Meadowood Designs

Bergamots are Done

2012-02-11T21:19:00.001-08:00

I have fought the good fight. The bergamots are done.

The two bergamot trees that I picked on the third Saturday in January have yielded:

Two batches of curd - one with brown sugar, one white;

Two batches of marmalade - one with wekiwa as the "lemon" juice, one with Kaffir lime;

One quart of frozen yogurt, containing peel and juice;

Four frozen cups of bergamot juice;

Two quarts of infused sugar - one with grated peel, one with strips;

One frozen bag of ground peel (over a cup);

Two boxes of fruit that went to Allie in Texas;

Several golden orbs that went with Tod to his 6-day cookfest last week;

And last but not least (I will try it tomorrow) one quart of black tea infused with flavor from all of the white bits that are left after I zested the peel and removed the juice.

Whew. I am now sporting a blister on my right hand from using the potato peeler on 18 bergamots today. I am completely out of wide-mouthed jars, and had to grab a large box of 42 plastic containers and lids from Costco earlier this week.

My house smells like a bergamot festival!

Crack

2012-02-08T07:05:00.000-08:00

Now, I don't want the DEA after me, so let's be clear here: I make crack out of SUGAR. Good ol' C12H22O11. I candy citrus peel (or, last month, fresh ginger, which made WONDERFUL crack) and then boil the syrup until it's at a crack stage. Gently empty the contents of the pan onto a cookie rack, with the Silpat underneath. Store the candied peel (usually in metal tins) and take the hardened sugar (rock candy, really) and break it into bits. Use it in hot drinks or whatever needs that particular flavor.

Here are photos of my most recent crack production - the peels were various orange citrus, which included tangelos, blood oranges and tangors.

Oh, yeah, the candied peel is lovely, too. In this case, it ended up brittle, so I can break it into little candied peel bits.

The Boozy Story

2012-02-02T20:31:00.001-08:00

These are citrus peels steeping in straight vodka.

Everclear isn't legally purchased in this state, and I have friends in fruity, vegetable-y, nutty and meaty places, but apparently not in underground grain alcoholic places. But the vodka is nice.

All you do is strip as much of the white pith off the peel as possible, then infuse it in vodka for about a month (Hand of Buddha has no bitterness, so it just gets chopped up). Strain and add simple syrup. Allow to steep another month. Put in pretty bottles and give it away as presents, or use it in your cooking or summery drinks.

Left to right: Sarawak, Melogold/Yuzu Papeda, Hand of Buddha and Limonero Fino (Limoncello in the making). Hooo-ah.

Citrus Madness 2012

2012-02-02T19:58:00.001-08:00

So here it is, most of the varieties from the annual trip to "Mecca", the UC Lindcove Experimental orchard past Fresno, California.

Featured in this photo are, large back left to right: Sarawak, Melogold, Oro Blanco, Chandler; bright orange are tangelos, then a Moro; two kinds of lemons, one small Michal mandarin, all flanked by Allie's favorites, the Bergamots. Total fruit picked and brought home was probably around 80lbs.

Who didn't show up for the photo? Yuzu Papeda and Hand of Buddha, who have all been processed, and the Wekiwas, Sevilles and Bouquetier de Nice were avoiding the camera.

So, what do you do with this much fruit? How do I love thee... let me count the ways:

I do eat them. I put them in the kids' lunches. But for the first week I couldn't eat any because of my recent oral surgery, so I started processing right away.

Lots of juice. I have actually drunk plenty of mixed fruit juice the past few days.

Champagne sorbet with Limonero Fino lemon juice (more, with Oro Blanco, on the list).

Candied citrus peel - Hand of Buddha and Yuzu. More coming. Must candy some Bergamot.

Curd: Bergamot (2 batches - one with brown sugar and one with white - this is Best in Class so far this year), blood orange, Chandler, and Limonero Fino

Frozen yogurt: Yuzu so far. Lemon tomorrow.

Booze: Limoncello using Limonero Fino, Sarawak, Yuzu/Melogold, and Hand of Buddha. Still on the list: Bergamot and Grand Marnier. And I might just toss a bunch more lemon zest into the big Limoncello jar and double it. Who can have too much Limoncello?

Marmalade: mixed blood orange and Limonero Fino. Lots more on my list.

What I'm calling "crack". When I candy the peel, I save the sugar water that's left, and if it has reached the crack stage, it becomes brittle little infused pieces of goodness that go into my chai in the morning.

Dried finely ground peel: Lemon, Pommelo and Orange.

Dried peel from eating fresh fruit: I just toss this into my chai when it's simmering. Yum.

Some fruit has wended its way to Allie (YuminTum, who makes fabulous recipes and it's the least I can do for someone whose heart is in cooking while her head is in college textbooks), and some has gone to Tod, who is a fabulous chef who cooks at my annual knitting retreat in Ben Lomond each year. He picked his up personally, and was thus able to taste a bunch of the booze I made last year with the Mecca haul. He got half the Yuzus, because they're very loved by chefs, especially for Asian food. I had never picked the Yuzus before, and they began to rot rapidly. So you never know, maybe Yuzus will become one of my new favorites - the flavor certainly is distinctive.

Allie has lots of ideas, and I'll probably follow some of them. I have about another week of processing to go. Wish me luck...

My story of the woods

2011-09-15T15:55:00.000-07:00

The story is a simple one. I bought a piece of this planet’s rarest forest, and it brought me to my knees. It holds the promise of growth and renewal. It is a sacred space created by the heaving of the seas and the planting of seeds. It holds so much hope it makes me cry to think on it. And when I am gone, it will remain. Men come and go. I will build a house, walls, orchards. But what remains is fog dripping from redwood leaves, roaring storms of wind, and a scraping of two giant plates of earth against each other. It is the one place where I can breathe. I can place my ear on the world’s tallest tree and hear a waterfall running through it. I can move one dead branch and find a salamander as old as the primordial swamps.

Because I love this earth. I have circumnavigated it and here is where my soul rests; I lift like a fairy that dances on the wind.

I sleep under those stars. Some fall to earth, but most stay to tell their story again. When I wake there is a grey time, before the sun shines but after the black fades, when all the creatures, even the trees, hold their breath and await the dawn. They open a hole in time each morning. One day I will pull a man of earth through that hole; he will understand. I will grow in him, and he will water me. We will master windstorms. We will name the stars.

Tomato-Peach Chutney

2011-09-05T19:06:00.000-07:00

Hats off to Bernard Clayton for the inspiration (Bernard, your soup recipes ROCK but read like UNIX manuals) - this is cooking right now:

3c fresh tomatoes, chopped and peeled (and seeded if you're up for it - I'm not);
3c fresh nectarines and/or peaches, peeled if they're peaches and chopped (I used high sugar, low acid peaches and nectarines)
1c chopped green bell pepper (for me, this was 1 pepper)
1c packed brown sugar
3/4c sugar
3/4c white vinegar
1/2c golden raisins
1/2c chopped onions
1/4t cinnamon
1/8t ground allspice
1 jalapeno, minced and seeded
1/4c wild blackberries (this is totally optional - just happened to be sitting in my kitchen - see previous blog)

Combine all the ingredients into a deep, nonreactive saucepan.
Stirring frequently, cook over medium heat for roughly an hour or until mixture has thickened (or you've reduced it by about half).
Feel the love. The aroma should make your mouth water.
Ladle it into sterilized jars leaving at least 1/4" headspace; process for 20 min in hot water bath.

My guess is that this will make 4 half-pints. I'll post a photo when they're done.

What I've learned about stinging nettles

2011-09-03T18:24:00.000-07:00

Well, I knew that they're great for cooking. Some people might even GROW them in order to EAT them. I knew they had prickly leaves, and it's an immediate pain and eventually it goes away. I knew it's not contact dermatitis like poison oak - it has to do with miniscule spines.

But when I was halfway up an embankment in Los Altos Hills, berry pot in left hand and large blackberry cluster taunting me overhead, I decided to embark on a scientific experiment, the outcome of which I was unsure.

Either I could forget about the berries or hoist myself up the embankment by holding onto a stinging nettle plant. And I wasn't sure if the STEMS were covered with the prickly nastiness.

Well, now I know. To my credit, I was only experimenting with MY OWN body, and after being an NCAA volleyball player, 5.10A climber and yogi, I figured what's a little pain?

I shall have to look it up online (when typing doesn't hurt so much) to see if there are actually MORE stingers in the stem than in the leaves. Maybe it will have a dire warning that the toxins are CONCENTRATED in the stems, and after numbing two fingers and my Oh So Important opposable thumb on the right hand, it may be years before I feel all of my digits again.

But if we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be called research. (Einstein)

Snail Wars

2011-06-08T08:07:00.000-07:00

We had some unexpected days of rain last week - heavy rain. And I discovered on Saturday morning, when I went out into the garden to watch the sun rise, that the snails were very fond of the lingering dampness. They were everywhere (they are probably particularly fond of my front yard because I covered my entire yard with cardboard and compost a couple of years ago, thus destroying my lawn - but making a nice, damp enviornment for gastropods).

Thus began snail wars. That morning I was fully dressed and gloved, but since then there have been two more major battles and I've been in my nightgown and bare hands. No fear. I will prevail. I confine them in a large green cat litter container, and it's getting heavy.

Casualties (running total): Saturday - 332; Sunday - 476; Wednesday - 604.
I gave them a respite to see if they could consolidate forces and roll out another squadron. I found them in their war room today at 0600 hours, a small bush that they thought I would overlook. Ha. I am mapping all of their favorite territories and....

I'll be back.

The Tiger and the Cat

2011-03-24T20:25:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago I had a dream about a tiger. The front door was open to my house, and I went to shut it and found a tiger walking toward my house. I tried to shut it and lock it, but his nose was already inside. I let him in.

He walked around the house. He appeared to be looking for something. He turned around and walked back toward me. He wasn't growling and didn't look hungry. I opened the door again. He walked out. I shut and locked the door.

In Jungian dream interpretation, a house always represents your life. This animal came into my life, looked around, left. He wasn't there very long. He wasn't a threat. And he was big and beautiful.

This morning I found our cat dead on the living room floor. There was no obvious cause of death, no illness, no blood, no physical damage. Apparently it was just his time to go. He was only about four years old, and very large and strong.

We are very sad today. I thought he would be my friend for a very long time. He was also Tanner's best friend. But I am grateful that he sent me a dream first, because somehow that makes it easier to live with.

Boozy Day

2011-01-22T16:18:00.000-08:00

The citrus liqueurs are all now in the infusion stage. It has been a LONG day of peeling citrus.

The lineup: Bergamot (same fruit that scents Earl Grey tea), Wekiva (lavender gem) tangelolo, Sarawak (in the pummelo family, and no it is NOT a Tahitian, don't get me started), Carribbean Shrubb (containing the juice of several Clementines, Femminello Siracusano lemons, and some nice spices), Grand Marnier (Bouquetier de Nice oranges), and Limoncello (the Siracusanos again). With the exception of the Shrubb, they're all in vodka (Shrubb is in rum).

Not your average stash of citrus, I must say.

I still have plenty of citrus left, but the booze is gone and I am done, tired, done done with this. I don't precisely follow anybody's recipe, so we'll see how it all turns out. They sit for at least a couple of weeks, up to six, then I'll add a simple sugar syrup to a few of them. They will all eventually be filtered. Some of them are experimental (i.e., I made it up myself), and some recipes can definitely be found online.

It's been a long indoor day - going out into the garden before the sun sets!

