things work out

My grandpa turned eighty-something last week. As we were cutting up his birthday cake, my brother-in-law asked him what he had learned in the last year. He thought for a long while then said that this year had reminded him of something he has long known. Things work out. My grandpa is a very wise man.

cookie party!

Tonight my sisters and I are throwing a party. It is the tenth anniversary of our annual Cookie Party. It is a grand affair at which we force people far outside their comfort levels and are richly rewarded for it. Stay tuned for highlights.

fake tree

snowmen

Snowmen are funny things. When I was in college, my parents had a Brazilian exchange student named Cleber. Cleber witnessed snow for the first time with our family. He also made his first snowman with us. Cleber named him Ice Cube. A pretty typical snowman, save for the down cap with earflaps- to keep him warm. It makes me sad that kids today are more likely to make virtual snowmen than go out in the snow and roll misshapen balls out of snow to be stacked clumsily on top of each other.

One time my sister wrote a clever email to a potential suitor that referenced meeting him by a snowman. I cannot remember the exact context, but it was undoubtedly clever. Jamie has a razor sharp wit that thrives on courting men. When Jamie met the guy in a coffee shop, he arrived with ziploc bag bearing a little snowman he had made. Jamie told me this story the next day and I think my reaction was something like, 'marry him.' I know what you're thinking- it sounds almost creepy. But trust me. She should have married him.

Here was the day's inspiration.

Kids these days.

frost

I do not love winter, but I love this about winter. Amongst other things.

thank you

This holiday, I'm giving thanks for all the love in my life.


oh yeah, and for this wonderful meal I am about to receive.

seven random things

Sarah at Saipua tagged me! Jon told me this a week ago and I thought I knew what he was talking about. Until today, when I actually realized what he was talking about. Long story short, I owe the blog world Seven Random Things about yours truly.

1. I talk too much. I have been given the book Little Miss Chatterbox by two different people. One of them didn't know me very well. Every year I secretly make a New Year's resolution to talk less. Secret until now.

2. When I was little, I declared my favorite food to be radishes. I don't know why. I think I didn't know you could have the same favorite food as someone else. Today my favorite food is the center piece of any undercooked quick bread or cake. Never leave me in charge of taking your quick bread out of the oven. It already looks done to me.

3. I have massive tooth anxiety. This stems from an 8-year hiatus on dental care followed immediately by 14 fillings (I so wish I was exaggerating for effect) and a crown two years after that. I regularly have tooth dreams in which my teeth are not teeth at all, but carrots or shapes vaguely resembling teeth crafted from a substance like the petrified foam that comprises the cushions of old sofas. My teeth then proceed to grow or crumble or contort or multiply in a variety of shocking ways. I wake up much like I fell asleep- probing my teeth with my tongue. The relief upon awakening to find all of my teeth intact is profound. The other upside, I floss religiously.

4. My sister, Jamie, and I have a secret language that we use to communicate with each other. It is actually the English language, but spoken with such poor enunciation that we believe we are the only ones who can understand it. We don't really close our mouths when we speak to each other in this way. It comes off looking like we have both suffered massive strokes. In truth, we do not always understand each other when using this language and it is quite possible that casual observers are more adept at translating than ourselves. There have been times when Jamie initiated a conversation in this language in public and I had to pretend I didn't know what she was talking about/what was wrong with her. I believe traitor is the word for that.

5. I break out in hives on my chest and on my neck when I get nervous. I used to pretend I liked dresses with high collars so that I could hide my red blotchy neck during the Christmas programs at school. I lusted after a turtleneck swimsuit in middle school, but was too embarrassed to ask my mom to buy it for me.

6. Two butterfly facts: 1) I followed a butterfly downtown when I was 4 years old. My Grandpa was supposed to be watching me. I chased it straight to the police station where they found me, took me in and fed me a fudgesicle. I really learned my lesson. 2) My Community Theatre debut was as a butterfly when I was in kindergarten. I flitted once across the stage in the opening scene of Once Upon A Clothesline. Dad was the lead clothespin.

7. I write letters. I always have and I always will.


I tag Jon.

secret project

I have been working hard at something since my return from NYC. This something will fail to impress. It will also fail to suggest to anyone the sheer tedium involved in its creation. I take heart in this fact. I am often embarrassed to admit how much time something trivial has taken me to create. My life is full of dirty secrets like how many hours it takes to cut 4 words out of paper with a pen knife. That's what secret means. I'm not telling.

the bronx revisited

Jamie and I did a little bit of everything on my trip to the bronx. I'll stick to the highlights that translate directly to things everyone should attempt to do when visiting nyc. First, check out Free Friday Night at the MoMA. Otherwise it will cost you $30 to get in. And, if your budget is anything like mine, spending $30 on a museum virtually guarantees the day's largest coffee drink counts as lunch and a slice of pizza for dinner. It is crowded but you simply have to chill out. The big bonus is not having to make good on your investment by sticking around for a few hours. Ogle and run.

We hit the Brownstoner's Brooklyn Flea on Sunday and agreed that it was the best flea we had been to in NYC. Not the biggest, but the best blend of quality vendors- food and objects alike. I found a silk smoking jacket. Jamie visited an old fave from the Hell's Kitchen Flea, the ceiling tile guy. I bought a handful of vintage hardware from him to revamp my kitchen cabinets. We ate a world class huerache. Please visit this flea. Especially on Sundays through December 21st, when an amazing collection of artisans sell wares directly across the street. If you can't find a gift here for someone on your list, they don't deserve anything.

On to Saipua. We love Eric and Sarah. I bought soaps that smell good enough to eat. All of their offerings are impeccably packaged. This year, give the gift that is too beautiful to wrap.

