May's flowers

The day begins with walking through wet grass
In a slow progress, to visit the whole garden,
And all is undecided as I pass,
For here I must be thief and also warden:
What must I leave? What can I bear to plunder?
What fragile freshness, what amazing throat
Has opened in the night, what single wonder
That will be sounded like a single note,
When these light wandering thoughts deploy
Before the grave deeds of decisive joy?
"A Flower-Arranging Summer," May Sarton

I always hesitate to cut flowers in my garden, but I am always glad when I do. No matter how much time I spend outside, it seems I am indoors longer, so flowers on the kitchen counter are there to please my eye for far more time than they would have done outdoors.

Or perhaps, as the single live representative of nature in the house, the flowers seem larger, more important, more intense in every detail next to dishes rather than trees.

My Proustian madeleines are apple blossoms with their petals white-blushing-to-pink and their delicate sweet scent. Gnarled old apple trees, left uncut on an untended lot in the middle of the suburb, bent close to my bedroom window in my childhood house. We rarely opened windows in that house because of my brother's allergies, but on fine spring days after the long Michigan winters, my mother would open my bedroom windows to let in the fresh air, and I would stand on my bed and peer out at the apple trees.

The previous owners of my current house were wise gardeners, siting the most fragrant plants closest to the windows. Lilacs bloom outside my kitchen window; honeysuckle vines engulf the deck outside my bedroom door. And in the small space between the house and garage blooms a delicate ornamental crabapple buzzing loudly with fuzzy bumblebees, with my head stuck right among them. I inhale the precious scent and remember all that is fresh and young and innocent and simply happy.

I did cut daffodils this year, not because of their abundance but because of their scarcity. Oddly, many of mine did not come up or bloomed poorly. At their height, a late storm bent their heads to the ground. Rather than see the flowers sprawl, I cut them short and brought them indoors for small vases next to my sink, sewing machine, and bed (three of the four places I spend most of my time -- the laundry area seems too sterile for flowers).

When I am able to be outdoors, I work in the garden. Weeding in spring is always amazing. There are so many weeds, so healthy and big, bigger every minute. It is an odd joy to pull them, to feel their vigor, yet to have no guilt in ending their lives. (Well, not really ending them, for they always re-sprout.) Weeding in spring is indeed a "grave deed of decisive joy."

"Transplant dominoes" is my favorite gardening activity. This garden needs daisies. So I dig out a few clumps of daylilies to make room, then march across the yard to the daisies and shovel up good clumps of them. Back to the daylily holes I go, and pat the daisies in. Now, where to put the daylilies? A march round the yard is in order; there is a good place. But that place currently holds another plant, which has to move out. I must tramp a path as convoluted as the kids in "Family Circus," trailing their dotted lines behind them as they traverse their yard.

Here are some hostas that I took from the side of the driveway: the Deer Buffet, for the antlered rats munch nearly every plant there to the ground. They please me nestled against the rock. Theirs was an unusual case: I did not need to move any plants out to fit them in, and I didn't put anything in the holes they left along the drive. The deer have food enough.

creativity

(note: photo edited 25 January 2008 to remove copyrighted material used without permission)

It is such a joy to work in a clean space. After a massive de-cluttering and de-stashing, my craft room lets me breathe. Sometimes it takes drastic action to re-invigorate one's creativity: I packaged up three quarters of my fabric stash to give away. That process was agonizing. Each piece reminded me of its original purpose, whether for a particular quilt or because it cried out to me with its color and design. But it was too much wealth, requiring endless organizing, and became a burden. I couldn't face the bins and boxes of fabrics calling out to me, rooting me in the past when my tastes have changed. With the stash and the mess gone, this room's quiet is somehow quieter than the rest of the house.

The drawers and magazine bins are from Ikea, which has finally opened a store only two hours' drive away. Following the dictum that life is too short to hoard one's treasures, I cut into some of my remaining favorite fabrics to cover the drawers and bins. The chocolate and pink ones on the left are by Denyse Schmidt, who puts colors and simple shapes together in a way that is completely refreshing. The animals on the right are by Beebe Moss, Ami Simms' mother, who has inspired a whole movement to raise money from quilts to research Alzheimer's disease. And the bins in the middle have the coolest paint-by-number birds and flowers, half finished. (My husband had to study them to see if the numbers on the unpainted portion were consistent; he thinks they are.)