Citrus Madness Begins

2011-01-17T11:22:00.000-08:00

The annual trip to Mecca was Saturday. The U.C. Lindcove Experimental Citrus Station, where they allow some California Rare Fruit Growers to pick as much as they like (just don't take any genetic material, as they're protected by law).

I scored 75 lbs of fruit. I weighed them and segregated them. I have plans for them.

First recipe: blood orange marmalade, from the book I gave myself for Christmas, "The Joy of Jams, Jellies and Other Sweet Preserves," by Linda Ziedrich. Six half pints. Here they are, aren't they lovely? Her recipe would NOT have set, I've made enough jam to know that, so I added a little pectin, and time will tell. This recipe took about 7 of the oranges you see toward the top right of the photo, blushed red. There are 5 of those left.

Second recipe: Bergamot Orange Custard Cups, from this website: http://www.hungrycravings.com/2010/01/single-bergamot-orange.html and they're in the oven right now.

They took one - count it, ONE - large bergamot, and it made a double batch. There are 18 left. Uh huh, 18. I'm hunting for recipes.

The rest of this mountain of citrus hasn't been touched. And yes, they're still on my living room carpet.

But I'll get there. All recommendations are welcome. If push comes to shove, I now have a chest freezer and I know how to use it.

My dog's time

2011-01-04T13:46:00.000-08:00

She was a beautiful black Labrador who lived with a family who abused her. She was chained to a tree outside and conceived a litter of 13 puppies when she was less than 2 years old.
She tried her hardest to take care of her babies, and hid them in an old log. The log collapsed, and half of her puppies died.

A wonderful rescue woman came to take her away. The owner didn't want her any more, or her puppies. The rescuers cared for her, gave her good food, spayed her, and gave her a name, "Whitney". Her puppies were beautiful, part black Lab and part golden Retriever, and they found new homes fast.

A woman in California who wanted a companion for her first dog, the doggy love of her life, Oscar, found Whitney online at Hearts United for Animals. The rescue woman said they would get along. She put Whitney on an airplane on a very wintry day in Omaha, Nebraska and flew her to California.

Whitney got a new name, "Sadie". She wrestled for Top Dog position the day she met Oscar. Mom wanted Oscar to win, but Sadie became Top Dog. They worked it out. They groomed each other and made up games. They were best of friends.

This changed mom's relationship with Oscar forever. He was still her boy, but he had an all-day, always-there friend now. He was part of a partnership.

Oscar and Sadie spent their best time in the Santa Cruz Mountains, chasing deer (who were never truly afraid of being caught) and running through the woods. They had favorite paths and dug nests into the sides of redwood fairy circles. They were strong and agile, forest dogs. They slept outside and smelled and listened to the life of those wet woods.

When they were back in town, occasionally they would go on "walkabouts". They would find a gate ajar and force their way out of the back yard and go around the neighborhood. Sometimes they got thrown in the dog pokey. One day Sadie was thrown in the pokey, and Oscar came home alone.

He wouldn't eat. At first his mom thought he was just sad because Sadie had been put into jail, but after three days (and Sadie had returned) mom took him to the vet. Within half an hour the vet told mom that Oscar had cancer. It was his time to go. Oscar was 12 years old.

Sadie was a survivor. She survived the abusive family, and she survived Oscar. She never lacked in courage. She has chased a bear and attacked a Rottweiler nearly twice her weight. She was dominant and smart and very pushy about being fed exactly when she was hungry, and telling you exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.

So when she stopped eating on Sunday, we knew she was telling us it was her time. She had grown so thin, and her body was done. It was time to let her soul free to run with Oscar again.

Goodbye, Sadie. What a time you have had! You've been a wonderful mother, friend, and partner. I hope to have learned the lessons you were here to teach me.

Sadie died today at the age of 15. I will be waiting for her to bark at me at exactly 5:30 to tell me it's dinnertime.

Don't tell me I can't fix stuff.

2010-12-03T17:10:00.000-08:00

I just discovered that a dreadful problem hadn't made it onto my "gettting things done" list: the peg from my KitchenSlave fell out last time I used it (it was a pretty heavy bread dough and I was making three batches of lasagne and not paying a lot of attention to it). I am in a COOKIE EXCHANGE tomorrow night. My production of cookies for said exchange depends upon my KitchenSlave working, so this needed to be rectified. Since I tried to fix it already - with dull objects including a hammer - and was unsuccessful, my gut reaction was to call a MAN.

I question this. My mother did this; do I really need to?

Note to self: Think. I may not be able to urinate from a moving vehicle, but I have pretty sound logic and teach science and should be able to figure out a basic peg-in-hole problem. Don'tcha think?

So, this time I braved taking off the entire head of the mixer, looking at the hole with a flashlight, and finding some set screws. It appeared by looking at the hole of the mixer head that when I was pounding the peg, it was hitting the BOTTOM of the hole into which I was trying to force it.

The BOTTOM. Logic dictates that this means I needed to get the head of the mixer farther DOWN on its base. But it was ALREADY all the way down.

So I sat on it.

I sat on it and pounded with my ergonomic hammer, and thirty seconds later it was fixed.

Don't tell ME I don't know how to fix stuff. HOO-AAH.

Why I love Damsons

2010-09-17T20:24:00.001-07:00

Admittedly, I don't need all of the Damson jam I make out of my neighbor's plums every year.
It is more of a color experience that I just can't turn down.

I've never seen any other fruit turn so dramatically from one beautiful shade of purple to another. It's one of the few jams I make where I am smiling the entire time. Damsons are stunning. And they make fabulous jam, too.

There's a SAUNA in here!

2010-09-14T20:43:00.000-07:00

I have spent over 20 years in locker rooms. Anyone who has been a competitive athlete learns this about locker rooms: You go in, you suit up, you get out, FAST. After practice, you strip down, you shower, you dress, you get out, FAST. Life is too short and your schedule is probably way too tight for any dilly-dallying in the stinky locker room.

But I just joined a new company five weeks ago. It does not have a stinky locker room, it has a lovely gym with beautiful locker rooms, hair dryers, thousands of clean towels, and big mirrors. Just yesterday I rode my bike to work for the first time, and in typical athlete fashion I tended to my own business and as I was getting into the shower I noticed a big door with an unfinished wooden frame at the end of the aisle of showers.

THERE'S A SAUNA IN HERE! I shouted, for everyone to hear and yet nobody cared, nobody knows me, everyone is minding her own business just like me. THERE'S A SAUNA IN HERE! NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WAS A SAUNA IN HERE! Laughing, I walked into it and sat down.

It's a dry sauna (lots of signs spelling this out), and it's about big enough for a good party. Huge. All heated up with nobody in it, and now I have this wonder to look forward to: in December and January, when it's dark and cold outside, I will ride my bike to work and sit in this sauna and warm up from the inside out. Even though I'm back to the grind of a full-time job, it has its perks. All of the free drinks I could possibly want, and a dry heat just waiting there for my poor cold fingers and toes.

Fear

2010-07-15T15:09:00.000-07:00

There happened to be a field trip that coincided with my birthday this year (February 23rd). It was to iFly Adventures on the peninsula, and I had actually read up on it last year - it was started by a guy who left HP at about the same time I did. It seemed like a really interesting idea, to create a wind tunnel that people can free fall in - the effect of skydiving without the airplane.

I signed us up. Ben - my cliffhanging, No Fear child - was so excited he could hardly hold still in the car. Tanner - my sweet, amiable analytical - got quiet. I - driver that I am, and natural program manager - tossed all of the risks around in my head for 25 freeway miles.

Here is a synopsis of my fear-induced mental game:

I'm over 40, hell, I don't need to prove anything to anyone. Why am I doing this?
What if I pass out in the tunnel?
What if I barf in the tunnel?
What if I pee my pants in the tunnel with that silly jumpsuit on?
What if I barf in the CAR? Can I turn around and go home?

By the time we arrived, all spit was gone from my mouth, seemingly never to return. I sat through the educational seminar, helped kids get suited up, got my own goggles on good and tight. Sat in line a good long time watching other people do this (mostly kids, of 25 people only 4 parents flew), what went well, what went wrong. My blood pressure was not what I would call stabilized. My chances for any kind of control were slim, but I had this: I could tell the instructor exactly what I was and wasn't willing to do.

When he finally came to bring me into the tunnel, I gave him this dictate:
1. I do NOT want to fly up into that cone.
2. Do NOT let go of me.

We're good, he said, through the roar.

As soon as I was aloft, all fear drained. I arched my back, held my head up high, and it was one of the most wonderful, exhilarating moments ever. I am, after all, a fairy; flying should be natural. I would happily go back again, and no risk planning necessary.

Tanner, on the other hand, clawed to get out, gave the guy a real run for his money, and will never be talked into going back.

Ben was Superman.

Packing for Guatemala

2010-06-16T08:15:00.000-07:00

I just wrote up my packing list for Guatemala. We leave Saturday, to the country where I left my clothes and my heart: a land of hard-working, ever-loving people, beautiful countryside, charming children, abject poverty. Hopefully I'll make a tiny dent in the need, by helping rebuild after the hurricane, or translating on a medical team - wherever I am asked to lend a hand.

I spent a lot of time with these two guys on the 2008 mission - we built a 12-foot wall together, to protect the school from thieves.

I laughed when I saw the first three items on my list, check it out:

Knitting
IDs, money, credit card, bank card
water bottle

A la Maslow's hierarchy of needs, I find self-fulfillment first on my list. Perhaps only knitters would understand this!

The Insanity Begins

2010-05-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

First preserves of the year: strawberries, sugar, lemon juice, pectin, crystallized ginger, lemon peel. Not your grandmother's strawberry preserves; these are preserves with KICK.

Yum.

And I have enough for another batch, yet more proof that God loves me and wants me to be happy.

Tomorrow, 10 lbs of rapid-set, low-sugar pectin will be en route from Pacific Pectin, Inc. (180 miles away). But we won't talk about that. We'll leave that for later in the summer when I need serious, leather-couch therapy. For now, I'm just happy that this first batch is setting and has sealed.

Male discretion

2010-03-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

Last week I decided to have my hair streaked, something I hadn't done in quite a while.
As the hairdresser was washing out the solution, Ben exclaimed, "Gross! It looks like banana slugs!"
And I decided he is well on his way to manhood.

I still have 9 years to train him. I had better get moving.

I have mourned

2010-02-19T06:25:00.001-08:00

I have mourned the Georgian athlete
whose life ended in a fasterthanbreath collision.
They ran a story that day that spoke of genetics
of risk-takers, born for adventure, their lives
a tightrope walk across the Grand Canyon.
Who are They? And what right do they have
to toss him into a chasm of statistics?

I have mourned the Georgian athlete.
He has a mother, a father; probably
brothers and sisters. The darling of his family,
hero of his neighborhood, success story of his
town, name known throughout his country.
He was young, so hard-working, dedicated,
placing his life in the hands of a Committee.

I have mourned the Georgian athlete.
My eldest son is 8 now. You know him, he has no fear.
He has a mother and father, a brother; he seeks adventure
and the adulation of others. He makes mistakes,
falls a lot, scrapes his knees. He trusts everyone.
I have mourned the Georgian athlete
and I will never forget him, for what he did
he did for us. He did for me.

lgb
2/19/10

What to do with 60 lbs of squishy persimmons...

2009-12-30T15:54:00.001-08:00

Persimmon Butter (by Lisa Bennett, December 2009)

Pour into a crock pot, stainless steel or enamel pot:
8 cups of pureed persimmon pulp - the really soft, sweet Hachiyas
1-1/2 c. honey
1c. freshly squeezed lemon juice (I have Lisbons)
grated peel of 1/2 orange or mandarin and 1 lemon
ginger juice squeezed from 1T grated fresh ginger
1/2t salt (if you are on a salt-restricted diet, you can leave this out)

Boil down slowly until quite thick. I used a crock pot and cooked it on medium about 6 hours.
Pour into sterilized 1/2 pint jars and seal.
Process for 15 minutes in boiling water bath.