And if you're packing your goods in a suitcase, you will freshen your entire holiday wardrobe en route. Jon and I are devotees of Sarah's blog. Check it out.

A final recommendation. Go to the little owl in the west village. It is on the corner of Grove and Bedford. Try the meatball sliders and everything else you can afford. Jamie and I had a fantastic meal and dined so close to Ralph Lauren that I had to resist the temptation to pat his head. My only regret from the whole trip is resisting that temptation.

the bronx

I just spent a week in the bronx with my little sister. I like the Bronx because it is one of the rare places in America where people still respect trees and their elders.

on text and texture

variation on a theme:
wool, chenille, dust



A note on the text- Sentimental Education is a touchy subject around the apartment. It is a book that Jon advised me not to read. I am reading it as a matter of principle. This does not change the fact that Jon was right.

thrift alert!!!

Tuesday, 8AM - Lake Street Savers

I promised I would warn of Savers next 50% off all used merchandise day. Savers loves to pimp out the lesser national holidays to their advantage. If you plan to go, get there early. And prepare for disturbia. People with massive hording tendencies flock to the store. Their carts are completely full of useless secondhand things. If I wanted to make a tragic silent movie, I would simply videotape a compulsive horder passing through the aisles of Savers on a second-tier national holiday.

YWCA locker room

About twice a week my trip to the gym coincides with the ladies attending water aerobics. Mean age 68. We all end up in the locker room at the same time. They are a wise group of women. I know this because I eavesdrop shamelessly as they dry their bodies with more care than anyone from my generation can conceive of. This fact alone I find marvelous. What would happen to them if they dried off as recklessly as myself? Perhaps bedsores. These women in the locker room speak casually of cataracts, bouts of cancer, exacting sequences of hip replacements, heart problems, politics, gardening, remodeling, 20-year-old microwaves that just won't quit, grandchildren, people dead and dying. All this at 8 o'clock in the morning. It is a profound experience to have before the day has even begun to take shape. To bear witness to so many lives well-lived and realize that I will one day speak as casually about such things. Possibly in a locker room full of other sagging bodies. And while I find some measure of comfort in the thought, I am more comforted by the things they never speak of. Namely, that they never worry if their jeans make their butts look big.

The Duel!

GUEST BLOGGER!! Jackie's common law live-in boyfriend guest blogs.

I'd like to write about one of my favorite aspects of plot in olden day novels: the duel! There is nothing as exciting as an adult allowing another adult to fire a pistol at him. It's not the quick draw stuff of western films, instead each man is given an opportunity, with ample time, to shoot his adversary. The last two books I've read, Sentimental Education and War and Peace (actually only 470 pages into it) have incredible duel scenes. And one of my favorite movies, Kubrick's Barry Lyndon, has several duel scenes. It's a very basic life and death situation, and a duel is almost always started over woman. Life, death, and sex: the basics of any great novel. Some common traits of the duel: the participants are obstinate jerk-offs, the seconds usually beg the duelers to reconsider (adding to the suspense, because the duelers, though scared, never think backing down is an option), and though they seemed to have been common, duels weren't actually legal. There isn't a modern day equivalent that I can think of. I think pistols in the late 18th and early 19th century were inaccurate; the ball could go any which way. We all know what happens if you point a modern gun at someone standing ten feet a way and pull the trigger. If anyone else knows of any books with great duel scenes, I'd love to hear about it.

philosophical question

How many calendars does a man need?


For my dad, there is no possible way to answer this question. Calendars are his weakness. Calendars and picture books. I think my dad views calendars as a one-up on picture books. Because you can open it up a year later and remind yourself of what day your anniversary was on. This is why the basement holds decades of calendars. Since Dad stopped keeping a journal, he has been compelled to keep every calendar as historical record. Every year Dad buys more calendars than the number of rooms he enters on a daily basis. He buys so many calendars that he has had to master the art of downloading them on other people and in other people's rooms. I never turn down a calendar from Dad because I know he is counting on me to receive them. Last weekend he gave me a 2009 calendar of China. He was mesmerized by it. Which is why he bought 2 of them. We spent a little QT marveling over the thumbnails on the back cover through the cellophane. I love fanatics. But more than that, I love fanatics who spread it around. Dad is wholly generous with his compulsions. He has yet to meet his match. The thought is terrifying.

change

My proudest moment thus far as an American.
How can we repay him for all the hope he has given us?

detritus of Halloween

The aftermath of Halloween is even scarier than the real thing. I found this eponymously pimped out necklace on my way to the bus today. It is not as precious as it looks. I had no intention of keeping it. I also had no intention of putting it around my neck but there you have it. Sometimes even the best intentions fall by the wayside. I find the necklace depressing because it epitomizes a piece of complete junk. Still, I hate to think that something becomes trash just because it was dropped on the ground. Which is why I picked a snack-size Crunch bar off a sidewalk near St. Thomas and stashed it in my pocket for later.

Last night Jon and I attended a horror flick party. On the way home at nearly 2AM, we encountered a couple in argument. The guy was dressed as a detainee from Guantanamo Bay. I thought the whole thing was a skit because the guy was so ill-equipped to defend himself. Merely a coincidence.