The glass vase is for those little thread clippings and fabric scraps that would otherwise inevitably end up on the floor. I found it at a garage sale, I think. I love its curving flower petal shape and gently weathered surface.

The quilt is a top I put together in a fit of inspiration a summer or two ago at my parents' lake house. My mom very generously took me to her lovely local quilt shop and let me pick fabrics to make a quilt. I loved the old-fashioned florals in the shop that day and added regimented squares of navy blue to smarten them up. I was reminded of the garden design advice of the English gardener Penelope Hobhouse: Structure! Flower gardens need structure! Put in some statues and shaped shrubs so that the soft billows of flowers have something to organize them.

That summer I only completed the top, and it has languished amid other unfinished quilts until now. It was the first project I chose to work on in my fresh new start of crafting. So far it has close spirally quilting across the center, and leaves and straight lines in the white borders. Next, the navy half squares at the edges need their second halves appliqued on (I decided not to machine-piece them into the border fabric), then the binding applied. It's very exciting to me to see the different facets of quiltmaking come together to make an object greater than the sum of its parts (or so I hope).

There seems to be a lesson here: from strict structure comes creativity. And I'd wrap up this post with that bit of wisdom, only I'm not sure it's true. For everything, eventually, ends in chaos (the rest of my house is a huge reminder of this principle), whether it's a craft room or a house or endless paperwork at the office, and I don't want my life's purpose to be fighting chaos, battling the inevitable. That sounds like drudgery. The fight isn't, after all, with knights in armor and bright slashing swords (no blood in my fantasy, please). In my reality, it's more likely scrub brushes and dishes and laundry that never end, like the pails of water in Mickey Mouse's Sorcerer's Apprentice. And when the battle invades my crafting space, inspiration withers.

I had intended the floral quilt with its regimented squares to be the destination of my musing: the free form of creativity bounded by a structured form. But I think, instead, it's the paint-by-number fabric design. Here is the promise of an orderly progression of art: begin with the outlines, then label the colors and fill them in. When all the blank spaces have their prescribed color, the artwork is done. No mess. No wandering, or wondering. It's structured from beginning to end.

But what makes this particular design so wonderful is that it is forever unfinished. The blank spaces, marked only with their obscure numbers (is 17 orange? maybe -- but maybe not) are what draw the eye, jarring against the colorful completed portions. The promise of a destination is there, the direction is given -- or is it? Maybe it's not the process, nor the completion. Maybe it's that moment when we think we can see both, when we're almost, but not quite, sure we have the path.

Wildlife Recovery

(note: edited to correct name)
Last weekend we saw a raptor presentation of the Wildlife Recovery Association. This is Joe Rogers with an eagle unable to return to the wild. (Joe is fully licensed -- y'all know we unlicensed masses can't keep even a single feather from an endangered bird, right?) Those are some really serious talons.

While the eagle was the showstopper because of his size and striking appearance, I was most taken with the owls. We saw a variety of species and learned their calls, habitat, and food preferences. (I didn't take photos, except one of the eagle, because I was busy watching the birds! Sorry about that.)

Joe had several little tricks to demonstrate aspects of the birds. With the great horned owl, he very carefully poked a pencil through its neck feathers from front to back. It looked like the bird had been stabbed right through its neck -- but as he explained, the neck is actually very small, and all that bulk is feathers. "Bet you didn't know an owl makes a great pencil holder!" he joked.

Joe held one of the hawks fairly close to an audience member, and it stared the person right in the eyes. "They do that right before they attack," he said. After a pause, he added, "And basically all the time."

Perhaps the most impressive part of the demonstration was when he gently bounced a hawk on his arm to and fro, up and down. The bird's body moved with his arm, but its head remained absolutely still. It was eerie, and beautiful. This, he explained, is how a raptor can focus on its prey while sitting in a wind-blown tree -- something I'd never even thought about.

On a different note (literally), I heard the call of sandhill cranes this morning -- the first of the spring. Driving home this morning, I saw three of them in a field. Spring must be coming after all.

counting beans, or playing with my food

I'm knitting mittens, and it's driving me nuts.

