The One I Should Have Written a Long Time Ago

(Alternate title: Dear Elsa)

Every morning since August 26, 2016 I get out of bed and put on my mask of pretense and presence. I smile (sometimes, although frankly that’s usually a hell of a lot of work and I really should be given an exemption). I go about my business, engage in the little chores that make up daily life. Some days I am more successful at this than others. Underneath that mask…

Now, if this was a television commercial this is where I would announce that I need a very expensive medication for my obscure orphan disease, but life is not television and this is not a commercial.

I mostly wish to ever loving fuck it was.

In August of 2016 I learned about a phenomenon called “parental estrangement” when my adult daughter stopped speaking to me. This is what it is called, I am reliably assured by my mental health professional, when a person’s adult child, for no apparent reason, stops talking to them. After a fair amount of research (because I live for that kind of thing, right?) I have determined that it’s occurring more and more frequently today (meaning millennials) than ever before. After a fair amount of therapy, I have determined that this isn’t “my fault”, I was not a “bad mother” and I didn’t “cause” this. The guilt, let me tell you, is overwhelming at first. 

I exist, ever since, in a sort of twilight space. She is not dead. She just isn’t here. Every day, every hour, almost every minute there is an awareness of her. 

“If you see her, slap her in the head for me.”

“If you see her, please ask her to call.”

“If you see her…don’t say anything because you will scare her further into her rabbit hole and then there will be no way back and I will never see her or hear from her again and then I will, absolutely and without hesitation, die.”

Oh wait. 

No I won’t. Because I am still alive now and I haven’t heard from her in nearly four years, so clearly I won’t die.

I will just think I will. Which I already do. So yeah.

Just slap her in the head. And tell her to call.

Like I said, every minute of every hour of every day. Endless and relentless. There would be only one thing worse than this. And I hope “this” has some remission before “that” happens. 

My mother used to have these nightmares about me and she would tell me about them in glowing detail and I can remember thinking “Jesus this woman is nuts. I mean, really. I am a grown adult and perfectly safe, and nothing is wrong and she needs to just chill.”

I have greater appreciation for my mother since August 26, 2016. 

The reasons for this estrangement are still unclear, which I am reliably assured is not at all uncommon. There are whole online support groups dedicated to parental estrangement. Sometimes I read posts from other mothers and I think “Hell, I wouldn’t call you either. You’re fucking nuts.” Then I remember. That’s a mother. Nuts or not, that’s a mother. And her little selfish shit of a child should give her ONE fucking call, use their fucking words, and STOP TORMENTING THAT CRAZY WOMAN. I mean she’s already nuts. That kid is gonna push her over the edge!

I haven’t posted this here for a bunch of reasons. I suspect my utter failure to respect my daughter’s privacy at a very sensitive time played into her decision to flake. Now, to me this is not an unforgivable offense, but to her…well. I get it now. I would have yelled at my mother and called her onto the carpet. My daughter is not me, and she will not do that. Instead? Retreat within. Think…armadillo. Turtle. Hedgehog.

But at this point, it’s been almost four years, I am silently being chewed up from inside with not knowing, I need to get this out, and therefore…if you see her, please slap her in the head for me. And tell her to call her mother.

This delightful (she said with snark) situation has put me in an awkward position on so many levels, especially here at home. First, it has utterly destroyed any real creative energy. Initially I wasn’t sure if this was just the whole death of my parents and moving around the country all at the same time thing, or if it was the absent kid thing. I mean, everything is a struggle. Writing, quilting, knitting. I even decided to buy myself some watercolors hoping the life would come back into my brain with a different medium. It has not. Second, it has caused me to hate people with children, children, mothers, and anyone who talks about the privacy of adult children. I have decided that adult children are not entitled to privacy. They are entitled to send mother’s day cards, birthdays gifts, and call at least once a week, but I would settle for once a month. And that is ALL they are entitled to. Third, there’s the thing that comes into a space when people ask how your kid is and you have to make all these choices. Do I tell the truth? Do I lie and quickly change the subject? “Oh, she’s doing great! How’s *fill in the blank with any other topic*?” Do I lie outright and make something up? “Oh, her? She’s sailing the world on a small boat and hopes to become the first woman to discover the undiscovered continent that was lost while simultaneously garnering accolades and a DPhil from Oxford in English Literature. And her hobbies include rock-climbing, youth advocacy, and injustice activism.” 