I don't think Halloween is that much fun. It might have something to do with the number of limbs I watched being sawed off with a chain saw.

trick or treat

Tis the season. Jon carved a pumpkin on Sunday night. By Tuesday there was a bad case of 'what's rotten?' in our apartment. I kept forgetting about the masticated squash on the counter and wondering what was amiss. I honestly came to the conclusion that it was Jon's pumpkin on 4 separate occasions. My mind has been elsewhere. Today Jon transferred his jac-o-lantern to the back stoop where a squirrel promptly took up residence.

enthusiasm II

My neighbor is an enthusiast. I also like fall. Not Halloween so much, but fall in general. I know people who think of fall as nothing more than prelude to winter. A sign of doomsday approaching. And while I, too, consider winter in Minnesota to be the next best thing to the end of the world, fall is so much more than intro to that. Just last week, I walked outside in my favorite clothes and the air was just cool enough to make me aware of every place on my body that the sun was touching. It was not cold nor warm- simply vibrant air all around me. Colored leaves were falling from trees in a lazy way, landing on the sidewalk before lifting back up and around. The sound like a windchime made of paper shells. The light was golden and discerning. I was in love with this day. This is how I feel about fall. I want to protect it from winter. I want people to appreciate it more. I want fall to come early and last forever. And quite possibly I only want these things because I know I will never have them.


crabby apples make me happy

enthusiasm

I support enthusiasm in general. Sure, there are times when I wish that all the scrapbookers of the world belonged to the camp of John McCain, where they can sit together in a semi-circle and cut pro-life shapes out of calico scraps of paper. But I appreciate (respect is a whole other ball game) anyone with the determination to spend hours upon hours making a political statement out of 100% cotton jersey.
May we all be so enthused.

meet cashbury

Cashbury has been hiding from me.

On another note- I found a good samaritan notice posted on 29th street. Actually, three of them. All bearing random misspellings and nailed to consecutive telephone poles. 29th street after dark is like one huge batting cage. Don't say I didn't warn you. Parking between Fremont and Emerson on 29th street is like trading in your windshield for its weight in glass shrapnel.

fish fry

Leif G. left a package of Alaskan halibut cheeks in our freezer upon his departure last week. Come saturday, we had an empty fridge, save for a single egg, one beer, a half bottle of white wine and approximately 3 ounces of cream cheese left over from making salmon sushi. This called for ingenuity, or a trip to the grocery store which we were loathe to make. The end result was the most delicious form of desperation I have ever encountered (at least until desperate times find me with nothing but the trappings of salted caramels). It was a meal that could never be duplicated. We improvised everything. In Ireland, my friends were fond of the saying, 'hunger is the best sauce.' I would like to add desperation to that list of highly versatile sauces. When your fridge is empty, save for a single egg, and, by some chance alchemy, the food on your plate melts in your mouth and brings to mind a most adventurous friend whose labor = fish, you must take that for what it is.

random scraps of kindness

A year and a half ago, I bought a vintage pillowcase. I spent the next 5 months half-heartedly searching for the perfect round pillow to stuff it with. Then, having realized that I would never feel completely at ease placing my face directly on any part of the pillowcase, I tucked it away. Only recently did I endeavor to deconstruct it, deeming the whole markedly less than the sum of its parts. I can't think of many instances in which this is true, but sororities come to mind. And art installations made of paperclips.

Each silken scrap that comprised this piece is magical to me. Today I wore my transformer shoes to work with clusters of the vintage silk on the toe of each. I was expecting my shoes to meet with a certain amount of admiration. No one even mentioned my shoes, save for Larry. Larry asked if I was wearing my shoes on the wrong feet. In his defense, if I had been wearing my high heels on the wrong feet for 6 hours and counting, I would be deeply indebted to Larry for pointing that out. So, a lukewarm thanks goes out to LarBear.

It would be fair to point out that the pillowcase was kind of cool and now I have a pile of tiny silk scraps. This crossed my mind as well. Which is why I am going to send silk scraps to a few people in my life who I think will appreciate them. Spread the love.

on dandelions

Three things come to mind when I think of dandelions.

-A jigsaw puzzle I pieced together ad nauseum as a child bearing a horse and foal in a field covered in them.

-The chain necklaces we made during recess at Forrest Street Elementary School and their immediate wilting.

-Singing ' Momma had a baby and her head popped off,' choreographed to their rhythmic beheading.


one of my favorite flowers

alaska

I have, as of late, been wholly unimpressed with the fruits of Alaska. But all that changed last night as Jon and I sat down to watch the 2nd Presidential Debate. Leif G. and Tyra stopped by in a celebratory fashion. Leif has returned from a summer fishing off the shore of Alaska. He has the beard to prove it. And the salmon. He brought us a choice sushi-grade fillet and all the fixings for homemade sushi (a bamboo mat, nori, cream cheese, wasabi, sesame seeds and fried rice...yeah, we know). What we lacked in skill, we made up for with flourish.

homecoming '08

I was incidentally visiting home on Homecoming this Friday. Homecoming in Black River Falls entails a mid-afternoon parade down main street. I took this parade very seriously when I was much younger. I still recall efforts to paint my fingernails black and a fleshy peach color that was as close to orange as I could find at the local drugstore. We used to call the parade the Hobo Parade because all the elementary and middle school students were expected to dress as hobos. A hobo queen and king were elected for each grade. I think this was a way of not excluding anyone in an impoverished school district. Everyone had the means to be a good bum. It did not offend my parents that our hobo fare came straight from their closet. Our costumes always included crazy hats and standard-size pillows tucked half in our pants and half up our shirts.

It is strange to see things of former importance in my life lose their significance.

reinvention

This is how I feel right now.


