Life is Art

If you don't try something new every now and then, you will never know what you could be good at. For instance, I did not know that on the slickest ice possible my daughter could navigate her relatively low-traction rainboots while carrying a backpack and purse. And it was my son, usually the adventurous one, who worried and reached for my hand (and eventually asked me to carry him, putting me at a significant risk as I carry 32 pounds of deadweight on the slickest ice possible).

On that subject, I also did not know I would have the fortitude to not only traverse several blocks with these two children - both bundled, slipping, and one very frightened - to walk to the perfect place to catch the bus (not right outside my door as I normally do; being on a hill and being asked the other day by another driver to wait elsewhere) in the sub-freezing shatteringly cold ass weather, only to have the bus driver drive right past us, despite my wave, then my yelling, then my children's bursting into tears. Not only that, but to then hightail it back several blocks with the kids - one crying from cold and sadness at missing the bus, the other stomping through snowdrifts half her height while valiantly carrying everything except the other child - into my home, to stamp out of clothes, strip the kids, and call the transit dispatch in a cold fury - all of this without even once crying or slapping someone (I would have, had that driver been within my range). Did I mention every step of this walk was entirely the most treacherous slippage I have ever set foot on?


My parents' house, currently snow-bound and lovely. My homedwelling almost looks classy, doesn't it?

Port Townsend really takes the #1 spot in pussing out due to snow-related reasons. Yes, the roads are icy but the last real snow was on Monday but we are on Day Four of school closures. I don't mind too much and of course my children's schedule adjusted immediately; Nels slept in until 10 AM yesterday.

In other adventurous endeavors I am also learning to knit left-handed. I am not sure which is worse; the first agonies of learning to knit (three years ago, for me) or re-learning a skill one is very good at - on the wrong hand. If I were going through physical therapy after an injury I would probably give up rather quickly and ask for the motorized wheelchair and Lay's Potato Chip IV.



In other news I am currently wishing for warm feet and more to the point absolutely lusting over Zappos many, many lovely casual waterproof ladies' boots. Mama needs something with a genuine sheepskin lining, methinks. My fucking kids have new shoes and warm feet, the little bastards!

OK, on to gird my loins for today's bus adventure. And I know which hand gesture I'll be making as I flag that bus down.

Labels: family life, i'm a hater, Nels, PNw, Sophie

Last night I hosted a dinner party for sixteen people. It was sort of an all-day event for us; coming back from our Lake vacation early, cooking and cleaning most of the day.

Sadly, we had many cancellations right before the dinner; one group cancelling the day before and another group cancelling on the day of. A third group showed up over an hour and a half late (with a phone call ahead and, I'm sure, extraneous circumstances). Out of all invited, I had only two guests come when they said they would.

Given the effort, time and groceries I expended in this effort it could have been one of those emotionally-heightened disasters. You know, clanging plates on the table and silently biting back tears in the kitchen. But the actual gathering turned out well enough - thanks to one party's invitation of an unexpected guest we had seven adults and three children. Conversation began to flow and it was discovered that disparate as our homes may be (one family resides in Europe) there were many names and places in common. It was lovely to meet new people, one guest who has an import store in the Oly area and who I hope to see again soon.

My favorite item from the menu were the Son-In-Law Eggs, which received compliments from the father of one family (I think he said about six words otherwise; a very laconic fellow). Despite sending home food with my guests, I have an entire salad in my fridge. I Freecycle'd it - so far, no takers but this word via email:

"Wish my wife were here to avail herself of your salad. She would love it, but is away for a few days. And even though my diet consists in large measure of vegetables, I don't much care for salad. I'm really sending you this note just to say that I think it's very kind and thoughtful of you to offer up the sald as you have, rather than just have it go to waste. Hope someone comes along in time."

Thanks, RJ.

The get-together also provided a good house-clean in preparation. In the meantime I am re-evaluating my commitment to community activities.

Labels: food, friends, party animal

A good little blogger would have dutifully included many pictures and descriptions of Thanksgiving as it unfolded. Lately I have been only a mediocre blogger. Let me start with the food:

Turkey w/ chili-orange glaze
Grilled cottage fries
Tamales (my sister brought these from a restaurant in Portland)
Waldorf salad with Sweet and Spicy Candied Pecans.
Ming Dynasty Chicken Salad
Cucumber and tomato salad
Candied yams
Sparkling cider
Tiramisu cheesecake
Pumpkin pie
Apple pie

Which reminds me. I need a breakfast of cold chicken salad.