I go with the first. My answers to the inevitable questions are as short and as calm as they can be. The number of shocked and astonished people is reassuring. Clearly, I am not the only person who thought I was the last person this could happen to.   

Then there is the fourth level - the horse on the dining room table in some settings, or the one some people just bluntly drag into the center of the floor and begin flogging: The gigantic million dollar “Why?”. This one may be my favorite. It’s followed by a fairly predictable host of responses from the individual doing the asking. 1.) “WELL YOU NEED TO GO AFTER HER AND MAKE HER STOP. THIS IS RIDICULOUS.” 2.)  “What happened? What did you do? Where is she? What is she doing? That must be awful. How do you manage? I would die. Oh my God. What happened??”. 3.) (this is my favorite!) “Well. Just LET ME TELL YOU. If MY daughter did this to ME I would NOT tolerate it! I simply would not. I absolutely would go after her and MAKE her talk to me. I would call the National Guard. The police. I would demand satisfaction!”

My response to this (internally) is as follows: Well good on you, nutter. Have fun with that. She’s an adult. But you go. You do you. Let me know how that works out for you. I’ll testify at your stalking hearing, promise. 

Well. Just let me tell you this while I am thinking of it. I have aged faster than a sitting president. That “what should I do, am I doing the wrong thing? Am I doing the right thing? Should I do anything? Should I do nothing?” thing? Holy shit. Awful. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Gray, wrinkles, the works. I should have been brunette into my 60’s like my mother. Not gonna happen, friends. Not gonna happen. 

Holidays: “Seriously? You want me to show up and smile and nod and act like life is all fine when inside I am slowing being eaten up by this caustic mix of maternal guilt and anger?”

Other people’s family events to which I am generously invited: “You want me to sit here and watch you and your kids smile and laugh and make dinner and throw bags of salt into my bleeding wounds while I sit over here and try not to throw up or cry?”

My own family’s events: “Just no.”

I have hesitated to write this for nearly four years for a host of reasons. Not wanting to out the kid. Embarrassment. Reluctance to answer all the questions from all the people I my life who still do not know. 

But fuck it. If this is the new normal, then it is the new normal. And therefore it is a part of my existence and experience that needs to be written down, because that it what I do. And not writing it down hasn’t done me any good at all. In fact it’s chewed me up so badly I am a veritable hamburger of emotions and thoughts most of the time. 

Now do me a favor? Go call your mother. Even just a text will do. Bonus points if you use a full sentence. And if you see my kid? Slap her in the head (I mean not really, don’t get arrested or anything, you can just use your eyes to do this if you are a mother, you have that skill) and tell her to call. 

(my)Passion

I think I was born hippie. Maybe it was the time (quite likely). Maybe it was the place (less likely).

When we moved here I thought I "knew" so much about race and inequality - and I was so wrong. It's much worse than I thought, and so deeply in us. We are so isolated in the north and surrounded by unrelenting whiteness, and so those of us who don't consider ourselves racist can pretend it's a thing somewhere, but after all rational people aren't like that and MOST people aren't like that. Right? And the problems in our own schools and lower income communities are simply about density and no jobs or...something. Right? Then you get here and the blinders get all ripped off - and this isn't even the deep south - and suddenly you're like "WHO ARE THESE HUMANS AND WHO THINKS LIKE THAT?" Then you dig deeper and discover the deeply entrenched social justice issues that affect everything from voting rights to schools - all aimed at keeping a group down, and keeping people riled up against one another - and...it's such a tangled mess. I'm living in a state with voting districts that are shaped like snakes and octopi. I am living in a state that's probably about to enact voter ID laws that will further marginalize the have-nots, regardless of skin color. I live in a state where a man can smoke a bowl, get out of his truck, and get killed; standing while black. I am looking to move back to a state that is deeply racist and pretends it isn't, which is super easy when your towns are 99.3% WHITE.