I told Mom that this chrysalis is a lost cause. She insists that the butterfly is only waiting until spring to emerge.

apples

This weekend my mom took me and Jon to an apple orchard. A friend of our family owns the orchard. It is impossible to visit without entertaining the notion of living exactly that life. When we were little, their daughters taught us how to play tetherball. Until then, we thought tetherball was just a game that bears played in The Far Side comics by Gary Larson. The shop attached to their home is full of temptations. Sugar wafers for 88 cents a pack, sparkling bottled fruit juices, homemade jams and jellies, infused oils and buttery caramels. Not to mention the perfume of bags and bags of fresh picked apples. I bought orange marmalade and a giant jug of honey. Mom loaded up on honeycrisp apples. We ate apples the whole way home. Everyone passed me their cores because I eat them down the farthest. At home, I helped mom wrap each individual apple in a half sheet of newspaper. Mom keeps these in the basement refrigerator that is unplugged. When I opened the fridge to stock up the apples, I found it nearly full of apples already. If it had been anything else, I would think my mom has a problem. But as it was, I thought to myself that there is nothing wrong with having an old refrigerator in your basement so chock full of apples that you could catch the thick sweet smell of them in a jar.

day in the life of dad

This was what my dad was up to on Saturday.

6:00am- Dad wakes up to feed Muggles then returns to bed.

10:20am- Dad places a blue Obama bumper sticker on the blue pick-up.

10:30am- Dad meets me in the truck at the halfway point of my jog.

10:35am- Dad stops jogging to compile a small pile of garbage composed mostly of shredded plastic bags. He will return to pick this up at some point in the near future

11:00am- Jog is finished. Dad overhears Mom's plan to take Jon and I to the apple orchard. Estimated time of departure- as soon as possible.

11:05am- Dad decides he will accompany us to the orchard, but first...he will get a 'ten-minute' haircut.

11:30am- Dad is dropped off at the blue pick-up by me. He recounts a recent lecture he attended by a Rwandan refugee. It is an incredibly moving story. I momentarily feel as though being late does not matter.

11:45am- Dad must achieve an unscheduled haircut in the time it takes me to deposit one check. He is driving a separate vehicle, hoping to rendezvous outside the barbershop.

11:50am- Mom calls Dad to assure him that it is not possible for him to return from the orchard by 1pm. He feels cheated but, as he is still in a barber chair, is powerless to stop us.

12:40pm- We arrive back from the orchard to find Dad placing a white Obama bumper sticker on the white pick-up. The matching? No coincidence. Dad suggests that between two planned horserides, we jump off a rope swing fixed to the underside of the I-94 bridge over the Black River. I question him on the relation of this rope swing to things I have failed to jump off in the past. He assures me this is a 'step down' from those things. I agree.

12:45pm- Mom confesses to Dad that her achilles tendon is inexplicably sore. After a full line of professional questioning, Dad wraps and ices the foot expertly.

1:00pm- 5 guests show up to ride my parents' horses. Dad must saddle the horses and host a horseride with several novice riders. Dad does not let the angst of beginners get to him. The ride is a resounding success. Casualties are limited to a banged crotch and a sideache.

2:30pm- Dad drives the two youngest riders home and stops by the hospital to pick up recuperative trappings for Mom's leg.

3:30pm- Dad fits Mom with a walking cast. He agrees with Mom that horseriding would be considered 'taking it easy.' They are the only two people in the world who believe this. I tell Dad there is no time to jump off the rope. 'No time' is not a phrase my dad understands. He asks for a reprieve.

4:00pm- Dad folds a load of laundry.

4:15pm- Dad speed reads Entertainment Weekly. This publication accounts for 90% of his exposure to pop culture.

5:00pm- Mom and Dad go on a horseride totaling 7 riders, including Jon and myself. They rejoice at the successful cramming of Mom's enormous foot into a stirrup. This ride is also a resounding success. Two near wipe-outs. No official casualties.

6:30pm- Dad believes that we still have time to jump off the rope. I agree, only because I have narrowly averted catastrophe on the horseride. The cards seem stacked in my favor.

6:35pm- Dad feeds Muggles.

6:45pm- We pick up one of Dad's buddies to join us. Mom and Jon are along for the ride.

7:00pm- Dad leads us through someone's backyard to arrive at the jumping off point. He swims into the freezing water to retrieve the rope. He pretends it is merely cool.

7:05pm- We take turns jumping off progressively higher rocks. I enter Dad's world for a brief moment. Each feat provoking another, bolder feat. Dad proceeds to outdo even himself by climbing to the highest possible jumping off point, rope slack in his hands. I almost pee my pants (his shorts, to be exact) watching him. It is moments like these that make it difficult to think of my dad as a human being.

9:00pm- Dad watches 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly' with us while waiting for dinner to come out of the oven.

11:00pm- Dad must call my sister in California to recommend the movie. Unable to contact her, he must call her husband with the same recommendation.

11:15pm- Dad picks up a letter off the kitchen table asking for a charitable donation. He will donate when Mom is not looking.

11:30pm- I confess to Dad that I cut my toe in the morning and it looks infected. He pulls out the special goggles and agrees.

11:45pm- Dad presents me with antibiotics left over from Mom's ingrown toenail.

12:00am- Dad heads to bed with Mom and Muggles, musing on things left undone.

12:05am- Dad and Muggles snore in beautiful harmony.

homewards

Jon and I are vacationing in Black River this weekend. I truly think of it that way even though it's a visit home. Jon probably thinks of it somewhat differently. But he secretly loves the animals. I will often encounter him cuddling something.

jon with baby horse

jon with pippin

Mom has taken to spoiling me when I go home. Baked goods, coffee with whipped cream on top, going to movies, trips to the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, bags of apples to take back with me, and vivid bouquets from her garden. Not to mention that I am often party to an adventure that requires a great deal more courage than city life ever asks of me. I love going home because it forces me outside my comfort zone, then rewards me with pie.

best buttercream

Here is the recipe I use for buttercream.

In a saucepan, boil 1/2 cup water and 2 1/4 cups sugar.

When it begins to boil, set timer for 7 minutes. With two minutes remaining (after 5 minutes), whip 1 cup egg whites at high speed. They should be stiff when timer goes off.