This morning at 7:30 I slip out from between my two children as they sleep. Like magnets they click together and resume their mutual slumber. Into the kitchen, start the coffee. Turn up the heat. For the second morning in a row, I stand at the window of my sewing room and smoke a half a cigarette. I take a quick shower, wipe down the bathroom floor, and put my clothes and towel in the laundry.

I peek in the bedroom and my children still sleep. In the kitchen, still in my towel, I make and put a puff-pankcake in the oven and set the timer. I have been baking hot food for breakfast the last few days, too. Yesterday was corn pudding, the extra portions of which I shared with two good friends.

Today I will be in charge of finishing packing the family's clothes and toiletries, rolling up freshly-washed sleeping bags and putting the rain boots in the car. I will also balance our checkbook, finish the laundry (which includes, rather oddly, a large rubber snake that was inadvertantly peed on by Nels), put cat food and water out, buy our Thanksgiving groceries (mercifully only a two-store stop), pick up a gift for my sister's birthday and wrap it, and buy buttons and ribbon for clothes I finsi. And maybe - just maybe, if I have time - finish sewing a pair of pants for my son.

Today after my husband gets off work we will venture out on Highway 101 for an hour and a half's drive to my family's cabin at Mason Lake. My great-grandfather built it, and it's a log fucken cabin - not a "cabin" that is actually a cute little condo (although many of our neighbors have "upgraded" to such forms of vacation dwellings). I have mixed feelings about the cabin. Amongst them are an antipathy toward the legacy of my grandmother's (gone four years now) authoritarian regime and grandfather's (my lone surviving grandparent) patrician assholian nature. I also feel a slight skin-crawl at my own mother's crowing pride at the place, which is really a kind of ugly lumpy edifice and includes such things as a "deer-hoof coatrack". But I am still glad it's there and if it passes out of my family's hands in this lifetime I will miss it.

As I type this the house is filling with an eggnog-y smell and hums with the dryer. Sometimes I wish I could wake up to a mom in the house.

Labels: family life, FOO, holidays, homesteading, PNw

Yesterday I invented a game whereby Sophie and I took turns pelting eachother with this horrific-looking and very realistic ape-like stuffed animal (our friend Neil got this for her, inexplicably, for her first birthday). She is laughing so hard she tells me she has to stop so she doesn't pee her pants. She throws the monkey at me as hard as I can yet I catch it; she collapses onto the couch in an astonishingly small bundle. But I nail her with it, everytime. She screams, 90% pure glee, 5% terror, and 5% anger that I am Mama and more powerful and it will be this way for as long as she lives. Her telescoping strategy proving ineffective, she begins throwing the monkey at me then scrambling as fast as she can behind the couch. Where I of course corner her and send the creature missle-like directly down the cave she has sequestered herself in.

After dinner that night the monkey somehow re-emerges and the game starts again. After a few rounds Sophie hightails it downstairs, in fits of nervous giggles. Upstairs the family and our dinner guest settle a bit, while I tuck the monkey into the arm of the chair, fully planning revenge when she comes back upstairs. She stays in the other room and I cajole her to come out. Ten minutes go by and finally I say,

"Sophie... Sophie! Come on. I won't throw the monkey anymore. I promise. I won't throw it."

A pause, then a cautious sing-song:

"Well, it kind of seems like you wi-ill... !"

Labels: hilarity, Sophie

Lately I've had several friends ask me what's new in my life. For a while I was feeling silly to have such unexceptional answers to give. I had no drama, no new muse nor heartache, no weirdness, no new jobs or titillating prospects - nothing much to report. To this query I literally could not come up with an answer, and the thing was people seemed to be genuinely interested which isn't always true in my life. I feel like the girl with the spotlight trained on her who instead hesitates, stammers, and sits back down, feeling yet unknown and not understood.

My friends and loved ones, my acquaintances, seem to be running in a different race. Fights. Financial duress. Breakup / makeup cycles. Drinking. Divorce. Illness and depression. Engagements broken. Friendships strained. Neighbors vanishing without a trace. More drinking. Jobs taken up and dropped. Painful, repetitive family holiday mini-dramas. They are pleased with my company and my advice but lately I feel their lives are closing in on me in a way that seems stifling and unpleasant and in end result I second-guess the small stabilities I find so comforting day-to-day.