Then there's the planet. Poor thing. We get given this amazing gift and what do we do? Rape the ever loving crap out of it in a short-sighted gluttonous assault. We suddenly "need" meat three meals a day (not including snacks!) which is so destructive to the environment on so many levels from water use to land use for commodity feed crops that could be growing plant-based foods with 1/10th the water and land waste and we would be PERFECTLY HEALTHY - hell, we would be HEALTHIER!! But we continue to kill ourselves and the planet and the powers that be come up with new ways to compensate for those of us leaving the meat and dairy markets by touting Keto or Paleo as the new cure-all when the science clearly shows the exact opposite is true...the organism has subsisted on the planet for millennia with meat as a side dish, not a main course. And we are stuffing it with all this animal flesh and fat, while our cancer rates and heart disease rates continue to skyrocket. Sometimes in my more paranoid moments I think it's intentional - cut down on the population by killing 2/3 of us off with food. Last man standing, holding a carrot and a bunch of kale, wins.

Then there's the animals and the small humans - and I go back in my child-mind to the picture of Jesus from Sunday School, all white and blue-eyed, with his long hair and beard, surrounded by a rainbow of small children and small animals, dove of peace seated on his shoulder. "Suffer the little children to come unto me..." and "Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren..." and ok yeah He didn't mention animals, but really. I have never been able to put the cow on my plate completely into a context that makes sense, and that's even harder now, having watched all these things...could we raise animals for consumption without ethical quandaries? Maybe. But that's not what we do now. What we do now are things that any ethical person, witnessing in person, would want to report to someone - immediately - to make it stop. BUT WE EAT THAT SHIT. And kids - talk about an abused group. Kids and old people - the groups we all say we care about, but never put our money where our mouths are.

And on it goes.

Trying to find "a passion" in all of this is like trying to choose which of your children to throw off the life boat first. "But I love the people and I love the planet and I love the babies and I love the animals and I love the snakes and the bugs and the birds and all the things and..." what do I do with all that?

Death and dying has been and continues to be very important to me, in the way birth is. The arrival and departure of a soul should be sacred; it should be an occasion marked not with solemnity, but with respect and awe. When we lose that we lose our humanity. Hell, we've lost our humanity.

I am not perfect. I fall, fail, make mistakes - but I keep open and willing to learn and grow and change. And I am seeking truth endlessly. I find nuggets and store them away, but hoarding does me no good - the nuggets MUST be shared. They must be spoken, they must be set free.

So what, then, is my passion, my calling, my "thing"? This has been a topic around here lately as we both wander through mid-life, coming to grips with the past, making sense of it, and moving into the future.

My kids, grown now, are still my passion - but in a different way. Now my focus needs to transition to their children. All I have learned, I can share with them. Make them all sugar free, flour free, and vegan, and get their parents breathing down my neck (insert evil laugh here). OK, maybe not - especially in a world where pizza and Pepsi are everywhere - but at least introduce them to the natural world in a way that creates awe and wonder and the reverence for all life that we lack - and if someday they chose to opt out of the animal-cruelty based food chain, then good for them. Teach them that all humans matter. Teach them that all animals matter. Teach them that THEY matter.

Outside of that, I feel like I need to find a crusade that brings all of my passion into play. Advocacy, which is ironic because that seed was first planted by the shrink last year, but I have not been able to find the path to it yet. I need....a foundation of my own, with an endless budget - I shall save the whole world! I suppose I also probably need to make enough money to feed myself, damned capitalist system. But I would so rather just give myself away to the things that ignite me. Who needs a paycheck when I am talking about restoring sanity and humanity?

For the time being, still lacking a clear direction, I want to get certified in plant-based nutrition (for which I require that green evil we all so depend on in the modern world). In my perfect world I would go back to school near-full-time, gain degrees in nursing, social justice, nutrition, education? I am not sure what best suits the rambling, incoherent path I seem to be on. Actually it isn't incoherent. I mean, at the core of all the things I am passionate about lies the same thing.