The first pair of mittens went well enough. I found a pattern I loved and fumbled my way through, producing a perfectly serviceable pair that I adore, errors and all, and wear every day.

I got more adventurous on the second pair, changing yarns (and therefore gauge) and size, as I was knitting these for my daughter. I chose a different pattern and, true to my nature, instantly made changes. (Can't do anything simple around here, nosiree bob.) This mitten, like the first, has an opening for fingers. It also had a new thumb gusset -- knitterly excitement!

The first mitten went pretty well. I only had to rip it back, oh, six or seven times, and that was for size issues. What really tripped me up was that thumb gusset: specifically, how to make it for the left hand. The pattern states,

Knit second mitten, being sure to reverse instructions to place flap on palm side of mitten.

(I didn't make the flap. I was following the pattern for the rest of the mitten. Well, actually, I changed the top, too, but that doesn't matter here.)

I just couldn't get that thumb gusset to end up on the left side of the mitten. What does it mean to reverse instructions? I counted stitches backwards and forwards, knit and ripped and knit and ripped.

What I needed was a visual aid. Legos? Playmobil flowers? I couldn't find enough similar pieces. No, I wanted something else:



Lima beans. Each line of beans represents stitches on a circular needle. (I'm using two circular needles instead of double-points.) They're joined into a circle, although I left the beans in straight lines. The arrows in the picture above point to stitch markers surrounding one knit stitch: the beginning of the (hopefully left-handed) gusset.



Now I've increased by making one stitch on the inside of each stitch marker.


Here is the final gusset round, having increased four times to make nine gusset stitches.


Now I've put the gusset stitches on a holder. I cast on three stitches to cover the gap, marked by arrows in the picture above.


Take the stitch markers off and hey presto, a side-seam thumb! It can be left- or right-handed!

Looking back at the original pattern, I see that the designer already knew that:

Knit second mitten, being sure to reverse instructions to place flap on palm side of mitten.

One reverses the instructions for the flap, not the thumb. D'oh.

I had tried the first mitten on so many times that it naturally formed around my right thumb. Because the first pair I knit had left- and right-oriented thumbs, I figured these did, too.

The pattern's author recommends Ann Budd's The Knitter's Handy Book of Patterns, so I surfed on over to Amazon and checked it out. I love that "search inside the book!" feature. Side-seam thumbs explained, just like in the pattern. I am such an idiot. And I'm buying that book.

It takes beans labeled with Sharpie pens to make me understand simple instructions. Please, when you meet me, speak very slowly and use short words. Visual aids will help. You'd better bring some beans.

Bad Joke and Fun Book

photo found on flickr, taken by Ron Richardson

What's the difference between a bad skydiver and a bad golfer?

A bad golfer goes, WHACK, "Damn!"

A bad skydiver goes, "Damn!" WHACK.

Is your Monday a little brighter now? (heh heh)

This is one of many bad (but very fun) jokes in Designed to Dieby Chloe Green. I just found this mystery series and am liking it very much. The protagonist is a fashion stylist, which provides a fascinating glimpse into the world of fashion with its delicious clothes, high price tags, and intriguing people. I wish Green would pack even more fashion detail into these books -- it's one of the best parts.

Also fun is the flirtation among characters, which provides sexual heat without explicit detail. After some of Laurell K. Hamilton's latest, this is a refreshing change. Not that I'm against sexual detail in books. (Mom, don't read this!) If it's hot, bring it on. But sometimes it's good just to have a hint.

The mystery aspect is fairly unbelievable, and I wished for more development of some of the characters, but I'd still recommend this book as a fun read, or even better, a fun listen. C. J. Critt does the audiobook, and she's absolutely perfect for it. Mom, see if you can get this for your trip. (I knew you were still reading!)

mittens for me

I so rarely knit for myself that I take real pleasure in the process. No deadline, no "will he or she like it?", and the fitting model is always right there.

These are Peekaboo Mittens from the February 2007 magknits. Several people on flickr have knit them already, so I wonder if they're going to be the next super-popular pattern like fetching fingerless mitts.