The cumulative effects of my friends' upsets feel overwhelming, as if I am swamped by sadness and strife although, at the moment, I exist in a bubble of day-to-day sameness. I feel like I can't filter; is a hot noise in my head when I speak with them and feel both guilty that I am glad to avoid these types of dramas and also somehow worried I won't hold their interest because of this. I don't know how to be myself and observe their struggles without seeming above-it-all or gloating; in truth, I am not and I don't - because I know how quickly my life can take a dive into difficulties.

I seem to spend the days thinking of what I will cook for dinner, of the chores I will do next and the letters I need to write; the hem on my daugther's skirt to be fixed, the refrigerator to be cleaned, a Thanksgiving dinner to plan, a button to sew. Domestic concerns that are wholly pleasant but leave me feeling removed from thhe more passionate frays in life.

As I type my son wiggles on my lap, his eyes smiling with puffy creases, his neck exposed to my kisses. I tickle and tease him and he responds with seeming nonsense: "I'll show you an 'S'!" "You pinchy crab!" and then, "Angry angry duck!" These are not my guesses as to his speech but actual phrases he throws out. I finish typing and move to the kitchen to once again do the dishes, take pies out of the oven to cool, and compose a shopping list.

Tonight Cyn, Sara and I went for dinner at Nemo's then a play at the Paradise Theatre in Chimacum. The play - "The Last Paving Stone" by Y York - I don't care for much. However, this is the third performance at the Paradise I've attended and I always enjoy it. Among other interesting experiences, we were almost hit by flying hunks of fake sod, too. The whole audience, in fact, was at risk but escaped harm.

Today in the car on our way back from visiting Ralph:

Sophie: "Diarrhea means poop."

Me: "Yup. It means lots of runny poop. That you can't really control."

Sophie: "You don't eat it though."

(Startled, I look in the rearview mirror and see her nose is scrunched up and she is making "kitten face", showing each little white sharp tooth with her ears laid back).

Me: "Nope."

(pause)

Me: "Dogs do."

Sophie: "What."

Me: "Some dogs. Eat poo."

Another pause. I sneak another look in the rearview mirror. Her brow is a thundercloud. She looks mad.

Tomorrow: finally, blessedly, Friday. P.S. I am sewing my children Thanksgiving dress clothes. Please make a big dorky "URF!" sound and hit yourself on the forehead, because that's me.

Labels: friends, party animal, Sophie

My husband: "Oh! Let me guess... London Gentleman? No wait. Blackbeard's Delight!"
Me: "I vote for Sex Panther."

Labels: Nels

Port Townsend's Windstorm 2006 has abated for the time being. Last night after our dinner out we ventured to the store for candles and matches. Then home to our dark house to pack soap, shampoo, towels and pajamas for showers down at the Boat Haven. I took a lovely 4 1/2 minutes (three $0.25 worth) of hot water while my naked daughter stamped and splashed. After we were clean I sat in the heated shower stall bench and combed out my daughter's freshly-washed fine tangles and realized how very, very comforting it is for me to bathe or shower. I bundled her in her pajamas, socks, rain boots, a hoody of mine to cover her wet head, and her winter coat over all. We ran out to the van to join the boys, also freshly scrubbed.

Home and time for many candles, coloring books, piles of blankets. I set aside some laundry to take to the laundromat should our power still be out in the morning. But at about 10:30 PM the fellows from the power company arrived across the street; two cherry-pickers and a spotlight truck. They remove the offending tree limb and saw it in huge chunks; pieces fall and bang on the mailboxes below (nailing Cynthia and BJs but missing ours by happenstance). We watch the workers brave the storm and cold. At midnight or so our bedroom light clicks on; my husband and children shout, "Thank you! Goodbye!" out the window to the departing trucks.

To bed late, my daughter nestled against me as I read a few chapters of my latest book. Then finally sleep for us all; a nightlight glows in the hall. The small economy of light is comforting for what we briefly lost.