Makes approx. 8 to 10 half-pints. YUM.
Smother your favorite toast, English muffin or ice cream with it.

Ladies, activate your starters!

2009-11-24T19:05:00.001-08:00

Vroom! Vroom! Yes, it's that time of year again, folks! Feed your sourdough starters now for the cooking extravaganza to begin tomorrow!
Let's see... I will be making "Behind the Stove Rolls", always a favorite (from the BakingCircle.com group, they have fabulous recipes both from King Arthur and members) and Pagnottine (little square hard sourdough rolls) from The Il Fornaio Baking Book.
This is one of the times of year when I wish I had a baking stone that covered my entire oven shelf. Note to self: Get this done next year.

The Lottery

2009-10-28T22:08:00.001-07:00

I read the boys The Lottery by Shirley Jackson tonight.

They were transfixed. Why didn't she throw a rock back? Tanner (who turns 7 tomorrow) asks. Why would you want to live there? Why wouldn't you just leave? Ben asks. Why indeed.

There will come a time in your life when you will need to stand up against a crowd who believes something different than you do - will you be able to do it? Yes, I could said Ben. But Ben, of all the people I know, craves social acceptance the most - it will be hard to resist group pressure.

But if I find a story that shakes them by the heels and drops them on their heads, I have succeeded.

Next, it's Metamorphosis (Kafka) and The Tell-Tale Heart (Poe). Shaken, not stirred.

What to do with an Etrog Citron?

2009-08-28T20:20:00.001-07:00

I was given an enormous citron today. (I would show you a photo, but I can't locate my little digital camera. If you find it let me know, ok?) The friend who grew it suggested I make marmalade out of it. Problem is, I've already made two large batches of marmalade this summer. I can't eat my way through marmalade nearly as fast as I can make it. So I hunted for recipes, of course. It was over 90 degrees today, and I don't feel like cooking ANYTHING in my kitchen tonight. I found a smashingly easy recipe for a citron liqueur. So I now have it marinating in vodka.

Recipe:
Peel 3 citrons (or one enormous mother of a citron like I had). Discard white pith.
Put the peel in a 1-quart bottle with 2 cups vodka and close it up for a week.
Discard the peels. (I'm thinking of candying them when I take them out.)
Add 1.5 c confectioner's sugar and shake until dissolved.
Add 1 more cup vodka. Shake until clear.
Close jar and store in a cool, dark place at least 6 weeks.

The 6 weeks part is significant - this is the third booze (kumquats, loquats, and now citron) I've made this summer, and it takes 6 weeks for the sugar to dissolve into this supersaturated syrupy booze. When it's done, you'll know: there will be no more sugar on the bottom of the bottle. The first recipe I followed suggested turning the bottle upside down each day during those 6 weeks, and that helped a lot. But don't shake it.

Buddy can you spare a jar?

2009-07-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

It is the season of fruit in California. Not that we can't get fruit year round, mind you, but it's orangelemongrapefruitapricotplumfignectarinepeach season. There is some overlap in July, you see. I hang out with fruity people. I have a water bath canner and I know how to use it.

There are three nectarine pies in the oven. This morning I canned spiced peach butter. Last night it was five quarts of canned peaches. Yesterday afternoon it was apricot-orange jam with boozy kumquats (yes, that's right, Diana, I found something to do with them). Friday night it was the Santa Rosa plum jam with cardamom.

Bottom line: I have six cups of nectarines remaining in my fridge, even AFTER the three pies. I breached the last box of a dozen half-pint jars yesterday, and there is ONE LEFT. I have scoured this house and garage and found just the one, unless I want to go to wax sealing, which is just as appealing for me as leg waxing. It is Sunday night, I have fruit remaining, don't even know where I'm going to keep the pies that are in the oven because my freezer is full and fridge is overflowing, and if I could have just one more hit of that giant tub of boiling water... just one
more raw hand from dipping into the tub for the rings and lids, just one more late, hot summer night watching the thermometer climb past 200 degrees for that sweet spot in the jam.

Is this the alcoholic frenzy that searches out hidden bottles in strange places? Clearly I need a better plan. I need more hiding places.

No, no, it's not just fruit, we're talking about rare, tree-ripened nectarines that don't even have a varietal name, combined with organic blueberries. This is can't-be-bought-for-love-or-money nectarine-blueberry jam, can't you just see it and taste it now?

I'm ok, I'll be ok. Calming down now. Pies have three minutes to go. I can manage this.

First thing tomorrow, I buy more jars.

Snoopy and the Destiny of Reading

2009-07-12T10:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it finally happened.

Yesterday we had a big Friends of the Library book sale, where I help set up and tally and - well, everything that needs to be done. The monkeys came with me, and helped sort kids' books and run boxes and - well, everything they were asked to do. Prizes for young helpers are 5 books (or movies or whatever) of their choosing.

Toward the end of the sale there is generally a "bag sale", where you can purchase a shopping bag for $4 and just load it up with books. I don't usually do this, as this house is already swimming in books, but yesterday the monkeys insisted - and Ben was willing to split a bag with me, while Tanner insisted on buying his own (his $5 bill from losing both front teeth in one day still burning a hole in his pocket). I finally relented, with dreams of suffocation by books brewing in my subconscious.

Last night, after they had strewn the bags of books all over the living room floor (akin to the much-awaited sorting event on Halloween night), I read to them from Magic Tree House #33, then they were off to bed while I went back to canning peaches. I agreed to let them read in bed, which I could hear Tanner doing, a sort of halting running monologue of the words of Snoopy. Tanner is a collector (gosh, I wonder where he got that tendency), and yesterday he got five Snoopy books as the beginning of a new collection (to add to the Magic Tree House and Boxcar Children collections).

I noticed that his reading was becoming smoother as he went along, and then I could hear him come out of his bedroom and take up position on the living room sofa, still reading. He asked for clarification on a couple of words, which I gave him, then I politely stated, "I thought you were supposed to be in bed." "Yeah, but Ben just wants me to turn off the light," was his reply. He was counting the pages he had read, in competition with Ben's declared page tally.

And so it has finally come to pass. Two years of homeschooling, a boatload of books, two years of checking out every audio book in the library, two years of season tickets to the local children's theatre and countless hours of my voice reading to them: my boys have become readers. Thank you, God. I focused on math for two years because of Ben's resistance to reading, and finally it has just seeped into their pores, like living in a superfund site. They live with the constant outgassing of every author from Shakespeare to Silverstein.

I don't believe that one day they will come to me in arms, screaming, "Mom! You TRICKED us! It was a plot to make us read all along, and we were DUPED!" Because in my heart of hearts I know that we all want to read. We want to understand the signs around us, communicate with people who are not here and now, record our lives and our thoughts, gain understanding of the history of this earth and humanity, open a work of fiction and expose ourselves to villains, protagonists, and minor characters that allow us to see a larger and different world.

You can walk through this house and find the complete works of Hemingway, Wodehouse, Doyle, McCarthy and Poe, the poetry of Sharon Olds, Billy Collins and Pablo Neruda, two complete Oxford English Dictionaries, and five translations of the Bible. That only scratches the surface of the printed works. If exposure to books were a crime (a la Fahrenheit 451), they would have incarcerated me for life.

I don't believe in the tabula rasa theory of child rearing. I don't believe they come into the world as blank slates, and whatever you write upon the slate is remembered, whatever you focus on becomes a talent. I believe in giving tools to children, and they will wield them in whatever way suits them. To my boys I give the written word and the hair-pulling experience of English phonics, the attempt to make sense of the most cross-cultural and historically rich language alive today. This is my best.

Ancient Burial Mounds

2009-06-29T19:47:00.000-07:00

Schlepping is a Yiddish word that works so well to describe dragging something along. I schlepped one ton (yes, about 2,ooo pounds) of composted material today. Ben watered for me as I covered up more of my front yard with cardboard, pulled massive amounts of die-hard Bermuda grass by hand (why can't it disappear into its famous triangle? eh?), covered the cardboard with straw then 1/2 ton of compost from the SMART Center (read: the dump where they provide free compost from everyone's garden bins that has been ORGANICALLY heated). Then it was time for manure.

The boys and I took a run to Al's property in the hills of Milpitas (I found Al on Craig's List), where he (thank God) loaded the 1/2 ton directly into my truck, and also showed the boys the little Asian pig he has that does tricks and likes dog biscuits, and let them collect peacock tailfeathers.

Then it was back home to create my ancient burial mounds in the FRONT YARD (neener, neener, City of Sunnyvale) and transplant 21 tomatoes and two sugar pie pumpkins babies, and directly sow some pimiento and melon seeds. The boys played with water guns and ate popsicles.

I reek of a rare perfume of compost, horse manure and sweat, and I'm bone weary and hungry.

Therapy doesn't get much better than this. This is it for me, spend all day doing something dramatically laborious for future yield. The only thing that cranks my wheel better than this is baking bread and painting. With bread you get to eat manna from heaven within a few hours, and paint is IMMEDIATE GRATIFICATION. Yeah, just call me when you want to paint your house. I'm not joking. You just have to feed and water me.

[Note to self: Eat dinner. Bathe. Bury clothes.]

Tape Hair

2009-06-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

As I was concentrating on writing a document this afternoon, my youngest ran into my studio with a "Ta Da!", backed up by his Big Brother. His head and face were covered with magic transparent tape, in a helmet shape, reminiscent of the Viking helmets we studied last year.

Nonplussed, I said, "That wasn't a good idea. It's going to hurt coming off. At least you didn't use duct tape - it takes skin off."

They went into the kitchen and Big Brother found a pair of scissors. I turned around to see my little Sampson bending over for his sacrificial haircut, the long brown tresses he has been nurturing for the past year, even through many accusations of being Ben's sister. "If you need any help, let me know", I said.

Tanner appeared minutes later with his new terraced haircut. It happens to all of us, I thought to myself. Our mettle is tested only by how gracefully we endure the outgrowth phase.

And then I realized that I had lived through the burnishing of motherhood. I have lived with an adult male with ADD and raised two boys. You can't scare me.

Random Acts of Gardening

2009-05-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

Due to a very ambitious canning schedule yesterday, last night at about 8pm I finally got some time for the garden. I went into the front yard and looked for the potato sprouts erupting from the ground in the borrowed (thanks, Debbie) spud grower. There were two gettingbigger sprouts, so I figured it was time to add material. I have compost and pine needles sitting around in the front yard (no, my gardens are not candidates for Sunset magazine right now).

I needed gloves. Gloves were, I knew, on the back porch.

Moving to the back yard, donning gloves, I realized the baby plants back there had not been watered all day (I don't have the system set up yet this year) and it had been about 90 degrees that afternoon, so this called for watering.

The hose has a rupture. It has had a rupture for weeks, and it's getting worse. Back into the house to acquire duct tape and scissors (WHY didn't I buy that guy's hose and reel at the garage sale this morning?), and wrapped a rupture, had #2 son turn water on, tested, found a rag, dried off the hose again, wrapped second rupture, #2 son turned water on again, dried it off again, wrapped it some more. Final water test - now there's only a minor drip - good to go.

Watered all of the baby plants, and side vegetable garden, and big vegetable garden in back. Boys asked to pick favas. I conceded - they're at the end of their cycle and are on my list of Things To Turn Into Compost.