These are big mittens with a slit in the palm so you can slide your fingers out to handle keys, doorknobs, or the steering wheel of your car. They're big so they can fit over slim gloves if it's cold enough to layer (and it is, yes indeedy it is!).

I made mine with a strand of Jamieson Shetland, a nice old-fashioned bristly wool, and a strand of Baby Alpaca, for softness and warmth, held together. Because it knit to a much chunkier gauge than the pattern yarn, I adjusted the number of stitches down to 28 and did single ribbing around the slit (double ribbing, even on smaller needles, didn't contract with this yarn combination). I wanted a thick mitten, so I stuck with the size 7 needles, but wouldn't recommend that unless you don't mind tight knitting.

Every time I wear these mittens I am absurdly pleased. The color, the texture, and the fact that they are mine make me very happy.

MSU Youth Swine Show

Desperate to get out of the house, I forced the family to attend a Youth Swine Show. Yes, we went to look at pigs. (There's not a lot to do in rural Michigan in the winter. It's damn cold. The local roads are too icy to go walking. And I'm allergic to malls.)

Most of the pigs were sleeping. And they were so cute! (I must admit I had an ulterior motive -- to find a local source of organic pork -- but these pigs were way too adorable to eat.)

The youth were just as sweet. There appears to be a dress code for youth swine handlers. Just as Irish dancing contestants all wear those curly wigs, these kids wore jeans (usually brand new, dark, and so stiff they may have been starched), button-down shirts (often plaid), and braids on the girls.

The Rabbit and Cavy show was going on simultaneously. We oohed and aahed over the most adorable fluffy bunnies, though we were most impressed by the giant ones. (I had to ask: are the really big ones grown for meat? No, an exhibitor answered, they're actually mostly bone.)

This little piggy was asleep with his tongue sticking out. I ask you, how cute is that?

I urge you to attend the Youth Swine Show nearest you. You won't regret it.

web toy

Here's a fun little web toy to play with. Make your own little person!

try, try again

This headband is identical to the first one I made except for the edging (and lining color -- but it's the same brand and weight of yarn). This time I crocheted the lining and outer fabric together. It makes a neater finish, and I like the look of the crochet -- it reminds me of fancy piped frosting on a birthday cake.

But. It makes a much tighter fit. If I make this style again, I'll have to find a stretchier crochet stitch.

Ironically enough, it's too icy outside to put these headbands to use walking the dogs. Guess I'll have to make another headband!

Doing Things the Hard Way

Problem: cold ears when walking the dogs. Solution: knitted headband. Simple, right?

First, choose a pattern. None in the books I own. The ones I find online are too complicated (short rows, lace). Have to make up a pattern.

Since I want something simple, I decide on a simple stockinette headband with a lining. I don't know how to doubleknit, so I'll have to attach a lining. But how?

Elizabeth Zimmerman to the rescue. I use her instructions for creating a knitted hem, since that's essentially what a lining is.

So: measure head, establish gauge, subtract 2 inches for negative ease, cast on 60 stitches of the bulky yarn. Knit 18 rows. Bind off.

Following Zimmerman, knit into back loop of cast-on edge with my lining yarn, knit a round, decrease periodically to cut number of stitches by 10 percent, knit about half the lining and realize I don't know how to attach the lining to the top edge. Stop.

Turn headband over, knit a second "hem" the same way except attach it to the bound-off edge. Knit the other half of the lining.

Now, kitchener-stitch the two hems together in the middle. That's one heck of a long length to graft, and I don't think I'll ever forget how to do the kitchener stitch.

What works: the headband is stretchy and comfortable. The edges are reasonably neat.

What doesn't: The top and bottom edges aren't identical, probably because my long-tail cast-on doesn't exactly match the standard bind-off. (What does? The cable cast-on?)

There's also a messy little area joining the beginning and end of the kitchener graft, since I was working in a circle. I'm not sure how to do that.

Finally, I've never been happy with the way I join a piece of circular knitting, both at cast-on and bind-off. There's always a visible jog.

I might try it again, this time creating a completely separate lining and using crochet to attach it to the headband at the top and bottom edges.

Or maybe I'll use a provisional cast-on and, instead of binding off, just continue knitting the lining with a different color, then kitchener-stitch it to the live stitches.