Slowly add the sugar syrup to the egg whites while mixer is on high speed. Avoid pouring directly on the whip. Beat until the bowl is cool to the touch, about 10 minutes.

Slowly add 6 sticks butter cut into 1-inch chunks (I use salted, though it calls for unsalted). As the buttercream firms, reduce to low speed and add 1 tsp vanilla. Beat until light and fluffy.

This recipe is from The Whimsical Bakehouse in Ithaca, NY. I have made it many many times. I have been asked for the recipe more times than I can count. While I have never completely botched it, the degree of success varies. I feel compelled to warn that the 10-minute approximation in the recipe is completely bogus. When pouring the sugar syrup into the beaten egg whites, the mixture becomes so incredibly hot that 10 minutes of beating on high speed is nowhere near enough time to cool the mixture. 20 minutes is a better ballpark. I also cheat on the side of cool butter to aid in the cooling process. When my trusty pink KitchenAid fails me, I will have this recipe to blame. I recommend making a whole batch every time. You can freeze it for up to a month. Or longer, but I feel morally obligated to err on the conservative side. When baking, not voting. Bell's palsy my ass. I can't figure out which is worse: a president who isn't afraid to make a fool of himself speaking in public or one who is.

figs and debranding

Today someone at work asked me what I did over the weekend. Usually, I can answer this question without pause for good reason. I spend almost 50 working hours a week dreaming about the weekend and all the things I will do. When given the opportunity to talk about it, I will. But today, I found myself saying aloud, 'hmmmm...what did I do this weekend?' I mumbled something about reading a lot, which I did. Then complained about the summery weather, which it was. It was only hours later (hours spent primarily dreaming about next weekend and all the things I will do) that it hit me. 'Oh yeah! I debranded the kitchen cupboards.' See proof.

Exhibit A

This project is in the running for my most pointless endeavor (not counting certain aspects of my job). I know this because at the end of it all I justified the task by saying to Jon, 'well, at least I honed my manual dexterity.' For me, that is the last line of defense. Pleading manual dexterity. Last week I had been staring into the cupboards at my previously debranded vinegar and oil bottles and it hit me that I could debrand everything. On Friday, I half-heartedly began the project. It involved removing labels that were never meant to be removed from anything I could get my hands on. In no time, I became compulsively driven to finish the project. This took much longer than expected. It involved a lot of Goo-Gone and razor blades and gummy residue from bottles being painstaking removed before depositing itself elsewhere. Namely, on a nice skirt I was too lazy to change out of and everywhere in the apartment via the bottoms of my shoes.

Jon was very supportive. He complemented the end result at some blurry point on Saturday afternoon that I can hardly recall. I was delirious from Goo-Gone and taste-testing unmarked spices. Paprika vs. cayenne. Easily solved. Cloves vs. nutmeg vs. allspice. I'll be damned. I guess I take those three for granted. I almost had to call Mara to bail me out with her bloodhound reflexes and culinary aptitude. But I did not want to admit to her that I had no idea which bottle was coriander. This could possibly have ended our friendship. I finally figured it out by process of elimination and the Law of Conservation of Mass.
i.e. I could have sworn there was coriander here somewhere

sound advice:
If you ever get the urge to debrand your kitchen cupboards, just shut them. I, on the other hand, plan to never close mine.

Jamie's birthday

Happy belated birthday to my little sister, with love.

born again levis

Jon wore a pair of his favorite levis to death recently. He was lamenting over the fact that he couldn't make them into shorts, crotchless shorts being no more acceptable than crotchless jeans. I said I would make a hat out of them- the chorus of my recent life. This is not unlike a small child grabbing for the hot burner a seventh time. But Jon had the good sense to mask his true sentiments and let me make a hat. It turned out less goofy than usual. I sewed a beltloop to the back of it, to hang it by.

And, since I was feeling resourceful and the deconstructed gray denim was so inspiring, I made Dosha. He has a beltloop sewn to his back also. I would like to believe future children will be born with a similar feature. Not to hang them by...necessarily. I also cut out the cotton pockets of the jeans and turned them into protective sunglasses cases. And I took a few scraps to cover buttons with to adorn my convertible shoes.

Swisha and Dosha

Check out Martha's repurposed denim rug .

in memory

catch up

Sounds like catsup.

I am determined to bring my blog up to date in one fell swoop. No pictures, as Jon has my camera. He saw a raccoon sleeping on the windowsill on his way to work today and had to document it.

8.23
discovered faux denim Xhiliration brand stretch pants at Target. Secretly fell in love with them but did not buy them.

8.24
talked to my sister, Jamie, on the phone, must have talked too much about faux denim stretch pants- her closing words to me were 'just buy the stretch pants!'

8.26
stopped by Target en route to meet Gretchen for the State Fair, bought faux denim stretch pants

8.28
made cream cheese pound cake with recipe gleaned from my super flamboyant high school music teacher, ate requisite giant spoonful of batter

8.29
served miniature pound cakes as strawberry shortcake on a stick in honor of the state fair, vowed that I would quit my job if co-workers did not get the joke, then proceeded to let them in on it
i.e. called my own bluff

met Mara for lunch at Quang, got my favorite steamed pork bun,
Mara introduced me to the Friday sea bass soup

8.30
went to downtown public library, checked out 3 DVD's and a book called Design and the Elastic Mind based on the recent MOMA exhibit curated by Paola Antonelli, discovered an art magazine called Art on Paper that I am determined to buy the August/September issue of, this publication is not sold anywhere in Minneapolis.
In the words of Garfield- AAARGHHH!