Back to the front yard. Watered all baby plants, noticed tall grass growing in small area next to ceanothus and newly planted eleagnus, decided to weed. Put hose on one fruit tree (I don't have THAT drip system working yet, either). Fetched large basket for weeds from side yard. While I was weeding, Heir Apparent asked if he could boil a couple of favas to see if they're any good. Told him to be careful (I have just taught him how to use the gas range), and please can you move the hose to another fruit tree? Finished pulling the grass (good thing I have my gloves on), put basket on the recycling bin, returned to the hose.

Walked around the yard with the hose, hitting any fruiting or flowering things that might be thirsty by now, and noticed the sprouts in the spud grower. Aha, I thought. This is where I started. Added material, watered them, turned the hose off, kicked off gardening clogs and went inside.

9pm. How time flies when you're in the flow of gardening.

The Zen of Ripping

2009-03-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

I have been working on a sweater for - um - years. Let's say it's been in WIP for a few years. It's a lovely wool and alpaca blend, and I still think the pattern is very pretty - it's called Northern Lights, and there is a beautiful variegated yarn that is used for contrast to represent the aurora borealis dancing across the chest. I had finished the front and back.

This morning, between 6 and 8am, I ripped it out.

I had planned to finish it. It would have fit. All of my sweaters have relatively thin torsos and especially long (shall we say Simian?) arms, just like moi. That's the beauty of handwork, it can all be customized. It has been on my "must finish it this year" since 2008, and it was next on my list. All I had left to do was sleeves, and then of course the little collar.

The knitting was perfect, or as close to it as I was willing to do. I had experimented with the variegated wool on the front piece, choking it on the wrong side whenever I ran into the heathery green that matched the main body color, but on the back had just let it run its course, and it was fine. The tension was good. Not a single glaring error.

Then I stood up and admitted something to myself last week: despite all it had going for it, I wouldn't have worn it. It was too long for me to wear with skirts, too similar in shape to 367 other sweaters I own, and I simply wouldn't have worn it.

I got to change my mind. I got to say, "I get to do something different. I tried this, I really did, and I did my best, but it's just not the right thing for me, and I don't want to spend any more time on it."

Somehow, I think I am maturing. Maybe it was just a matter of time.

Now I have two beautiful yarns all skeined up and a useful knack for designing new sweaters. I will create something original, something that will be both pretty and worn often. And I won't feel guilty about the Northern Lights sweater any more. It no longer exists. I have moved on.

May you be so empowered in your knitting. (And in your life.)

But What About Googol?

2009-03-15T20:22:00.000-07:00

We're halfway through 3rd grade Saxon math. Which may or may not be a testament to how good the boys are in math, since Saxon math bores all three of us practically to tears. It is authored by someone who apparently belives that repetition is the basis for all learning. Gaaack. Nevertheless, both boys are good at manipulating numbers in their heads and on their fingers, coming up with alternative answers to problems, grouping numbers, and some of the basics of fractions and decimals (relating it all to money really helps, particularly with the Heir Apparent).

So, a couple of weeks ago I was showing His Highness that, with long numbers followed by lots of zeroes, we count from the right to left, and every three zeroes we add a comma.

Common mathematical parlance. No big deal.

"Then what about googol?" he asked.

My brain did a backflip. In an instant I knew what he was talking about.

"You know, you must be right," I said. I looked it up, and sure enough, googol - which is a 1 followed by 100 zeroes - is actually a number that begins with 10. Not like a thousand or million or billion or heptillion or any of those other zany bigger-than-life numbers, which all begin with 1.

Pretty good for a 7-year-old. I wonder how long I can stay ahead of him...

Antennas and Tubes

2009-02-20T19:12:00.000-08:00

Last week, on vacation in Carmel, my youngest (Tanner, 6) and I decided to have a bath together in the large, jetted tub in the room. He washed my back and asked me where my "weenis" is (I have repeatedly told him that it's called a PENIS, but he and his brother have agreed on the "weenis" term, so we just run with it). I told him you remember, girls don't have those. "Well, then, how do they go pee?" So I explained that ours is more inside.

Next time we were in the car, he boldly announced that, "Boys get antennas and girls get tubes", to anyone who happened to be within earshot. I was glad we weren't in the middle of a church service.

The Problem with Seeds and Skeins

2009-02-19T20:49:00.000-08:00

As I planted 940 seeds (ask me how I know this) in flats on Saturday, it occurred to me that seeds are aligned in my brain with yarn in this way:

Seeds aren't little tiny dots, some so small I can scarcely see them even with reading glasses on, let alone count them out one by one (John Jeavons, I will haunt you when I am dead) and plant them in one inch grids.

They're plants. Better yet, seeds are beautiful red peppers, strikingly green chard with red ribs, bouquets of pastel sweetpeas, or HOME GROWN TOMATOES. They are rare and precious and bring color, flavor, aroma and a whole range of very happy emotions to mind.

And thus spake the knitter. Yarn is not twisted strands of (most likely in my collection) animal fiber or strands from the butt of a lepidoptera; it is sweaters against the rain and hats keeping a friend's body heat in and gloves wrapped around mugs of chocolate and it is lace and cables and thick and thin and the most sensuous thing I touch on most days.

Except for bread, the kneading of bread, bread which is clearly not a combination of flour and salt and yeast and water, but a scent radiating from a kitchen and a flake and a crust and a texture with melted butter. Bread, the ingredients I throw my hands into and come out with a velvety bowl of dough that takes the impression of my lifeline.

And my children, who aren't monkeys at all, but living, breathing human spirits with the future walking before them, driving of cars and passing of exams, sports and poetry, love lives and work lives and maybe even procreation.

So I understand addiction. Although I have never been one to think that drugs could take my mind somewhere beneficial and better than this world I see in front of me, I can see and feel and taste how one can become addicted: to this seed, this wool, this bread, these boys.

lgb 2/19/09

The yellow cap

2009-01-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

It is for her son, in a mustard yellow that reminds him of Israel.

It started simply enough, a small band of ribbing around the bottom, as her husband drove her to the airport to visit her daughter in Florida, the first week of this new year. You can see where she has knitted evenly and purposefully, up to the place where decreases need to begin to shape the top of the cap.

An inch into the shaping and she received the call. Her beloved sister, the one she speaks with every day across thousands of miles to Israel, has suddenly and without warning left this life.

She has not cried. She has sat shiva for a week and returns, throws the cap at me, says, “Fix it.”

The cap’s knitting struggles and succumbs to a jumble of I-don’t-know-what-to-do stitches, purl stitches where there should be knit, shaping abandoned entirely, gathered, sewn down, harsh, a giant flat-felled seam of four layers of lumped-up wool. I find the end and begin to salvage it, but discover stitches split beyond repair, damaged yarn: disregard, disarray, and chaos. Wool in fallout.

I begin cutting with small scissors. I use a friend’s head to make sure the cap will fit; I knit it to the very top, clip the yarn, pull the end through those eight waiting loops, to a beautifully finished star.

I leave the tapestry needle, threaded, in the inside of the cap. She will wend the final end through loops on the inside, invisibly, and the cap is still her work, her gift. And on the head of her son, it will remember.

Lgb
1/27/09

Embrace uniqueness

2009-01-18T21:34:00.000-08:00

I was just standing in the kitchen removing pith from four Hand of Buddha citrons while the Pane Acido di Semola was in its last minutes of baking, and the question popped into my relatively unoccupied mind:

Is there anyone else in the world who is doing exactly what I'm doing right now?

Got me. It's all a bunch of chaos theory in motion. But probably not.

The bread turned out beautifully, the citron will be leaching for at least two days, and now I will tuck into a book by Achebe and a bit of knitting as I close my day ("Things Fall Apart", just in case anyone would like to join me and rid me of my notions of uniqueness). My hands smell wonderful. Like the old Jean Nate, only better.

Latest Poem

2009-01-01T18:06:00.000-08:00

Today I thought I lost them

It was getting dark, and no kids.
I had sent them outside to play
and they know to come in before dark
and to not go where I can’t see them
and not to talk to strangers
or get into strange cars.

But it was getting dark, and no kids.
I walked and drove the block – no kids.
I yelled in the back yard – no response.
That voice began in the back of my brain
and yet, I felt they were safe somewhere.
Even their bikes were home.

Finally I stood in the dark house,
centered, that panic grabbing me
and the thoughts of calling police
and my God, what would I say to their dad?
I wailed for my eldest son, desperately, loudly,
and I heard his reply.

They had sneaked back into the house
and put themselves to bed, perfectly quiet,
completely covered by their blankets,
ears stoppered to my yelling with sleep.
I stood looking at them, dumbfounded,
no sane response.

I won’t dwell on where my mind had gone.
Shots, treatments, anguish, surgeries, years,
cannot have more, and no longer have each other.
I won’t focus on how my life revolves around
these two small and wonderful souls.
I will just live gratefully.

30 Dec 2008

Appreciation

2009-01-01T07:02:00.000-08:00

Last night we had fondue (cheese and chocolate) on a blankie on the living room rug as a way to bid adieu to 2008. We do this occasionally, and it's always lots of fun.

Before we began eating, we went around our little circle (two kids and moi) and said what we had enjoyed about the year. Both boys said they enjoyed field trips. I told them I had enjoyed field trips, our trip to Spain and being with Pat and meeting Pau and everyone else, and our time together at Meadowood, and the new friends we've made this year... welll, I went on and on, as adults often do (I also seem to have a longer term memory than 6- and 7-year-olds).

Then we were to say what we loved about the other people. Tanner said he loved Ben for cleaning up his (Tanner's) messes, which was a really nice acknowledgement (because Ben really does clean up more than his share). Ben said he loved Tanner for always sharing with him (and it's true, Tanner has always had a sharing heart). Both boys told me they love me for homeschooling them (thank you, God). I told Tanner that, of all the guys I know, he is most likely to come up and kiss me (true), and I love his affection. I told Ben that I love the way he's always willing to help me when I'm stuck and yell his name - he comes running and helps every time. Then I said grace, and we began our dipping.

Ben bawled. He sat there for about ten minutes crying. I couldn't figure it out.

When he could finally speak, he said he was crying because of what I said. I told him it was all true, he is a tremendous helper boy and I really appreciate it. Then I said that maybe I don't tell him often enough. Ben is very high on the emotional and expressive scale, hot and cold, and perhaps I need to give him more warm fuzzies.

I listened to a webcast the other day about how we need to learn to honestly tell people how much we appreciate them - it can be so good for everyone involved. I never thought I had been shorting my own kids in telling them just how much I appreciate all they do. It is a truism that my life would not be the same without them; I also consider them to be the best-behaved kids I know their age.

So we will begin doing our appreciation circle every week. No sense in keeping it till year end.

The Hole of Lust

2009-01-01T06:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, as I was finishing my last garment of the year (a traditional Shetland cardigan with wool that I overdyed, don't ask me how long this one has been in process, I'm not even sure both boys were BORN when I started it), the boys were creating some sort of secret game in their room that involved tape (no ask, no tell). When I had the bread on the rise they asked me to come see their room, and the "HOLE OF LUST" sign was posted prominently on their bedroom door.

One must always attempt to not be an alarmist when raising boys (kids in general? I don't know, I only got boys), and I know spelling isn't their strong suit, so I calmly and without facial tics asked them what the sign said. "It's the Hall of Justice, from the Justice League of America", they said. Well, thank God for that. We need someone promoting justice and trouncing crime in this country, whether they can spell or not (no Presidential names mentioned).