Or learn how to double-knit.

I always dressed dorky

Here's the proof.

Of course my adorable brother is looking like Christopher Robin while I have a drunk man on my shirt.

Things Unseen

On our annual trip down south for Christmas, we passed a sign I had not seen before: the Big Muskie Bucket. Now that is an attraction that begs to be seen. What in the world is a Big Muskie Bucket? Of course my husband knew (he's annoying that way). There's a website for it, and since they sell pictures, I'd better not post one here. You can go check it out, if you're so inclined.

We did see runaway truck ramps, but no runaway trucks.

And we saw a dancing cow (pausing for breath in this picture).

We went through my favorite tunnel. I just love the typeface on its sign.

This was a working trip, as we were helping my father-in-law to clean out his house prior to selling it. We didn't have a chance to visit the islands and beaches, as we usually do. But we had fun nonetheless. Sis-in-law and I stormed the closets and bureaus, finding all sorts of treasures amidst the everyday detritus. Just wait till I show you the delicate crocheted doilies and tatted pillowcases. There was a cache of hand-pieced quilt blocks, with diamond patches no bigger than a minute. The sewing desk held nearly antique (yet still perfectly good) notions like ric-racs and elastics as well as pounds and pounds of buttons. And would you believe a knitting machine? And an old, working Sterling typewriter? I had told myself I wouldn't claim anything for myself. I lied.

Finally, what could be more fun than food from Willie's Wee Nee Wagon? Now, I've never been a fan of Southern names. Peggy Sue, Pamela Lee, Piggly Wiggly . . . please. Spare me. But Willie's Wee Nee Wagon? Come on, you gotta love it.

Hubby brought home the Wee Nee weinies for lunch to spare us preparing a meal and washing up after a particularly strenuous day of cleaning out closets. Of course, with my cholesterol, I wasn't able to eat the food, nor did I even look at it (see? I'm maintaining the theme. Things unseen. Get it?), but I did smell it, and it was wondrous. Hotdogs with sauerkraut, hotdogs with chili, and greasy, crispy handcut french fries. Oh, for the days when I could eat such food with abandon.

It was a good trip. Maybe the next time we drive down that way, we'll actually stop to see the Big Muskie Bucket.

circle of dolls

More Commune Dolls (the pattern was drafted from a doll made long ago in a commune) commissioned (!) for Christmas gifts by friends of mine.

Today was the Second Annual Christmas Cookie Bake with two friends of mine. It was the first time this holiday season that I was able to relax and have fun. They're that sort of friends -- pure gold.

Christmas has caught me flat-footed once again. Despite crafting for this purpose all year, I somehow managed to leave several projects unfinished, and mailing things out didn't happen until today. (I did not ask for expensive, faster shipping options. People can wait.)

I spread out my purchases over the year as well, buying things as inspiration struck, to avoid last-minute bill pile-ups and the inevitable "I can't think of a thing to buy" that seems to strike my addled brain this time of year.

But those were things for extended family. What to get for my children? They're too old for toys, and too young for more adult interests (clothes, make-up, etc.) which makes gifting difficult. Books, of course. . . but what else? Just sign me up for Mother of the Year, leaving my children giftless.

Let Us Now Praise Neil Gaiman

(with apologies to James Agee and Walker Evans)

I just finished Neil Gaiman's Coraline. What an odd little book. Gaiman wrote one of my favorite books, American Gods, and I just discovered his children's literature. While my first thought was that this man should not be writing for children, upon reflection I think that his horrifying stories are as necessary as fairy tales used to be, before they got all sanitized and pretty.

Just this morning, the kids and I were listening to Jonathan Stroud's second Bartimaeus book, The Golem's Eye, on the way to school. One of the characters is watching a play and thinks,

Show us a little of what we fear . . . only take away its teeth. . . . Make the demons frighten us, then let us watch them die.

That's rather what fairy tales do for our children, isn't it? They provide a way to confront our deepest, animal fears and deal with them rather than pushing them back into our psyches, ignored and ready to fester out when we are least prepared.