8.31
finished sewing a hat out of a pair of Jon's old gray jeans, this project was half-finished and sitting on the table for 3 weeks, landmark moment as hat actually fits- 1 for 7 on hats so far, also made Eujean but stopped short of a mouth

9.1
Jon's eagle calendar reveals yet another eagle. Sale at Savers!! I scored an almost new J.Crew wool blazer. Jon found more ironic XXL t-shirts. Two words: Tazmanian Devil. It takes a certain ego to pull that off.

9.2
Cocktails at La Bell Vie with Mara. The best cocktails in Minneapolis. My martini was like a salty caramel for vodka lovers. Garnished with toasted marcona almond-stuffed olives. A world of thumbs skyward in praise of this. Spoke fondly of faux denim stretch pants to Mara.

9.5
Home to Black River Falls. Fall has arrived! Got in after 11PM. Mom greeted me with a meatloaf sandwich and a slice of pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream. Dad once again christened it 'the best pie mom's ever made.' It was so awesomely good.

9.6
Hung out with Mom and endeavored to make best scones ever. They were very good. But not the best scones ever. Somewhat cakey. I guess scones are a subjective thing. I like my scones humble and crumbly and surprisingly rich. This is how Jamie likes her men.

Attended Catholic mass with Mom to watch Dad sing. No one in my family is Catholic.

9.7
Horse ride with my high school science teacher. He kept confusing me with my more successful older sister. I rode Mom's new Tennessee Walker. She calls it Poner. The name makes me cringe. It's name used to be Goldie, so I stubbornly adhere to that. Goldie has a 6-week old baby that ran willy-nilly in front of Goldie on the trails in the woods. Mom made burgers and brownie sundae's. 8 kinds of Haagen Daaz/Ben & Jerry's. Mom and Dad think this is normal.

9.8
Asked Jon if he thinks I should buy faux denim stretch pants for my older sister. He fails to comment. I have yet to wear mine.

9.9
Baked an apple pie. Bought Butter Pecan ice cream to accompany it. Noted that Edy's has changed their package size from 14 servings to 12. This is good for me because I tend to polish it off in 24 hours, regardless. Bring on the skinny 'jeans'.

9.11
Seven years since the collapse of the twin towers. It feels like longer. Like a different lifetime. I find it encouraging because if 7 years can feel like a lifetime, I would only have to live to be 63 to feel like I've lived nine lives. Weird, but encouraging. Mostly weird. More than that- seven years is defeating. Because there is a war still raging that we insist on ending in something called victory. No one even knows what that means.

9.12
Met Gretchen with her work friends for a happy hour at Restaurant Max. Two separate factors contributed to a lower than average self-esteem. Being grossly underdressed and furtively eating beef jerky on the bus en route to the swoiree. Delicious burger at Ike's afterward.

9.13
Bought International Cafe Mayan Dark Chocolate. If Wal-Mart were a coffee, it would be this drink. Cheapened myself by drinking it.

Plan to see Burn After Reading with Jon. He does not know this.

Hope to drive my parents' minivan to the craft store to buy eyeballs for stuffed animals.

One or both of these things will not happen.

much anticipated radish

Here is radish on his first night as radish man. I will not show you radish man in his present state. It will ruin your day. I took a good long look at radish man, then passed the mirror and found two new laugh lines. Not funny.

root veg collection

For whatever reason, my root veg pictures are refusing to appear on this blog. Could be a vampire issue. I would rather believe my root veg collection is entirely composed of vampires than that Google has wronged me. Vampy root vegetables are far less earth shattering than a fallible Google.

I've been inadvertently collecting dried up root vegetables for years. My first acquisition came from the Capitol Square farmer's market in Madison my freshman year. A boy was selling little carved potatoes for 10 cents a piece next to his dad's potato stand. I think I gave him a quarter. A quarter has never bought a bigger smile than that. I would not have believed that my purple fingerling potato man would live to be ten years old. Dried potatoes are a lot like marriage. If you can make it through the first ten years- you're golden. I have since acquired a red potato man, an apple man and a dried burgundy carrot. Jessica mailed me the carrot two years ago. It arrived in the mail without frills. Already wilted and scabby with a note that said 'this reminded me of you.' I tried not to dwell on that for too long.

Tonight my root veggie family has grown. I was remarking to Jon about how quickly the two radishes left on the counter shriveled to the likes of something I was not about to eat. Then it hit me. My root veg fam! Take a good look at radish head before he is reduced to the size of a dried pea. What a cutie!

minnesota state fair

Cows, pigs, and every possible incarnation of food on a stick you could dream of/have nightmares about. I really can't hear the words 'hotdish on a stick' without imagining Martha Stewart in her carpentry goggles aiming a ceramic drillbit at an unsuspecting casserole dish. The only variable is tator tots vs. corn flakes. Scratch that - this is Minnesota. We don't either/or when it comes to the hotdish. Toss that shit on. 1/2 cup of chow mein noodles? Sprinkle away. Cheese flavored French's fried onions? You know the routine. Potato chips? Don't waste my time. Hot dish is just a euphemism for cleaning the cupboards. How this euphemism became a 5 lb sodden ball of stick-riding fair food is beyond me. It just is. The State Fair is the most Zen experience I've had in a long time. You must simply take it all in. You are there. You are in the moment. People have carefully handcrafted so many mysteriously wonderfully hideous things in the hopes of taking home giant purple ribbons. It boggles the mind and delights. You must find joy in it. Everything on display has arrived there over great deliberation and with such painstaking care. You must respect that. The fair is an amazing lesson in things that matter to other people. A great big empathy joyride.

muffins for junkies

It was Sarah at Saipua who tipped me off to a blog called what geeks eat. This blog is written by a fun-loving foodie with street cred. I was taken in by her sconing adventures and her search for a perfect boomchunka cookie recipe. Or maybe I was just taken in by the word boomchunka. Either way, I found this recipe for crack muffins on what geeks eat and was determined to make the muffins in their most legit form. In the end, I totally bastardized the recipe. I didn't bother to hunt down pork jowel and I did not notice that the recipe called for coarse cornmeal until I was mixing things up. I used regular bacon and Quaker cornmeal. So, while I intend to improve upon the results of my first round of crack muffins, they still merit a resounding hurrah! Jon had 3 for breakfast, then 5 for lunch. His favorite part was the maple glaze. I agree that the sweet hint of maple seals the deal. Jon went foraging for coffee, while I baked. Then we enjoyed our crack muffins over a table fully clothed in the New York Times Sunday Edition. This is what a perfect Sunday morning looks like:

garage sale mania!