Labels: chaos, family life, PNw, Sophie

Today at about 10:45 AM my life changed temporarily by a modest, but definite, shift. I was standing in my kitchen having tea with my neighbor Cynthia when we heard this horrific BOOM! and a flash of blue light. Just across the street from my house an aging madrona had given up it's spirit in the wind and broke a line.

My son is the first to alert us that our power has failed; he sets up a cry that his computer game is no longer operational. Cynthia calls the power company to let them know. My house seems suddenly depressed, less welcoming. The heat I'd smartly garnered for our day in seems now to be only reserves of warmth. We decide within minutes to head out, the four of us, for pizza and a coffee.

Upon our return the power is still out and although it is only about two o'clock the light is fading a bit. I pile blanket after blanket on my bed. I read a book, I put my my children to bed, and I join my oldest and soon grow drowsy myself. We sleep hours, only interrupted once when my son leaves his bed and joins Sophie and I.

At five my children and I awake and my husband is home. He calls a family meeting, and in the light of the few meager candles we have we discuss our options. At first Ralph is unsure if we can sleep here; it is very cold in the house. We decide to eat dinner at a local restaurant and invite our neighbor along as well. Maybe hunt for some hot showers for tonight, then sleep all together for warmth.

At 5:30 Ralph and Sophie leave to run bank errands while Nels and I get dressed. He follows me around the house as I carry a wine bottle with candle; his hands touch me in the mean flickering light and he is a tiny sattelite of trust. Recognizing the temperature problems, I dress in a not-too-sexy combo of overalls with yoga pants underneath. I know if I get cold tonight I won't easily get warm again.

For now, off to our dinner with our neighbor. And then off for our night's adventures.

Labels: chaos, family life, friends

Today I went out to the Farm, which I hadn't been to in about five weeks. It felt strange, like a visit to one's own dorm room from back in the day. Good times, but kind of a shudder / gag reflex at the same time. I returned because we (the workshare program) are building a new kitchen for next year's season and we need to get a group effort going to do make this happen.

I almost loathe voluntary group projects for the exact breakdown that happened today. There is me, edgy and certain we can proceed at a reasonably quick clip (we can't; groups can't, and there is a valid set of reasons for this). There are the dreamers who sketch drawings or talk bout "what ifs..." or offer pie-in-the-sky brainstorming points (OK, these have their value but are useless without a plan to follow through). There are the naysayers that have little to offer except criticisms of other's thoughts and comments (while often their "counterpoints" have little factual or relevant evidence to back them up). Did I mention that often these projects don't have a leader? My theory is any project, no matter how small, needs one.

In my special case, I brought not only my intellect, my group leadership abilities, my experience (as a frequent cook for the group), and computer-savvy willingness to help - I also brought my two children who, for lack of any other constructive activity or willing adult compatriot, ran about, climbed on kitchen pots and pans, answered the phone, and as it turned out actually ate pieces of a large dessicated dragonfly carcass. I stayed as long as I could then bid the group farewell, impressed that I'd put in a showing despite the fact I knew I couldn't stay for the whole meeting. Which was probably just as well.

The other day Sophie wrote this on the computer:

"Sophie Daddy Mama Nels loves Blackie so much."

She asked for help spelling "much", that was it. Smart cookie. She'll be at her Mama's 110 WPM in no time.

In Nels news, he crapped his pants today.

Me? I'm proud that I figured out how to type a tilde. Which comes in surprisingly handy. I'm a huge jalapeño fan.

Labels: i'm a hater, Nels, Sophie

I can't spend five minutes on the Inter-Tron without learning something new. I told my friend Cyn that if she was gay, this would be her type.

Labels: fags

My parents were up for a few hours the last day and night. They had a dirty bluesman concert last night at a local venue (the tickets for which were thoughtfully provided - at $100 a pop - by a friend of my husband's) and graced us with a few hours of their time. My mom came home smashed, which would have been awkward had I been single and the friend I brought home been a guy I was dating. But I'm not and it wasn't so it was all good.

This morning I solicited my father to fix a Freecycle floorlamp we have that went tits-up. Then the pair of them whent out for a breakfast grocery run this and brought me home such helpful groceries as coffee, toilet paper, and eggs. What else do we need, really? Oh, half and half for the coffee. Holy shit! They bought that too.

I love having parents.

