, the light this morning is lovely and diffused by fog.

The hawk up in the redwood was annoyed by the crow. It took off, making wide sweeps as the crow kept up its harassment.

It reminded me a bit of the Blue Angels but much grander and silent.

The birds are slamming into the windows with alarming frequency this afternoon after partaking of the berries. I went out with my camera and tripod, trying to blend in with the shadows. All of them - the cedar waxwings, the robins, the finches, the occasional bluejay - took off to the top of the oaks. They chattered in tones I’d never heard before, exuberant, a little frantic, definitely stoned.

Perhaps next year, I will have the right lens for this kind of shooting.

Last year I got some pictures, but this year there are fewer berries, and I’m having trouble with the invisible part.

According to a family member who accompanies me to local farmer’s markets, fellow customers are frequently puzzled by my shopping style. I will root through an entire pile of pears, kiwis, squash, plums, tomatoes - what have you in order to find the perfectly photogenic item. Sometimes the person behind me will politely ask what’s wrong with all the others, and then I tell them.

Many times they think I know what to look for regarding taste. At the Palo Alto market Saturday, I leaned over the crate of mixed pears. The lady across the box was also picking through, and as I began my typical culling, she handed me a large Bosc pear. ‘Is good’, she said. ‘You eat.’

I nodded, but she was persistent. She pressed it in my hand. ‘Taste good, fruit salad I make. Some better than apple. Cream.’ I smiled and held on to it while I looked at the red ones.

‘Red good too?’ she asked. I looked kind of blank. What usually happens is, I get the fruit home where it might sit for a few days, depending on how many things I’m photographing. Lots of times, fruits get dark spots or worse, and they are relegated to the compost heap before I have a taste. So I hated to tell her I didn’t know what these were like.

At this particular market, I run into elderly ladies who seem more in need of conversation than food. At times, I need the dialog just as much too.

I did indeed buy the pear, even though it failed my picturesque test. But I think I will take a photo now that it has a personality, so to speak, attached.

Images using polaroids and other photos, influenced by the likes of Corot, Titian, Vermeer, Caravaggio and Picasso.

From his series: ‘Intolerable Beauty: Portraits of America’s Mass Consumption’: Cell Phones.

Some of her work can be seen here.

When I was very young, maybe four or five, my dad took me to the huge fish market where he bought his shrimp. It was a cavernous warehouse full of men wearing bloody aprons and wielding very large knives. The floor was slippery with viscera. I did what any self-respecting little girl would do, I threw up on the spot.

When I go to the fish market now, I’m usually looking for a good specimen to photograph, and if I manage to refrigerate it in time, to eat. There was a very clear-eyed, fresh fish from Australia on the ice yesterday, and as I leaned in to look at it more closely, the remaining dregs of pistachio in my system nudged my gastrointestinal tract in a very unpleasant manner.

I backed away. Today I took pictures of pieces of paper.

You probably thought I killed it after taking pictures last week. That’s what any sensible tomato grower would have done.

None of the pictures came out well because it never stopped moving its mouth parts. It was late afternoon, and where I was shooting, it was not very bright. I didn’t want to turn on the lights, which might have made it twitch. Not only did it move more than I thought it would, it produced an enormous amount of droppings. No doubt because of its nonstop eating. Didn’t the plant-eating dinosaurs do this?

So I put it under a plastic dome, actually the lid of a spindle of CD-Rs. Left it with plenty of fresh tomato leaves, courtesy of a lush patch of cherry tomatoes. Plus the half-eaten green tomato.

The next day, I didn’t want to face the subject, which seemed quite active, moving around its pen on top of an outdoor table. I could see it out of the corner of my eye as I worked. The leaves were wilted.

I still wasn’t up to it the following day, or the next. But I kept feeding it. It kept crawling around the perimeter, kind of like a fat green train.

Before I knew it, almost a week had passed. Normally tomato worms don’t bother me, although they must be one of the most repulsive-looking creatures, especially when you find them on your healthiest tomato plant. But my previous episode with the pistachios left me a little more squeamish than usual. Perhaps there is a little pistachio left in my system still.

A family member remarked that the worm looked less than happy. Perhaps, I suggested, it was preparing for its next stage of development. He couldn’t find a suitable container for it (although he didn’t look very hard).

I am very relieved. Sometime I will discuss the writhing mass of larvae in the compost heap, but not today.

He sculpted children in various poses - reading, crying, playing - and then he took photographs of the sculptures. When the works became public, the artist was overwhelmed by the praise and attention, and packed the sculptures away for 30 years.

Through the efforts of an art dealer, they were found again in 1993. But Bartlett was primarily a photographer. A dedicated collector set about trying to locate slides of the sculptures, and found them via eBay.

A NY Times article examines possible reasons why Bartlett chose to sculpt such lifelike children, and in the process, compares him to Lewis Carroll, Joseph Cornell and a group of photographers who specialized in setup photography.

Word has gotten out over the past few years among the pest community that my tomato patch is nothing to get excited about. This year is a little different, and the plants are still producing a surprising amount. This afternoon, I noticed that the tiny dog from a neighbor’s yard must have gotten in the garden and left its droppings on the tomato leaves. They were that big.