'Tis the season. I began Saturday with a resolution to get rid of stuff. By noon, I had added 5 new items of clothing to the collective apartment wardrobe. (If Jon didn't like the shirts I bought him, I was going to stick them on my side of the closet). Later- after my originally planned trip to my fave Salvation Army, I ended the day stuff neutral. Saturday was one of those rare days when all secondhand stars aligned. First of all- it's simply that time of year. The unbearable heat makes us all aware of all the superfluous stuff around us. Mainly because it is sticking to us, or absorbing the negative energy of the AC, or reflecting sun from the window directly into our eyes. Excess stuff is a lot more irritating when it is over ninety degrees outside. Sort of like people. Just try to make new friends in a heat wave. Virtually impossible. Secondly, the Uptown Art Fair took place on Hennepin Avenue all weekend. Anyone inclined towards selling their junk within a month of this weekend is well-advised to hold out for the Uptown Art Fair. People swarm the ten-block radius of the fair looking for free parking. Then walk to the art fair with wallets poised. Sitting ducks, basically.

I was completely prepared to be disappointed by my first stop of the day. The sign boasted big name designers, handbags, shoes, etc. This kind of sale is usually pure hype. Or, best case scenario- way overpriced. But if you see a sign like this two blocks from your apartment and are poor and have no hope in the world of owning anything from Elie Tahari, save for this sale, and you took care of your parents' dog all last week and your parents insisted on placing $50 in your hand upon picking them up from the airport, and when you half-heartedly refused, your mother placed the tempting bill right on the sidewalk- meaning you had no choice but to take it (which would have been your choice, anyway, all fanfare aside), then you must stop at a sale boasting such things. Even if the odds are ten to one that you will be disappointed. Long story short. I was not disappointed. I spent $30 on a dress, a long-sleeved shirt and a short-sleeved turtleneck- all which promise to go the distance.

Second and final stop of the day. The sale with the most impressive signage. This is not a surefire way in which to judge sales, but if you get the artsy designer vibe from the signage- I recommend stopping. It was one of those awkward garage sale experiences where three friends were bantering about being wasted while naming all the shirts the night before (all shirt tags bore names attesting to this experience). I was totally eavesdropping. Eventually I just joined in the conversation. Garage sales aren't governed by the same social codes as regular life. Another reason I cannot resist them. The deviance. Here are my two inspired purchases. Aptly named.

knitting season

In order to have awesome legwarmers by the first snowfall, you have to start now. I am making haute couture legwarmers for myself. I estimate that they will take 100+ man hours. Plus $40 for 4 skeins of dusty blue cashmerino yarn. For the next two months I have a second job called knitting. It pays about one half-inch of leg warmer per hour. But hey- beats takin' out the trash, folks!


(The legs below are not mine! This is a pic from the knitting mag)


I am a seasonal knitter. About once every 5 years I come out of fibernation and make a few things. I get all bulked up on chunky knits, then take it easy for another 5 years or so. I have a ton of failures and a few qualified successes. Heavily qualified. I was home in Black River over the weekend and spent a half hour ripping apart my parents' dresser drawers hoping to find a giant sweater I made my dad nine years ago. I was going to steal it back from him. Not really stealing since I made it for myself and f'd it up to the tune of the Jolly Green Giant- hence, gift for Dad. It's probably for the best that I stuck it in the garage sale pile at least 5 years ago. Whenever I wore it, the sweater was in a constant state of falling off- but last weekend I wanted nothing more than to have that sweater again. I have made ten full-size sweaters that I can remember. There is only one that I have never regretted making. Seven of them have ended up twice as big around as they were supposed to be. The other three I didn't use a pattern for. They were more frankensteinian. At least they didn't physically hurt people- unlike my forays into knitting hats for children. I once gave a hat so small to new parents that when they put it on their baby's head, my whole family demanded they take it off for fear of disfiguring him. Which brings me to my unwavering stance on the act of knitting:

it's the thought that counts
(and you better think twice)

P.S. all 100+ knitting hours made possible by my aunt Cecily's gift of cashmerino- THANK YOU!

cream wafers

Cream wafers may be the best cookie on earth. I have a hard time talking about cream wafers without getting philosophical. There is a question I often undertake with the baking mentors of my life. Right now, if you were given the choice of making the ten best cookies of your life over and over again vs. making every cookie you could conceive of without repeating ever, which would you choose? Tough, right? I would have to go with the ten best cookies over and over again. These cookies definitely factor into that answer. They are a huge pain in the ass to make. But I cannot imagine my life without the potential to make them whenever I feel so inspired. Never make these cookies for someone who may not appreciate them.