Back to Coraline. The little girl walks through a closed-off door into an alternate reality, one in which her parents give her the attention and presents she craves, but are creepy and have sewn-on black buttons on their faces in place of eyes. Which life she chooses, and how she fights for it, make up the story.

The story is terrific, and what keeps the chill factor under control is the quiet, stubborn strength of the heroine. If this unassuming little girl can hold herself together in the face of such terrors, so can the reader. My 11-year-old daughter read it before I did, and while she didn't proclaim it her favorite book (it would have had to have dragons in it for that), she did talk about it and wasn't frightened senseless.

As good as the story is the writing. I don't know how to describe Gaiman's craftmanship. It's a spare text, finely honed. His sense of timing, the rhthym of his sentences, his use of just the right words is, well, poetic.

The blurbs on the back cover are by Diana Wynne Jones (who compares it to Alice in Wonderland), Terry Pratchett (one of my favorite authors), and Lemony Snickett, who goes off on his own amusing riff:

This book tells a fascinating and disturbing story that frightened me nearly to death. Unless you want to find yourself hiding under your bed, with your thumb in your mouth, trembling with fear and making terrible noises, I suggest that you step very slowly away from this book and go find another source of amusement, such as investigating an unsolved crime or making a small animal out of yarn.

(Too bad I don't like the "Series of Unfortunate Events" books. I love his writing here.)

Pratchett notes,

This book will send a shiver down your spine, out through your shoes, and into a taxi to the airport. It has the delicate horror of the finest fairy tales, and it is a masterpiece. And you will never think about buttons in quite the same way again.

And the illustrations by Dave McKean are fantastically creepy. I hope Gaiman doesn't mind if I reproduce one here (I'm fairly certain he's not one of the 3 or 4 regular readers of this blog):

The pen-and-ink drawings are spare but detailed and evoke the text's atmosphere perfectly.

I can't wait to read more.

Tarot Card Meme

You are The Lovers

Motive, power, and action, arising from Inspiration and Impulse.

The Lovers represents intuition and inspiration. Very often a choice needs to be made.

Originally, this card was called just LOVE. And that's actually more apt than "Lovers." Love follows in this sequence of growth and maturity. And, coming after the Emperor, who is about control, it is a radical change in perspective. LOVE is a force that makes you choose and decide for reasons you often can't understand; it makes you surrender control to a higher power. And that is what this card is all about. Finding something or someone who is so much a part of yourself, so perfectly attuned to you and you to them, that you cannot, dare not resist. This card indicates that the you have or will come across a person, career, challenge or thing that you will fall in love with. You will know instinctively that you must have this, even if it means diverging from your chosen path. No matter the difficulties, without it you will never be complete.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Craft Show

Last weekend I participated in a craft show. It was with friends, and friends of friends, in one of their houses.

There were chocolate toffees made with Callebaut; beaded jewelry and bookmarks; clothing sewn from vintage and reproduction fabrics; knitted and crocheted clothing and purses; jams, jellies, and salsas; silk floral arrangements; cold-process soaps, balms, and herbal wraps; framed photographs; felted purses made from recycled sweaters; and my rag dolls.





It was a really interesting experience. It was enlightening seeing what appealed to people, although in the end I could reach no coherent conclusions. Big-ticket items, for example, were very poor sellers, except for the recycled-sweater purses, which sold like hotcakes at $65. A handknit sweater, on the other hand, wouldn't leave the rack at $45.

Likewise inconsistent were items with obvious eye appeal. The floral arrangements were, at least to me, the most obviously visually appealing items on display, and they sold very well. Yet some of the prettiest among them were unsold at the end of the day (and not the highest priced, either).

One crafter noted that the lowest-priced items always sell well. I didn't find this to be overwhelmingly the case. The soaps and balms, for instance, sold steadily over the course of the day, but I would have expected far more customers to buy a bar or two. The candies seemed to sell well, but I didn't see a lot of movement on the lower-priced jams and jellies.

My dolls were nearly universally ignored by grown-ups and loved by children. Seeing kids' eyes light up when they saw the dolls made my day. That was my audience, and I had a solid score. One child in particular, probably just shy of two, was a picture. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped when she saw the dolls. She made a beeline for one of them and hugged it closely, a look of bliss on her face. She then set it on the couch and leaned her face on it, settling into its comfort. She played with several of the dolls, hugging each one, but never let go of the first one. I didn't notice when she and her mother left, emptyhanded, in a bustle of customers, but I was heartbroken. I would happily have given that child the doll as she loved it so.