While enjoying our morning repast my parents were shocked and awed at my son's particular ravenous nature regarding eggs. I mean he actually hunkers down next to the plate and uses the fork as some kind of excavation unit and crams them in, large mouthful after mouthful, barely breathing while eating. "Don't get your hand in there!" my dad warns us.

Me: "It's like he's an alien inhabiting a human body for the first time and revelling in hedonistic pleasures."
My mom: "I wonder what he'll be like when he discovers sex!"
Me (ignoring my mom, to my dad): "Could you move his bib a bit so he's not spilling on his shirt?"
My dad (to my mom): "Are you still drunk?"

Sophie asks for milk from the fridge; I tell her to help herself. "It's too heavy!" she wheedles, and my mother dutifully gets up to perform the duty.

Me: "Grandma's going to get you your milk, because she has a soft spot."
Sophie: "Where?"
Me: "Um... Kind of all over her body"

Before breakfast Nels had spent the morning tucked into an armchair next to my dad. My tousle-headed son, snuggled under a blanket next to his grandpa. Quite content to sit for many minutes at a time.

Labels: family life, FOO, food, Nels, party animal

Today I discovered a sobering truth that only marginally relates to my life, but I'll mention it anyway. You may not know there there a hefty amount of mommy and daddy bloggers - some of my readers perhaps know a few of the more infamous ones - who through ads on their site are getting paid to blog their family stuff (thereby earning the term "professional blogger"). Well, I was sort of aware of this, but apparently there are also a healthy amount of mommyblogger-haters who are simultaneouly blogging about the mommies and daddies. You know, criticizing these parents for exploiting their children shamelessly to make a few bucks (or a bonafide salary) with Google ads. And from my ten minutes checking it out these two factions seemed to be going back and forth, snarking at one another, some of them disallowing comments or deleting ones that don't meet standards of nicety, many of them seeming to revel in the shit-slinging, padding their blogrolls, and collecting "fanship" of some sort. It's a small but rather active faction of the Inter-Tron and the whole thing depresses me.

It has never seriously entered my mind to put ads on my site and make money. I could present the scorecard as to why this would be a bad idea for me (my writing = marginally good; my photoblogging equipment = nonexistant; my willingness to keep a cute gimmicked format = not there; my ability to sensationalize my life for profit = weak). The concept of earning money from my blog is only slightly tempting since I have a decent readership here. Or perhaps I should say, the number of people who read my blog is surprisingly high; and the actual people who take the time to talk to me are stellar. But the difference between a well-liked blog with a modest fan base and a money-making blog is a huge gap. Unless I posted pictures of my boobs or made up lies I'm not likely to pull in any decent capital (whoring my blog out has occurred to Ralph and I think he did the math - currently I'd earn something like $5 a month). My entries are enjoyed to the extent they are because I write marginally well and regularly post; even lately I've failed to keep my frequency up.* In short, my writings are gratis, and it turns out you get what you pay for.

And the bottom line: if I don't try to actually make money off my kids by my sarcastic, rapier-like wit, I may just not get publicly hated. Maybe.

(As I typed this, my son was asking my husband for dinner. "Mama has a fresh pizza for us!" Ralph cheerily informs Nels. "You go cook!" the boy orders me, pushing me into the kitchen. Now, why is it that if my girlchild had asserted my social subjugation in this way I would have been less offended?)

* The top reason I don't read many of my friends' blogs - because I really, really desire my friends to keep one and keep them well - is the lack of posting frequency or regularity. Reason #2 more distantly follows: content is too poor (boring, navel-gazing, lots of webcam self-shots, bleh).

Labels: other haters, writing

Question: What says, "Soft Ball, Hard Ball, Soft Crack, Hard Crack, Chicken"?

Answer: My candy thermometer, which as it turns out is a total mystery in every way. I believe those first four descriptions relate to stages of candy as you cook it on a hot stove and reference what would happen if you dropped a blob of the boiling mixture into water - who would do such a thing, I ask you? It's fucking LAVA! - but as it turns out these descriptions are pretty goddamn important if you don't want to end up covered in sticky sugary confection along with anything in your kitchen or family that you hold dear.

So I've made these damn marshmallows twice now. Or should I say four times? Four times I have made the effort and twice I have ended up with actual marshmallows. The thing of it is, the first time everything went off easy so I guess I got cocky and that's where it's gone wrong twice since. I mean, I have a degree in chemical engineering but the process here is a mystery.