(com)Passion

I find the development and evolution of self to be endlessly compelling. What I have often lacked in spite of a fair dose of self-awareness is the development of true self-compassion. I like to keep myself on the coals, so to speak; to hold myself accountable for both the things I have done and the things I could have prevented, and sometimes even things that have absolutely nothing to do with me, but if I can get a creative enough angle, I can MAKE them about me. Once hung and pilloried, with the blood of martyrdom coursing down my face, I internalize my shame and keep myself humiliated; bad, wrong, failed. I am, after all, a Horrible Human Being.

Or am I?

In most (dare I say all?) religion there is an element of compensation for "sin". In Christianity in particular those sins are hung on Jesus, who takes the abuse for us and thereby allows us to live free and clear, coming forth "white as snow" or "sinless". Go, and sin no more. Some have taken this idea to it's extreme - "If Christ is in me, I cannot sin. Therefore what I do, I do without shame." This same philosophy seems to infect the minds of radical Muslims flying into certain buildings, or kidnapping and raping into subjugation young women, or blowing up perfectly nice villages. Oh wait. That was us...

But I digress.

The primary piece if information that I believe we are supposed to glean from religion or a spiritual path is really more about self-compassion. Learning to see our failings, fallings, "sins" (and those who have sinned against us); learning to accept our collective fragile humanity, and then - and this is the part where I think most of us miss the boat, let the boat go, shove the boat way, way far away - not in the sense of denial, but from the perspective of liberation - CHANGING. GROWING. LEARNING.

This weekend we went to Charlotte VegFest, which was an amazing thing for me on a lot of fronts - certainly preaching to the choir, but there's always new songs to learn. We listened to a few speakers - most notably Dr. T. Colin Campbell (swoon) about whom I will speak in a later post. But for now I want to focus on the idea of compassion, expanding on it's presentation by Shabaka Amen, who was the first speaker of the day, and who said something that stuck with me: "You cannot be passionate about animals until you are compassionate to yourself". This may not be an exact quote, but that isn't the point. The point is that unless we are able to be compassionate with ourselves - really nitty gritty down and dirty open and honest about what we are and how we could be better, we cannot be truly, deeply passionate - or compassionate - about "others" (animals, people, bugs, etc).

That thread from that morning speech bled into the rest of my day. Ronnie Tsunami mentioned, in his talk, a few documentaries that I had not seen before (and here I thought I had them all covered!). Specifically he mentioned Earthlings, which he said he got about ten minutes into before converting to veganism. After last night I know why. I don't recommend it unless you know yourself to be self-compassionate, because your complicity in what you see on the screen could have you needing therapy or possibly an inpatient stay. How bad is it? Well. It had me up for a couple of hours trying to figure out how to feed my carnivorous pets ethically. That bad.

But again, I digress.

Near the beginning of Earthlings the screen is alight with quotes, some known, some not. One that stuck with me was this:

The Stages of Knowing:
1.) mockery
2.) violent opposition

3.) acceptance

That's what I woke up with in my head today, questioning, ruminating. Where am I on that scale? Am I truly accepting? Am I externally compliant and internally mocking or opposing? Am I justifying the actions of myself and others, which I think might be in-between opposition and acceptance?

In further research this morning, I came across the work of William G. Perry, an educational psychologist who developed a detailed theory (The Perry Scheme) of intellectual and ethical development in college students, the framework fo which is a nine-step progression from dualist thinking ("right is right and wrong is wrong and that's that!") to relativist thinking ("right and wrong change with perspective and awareness") to commitment ("I believe this or that, but I am open to learning and changing as I go.")

Further (extremely) simplified, those nine stages or progressions become something, from what I have read so far, like this:

1.) The Garden of Eden:

In this phase, we believe a thing is true because we have been told that it is true. This is your basic garden variety religious or cultural education and inculcation. At times there are dualities within the scaffolds of our assorted indoctrinations, but they are usually justified or explained away by some intellectual sleight of hand. Think: "Mommy, if God said don't kill, why are we at war?". The adults fabricate some rationale, vaguely aware that they are spewing bullshit, or perhaps truly believing the righteousness of the cause, depending on where they are in their own journey of self-awareness and development. Also in this category are such nuggets as "But Pastor said..." and "The government entity knows best." The corollary from Earthlings would be mockery. I now what I know, and what you know is wrong. Idiot.