I was led into a room that has TOP SECRET signs all over the closet door now. I was impressed. I think they might be a year or two ahead of their time in the concept of keeping everything hush hush and labeling their privacy. I know it happens between girls (because I have an older sister), and I know there's a stage in our lives when we want our sibs to be hands off our stuff (does that ever end?).

They wanted me to open their closet door. "No way", I said. "It's top secret."

"There's nothing in there", they said. Oops, they're still not clear on the practice. It's the IDEA that you MIGHT have something private and don't want others messing with it that is so important. The last thing you'd want to do is tell someone that it's all a sham.

But they'll catch on. I just know it.

Division and the Dessert

2008-12-18T17:45:00.001-08:00

The other night, we had a special dessert: an Indian recipe where dates are marinated for hours in cream, which makes a sticky and quite delicious treat. There were 22 dates, the remainder of a large container that I was trying to get out of the cupboard.

Tanner (2nd in command, 6 years old as of the end of October, excellent at math, and a great eater) had not yet finished his minestrone soup. Ben (heir apparent, also excellent at math, 7-1/2 years old) had. I decided to share the dates with Ben until Tanner was done.

So, after two dates each, passing the dish back and forth across the table, I told Tanner, "That's TWO dates", and he countered by saying, "That's FOUR." He is watching this bowl like a HAWK as it passes across the table.

"You're going to get as much as everyone else, don't worry", I say, apparently unconvincingly. Leave it to me to just rip the food out of his mouth. We pass the bowl again. "That's THREE", I say. "That's SIX! ", he explodes. Ben and I start laughing.

After six dates each, I tell him, "That's SIX." "That's TWELVE! He shouts, with the conviction of a child who can add. "That's ENOUGH! No more! The rest are MINE!"

Ben and I are in paroxysms of laughter. We can barely contain ourselves, and this is simply serving to infuriate Tanner.

"Honey, I'm counting by THREEs, not TWOs", I try to explain to him in perfecly logical teacher speak.

"I'M COUNTING BY TWELVES!" He proclaims, smacking one hand on the other for emphasis.

Ben and I are now rolling on the floor. Tears are coming from my eyes, and I'm about to pee my pants. Oh I do love these two.

Fibonacci Pea Cap

2008-10-11T17:14:00.000-07:00

This is David's Christmas present. Fortunately, I don't believe he knows I have a blog.

Yarn: 1 50-g skein worsted weight (19-20 sts/in) wool, approx. 100 yards; partial skein contrasting yarn, same weight, less than 50 yards.
The yarn I used is Austermann Inka alpaca/wool.
Needles size 6 and 7. You can do this with two circular needles, or a set of four dp needles, or start with a short (16") circular and move to dps. As you wish.
Tapestry needle for weaving in ends.

Size: medium (large) size adult head.
Gauge: roughly 19 or 20 sts/4" in stockinette stitch. Gauge is not critical, as it stretches.

Using main color (MC) and smaller needles, CO 96 (100) sts using long tail or half hitch method.
Place end of row marker and join, knit 2x2 twisted rib for 13 rows: *K2 through back loop, P2, repeat from *.
Knit 1 row around. This is your fold edge. The ribbing will fold here.
Knit next ten rows in twisted rib, but staggered from the first 13 rows: P2, K2tbl, repeat from *.
Change to larger needles.
Knit next 3 rows (stockinette).
Change to contrast color (CC). Knit 8 rows.
Follow this color sequence for the Fibonnaci pattern:
MC 5 rows, CC 3 rows, MC 2 rows, CC 1 row, MC 2 rows, CC 3 rows, MC 5 rows, CC 8 rows, MC to end.
AT THE SAME TIME, when work measures 5" from fold edge, place markers every 24 (25) sts, then begin decreases:
Row 1: Decrease row: *K2tog, K to within 2 sts of next marker, SSK, slip marker, rep from * to end.
Row 2: K 1 row around.
Repeat these two rows around until there are 32 sts (8 sts between each marker).
Now, decrease every row along the four lines of decrease until there are 8 sts left on needle(s).
Cut yarn, leaving a tail.
Weave in ends. Lightly steam the lines of decrease.

Words, words, words

2008-09-24T21:37:00.000-07:00

We are now reading The Phantom Tollbooth, a cute story about a little boy who gets to drive his toy car through a tollbooth into strange lands. The land he's in currently is Dictionopolis, where there is an ancient battle between the people who prefer words and the people who believe numbers are the most important things in life.

Tonight Tanner asked me, "Mom, which do you think are better, words or numbers?" And I replied, "Well, since I'm a poet, I would have to say words are better. And they're more about being with people."

And he said, "Words ARE better. You know why?" And I know he has figured something else out, in his adorable analytical way. He whispers in my ear, "Because numbers are words. TWO is a word, THREE is a word, FOUR is a word...", and we both giggle.

I consider how I manipulate numbers in my head: abstractions, characters that represent quantities, but represented in my verbal representations as a word that has a spelling. A number has three lives: one in the abstract, one of concrete, and one of words. I know there have been books written on this subject, and I happen to own one (1) of them, which I have not yet read ("Zero", by Charles Seife)

And I really can't fault him for his logic. He will be six (6) at the end of next month, and I wonder how long I can keep up with him.

Tanner Rides a Bike

2008-09-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the Second in Command learned to ride his new bike.

I had bought it for him a week ago, because in a flash of insight I realized that he wasn't learning to ride the one he had because it was icky. It was old and rusty and the tires were flat, and I began taking it apart with intent to repair and then hit my fit of pique and rushed out and bought him a new, smaller, one.

And the next day I had offered to help him learn to ride it, and he had confided in me that he really didn't want to learn. There was a look of five-year-old fear, a look I'm not sure I've seen in him before. I asked if he was scared of getting hurt, and he whimpered, "Yes". So I called in the Heir Apparent to testify to the joy of riding a bike despite bumps and bruises. "I would probably do it all over again", he said bravely in his worldly 7-year-old way.

So I asked a friend who has great insight into Tanner's nature and he said, "Of course he doesn't want to ride it. Because he's analytical like I am, and there is no obvious way the bike stays up." Ah. Well, I can't fix this. I can fix old bikes or buy new ones, I can hold and push and provide emotional support, but physics and gravity are beyond my purview. Inveterate analytical that he is, I would simply need to leave him to struggle with the tradeoffs.

Yesterday he was fueled by joy, riding his bike, wobbling down the sidewalk, all by himself. He fell a few times, and bumped an elbow once. I got the first ride on video. Life is good.

I was there to see it.

And that was part of the decision I made over fifteen months ago. And somehow, being there to help him and see his first bike ride makes it worthwhile. At least for now. For now, this is where I need to be.

Viking longswords, now.

2008-09-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

I am essentially nonviolent. I don't even like Bruce Willis movies, honestly. I design sweaters, I bake bread, I read the poetry of Sharon Olds and Billy Collin aloud to my friends.

I homeschool my boys.

We have nearly completed our first history "unit study" of the year, which was chosen by both monkeys as the story of the Vikings. We have read several books, translated sentences of runes, made a movie, intereviewed a man who can trace his ancestors to Vikings, handled thousand-year-old coins, worn Viking helmets and felt the heft of chainmail, and memorized years, names, customs, religious beliefs, and accomplishments.

Tonight, I have just finished designing, cutting, and sanding two Viking longswords with my friend Kevin, who happens to have a wonderful wood shop in his garage and had girls, not boys (but is now the grandfather of three boys).

I made sure we took the router and cut the very authentic grooves down the middle of the swords. These grooves were for blood.

And I know that my two monkeys will love these swords. I will give them leather strips to decorate the handles, and perhaps they will paint the blades, or paint Thor's hammer onto the handles. Also, I know that they know what the grooves were for. And I have a certain abiding, yet unsubstantiated faith, that my boys are and will remain nonviolent.

I just hope that someday they will realize that their mother stayed up late making swords for them, for their entertainment and memory of history, and because she loves them. And maybe when I'm in my dotage they will read Sharon Olds and Billy Collins to me.

Annual Review

2008-06-01T10:17:00.001-07:00

Well, I made it. It's been exactly one year since I retired from HP. So I have an urge to capture, to enumerate, what has transpired in my life since then. That's how my brain works (and I come by it naturally - you should see letters I receive from my mother and sister! Lists, lists, enumeration, accomplishment, work).

But it's so hard to put into words. I have opened new doors, and they will continue to be presented to me; we make choices every day.

Do I miss HP? Well, sort of. I miss the people I knew through work, of course. Sometimes I miss program management. It is a skill, and perhaps a talent. But if I were to answer in a word, the word would be, "No".

Would I go back to work in the high-tech world? That is a door that hasn't been presented to me yet.

I spent this past year educating my sons: kindergarten and first grade. They are learning how to read and write and do math in their heads. We are learning about planets and rocks and cultures (we're in Spain as I write this). We play with words and numbers and believe that art is whatever you decide it is.

Life is like that as well. I suppose that is what I've learned.

I have had a few minor feelings of panic. I have new definitions of who I am and to whom I am attached and what I do with a day. Some people are thrilled to hear what I'm doing; I've also been attacked verbally by more than one.

I had a life with money that flowed like a river; now it is a trickle, deftly managed. The water is precious and it sustains life; generally we ignore it and go on about our process of learning.

Thinking on what I need most, I have worked on making new friends, talking to God, giving to my community, and being with my children when they need me most. I no longer have an adult partner, and that is different for me, harder for the children, and makes me appreciate and love my friends even more.

We have a new church, where everyone knows our name and asks how we've been when we were not present. I feel known and loved in that church; it feels as if I have always belonged there but had not reached that door. In July I will go on a mission to Guatemala with people from our new church. I am thrilled that this door will open and take thirteen of us through it.

Still I knit, and design, and teach others this wonderful craft. Next year my designs will probably appear in more publications. The trick is always balance of those things I love to do and the time I've been given.

I continue to breathe deeply of the air from the redwoods, to bake bread, to read out loud, to sing in the car, and to write poetry. I hug and tickle my boys and assure them that it will not break my heart when they no longer want to hold my hand and sit in my lap. We are all growing up in our own ways.

There is a new possibility for my future, a different career than I ever would have thought myself brave enough to attempt. The URL is here: http://www.suchavoice.com/Pages/Talent_FactPage.cfm?TalentID=2822
And you just never know, I could have a completely different story to tell a year from now.

Thank you for checking up on me! You know how to reach me.

Doors Open, Doors Close

2008-04-18T16:54:00.000-07:00

I have a mind that enjoys having a Plan B. Perhaps that was to my advantage as a Program Manager. But when I closed the door to HP behind me last May 31st, I did not truly have a Plan B. I was going to become a homeschool teacher - teaching my own sons in Kindergarten and first grade - without pay.

What I did not know at the time was that I had just embarked on the most important position of my life, where I had the potential to make the biggest impact, for the least amount of gratitude. Not a dime will come my way, not a "Thank you" from one of the kids. That's OK; it's part of the job.

Shortly afterwards, however, I attended a one-day workshop to test the waters in a new sea, a position where I could feasibly work at home AND homeschool the boys. A job that would use existing skills, and where I would not be a Program Manager; a more entrepreneurial job.

Yesterday I took an even bigger step into that sea. I have now been trained, and in four to six weeks I'll be able to show everyone a link to the site where I will be represented.

Yeah, that's all I'm saying for now. Mum's the word. This is a new Plan B.

But in December 2010, my PMP certification expires. That's two more years of homeschooling. I have some time to swim in this new sea. The door to HP may be shut, but to other doors it is still open to me as a PMP-certified Program Manager; other doors will shut in January 2011. I must have enough project management-related educational points to recertify, or my certification will simply lapse. I will never take the PMP qualifying exam again - it was awful, and by all accounts it has become even more heinous since I passed it.

