While walking through a Paris neighbourhood, we were suddenly accosted by an armed man. A friend was grabbed and unless we could get our hands on a specific piece of artwork, the thug would kill her. Locked in the museum, our little band of eight had a mere forty-five minutes to crack a safe, find the painting and get ourselves out of there. At least… that was the given scenario.

For my husband’s 25th birthday, we gathered a group of eight friends and headed to Richmond to participate in an increasingly popular activity: Escape Rooms.

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Not going to lie – this post is pretty much just shameless promotion of my hubby’s ridiculously amusing “New Van Fan” videos. Can you believe they’re already in Season 3? (This means that if you haven’t seen their video’s before, you’re in luck because there are 19 videos to catch up on!) Better get your mini bowls of popcorn ready!

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In our house (following a tradition that dates back to my husband’s childhood) every Friday night is PIZZA NIGHT. And now, with this recipe, you can kick off your weekend the right way too.

I call it “Swedish pizza” but really, it derives its name from the fact that my husband and his family are so proud of their Scandinavian birthright that anything they touch turns Swedish. (My husband is like the Greek father in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” – according to Andreas, just about everything comes from Sweden. Seatbelts, Angry Birds, dynamite… you name it…)

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Yep… this non-cook is trying to cook again.

It’s a well known fact that my sister is the best baker and cook in the family. Flakey bread that melts in your mouth, chocolatey cupcakes with expert piping, hearty bowls of Alfredo laden pasta, gooey raisin oatmeal cookies, creamy vegetable soups and sugary cinnamon buns – she can make it all! I on the other hand, inherited none of that passion or skill for working with food. A particular spaghetti incident (think flaming noodles) cast me out of the kitchen at the young age of fourteen and left me with no desire to return.

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This time last year, my husband was standing on a rocky beach in White Rock, waiting to dash into the freezing Pacific Ocean for an annual “Polar Bear Swim.” My family and I stood a few feet away from a swimsuit clad crowd who were busy dancing around, trying to stay warm while waiting for the signal to dive in. A horn sounded without warning and confusion reigned as towels and sweatpants were tossed aside. Leading the way was a tall, red headed, Swede (he prefers to be called Viking Warrior). A couple hundred thrill seekers splashed in after him, paramedics on the standby, and my family giggled from the warmth of our winter coats as everyone scrambled to get back out of the ocean.

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