2.) Anything Goes

This phase is where I think most of us get stuck. In this phase, we are deeply - maybe unconsciously - aware that there are no right answers, that right and wrong are entirely dependent on the perspective of the individual - but in order to conceal this little fact from ourselves we engage in denials and justifications for our thoughts and behaviors that range from deeply held religious beliefs to strong secular attachments to any bloody effing thing that keeps us from looking at the thing that makes us culpable, PLEASE DEAR GOD DON'T LET ME SEE. This I think brings us - this need to keep the self unaware and "innocent" of who/whatever's blood, to justify our actions - to the point of violent opposition. We are the most adept at denial, and will use whatever skills come to hand to indulge that denial.

3.) Critical Thinking

Or, you know, acceptance. If I objectively and without rancor to self or others evaluate the facts and the sources of those facts, then I am able to approach all new information with an open mind - a mind that seeks knowledge and awareness, a mind unafraid of change and unafraid of truth. The alternative is, of course, a mind that continues to be slapped shut and rejects all new information that might result in expansion of awareness and understanding.

You cannot progress to acceptance without self-compassion.  If I am truly forgiven, if I am truly and deeply compassionate with myself, then the new information is not a threat. It is merely a window that lets more light into my world and clarifies my beliefs and awareness.

Stay tuned...

Change Your Thinking One Day at a Time? Right.

I walk my dogs every morning from our cozy little spot on the hill down into the town and along the waterfront. We walk along the fishermen's wharf and wave hello to the regulars who congregate there. My trash-collecting habit amuses some of the guys, who laugh at me and shake their heads, and others thank me for my "service". I find all sorts of things from empty cans and bottles to scratch tickets and even occasionally discarded waitstaff shirts from a local eatery or two - I've started a collection of these just to see how many I can score in a year. Thank you, disgruntled staffers discarding their summer jobs and the shirts along with them!

Yoshi hoping for a duck dinner on our morning walk

Since absenting myself from the knitting world, social media, and this blog I've been pretty introspective. I've spent a lot of time in prayer and Bible reading, and a lot of time allowing God to show me who I am and what I am supposed to be doing instead of trying to do everything all on my own. The truth is I have no answers to anything on my own, although I've spent a lot of time trying to prove that I did. I've stopped trying.

Low tide at the wharf

It's probably not a secret that I have struggled with anxiety and depression. I have not handled stress nearly as well as I might have. And I've had an uneasy relationship with money; once I get into any sort of a role where I begin making it for my own benefit, even in small amounts, I run fast and far in the opposite direction. Success terrifies me. My thought stream tends to be negative. I compare myself to others, which is self-defeating on all levels. I want those things to change.

Really low tide in the bay

One of the things that's always puzzled me is the ability of some people to be so damned cheerful in the face of...well, frankly, life in general. How do they DO this? How can they just be so bloody happy, as if nothing around them matters, like they cannot SEE the giant horse on the dining room table, and how can they not SEE that huge thing?!? Then add on the peculiar experiences of some of us, and I wonder how anyone even gets out of bed, let alone chirps along joyously, quipping about the beauties of life. Maybe I just started off on the wrong foot. My role models were, I suppose, not exactly what you could call "healthy". Even my father, for all of his awesomeness, struggled with the day to day thing we call living, and often ended up a bit more on the side of pessimism and sarcasm than might be considered ideal. And I have said before I am a slow learner. I think I meant it.

Since becoming a Young Living independent distributor and setting some goals related to that, I've become increasingly aware of just how much negative thinking I do, and how much that leads to self doubt and negativity, depressive feelings, stress, anxiety, and the lot. I'd also like to point out here that I have set myself up in an attempt to be successful in a field with something like a 92% "failure" rate - multi-level marketing, network marketing - these are areas where the vast majority fail, and very few succeed. And here I am; pessimistic, negative, freaky little me, thinking this is something I can do.

And now we get back to the walk, the one I take every morning with the dogs. As I walk along I think about things. I plan my day. I consider what I am going to do with all the can and lottery ticket money (I've decided to donate it). I think about deeper things - about life and choices and consequences, and about how I need to step back and allow God to change me, from the inside out, one day at a time.