I will open doors and see where they lead. I will dive into waters that were untested before. Life is an adventure, or nothing.

A friend from HP died after being thrown from her horse last week. She was young. But she was with the person and the animal she loved most. May we all be so lucky.

Don't do this at home

2008-04-07T16:28:00.001-07:00

I bake a lot of bread. Loaves and loaves of beautiful bread, generally by hand. If my kitchen is clean and I have a day to myself, I bake bread. If I'm at loose ends, I bake bread. If I'm showing a munchkin how to multiply fractions, we bake bread. If I can't sleep, I bake bread (the case last night).

Ah, so here begins the recipe for disaster: I was up at 3am today baking whole wheat sourdough bread. I am sleep deprived. Yeah, that's it. That explains everything.

Anyway, here is my latest recipe for disaster:

Bake an artisan loaf that calls for making fast steam in the oven directly after "sliding loaves onto bread stone with gentle snapping motion" (which has never worked for me so far). Use tried and true "put pan in bottom of oven and pour water into it", a method I've even witnessed Peter Beckmann use when helping me with a wet Italian loaf one day.

But instead of using the heavy metal pans I generally use, start thinking about how much fun it would be to watch the water bubble in a glass baking dish. I have SEVERAL bread pans - use one of them. Wonder for a second or two if possibly this could end in disaster (this is called foreshadowing - it lures you into the next paragraph). Think aw, hell, I have lots of bread pans.

Instructions:
1. put glass bread pan in the bottom of the oven. Set the oven to 450 degrees.
2. put the loaves onto the baking stone (with great difficulty, since the stone isn't big enough for 3 loaves) when the oven is heated.
3. pour approx. 2 cups of tap water into the baking dish.

The breakage is immediate and spectacular.
To Pyrex's credit, there were no spiky shards or anything that could hurt me laying at the bottom of my oven.
These were probably be my best loaves ever. :-)

Jared Flood's Cobblestone sweater (my version)

2008-02-21T19:14:00.000-08:00

This used up 15 skeins from my stash...it is being modeled by my 5-year-old because its intended recipient is, so far, too shy to model it. It is a men's size XL, which meant at one point I believe I had 330 stitches on my needle. I don't believe this son will ever get that large, but what do I know?

Sample Stitch Scarf

2008-02-07T19:14:00.000-08:00

This is a sampler scarf for a group of wonderful women who wanted to go directly from learning the basics to knitting something fun and unusual. I chose only stitch patterns that look the same on both sides; however, with the yarn joins, it is fairly easy to tell which side is which.

I did not focus on having all of the yarns I used be of the same gauge, which is obvious from my sample. I believe it is important, even if the students are using yarn that will all knit up to the same gauge, to show them how their work could differ if they had chosen different yarn.

Yarn: choose whichever you would prefer to work with. My sampler is in cottons; my class all used worsted weight wool from KnitPicks. For best results, use all yarn of the same gauge (do as I say, not as I do).

The scarf is knitted in 12 blocks, each of a different stitch. Each block should be approximately square.

Cast on the appropriate number of stitches to make your scarf 6" wide (or 8" wide, if you prefer wider).
Block 1: garter stitch
Block 2: 2x2 rib (mult of 4 sts)
Block 3: seed stitch (even number of sts)
Block 4: garter stitch stripes, colors A and B
Block 5: moss stitch (even number of sts)
Block 6: reversible 4-stitch cables (mult of 8 sts)
Block 7: stockinette/reverse stockinette stripes, one color only
Block 8: vertical lace trellis (odd number of sts)
Block 9: reversible traveling (1x1 rib) cables (mult of 8 sts)
Block 10: chevron stitch (mult of 8 sts plus 1)
Block 11: 3x3 rib (mult of 6 sts)
Block 12: double seed stitch (mult of 4 sts)
Cast off. Weave in ends.

These stitch patterns can be found in Barbara Walker's First Treasury, except for the reversible cables.

Seedy OneSkein Hat

2008-01-27T05:45:00.000-08:00

History:
I was gifted one skein of Rowan Big Wool in a knitting gift exchange, brown, and thought I could do something useful with it. Since I wear hats more than scarves, this is what I created.

Materials: 1 skein Rowan Big Wool, or similar yarn (87 yards, super bulky)
Gauge: approx. 8 sts to 4" in seed st on size 15 needles.
Needles: 1 set dp or 1 set dp and one 16" size 15 needles. Skein calls for size 17 needles, but I did not like that gauge for this hat. Please check your gauge.

Instructions:
CO 44 sts with circular or dp needles. Join and work around in seed stitch (K1P1, alternating rows with P1K1) until work is approximately 2.5".
Turn row: Knit 1 row. This creates a turning ridge for the brim.
Cont in seed st until work is 6.25" total.
Decreases:
Dec 2 sts at each of 4 points around the hat. This helps keep the pattern intact:
*(K1, P1) 3 times, K2tog, K1, P2tog,
(P1,K1) 3 times, P2tog, P1, K2tog,
rep from * to end. Total: 36 sts.
Work another row in seed st.
Work another dec row, along the same lines as earlier. Total: 28 sts. Move to dp needles here if you were using circulars.
Work another row in seed st.
Cont this decrease pattern (it may feel like the stitches are very funky and this will never look right, but persevere) until 12 sts remain. Try it on your head. If fit is good, break yarn off at about 8", pull through the remaining sts, and bring end to inside.

If fit isn't good, continue in seed st until it feels good. My hat is 10" long overall.

Decoration:
Take remaining yarn and create a 3-stitch i-cord until you run out of yarn or it is the length you desire. Pull the end through the last 3 sts. Wrap this i-cord into a decorative doodad for the top of your hat (mine is like two lazy 8's) and attach it using the end inside the hat and the end of the i-cord. Weave in ends.

Wear it in good health. Don't lay it down and forget it in an arboretum like I did. But trust that if you do, some kind soul will realize that this is a precious handknit, and will return it to the front desk. :-)

I will post better photos of this, I swear. The sun is not out right now and I wanted to have a photo available.

Annual Knitting Retreat: an Adventure!

2008-01-07T05:59:00.000-08:00

My group goes to a wonderful place in the Santa Cruz Mountains every year for a retreat. It begins on Friday afternoon and ends Sunday around noon. This year was a wild ride!

I have ten acres in that area, so I'm comfortable with the driving now - even in rain - but we were in the throes of a wild storm that had just blown into California and promised to dump 6-10 inches of rain in that area in one swell foop. Neither of us had 4wd on our little cars (and my truck is already over the hill), so Diana volunteered to drive and I rode shotgun. She filled up her tank (an excellent move) and we headed out around 2pm, right after a small break in the downpour. We had both missed the "yarn crawl" that began in Sunnyvale because of the downpour and the beginnings of blocked roads around the Bay Area.

The first barrier was at Highway 17, just at the last Los Gatos exit. The CHP, who was blocking both lanes with his vehicle, was yelling at everyone to "TAKE HIGHWAY 9!" (Diana yelled back, "Is 9 OPEN?", and he did not reply) which we happily did, although we were surprised to see everyone ELSE turning left into Los Gatos. We were being DIVERTED, but nobody else was diverting. Diana and I never figured this out, although we had theories.
(N.B.: Diana is a "reformed" astronomer - she formerly taught college astronomy - and I'm a "reformed" program manager and coder, so between the two of us we have some pretty good analytical and problem management skills.)

We got onto Highway 9 and headed for our destination, soon to be stopped by barrier #2: mud slide on Highway 9. We waited perhaps 1/2 hour for this to clear. There was a digger not far in front of us, clearing the slide (although we couldn't see it). We knitted and chatted. We had wine, fruit and chocolates in our car, pounds of knitting wool and plenty of clothes and even sleeping bags and blankets, and I always carry a pocket knife. We wouldn't starve (although water other than what was dumping on our car might have been helpful), we wouldn't freeze, and my Verizon wireless service seemed to work pretty well (but her iPhone didn't). Eventually the line of cars was allowed to snake through the rubble. The water building in the streams beside Hwy 9 were becoming ENORMOUS, and we were beginning to see logs floating down and erosion of the highway surface.

We snaked our way up Hwy 9 to find a sign at what is essentially the summit, posted a bit off the road and to the right, that said, "Road Closed". The guy in front of us ran it. There were no cars coming the other way, toward us. There was no fire truck or CHP there. We decided to go for it.

A couple of miles later we ran into barrier #3: down power lines on Highway 9. There were perhaps 10 vehicles in the queue with us, all passing on information as it came. I love being around people in emergencies, they are all so considerate and helpful. We knitted and chatted and I read poetry to Diana (Billy Collins and Sharon Olds, my favorites). Eventually the word spread that it would become passable in about 15 minutes. Better than turning around, we both agreed. We waited.

We now drove over 9 to enter our destination "the back way" from what we're accustomed to. We saw a lot of PG&E, fire trucks, and CalTrans vehicles in action. Diana was now in hot denial as we came around every curve and saw blinking lights of some sort: "That is NOT an emergency vehicle", she would say, or, "That is NOT blocking our side of the road" (which was more likely).

At approximately 5:15pm we arrived in Ben Lomond, to the road our retreat resides on, and I was hooting and cheering. We did it! We made it! We were so excited.

Barrier #4 appears in front of us: a fire truck, BLOCKING THE ROAD THAT OUR RETREAT IS ON. This was a bit much for me, but Diana gathered information: there's a tree down on the high voltage wires up ahead, no we can't drive under it, no we are not allowed to WALK under it (we are about 1/2 mile from our retreat lodge), they don't know when PG&E will get here, this is not top priority for them, yes there is another way to get to this road, it's convoluted but here it is.

We turned around, I called the retreat managers who were holed up on their piece of mountain and did not have updated information or power (they said they had started the generator for the main lodge), and we told them we were coming around the back way. They confirmed the firefighter's directions. They agreed to talk us in if need be. We never knew how much cell phone coverage we would have, but this was ONE time when I was grateful for cell phones.

We had to go back through Ben Lomond and Boulder Creek, and the firemen had told us that the Boulder Creek fire department would have more up-to-date information. We saw a whole gang of Ben Lomond firefighters gathered in front of the station when we left, chatting and having a Good Old Time.

We arrived in Boulder Creek and eventually found the fire station: it was locked up tight with nobody inside. We banged on doors. Nothing. Dang.

There was a small store across the street. We entered and began to ask around about getting to our destination the back way. They pointed at the guy behind the sandwich counter, who was slowly and methodically making a sandwich. He looked like a local, like someone who has lived in those mountains many years. He finally asked us what we needed, and we told him the directions we had been given by the firefighters, and he said yes, that's right. The signs may be blown down, or they may be on opposite sides of the road, or there might not be a sign, or there may be blockages or trees down. This all makes sense to me because I have land in those mountains. Diana thought he was spewing Gloom and Doom, but that's just the way things are up there. We got back in the car and began down our new path: left, left, left, then through the back end of another retreat property, then into the fire road that will lead to our retreat house. It is now approximately 5:45pm. This was an adventure!

The directions were good, the signage was good (considering the circumstances), it was VERY dark by now and the rain had a foggy quality so that Diana's high beams were not very helpful. We crept along fairly slowly, cheering when we would see a vehicle coming in the other direction (That means there is someone UP there! No blockages! Diana would say), and Diana began to hum the tune from "Peter and the Wolf". Eventually our directions took us up a steep grade on a road that was one lane at best. The dark here is a teeny advantage, because at least we would know if someone was coming toward us. There was nobody.

