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!