The steps and revelations are TINY most days. I try not to even look at "how far I've come" because the snail pace would put me under a quilt (or possibly my crocheted Noro Silk Garden afghan), tucked neatly and tightly around my (wide) eyes, quaking with panic.

Today as we were walking along I saw a can behind a fence in a public area. It was covered with spider webs and all manner of ick. I wanted it. I will bend over for a nickel, it's true, even if I have to rinse that nickel out and take it to the local bottle center on Monday morning (where they guy now recognizes me, jokes about my "coffee money" and congratulates me on my weekly "earnings"). I love gleaning cans even more now that I have a plan for the money that puts it into better hands than mine. So there was this trapped can, and I wanted it. I thought to myself "I can't get that can. It's behind the fence and it's covered in spider webs. I can't." Doom and gloom and pessimism and a lost nickel!

But what if ...and it hit me heavy, this small, simple thing... what if I chose to look at that can in a completely different way? What if instead of saying "I can't..." I said "That can is behind a fence. I can get it if I want to. But... (Wait. Red flag! NO BUTS!! Instead say...) That can is covered in spider webs. I CHOOSE not to put my hand through the fence to get that can." And I walked away, leaving the nickel behind.

So. Simple.

So. Small.

So important.

Day by day, one day at a time, one small step at a time, my entire way of thinking, of viewing the world, of engaging with others, of being in spaces is changing. And I love it and I am SO grateful!

Is This a Hack or a Good Marriage?

I love my old Oreck XL9000 vacuum. It was my mother's, and she hated it, which I think in the beginning was part of it's charm. I do love to be contrary. She discarded it immediately after having it serviced it for some new-fangled red thing (Dirt Devil?) that lasted about a year, as I recall. It came to me with the service tag still in place. She just wanted it gone and I happily escorted it into my car. I wish I'd kept the tag. It was used when she got it, and I just can't remember when exactly I brought it home, only that it's been here for what feels like forever. Over the years the motor has weakened, and who can blame it around here, but otherwise it's in fantastic shape.

Since we moved in here it's been relegated to the sun room, a sort of retirement villa, if you will. I dust mop and sweep the rest of the house usually, since there's no carpet, and since the Oreck lacks that one little thing I need in a vacuum in a house full of dogs n' cat - cool upholstery attachments. There's awful indoor outdoor stuff in the sun room over a rough concrete floor. That rug is a repository for chicken shit, grass, bugs and dirt. It's where my boots get scraped clean on my way in from chores, and where I regularly spill everything from diatomaceous earth to garden fertilizer to pond-fish food.

I recently "upgraded" to a Shark Euro-Pro Navigator at Target, which I found on clearance for $125.00. It came in handy when I was sanding all those cabinet doors, drawers, and fronts before painting them - right before the contractor told us the recycled cabinets were not going to work. I spent forever in front of those vacuums that day in Target trying to decide what to get. Gerbil and Girl adore their Dyson, which was a wedding gift. I love the idea of Dyson, but that's not in my budget.

Anyway, I have nothing against the Navigator; in fact I rather like it. It does the job well, has good power, and came with a handy little special pet hair power brush attachment that did beautiful things on Mel's preferred sleeping spots. But the Oreck has a special place in my heart, and as the motor weakened and I knew it was getting to be time to let go, I grieved. I like having a second vacuum around, and I like having a separate one in the sun room, which often feels disconnected from the house.

The other day Mr. Wonderful asked me to swing by the dump, a thing he rarely does. As I rounded the corner of the Re-Use Room, I saw before me a thing of great beauty. An Oreck XL2540 with a big bag full of hypoallergenic CELOC bags - three full packages!

Now, Gene really tries to keep me away from the dump for just such reason. I will come home with 1970's kitchy red electric woks, used-once-at-Christmas-and-discarded hand-crank popcorn poppers "in case ours ever breaks " (we now have three back-ups and one in use), worn-out 1950's tinsel Christmas trees, and ANY slow cooker (as long as there's a cord and the crock isn't cracked). When I grabbed this Oreck, I knew there'd be trouble, but my only thought was for the bags - free bags! I had no idea what I would do with the vacuum itself, except that I figured if it worked, we could have a... a basement vac? I really didn't know.