I noted that we didn't seem to have anyone following us, and there had been nobody from our group behind us in the queue at the top of Hwy 9. There was a distinct chance that nobody from our group was behind us. Whatever doors (roads) had opened up for the people in our event, we were possibly the last to pass.

We ended up at last, around 6:30, in the other retreat center, wandering around trying to find the "wooden gate" that enters the back of our retreat. This is where the directions from our retreat directors had become VERY fuzzy, and we were literally poking around in the dark (and also going in circles) trying to find a fire road. The director promised he would try to meet us at the gate. Woo hoo! We reached it! An old wooden gate that hasn't been used in God knows how long. I pushed open the right half, Diana wanted the other half open as well, and when I pushed it, it fell down. I laughed, it was such a fun punctuation mark to this evening. It was 6:40pm, and we had left Willow Glen at 2pm.

We arrived in the main lodge to find only one other car (two people) had made it (they had driven right up the road before the fire truck had arrived, under the redwood that was resting on the high voltage line), plus our cook Wendy (who had arrived very early in the day), who had a huge amount of a scrumptious dinner for people who would never arrive that night.

None of the remaining 24 people arrived Friday night. Many arrived the next day, after being talked through the path to the fire road entrance. There was only generator power, in the main lodge, all weekend. What an adventure!

Good thing I know how to knit in the dark. It was a crucial skill this weekend.

Lord what fools these mortals be!

2007-12-01T15:50:00.000-08:00

Yes, if I were going to be really righteous about it, I'd have them memorize Bible verses. But I was baptized and confirmed Lutheran, and I was tortured by having to memorize dozens of Bible verses, parts of the church, and all the books of the Bible before I was allowed to be confirmed into the church. Plus, Ben has already been through a year of memorizing Bible verses.

So I decided to go with literature. Their first phrase to memorize being Puck's insight from A Midsummer Night's Dream. They both had it memorized in 2 days. I will probably continue with quite a bit of Shakespeare before I move on to famous sayings of our founding fathers, Sir Winston Churchill, and Mae West.

Speaking of fools, I have had a very Things are Broken kind of week, where the Blue Fairy tries her hand at various home maintenance tasks. I have a bathroom completely disassembled and am patching sheetrock, sanding subfloor, and a lovely new white pedestal sink, latex paint the color of "puppy paws", and vinyl flooring await me (you should have caught the comment from the guy in the flooring store when I started trying to drag out his rolls of remnants... "OK, I see we have an independent woman here who is used to doing things her way... maybe I can help..." as if I was going to wait for him to step up to bat); yesterday one of the circuit breakers from this house, circa 1956, MELTED DOWN in spectacular fashion (thank God it didn't take out any of its neighboring breakers, or melt the whole box down) and I scoured Santa Clara County for the appropriate replacement (I've decided the shop that finally had the part, called something like Bill's Circuit Breakers, should be renamed Shorthair Parts, because that's what they have you by if you need one of these); and as I write, I have a disassembled clothes dryer with an "idler" that is, by all human standards, completely idle. The drum won't turn without it. Perhaps it has retired (to some desert island - certainly not the version of retirement I am currently undergoing).

And so it goes. I became a yogi to endure frustrating events without blowing my own head fuses. Through all, I continue to breathe. And of course, I bake bread.

Ooeys and Trogs

2007-11-15T15:30:00.000-08:00

The heir apparent wasn't catching on to the idea of carrying in math. I showed him on paper, I put coins in piles, he got that cloudy look (with which I'm quite familiar, as I'm told I exhibit the same symptoms when people talk bits and bites and router configurations to me. I was at one point a VB programmer, but that was purely accidental and geek is not one of my natural languages), he scratched at his eyes, he turned away and found something else to do. Something interesting.

OK. There must be another way.

So I lay in bed one morning at 0400 hours (I'm a yogi, you would think by now I would have learned how to stop that monkey in my head) and it dawned on me: I have boys. I need monsters and violence.

Once upon a time, there were little red monsters called Ooeys. There were also larger orange monsters called Trogs. And there were much bigger, yellow monsters called Hawgs.
The Ooeys liked to get into groups and play. When they got into a large group and there were at least 10 of them, they were compelled to form a circle, run at the center, and BAM! the ten Ooeys would become one Trog. They would then join the Trogs group. If there had been more than 10 Ooeys, the others had to remain Ooeys until there were at least ten, then the circle formed again...

Similarly, when 10 Trogs got together, they always formed into a circle, then ran at the center as one and WHAM! the ten Trogs would become one Hawg. The Hawg joined the Hawgs group. Any remaining Trogs had to stay Trogs until there was a crowd of at least 10.

This worked. No fussing, no complaining, no faraway look, and pretty good results the first time he carried ones into the tens column.

When Ben can complete a page of any two-digit numbers being added to any other two-digit numbers, his reward is a round of golf at Golfland. His success rate must be at least 80%. He is getting close. I believe that carrying is a pretty big milestone for a first grader, so we have a special goal established for this.

Look for us on the links!

I am so grateful for a brain that can come up with alternatives, and for such wonderful children.

Tooth Fairy Time

2007-10-19T18:39:00.000-07:00

Ben (the heir apparent) will be seven in the end of March. Today I yanked his first baby tooth, and I warned him: he's my first child, I haven't done this before. We had several tries (it was an itty bitty tooth and really hard to get a good grip on), but finally I just used the brute force method, and out it came.

I believe this is a rite of passage for both of us. I feel so adult! And he's so excited about having the tooth fairy bring him money in exchange for his tooth tonight. What a wonderful time of life.

Motherhood and the Weapons of War

2007-10-19T18:24:00.001-07:00

Sunday I made two shields. One was a hexagon, the other closer to a circle, with nice woven straps for the hand or arm, stapled in place. Tools: chop saw, staple gun, hammer, scissors.

Today I helped paint a toy tank, the same tank I glued together. It had three sets of wooden wheels and a turret at the top that spins, with a long snout coming out to fire at the enemy.

And I wonder if, in this progression, I will soon be capturing radioactive isotopes. I know there are instructions available in the public domain for making bombs.

I could have had girls. It's all a crap shoot.

Eternity and the Cat

2007-10-19T18:21:00.000-07:00

I love this kitty and I want him to live forever, he says,

glistening tears in his big brown eyes, those eyes I spent

hours gazing at when he was an infant, eyes I wanted to dive into,

the eyes of my last child, my easiest child, the child I will not worry about.

How to understand a lifespan when you are five?

This cat is young now, only two, and he has known us for nearly a year.

I think of the concept of eternity, and how would you capture a life?

In its youth? Then it will not mellow over time, will not reach that comfortable place.

In its prime? Then it will miss the energy of youth, and so much of what was to come.

In its old age? Surely if eternity is to be spent in old age, a gaze will always be cast back

upon the days when life was faster, urges were stronger, when there were fights to be

had with the other Toms, when life and adventure lay ahead.

Here I am in midlife, one foot on each side of the apex, wondering what comes next,

and not yet faced with the reckoning of old age. I think again on this cat

and his amazing patience, his affability, his endurance; always wanting to be where the

children are, where the action is, and tolerant nearly to a fault. And I realize that for him,

it does not matter – eternity for this creature could be a snapshot taken at any point in his

life and the child would be happy, the cat would be happy. Eternity would hold no regrets.

And I wonder how I could possibly live to have the same

said of me.

Written 17 Oct 07

Dedicated to Tanner Michael Bennett and Atticus, the most perfect cat

Designs so far

2007-09-14T06:55:00.000-07:00

I have four designs to submit to Knitty next month, and if they are not accepted I will show them here. They are: a peacock shawl (100% alpaca, lots of colors, quite pretty really), alpaca gauntlets with angora trim, a fulled alpaca Fibonacci stripe bag, and yoga socks. Most of these designs arose from my desire to eliminate some partial skeins of alpaca from my stash. It's gone!

Aleve is my friend.

2007-08-14T09:09:00.000-07:00

My legs are covered with bruises. I counted at least 40 on each leg. At least I face my assailant: they are all on my ventral side except for one large one on my derrière.

Chipping hundreds of trees and thousands of tree branches is hard but rewarding work. There is a lot more light at Meadowood now, and room for another - dare I say? - small orchard. I'm thinking of fruits AND nuts this time. I'm envisioning a large macadamia tree, and some rare fruits that will be a taste treat at a Farmer's Market someday.

And I have perhaps seven cords of wood that I could sell. First I need to stack it into the neat little piles, 4 x 4 x 8, and it needs to cure a while. But I'm not selling the madrone wood - it's wonderful for fires and cooking. We didn't take down many madrones, but there was one large one that had fallen, and several that had died. PERSONALLY, although they're lovely, I'm not that crazy about madrones because in a bad storm the large ones can go down VERY unpredictably, but everyone I know thinks they're just fabulous. One of the largest ones on the property went down one night after weeks of rain, it sits there still while I contemplate what I might be able to do with it (floor planks?), and I'll never forget the sound it made when it fell, taking out two redwoods in its path. Its roots are LAME for a tree that big, reminiscent of a palm tree, why is that?

My right wrist is damaged from two days of handling my chainsaw (which has a new chain - the man at the Aptos Tool Crib was kind enough to show me EXACTLY how to replace it - and cuts beautifully). So I'm on the injured reserve list now.

I put the roof on the shower (well, it's not perfect because by then my right wrist hurt), and started the new sweater. I avoided using either the chainsaw OR the chipper without another person present. Because if you scream in the middle of the forest and there's nobody to hear you.... you don't make a sound. No philosophizing required.

I slept on the dance floor every night, and there were always shooting stars - even one morning after dawn, I saw a very large, bright one flash across the eastern sky. It was breathtaking - I've never seen one in the morning before.

My husband and boys returned from their family reunion, dirty and rested. The kids act like small, unruly animals after being with their pack of cousins. But they are SAFE. I am relieved and grateful.

While I was gone I received the results of the soil tests. Sunnyvale soil contains too much salt (I already knew this - this house is too close to the baylands to be unscathed - but now I have it and the requisite amendments on paper) and needs iron; Meadowood, surprisingly, is lacking in some trace elements and iron. Perhaps today the Demolition Team and I will make it to the store to buy some amendments.

A week to myself

2007-08-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

What would you do with a week all to yourself?

That is what I have once per year, when my husband takes the kids to his annual family reunion in Pend Oreille, Idaho. I think I attended this for about 7 years, but honestly I'd rather be working at Meadowood in August if I have one free week.

I drove them to the airport yesterday afternoon. I have until the 12th at 1:30pm.

So I spent a short time at Home Depot yesterday, where a very helpful woman loaded me up with the appropriate solvent and gloves to take about 30 years of adhesives off the beautiful tongue-in-groove oak in the foyer in the Sunnyvale house (I removed the 30+ year old tiles in December; the rest of the job has awaited me). I then spent 3-1/2 hours applying solvent, waiting, scraping, mopping, and ultimately using a 1/2" chisel to take off the layers of goo. My right hand was practically shaking when I was done (I tried switching hands, but alas I am surely right dominant, and tended to divot the oak when using my left), but the floor is ready for The Sander (which I will have to borrow from my neighbor in Aptos).

Last night I met a friend at a restaurant, which is the only way I can stop myself from becoming a perfectionist and removing every visible scrap of glue and trashing my wrist for the next week. She will come over and talk to Atticus, our beautiful, social white cat, while I'm gone.