I did sell some dolls, not many. At the end of the day the crafters purchased and traded amongst ourselves, and I was happy to barter dolls for some of their goodies that I could not have afforded to buy. I also gave dolls to the two children of the house and to the child of one of the crafters. This little girl had a very successful day selling her beaded bracelets -- I think she was the most successful crafter there in terms of items sold.

Moneywise, I came out almost even, probably a tad in the red. But I had fun and got to spend time with some friends. I learned that I loved my little dolls and felt funny selling them. What made me happiest was giving them away.

Not What You Think

So . . . what do you think?

Going All Medieval

At middle school, my sixth-grade daughter took an exploratory class in medieval history. This fit in nicely with the book they're reading in language arts, Crispin: The Cross of Leadby Avi, which is set in the Middle Ages. (I used to live in Avi's attic. How weird is that?)

In class, the students worked in small groups to research different aspects of medieval life. Madaleine's group studied food. They made a nice poster detailing typical meals for nobles and peasants and set up a table with food models -- a plastic loaf of bread, crumpled purple paper grapes, a rubber chicken. All very well and good. But Madaleine decided, on her own, to find a recipe for and make a read medieval dish. What she chose was candied horseradish from a fourteenth century treatise on candymaking, Libre de Totes Maneres de Confits, translated from the Catalan by Vincent Cuenca and available on the Medieval Cookery website.

What a taste sensation! Candied horseradish is to modern candy what lapsang souchong is to tea: smoky. It doesn't have the sinus-clearing bite of fresh horseradish, but the heat remains in a taste reminiscent of campfires. (I can just imagine the castle cook looking at yet another knobby horseradish root and thinking, "What the hell am I going to make with it this time?" and then yelling at the scullery maid who knocked it into the vat of honey. "You got chocolate in my peanut butter!" "No, you got peanut butter in my chocolate!" Wait, wrong century.)

Tonight my daughter finished an extra credit project, making a board game out of Crispin. It was so much fun to watch her work. And here it is. Wanna play?

Slide Show Application

Get Your Own! | View Slideshow

Another ultra-cool free doodad, slide shows. Lots of styles, loads of fun. This one hooked right up to my flickr account. And best of all, it's free. I wonder how these people make their money?

Hope you enjoy my critter pics.

Gordy the Horse

You wouldn't know it by my life the last, oh, 25 years, but my dream is to own a horse. I was a horse-crazy teenager and never lost the love. As a kid, I couldn't coerce my parents into buying me a horse (though I certainly tried), and as an adult, I don't have the financial resources. And somehow, I've lost focus. The minutiae of everyday life has swamped the more important stuff that life is made of. The dreams.

Last week, however, my friend Amy took me horseback riding at a local dude ranch and I was able to touch my fingertips to the dream again. My steed was Gordy, a mud-speckled chestnut (it had been raining for days) with a surprisingly pleasing personality for a dude-ranch horse. He had good brakes, a responsive accelerator and reasonably good steering. The Hallowe'en decorations didn't spook him, and when told to do something displeasing (take the path away from the barn, for example), he did so with minimal (but audible) grumbling. We got along just fine.

It was a grey, cool day, perfect for a ride through woods and along soybean fields. We saw several deer almost within touching distance, hens and their chicks scratching in the leaf litter of the woods, and quite a few chopped-up corpses. (The decorations were decidedly gruesome.)


The barn was occupied by a herd of very small ponies who milled around like feral cats. When we arrived, they had breached the tack room door and were busy scattering the contents of a garbage can, nosing around for edibles.

Other critters included a workmanlike cattle dog named Roper and a teacup poodle/Yorkshire terrier cross who resembled nothing more closely than a long-haired guinea pig. He rode around in his mistress' jacket, as one hoof put wrong would have squashed him like a bug.

Thanks, Amy, for reminding me that there is more to life than cooking and cleaning and supervising homework. I needed to touch my dream again.