I brought it home and stood them side by side. That's my old XL9000 on the left and the Oreck XL2540RH on the right. They looked pretty similar. The 9000 is a little more basic, I suppose. The on/off is in a different location, and the handle is less ergonomic.

From the back they looked pretty similar as well. I noticed a lot of dust on the 2540, but whether that was from age and lack of maintenance, I couldn't tell. I fired up the 2540, and was amazed by the sound of the motor. I gave it a push, and it sucked up anything in reach. It reminded me of the 9000, back in the day when it first came to live with me. Then I noticed the problem...

The bag attachment was damaged beyond repair. In the bag-full-of-bags was a note giving the location of a local Oreck repair shop. I briefly debated taking it in for an assessment, but then I had a better idea. Why not hack, or marry, them into one newer, stronger, better vac? I really didn't need two. I have the Shark for inside and the Oreck for the sun room, and Gene has a shop vac in the basement. I pondered. Analyzed. Briefly. And then I began disassembly.

Now, a fair amount of the time (ok, never) I don't think these projects through before I begin. I always figure that if I really thought about it for long, I'd see all the potential pitfalls and I'd wimp out and never get anywhere. So I just step forward in faith and begin shredding innocent machines, assuming that in the end I will either get my way, or not - in which case I reassemble and move on. This usually works. Never without some hitches, but generally more or less it works. And it did this time. With some hitches.

First, the on/off for the 2540 is on the handle as opposed to the 9000's foot-tap button on the motor housing. Second - and more importantly - the handles are not universal.

I used a utility knife to shave the plastic of one down just enough so I could slide the other over, and screw it into place - I pre-drilled holes to allow these screws to fit.

Then, too, the attachment from the base to the bag were not the same. Although they are the same size, and the new center tube slid easily into place, the hose clamp type fitting of the 2540 does not come close to working with the push-pin assembly of the 9000. But when I comes to a situation like this, there's always one handy tool I rely on, time and again, to save my butt from certain ruin.

Yup. Duct tape. You know the kind I mean - "if-it-can't-be-fixed-with-duct-tape-it-ain't-broke", handyman's secret weapon, primer gray, sticks to everything except what you want it to, duct tape. I love the stuff, as we've seen before...

Poor Yoshi. Anyway, once I got the 9000's  handle assembly married to the center hose of the 2540, I did what any rational person would do.

I taped it up. Really, really well. So now if I get a hose clog, I suppose there will be agony and whining, followed by removal and replacement of the tape. But really - it's a free motor for an old, dying vacuum that cost me nothing but time to make work. And the outcome?

Hopefully another 20 years of Oreck joy!

A little spit and polish with Simple Green purple (It's really called pro-something, but I can't resist the green-purple thing)...

A little practice on the icky sun room floor, and the proof is in the pudding! Good as new. Or, good as newly married anyway. Now the only trouble is... what do I do with this?

This is What it's Like

Indeed, this is the life. 8:30 am and the garden is weeded. Coffee is in my hand and chickens are at my feet. I have a list of things to do today, but right now I just don't care. I will care later, when the coffee cup is empty and the sun gets too warm on my shoulders. Then I can worry about the rest of today, or tomorrow, or what have you.

That's how the day started, and in some ways that's how it ended as well. Summertime is always a busy time here, but maybe a little busier than normal for us this time around. The kitchen is in chaos, and will be more so by the weekend. Somewhere between running out for toe kick heaters and faucets and such it occurred to me that I could be ever so slightly better prepared for the days ahead when there is no kitchen - because those days are coming - and maybe sooner than I thought (please God).