I had hoped that the hornworm had matured and gone away, but no. It had eaten most of one tomato and started on this one. But what I actually had was a free model.

Albeit a messy one, and noisy on top of that. Try putting one on a clean sheet of white paper. When it moves around, it makes a rasping sound, which could be the mouthparts trying to ingest the paper. Who knows. It will remain under cover till tomorrow when the light is better. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of tomato worm food.

Yesterday I finally found the stuffed animal known as the ‘nose bear’ by its owner, who is now a grownup. I’ve been needing a large bear for photos, but this one had some cosmetic issues.

The beleaguered nose had been pushed in so often that it was deformed. Luckily, there was a hole in the neck, so with the help of a wooden spoon, I managed to perform some much-needed plastic surgery, so to speak.

I parked it in a spare dining chair, and with all the chaos that ensues with busy afternoons, evenings running errands and mornings that take off with a gallop at 6:15 a.m., I forgot about it.

Until its owner came out for breakfast, took one look and tried to poke the nose back in when I had my back turned.

There might be a photo sometime in the future. I could scream.

Is awesome. The one for 9/18/07.

This afternoon I had to polish a silver spoon and fork for a photo. It is my fate (and that of Ishiguro fans everywhere), perhaps, to think of Stevens from The Remains of the Day whenever I reach for the silver polish. Just as I can no longer listen to Boz Scaggs sing Never Let Me Go without thinking of Ishiguro’s unsettling book of the same name.

The sun was a vivid red-orange this morning as it rose over the morning glories.

Someone once wrote that their world in the late afternoon looked as if it were immersed in a glass of iced tea. Smoke from the Lick fire is coloring the Bay Area with a yellow tinge murkier than tea, but promising sunrises and sunsets of spectacular brilliance.

Yesterday I dropped my camera, and much as a peanut butter sandwich lands with its messy side to the floor, so my lens caught the full brunt of gravity. Part of it was actually bent.

This just after I got a new set of studio lights. The gods were angry. It’s been a tough week all around. I began online shopping immediately.

When a family member came home and learned the news, he took one look, announced that the lens was toast but the camera was fine. I spent a large part of today deciding which lens would be a suitable replacement without breaking the bank.

A few minutes ago, several friends of the family member showed up. One took the lens, and began fiddling with it, rotating it back and forth. He did not hear the ‘crunching’ sound noted earlier. We discussed lenses, and he approved of my choice, all the while he was working the lens. After a bit, he handed it back. ‘There,’ he said. ‘All fixed.’

He was right. It was. Unbent. Soundless. Moving smoothly. Thanks, Will!

But I’m still ordering that other lens.

While I grow a few heirloom tomatoes, my specimens are puny compared to what’s available at farmers’ markets and the local supermarkets. The neighborhood varmints pay more attention to my ripening tomatoes than I do, apparently. Over the weekend, I found a very large Cherokee black beside a raised bed with several bites out of it. I was not aware I had one this big. Easy come, easy go.

Off to the farmers’ market I went, looking for a few robust heirlooms to photograph, the ones with broad shoulders and a faintly threatening air. Pricey, as usual, but I left with a bagful. On the way home, I stopped at Nob Hill, the big one on Grant Rd. for fresh corn, and found that their produce section featured a huge display of - you guessed it - heirloom tomatoes. For $2/lb. less.

There they sit, brooding in their hugeness, waiting for me to finish making seafood pasta before I can pay attention to them again.

Did you take awesome shots on your vacation, only to have some of the views marred with unnecessary clutter or obstructions? Maybe you got a breathtaking pic of a tropical sunset with your beloved in the foreground, and now he’s your ex. Whom you never, ever want to see again, especially blocking a nice sunset.

Help is at hand from a Carnegie Mellon research team using online photo library databases (like Flickr) and that algorithm.

A few months ago, I bought three small koi. Two were suicidal. I only discovered this after putting them in their big pot, going to the garage for a cold soda, and returning to find them flopping about on the stepping stones, gasping. They contracted a fungus, having brought on wounds with their foray into a drier environment, and departed for a better place. The remaining koi hid from us in fear and trembling.

Last night there was a mighty rustling in the big tree out back. This happens on warm nights, and once I got the kids to sit out there in the dark to see what was lumbering about. Elsewhere, this might be foolhardy, since you just never know when Sasquatch or other form of wildlife could appear.

But whatever it was sensed them somehow, because for once the boys were silent. Not surprising since even when they were quiet, they seemed really noisy.

We decided the varmints were either raccoons or possums, since neighborhood cats would not be crashing into garbage cans or making such a racket.

This morning, a family member reported that the filter in the pot pond had been removed, and the quivering koi gone. All that remained were a few shiny scales and a set of tracks that led to the front door and back to the pond.

Maybe it wanted to come in and use the bathroom.

If you set up a photo like this, and then become distracted by things happening at your day job, you’ll return to find that ripe raspberries will bleed right through powdered sugar. Then the cake looks wounded. Which can’t be seen well here because I turned it around.