This morning I did my breathing and a little yoga to help unstick my shoulders after last night's scraping orgy, made a huge batch of chai, watered the front yard and baby plants (I'm accumulating plants awaiting a place to live until I get my soil test results back from Timberleaf labs - which should be in another week or so - as I know I need amendments, but don't know which ones, both in Sunnyvale and at Meadowood). I now have a THREE-POUND LOAF of bread on the rise - one of those spiteful recipes that shows a beautiful, round, artisan loaf, and midway through the recipe has the statement, "resist the urge to add more flour". This means that it is a STICKY, GOOEY MESS all over my hands, implements and board, and I once would be near tears when faced with this. But since yoga and since knowing and baking bread with Peter Beckman, I now simply ask, "What would Peter do?" Which drove me to dumping the whole sticky mess into the KitchenAid mixer and adding as much flour as needed to get it to start showing signs of stringy bonds. I will not be undone by a lump of bread dough.

I have promised to read fairy stories to three little neighbor girls while I'm there, so must pack all my fairy gear. I will include a photo of my fairyness when I get the chance to download.

Now I need to figure out how to get my black lab (Sadie), clothes for a week, food for a week, knitting projects, books on homeschooling, fairy wings (four feet long), and fairy dress into my little blue Mazda Protege hatchback (it's small - my cars get 25mpg or I don't buy them). Something will have to stay. Since I can't leave Sadie here (she would be so sad and so hot) and she takes up the entire hatchback, it will be an exercise in stuffing. I suspect it will be the food (they DO sell food in Aptos, after all). Of course, I'll bring my chai and bread :-).

Oh, my plans, yes, I nearly forgot: tree work. A friend who is a professional tree man will be walking the property with me on Monday to show me which trees I'll need to thin; I'll be hiring a handyman for three days to help me buck up fallen trees on the property (I think there were seven at last count); one day a friend and I will be installing gates for the citrus garden, stone fruit garden, and vineyard; I will fertilize all of my baby citrus trees; and clear fairy circles. If I get half the chance, I'll finish the new roof on the outdoor shower (I just need to cut all the roof braces and nail up the currogated, transparent sheeting). I will do yoga every day to help my shoulders out. I will begin a beautiful new shawl design, which I now have the beads for. I might start on a man's sweater. I'll read fairy stories to little girls. I'll load up the bookshelves with paper and homeschool books. I will borrow showers from friends, and sleep every night on the dance floor.

And I promise to SIP my wine :-).

Distilled: essence of Lisa

2007-07-19T19:56:00.000-07:00

More than four weeks of intensive yoga teacher training, practicums, and classes.
I have been stretched, aligned, superoxygenated, and sweated down to my essential self.
In the process, I lost 11 pounds. I am back to fighting weight, pre-Ben weight.
Not that this was intended, mind you. I suspect that most of us lost weight.

There is something strange and indescribable about the process of becoming a yogi. The real intent of yoga is breath control, meditation, and a special kind of surrender: a calmer state, certainly an alpha-wave state. In that state, it appears that one requires less food.

That's the best way I can describe it. Words fail me, my culture fails me in describing this phenomenon. Perhaps the oxygenated system requires less fuel. Perhaps slowing down and letting go of stressors produces a body that requires less food. I just don't know.

All I know is, it's a good thing, it would help so many people, and I want to share it with others. I'm hoping to specialize in teaching it to seniors, but children are also an opportunity, and private lessons with people who know that their bodies need help. It's a bit like AA, I think, in that you need to recognize the need for it before you're ready for the healing.

Anyway, my initial training is done. I now need to help an existing teacher in a dozen classes (sort of like an internship), then I'll be qualified to teach. I'm hoping to teach a class at the Senior Center in the fall. We shall see where this goes. I'm on a new path.

Baling hay

2007-07-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

Well, the time has come. Tomorrow I fly to Colorado to meet the intrepid soul who inherited my job (and more) when I left HP. Laura says she'll teach me how to use her tractor and bale hay. I knew those cowboy boots would come in useful someday. She says I can ride her horse EVERY DAY if I like. Woo hoo!

Yesterday we had another apparently successful (the numbers aren't tallied yet) Friends of the Sunnyvale Library booksale; I got there at 7am to help set up, then had to run off to Santa Cruz at 11-ish for the day's teacher training. In the short period I had to graze the booksale, I *DID* manage to pick up lots of homeschool books, presents for the boys, and some books for myself.

Yoga teacher training has been going well, although I am bone tired some nights, and I nearly fell asleep on 101 the other night.

Last night when I arrived at the cabin, I disturbed the local fauna's imminent destruction of more peach limbs from my only highly productive fruit tree. You should see the barricade I created! Very rustic, but hopefully effective.

It was a beautiful night to sleep beneath the stars, as usual.

Nearly three weeks...

2007-06-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

Things have been a bit hectic.

First day, the boys and I painted the front fence, as per my List. Wow, what an experience! I probably have the first 4-year-old with white hair. Oh, yeah, it washes out.
Second day, I drove up to Mendocino County to take a day tour of the Ecology Action gardens in Willits. I am considering becoming certified so that I can teach others how to do this intensive method of organic gardening. There is a 3-day course in October.
By June 15th, I had painted the master bathroom, with the help of a hired hand (no pun intended). So much for two major things on my Master List.
On the 12th, I also signed up for the month-long intensive yoga training. It started last Friday, and is every day, in Capitola/Santa Cruz. So I've been staying at Meadowood and sleeping on the dance floor (for the uninitiated, when Mike and I had our wedding reception in May of 1999, he had built a raised "dance floor" of plywood for the event. A friend had suggested that we keep it even after the event, which to date has been a great piece of advice. I sleep on the dance floor with a portable mattress, sleeping bag, and optional bug netting nearly every month of the year). I hope to specialize in teaching seniors and children this fun, flowing form of yoga. It has done such wonderful things for me in the past 3-1/2 years, and with the right instruction I think it has something for nearly everyone.

By sometime this summer I should be a certified Kali Ray yoga instructor, and by next year I might be an organic garden instructor. In the fall my next two knitting classes begin (Cables and Intermediate I). Which all points to the fact that I truly enjoy teaching.

Last Tuesday I checked what felt like a small truckload of books out of the library on the topic of homeschooling, and Wednesday I was able to attend a park date with the local Memorial Park Homeschoolers group, nice women all. I feel they were tremendously brave to have ALL, to a WOMAN, declared their own homeschool (they're not in any way connected to the state school system).

So in the past few days I've learned a bit of Sanskrit (beautiful characters), a lot of history behind yoga, and a great deal about breath control. After class, in the cabin, I've also been plowing through all of the homeschool books and wondering if I'm brave enough. You never know. Maybe I'll declare our home a homeschool and bypass the state. The jury is out on that one.

I came home today to spend some time with the boys, do some laundry, and log in. We went to the library and checked out and turned in books; posted posters around town for the upcoming Friends book sale; stopped by Jamba Juice for a treat; and went to the local park. (Can small boys get tired of being around their own mother? Don't know. Plan to find out.)

My gold HP Retiree badge had arrived while I was gone this week. Big smile for that one! I had always coveted those things, and this one has my name all over it!

Two more days of work

2007-05-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

I have two more days of working at HP, which will include finishing up one project, boxing up my stuff (which I detest, it feels like ripping roots out), wiping my hard disk and sending my laptop back to my manager. Someone please keep me from crying tomorrow.

At least we stopped at the library after dinner tonight, to turn in last month's stack of books and to schlep more home. I must have checked out a dozen books on home schooling. Maybe that will keep me from breaking down in the next two days.

I sent out my "hasta luego amigos" message to dozens of friends from HP today. At least I managed that without blubbering.

Friends of the Library

2007-05-10T15:21:00.000-07:00

I'm a "Friend" of the Sunnyvale Library. I help sort books, and help with booksales. Books are my friends (I think I learned that in 3rd grade). I get more for myself than I can plow through in my allocated free time, and our boys have WAY too many books (if that is possible).

I was looking for a new non-profit to help out after Second in Command was born, as I could no longer teach English as a Second Language because it simply took too much of my mommy time away. It was hard enough after the Heir Apparent was born, but with two, I couldn't slice the time out any more. And the good news is, now that they're a bit older, they come to all the sales, love to pick out books, help me stock the table at the library, and are "regulars" in the library. We sort through their books twice each year and give the ones they don't like any more back to the library as a donation. This seems pretty wonderful to me in the Big Scheme of Things, and I hope they will continue as they grow older to appreciate giving back to the community.

How I got involved with the California Rare Fruit Growers

2007-05-10T15:13:00.000-07:00

I've been with the California Rare Fruit Growers (CRFG), Santa Clara Valley Chapter, for possibly 10 years now (I simply don't remember). I am a Certified Master Gardener prodigal (didn't complete my required community hours - had to work!) who bought beautiful land in the Santa Cruz Mountains (named it Meadowood) who needed to know what kinds of fruit trees would grow there, and thus (I'll always blame Sini for this) I was referred to the CRFG group.

Now, I suspect EVERY group has its fanatics, but I have now been on a rescue mission to a San Diego white sapote orchard, have helped to develop new strains of peaches and nectarines, have one apple tree with about 30 different varieties grafted to it, and have no less than 60 rare fruit trees at Meadowood. And I know a select group of people who know how to find practically any kind of rare fruit you could want to grow, and a couple who know how to graft ANYTHING, and with high success rates.

Once I have completed my inventory, I'll post it here. But in summary, I have white sapote, avocado, plum, peach, nectarine, fig, pear, apple, grape, persimmon, apricot, several kinds of citrus, and cherry trees either at Meadowood or here in Sunnyvale, many of them not yet fruiting. One day they will all be of bearing age, and it will be Catie, bar the door.

The Demolition Crew

2007-05-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

We have two munchkins: miniature humans who go running through the house deconstructing. I call them to Demolition Crew. They both carry a Y chromosome, no mea culpa, and are thus known as Boys. The Second in Command was born very near Halloween, 2002, and the Heir Apparent was born at the end of March, 2001. They're both great kids, and of course very different. Today they weigh EXACTLY the same, and the Second in Command trails his brother by about 3/4" in height. One day (not far from now, by my predictions) he will be larger and taller than HA. This is why we have attempted to teach the Heir Apparent how to use WORDS to deal with his brother. "Because one day he'll sit on your head", I tell him. This only infuriates him further. So we wait for the day and make sure there aren't any truly dangerous weapons in the house.

I am a BIG, BIG fan of the Ooey Gooey lady, Lisa Murphy. I could be accused of hero worship here, she is VERY child- and play-centered, and has a wonderful story to tell. Her web site is www.ooeygooey.com, check it out. I think there's a photo of my Demolition Crew on her site somewhere. I've attended her summer sessions the past two years.

And now I'm considering homeschooling. I'm considering it very seriously. I'm looking for contacts who have done this with small Y-bearing creatures. Because I will be leaving the workforce at the end of the month (May 2007) and do not need to return. And I like teaching them. And they seem to enjoy learning from and with me. So it may be a win-win for all (so much for those knitting books running around in my head). I will continue to post about my search for the solution that works for us. There are SO many resources out there, it's a bit scary.

I always thought homeschooling was the purview of extremists, people who didn't want the hoi polloi touching their children, but I attended a lecture last week and found three pretty mainstream parents talking about homeschooling, with both young kids and teenagers. I had no idea. The movement is huge. I learn new stuff all the time. I am proven wrong all the time. This will not change (especially with the munchkins in my life not yet reaching teenagerhood). I think I'll be particularly wrong when they're teenagers. We shall see.

2007-05-10T12:49:00.000-07:00

My main desire here is to capture knitting designs and ideas that go running rampantly through my head. Feel free to comment... and vote... on which ones may end up in books.