My list of top ten cookies:

cream wafers
almond macaroons
chocolate chip
soft gingersnaps
russian teacakes
almond lace cookies
shortbread
homemade oreos
pumpkin cookies
oatmeal raisin

*list subject to change
(and in hindsight, I feel deprived)

trader joe's

Today marks the second time that I have been inside a Trader Joe's. I love it. Somehow, when Trader Joe's arrived in Union Square in NYC, I picked up on some very negative sentiments and carried a secret resentment against Trader Joe's ever since. I don't know how it happened. I suppose an article in the Times about veterans of Whole Foods being worried about the impact. But it took only one recent foray down the aisles of the Madison, WI shop to change my mind. The dairy aisle would have sufficed.

All of my favorite cheeses for about half of their Minneapolis retail price. St. Andre Triple Cream for $5.99/lb. Say no more. My mind reeled with plans for all the dinner parties I would throw if only I lived within reach of a Trader Joe's. Then I saw this:


I have been a devotee of Fage for over a year now. Any longer and I would actually be broke. That's how expensive it is to keep up with a serious Fage habit. I'd fare better with a foie gras addiction, save for the bad goose karma. Trader Joe's greek style yogurt is about half the price of Fage and indistinguishable in taste and texture.

Today Jon and I ventured to the Minneapolis Trader Joe's. We had already biked to a place within 'a half mile' of it. That was Scotty's estimation. After a mile of walking, Jon informed me that Scotty is notoriously lax in estimating anything. My shoes were starting to feel tacky inside. Jon said he felt like he had been picked up and set down on the moon. I said we were definitely in Whatthefucksville. We laughed about it, thinking it was more sad than funny. Minneapolis is both those things, most of the time. Finally, a half mile after that, we reached the store. I bought cheeses and greek style yogurt and a 30-pack of E-mer-gen-C. Next time I'm taking the 12 bus.

the phone book's last stand

A sign of the times. Yesterday I saw this phone book flipping desperately in the rising wind. Someone had cast it off on top of a ten foot high pedestal. Phone books don't stand a chance. I have lived for two years without a phone book. Whenever the phonebooks get delivered to our apartment building, nobody takes them. They sit for weeks inside the front door. Later the landlord moves them to the laundry room. Still later he posts a somewhat threatening note next to them, as if we will only now realize their significance to us- having been threatened with the potential loss of them. That's the way our landlord operates. Passive aggressively. I'll photograph his new dumpster notice sometime to prove it. Jon has had his bike threatened on several occasions. A children's car seat left in the basement hallway was similarly attacked. I remember thinking to myself when we first were given a tour of our prospective apartment by Dana (yep, a man named Dana which turns out to be the mere beginning of his psychosis), 'It might be pretty cool to have an anal retentive landlord.'
And for the most part, it is pretty cool.

There have been moments in the last two years when I have wanted a phone book. In November, my sister wanted me to call the movie theatre to check out the movie times. I didn't have the number to the movie theatre. I also did not have internet access. She was aghast. When I explained to her my stance on phone books being totally passe, she was less than impressed. I argued that it only seemed backwards given the context. Weak. There was also a time in mid-February when the temperature was minus five degrees and I didn't have the number to the pizza place. Jon and I walked almost a mile to get there, then waited for 20 minutes while the pizzas cooked to walk them back home. The original plan had been delivery. I realize that these are piss-poor examples of why no one should have a phone book, but mark my words- the golden age of phone books is over.

my parents' dog

Living 2 hours from home with no car, I did not expect to make frequent trips home. But I have been traveling home fairly often lately. There are countless reasons why I like to visit home. My parents are each crazy in their separate ways. They welcome my own personal craziness with open arms. The house is big enough for me to be there without throwing anyone's game. Not that my parents are easily thrown. They have always been the sort to live and let live. One example- this one dredges up a few hard feelings with Jessica- is the time when Mom bought a new pick-up truck the day before Jessica's wedding. Since the wedding was held at my parents' house, Mom's absence at the precise moment when 20 dozen roses arrived via FedEx was duly noted. Now that Jessica has recently forgiven her for it, the whole episode serves as an appropriate example of my parents' uncanny ability to do their own thing.

I never thought I would say this- but I visit home in part to see my parents' dog. Its name is Muggles. It is certifiably looney tunes. I remember the moment I fell for Muggles. I was home for four weeks between moving from NYC to Minneapolis. My mom started school the week before I moved to Minneapolis, so she began waking up at the crack of dawn to get ready for work. When she left, she brought the dog into my bedroom and laid Muggles next to me. Muggles slept like a little angel by my side until I finally rolled out of bed. When I finally woke up, she just stared at me with her big bulgy eyes, looking for some kind of clue as to what she should do next. She's a heartbreaker. Not perfect, by any means. But such an endearing blend of lunacy and sweetness. Bad story but 100% true.

One of Muggles' favorite things to do is play on swings. She does this completely unprovoked. She will charge the dangling end of our rope swing and gain enough momentum to propel herself clear off the ground. She has lost a tooth doing so. Most of the time she undertakes this, there is no one around to witness it. We know because whenever we cannot find Muggles, we sneak to the backyard and find her there. Muggles is a French bulldog. She sleeps most of the day, then goes a.w.o.l on the rope swing. She also likes to battle the swingset.


Muggles is the only dog I know that eats whatever someone gives her. You could be eating a pickle and she'd eat the second half. That's a bad example because she loves pickles. Same with green apples. Vewy cwazy. That's what she thinks she is. Because she also has that knack for making people speak in babytalk. Humiliating but 100% true.

Sometimes I worry that a movie will be made about Muggles and her adventures and they will have someone like John Goodman do the voicework. Or even worse, Danny DeVito. The same way whoever spoke for Wilbur on the original Charlotte's Web ruined the whole movie. If Muggles ever tends towards advocacy, I'll make her the posterchild for Animals Against Bad Animal Voicework. There are things I feel more strongly about than bad animal voicework, but right now I can't think of any.