That’s why there’s PhotoShop. But there are many other things wrong with this photo that P/S cannot fix. As in the pool of caramel the cake sits in, that looks more like a splash of whiskey.

The upside is that I could look to see if there is brandy somewhere in the cabinets. Then if I get frustrated enough, I can just set fire to the whole thing.

One of his sculptures was featured at various news sites’ picture galleries this week. Enough to pique my interest.

Be forewarned, some of his work can be described as grisly and disturbing.

When a family member left for Seattle, he left behind his beloved cacti. I managed to repot one of them, although I could not correct its lateral tendencies.

While cleaning the patio just now, I moved this cactus out of the way of traffic. As I turned to move something else, I walked right into it.

Now I have a network of slightly raised, red spots on my leg. Itchy. Nothing embedded. Nothing remotely like shingles. So far.

It’s hot today, around 90°. For the past few days, I’ve been photographing chocolate, both milk and white. Grating bars of the stuff gets iffy once the temp starts climbing. Last night I got 5 more big bars of white chocolate at Trader Joe’s, causing the clerk to raise an eyebrow.

Today, there were other things to do, so I left the bowls of formerly melted chocolates on the table. In the fridge, they would solidify, but there was no room, and I didn’t want them completely solid again.

Trying to tidy up after work, I tried to pick up the bar of white chocolate, and my fingers went right through. Those other bars are getting soft as well. Perhaps tomorrow is another photo session, but minus the use of the stove.

What am I going to do with all the stuff I plan to make or just shoot? I really don’t think there will be a problem. Fortunately there’s been no trickery or artificial embellishment of the non-edible kind, so family members have not been warned away.

Part of the weekend was spent in the company of chocolate. I remembered to change out of a white shirt, and the house had a wonderful smell that lasted into the evening. Family members were scraping bowls and sampling photo subjects amid sounds of contentment.

There will be more sessions because I ran out of supplies. Now that I have finally learned how to melt chocolate, both white and milk, without the stuff seizing, possibilities are, if not infinite, much broadened.

His new photography book will feature obese women in poses the NY Times finds too graphic to print.

Not the shingles eye, but the one that now has a sty on the inside of the lower lid. Applying a hot teabag is supposed to help.

Wearing my usual contact lens is impossible. Getting used to glasses again is a slow process since the world looks very different without much peripheral vision. Straight-ahead vision is not bad, but tough when taking photos.

But now I can do something useful with all that tea I didn’t like.

Not quite what we expected, we’ll know what to do next time. When the other guy is home.

One of the few pictures that was exposed right yesterday. Taken shortly after we got one of the last parking places in the city.

It’s odd how the graffiti ends where it does. It looks fresher than the doorbells.

A sampling can be seen here.

I had every intention of making Valentine’s Day cupcakes when I bought these. But Fate is still making wide sweeps with its scythe (wait a minute, that’s Death - nevermind, it’s been here too), and all I can do is line these up and take their photo.

With the sunset casting a glow off nearby buildings, we sat down to dinner out with a family member who is moving to Seattle this week. While there was a chill to eating outside, the heaters soon warmed the experience. Almost enough.

There are many things wrong with this photo. A couple of things are right. The light is both right and wrong at once. I’m not accustomed to using my camera outside yet.

But that’s not the point. When I look at this, I will recall the young man sitting across the way who looked as if he was losing something he might not ever find again.

These black chopsticks were found in a drawer in my mom’s kitchen, which is still being sorted out. When confronted with dozens of unique objects, it helps to just play for a bit.

In a group, they’re hard to pose, at least for me. They jostle one another, fade in and out of focus, show their underpinnings - kind of like a bunch of first graders. So, I took one aside, and found it behaved much better.

I didn’t mean to. But what with one thing and another, forgot. This morning around 6:30, I put it back in the fridge. Around ten or so, I took pictures.

Will it be eaten? Not sure. Would you?

For weeks and weeks I’ve been wanting to make a pie. But after losing two family members in a short time, I found it impossible to concentrate on cooking anything even slightly intimidating.

Today, I got out all the pie-making things. I mostly wanted a picture of meringue, but the only proper meringue has a pie underneath. To make a cream pie filling, one has to separate eggs. Egg whites won’t whip into perfect meringue if there is even the slightest bit of yellow in it.

Of course, I was working at my day job during all this, and it was a very busy work morning. So it was that I got yolk in the bowl of whites.

The yolk pictured is one that did not taint the whites. I put it on one of my mom’s tiny sauce dishes, the only one I could find of its kind in her kitchen.

I whipped up a perfect bowl of meringue. The banana cream filling was thickened just right. As it turned out, I had to sit down and work for a few minutes. Maybe it was more than a few. Busy, as I said.

When I spread the meringue, it had changed from its earlier pristine state to one that was a bit clumpy. Perhaps I should have beaten it again.

The result, after browning, was not what I expected. Not fit for a photo. But otherwise, it is an excellent pie.

Will run, needs work.

Some mornings I make pancakes. Members of the household are generally pleased, especially when I toss some chocolate chips in the batter.