Do you know what happens when you allow your marshmallows to go one degree past the "soft ball" stage? If you're me, you continue glibly on and then end up with something I christened "Assy Taffy" and probably tastes delicious - if I can ever pry it out of my pyrex pan. How about the second time this happens, where you wisely do not even bother combining the sugar molten lava with the cold gelatin mix awaiting in the KitchenAid, and just start over again? Well then in your pot that lay fallow on the stove percolates a brown sugar molten mess that even when cooled will still stick to your sink when you pour it down the drain. Which I did, because I was too scared to flush it in the toilet and not cruel enough to throw it in my lawn. It also makes a good depilatory agent as well, as I found out.

And yes, this week's third attempt did in fact result in beautiful, tasty marshmallows that - should you be given some (email me your address and I'll mail 'em) - I hope you at least realize the pain and suffering I went through to provide them.

Speaking on the issue it occurs to me that I am risking my life or at least limb in the kitchen often while I'm preparing our meals. Today for lunch I cut up a delicata squash (about a 4 on the hazard scale) which threw me into a cold sweat, remembering the last pumpkin I dismembered - carefully - to roast. I either need a sharper knife or a chopping block before I try that again. It would be really awkward for my kids to wake from their afternoon nap to find me on the kitchen floor exsanguinated.

Oh yeah, and I voted today. Hope you did too.

Labels: food, homesteading

Do you remember I had a baby boychild? He was a small, tiny, nursing little chunk. He was an easygoing soul. He shamelessly smiled and flirted at any female he came across from almost Day One. He would use his one index finger to isolate and drag pieces of cut-up food across his plate and into his mouth (we called it "The Backhoe"). He slobbered a lot. Now he is long, and tall, and is wearing tighty-whities (or his sister's panties; whatever fancy strikes him) and asks me to read a book next to him while he settles into his afternoon nap. His appetite for food and his flirtation with the ladies remain constant.

As I write this my daughter sleeps in the dusk-laden living room, under the glow of Halloween lights and nestled in a quilt. She put herself to bed while I caught fifteen minutes of sleep; I had thought she was merely reading to herself. Damn, these kids raise themselves!

Labels: family life, Nels

Tonight I brought the following dinner to a friend who recently had a baby:

• Chicken salad
(chicken marinated in lemon juice, soy, rice vinegar, and sugar, then broiled)
red-leaf lettuce, cucumber, carrot, baby corn
sweet sesame dressing

• Cold sesame noodles
• Peanut sauce
• Rooster sauce
• Satsuma mandarins
• Two-layer cake with chocolate frosting (my friend's favorite), all from scratch.

I also made marshmallows and sewed hats.

And no, I don't work my ass off nor have a messy home nor a rigorously clean one. Nor do I use TV to "babysit" while I do these various activities. I do however have a relatively ordered home, a joy in learning how to care for it, a husband who participates in housecleaning, and children who (more or less) know how to entertain themselves or even assist me in the sewing room or kitchen.

I have found my groove in life, again.

Labels: cocky, food, friends, homesteading, sewing

I have discovered recently that I am an overbaker. It comes by naturally - my mom is, too. I'm not sure if my dad or brother ever baked anything but I'm sure if they did, it was crumbly and dry. Never soft, chewy cookies in our household - always the crispy ones which are still better than No Cookies so we made do (did you know cookies should be taken out of the oven while they still look wet?). I have this fear of baking something with a gooey middle, but then I realize it has never happened in my life except that one time at the Farm when the gas oven assed-out on me. So the possibility enters my mind I need to take things out of the oven sooner.

So today I am making a Quick Plain Cake coupled with a rather fancy frosting - the "Best Chocolate Frosting" from Pasta & Co. Coupled on top of my efforts regarding overbaking I have managed to make the moronic error of putting too much flour in the batter, resulting in THREE cakes now cooling on my windowsill. The cake was originally intended for a friend whose dinner we are providing tomorrow; now I have two additional portions to attend to.

As I type this my son is climbing all over me me. He's wearing nothing but his sister's "Friday" panties, a drawn-on goatee he supplied himself with, and a smile.

np - Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" which I really can't help but like. One of those overplayed songs that somehow hasn't lost the charm for me.

Labels: FOO, food, homesteading, music, Nels