The last time we did a kitchen remodel, as I recall, I lived primarily on canned tuna and coffee. Gene mostly starved, and the kids ate vast quantities of cold cereal, peanut butter, yogurt, and things from the microwave. They were probably the only happy ones. Convenience food? In OUR house? A miracle! And I do not mean that in the holier-than-thou, "Oh, we don't eat thoooose kinds of things!" way, either. I mean it in the "I'd rather spend a month of Sunday's grating cheese by hand than pay one cent extra for a package of the pre-shredded kind!" way. Last time, there wasn't much time to prepare. Things moved very quickly from decision to finished kitchen. This time, things are moving faster than I'd expected, which is good. BUT I really wanted to be smarter this time - I wanted to plan ahead, make meals-for-two in advance and freeze them in tidy little containers. I wanted, in short, to be something I never, ever am. I wanted to be Organized.

Well, if you can't be Organized, you can sure as heck fake it! And that's what I've done. In two days I managed to put into the freezer - par cooked and ready for finishing in the toaster oven - 5 containers of lemon olive chicken, 5 of turkey mole, 4 of fish pie (plus a big fish pie in my little casserole for supper tonight and leftovers tomorrow, because I love it) and 7 of mini eggplant lasagna, 5 meatloaves and 5 pairs of vegetarian enchiladas. I should probably write that down for later. 

Lemon Olive Chicken cooling - love how the watermelon is wearing a sombrero!

It was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I've always heard about those women who shop once a month and then cook it all in one day, storing it away like good little hoarders. I envied them the simplicity of popping a tray of lasagna into the oven, fresh from the freezer. 

Jamie Oliver's Fish Pie - Oh How I Adore This Stuff!

No worries about what's for dinner, because dinner is already made. 

Mini Eggplant Lasagna - all veg from my garden

Well, for four weeks, plus or minus, that can be me! Here's what I learned, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation - faking organization when really you're a complete slacker -

First, use from your recipe stash (or find on the interwebs) ONLY things that you know you and your loved one/s will consume. It would do me no good at all to freeze up a batch of Dal or Tandoori chicken because Mr. Wonderful won't touch it. Similarly, anything beef- or pork-based is out for me. I went with vegetarian, poultry and fish dishes that I know we both will eat. 

Second, prep ahead. I wish I had done this. Trying to chop onion for the chicken while mustering mole from the oven while searching for a space for the cooling fish pie among the disassembled cabinetry and absent counter top was not at all enjoyable. If the onion had been chopped before I ever started, things would have moved along with less stress. At one point I drafted Gene, who's home sick, into grating cheese for me. I figure at 375 degrees for 30 minutes, whatever germs he has will die in the oven, right? And if not, they'll get it in the deep freeze!

Third, plan your time well. I literally decided at about midnight to do this today, and so I went from weeding the garden to grocery to car place to that toe kick heater purchase mentioned above to chopping veg and de-heading and de-veining prawns in a matter of a couple of hours. Bad plan. The result is that I am now rather tired out, sipping a glass of Malbec, and patting myself on the back while simultaneously kicking myself in the butt for poor planning (remember - organized I am not!). At one point I was attempting to cut through partially frozen chicken. An ounce of preparation is worth a pound of exhaustion and a gallon of blood spilled from knife wounds. 

Fourth, wash as you go. It was really wonderful as I pulled the last batch of whatever from the oven, to turn around and see a spotless kitchen and a dish drainer piled high. Truly a thing of beauty, that empty sink was! 

Oh, I forgot one last thing! Dress for the occasion!

Nana's Garden apron bought for my mother a billion years ago and never worn. Till now!

In the beginning I was all "it's too hot in here, all I need is a sundress, who cares, what's a little spillage?" That lasted about ten minutes. Apron. Lots of food, lots of mess. Apron.

The best part of this is that if I croak tomorrow, Mr. W. now has a month's worth - more if he eats half - of food to sustain him during his difficult time of mourning (one hopes it wold be a difficult time). 

Now for the rest of the week, encapsulated version:

Made placemats! out of twenty-ish-year old discarded quilt scraps. I made a quilt top in these colors and then decided I hated it and never finished it. Instead, on our last move it went into the trash - or more correctly it went into a bag of scrap fabric that got given away. I found some remnants the other day, and now here they are. A scrappy mat for me and a tidy stripe mat for Mr. W. 

Tormented dogs! This is my favorite time of the day! Every morning the boys have to sit and wait (or in Yoshi's case "stand-up-and-be-bad-but-leave-it") when the chickens come out of their house for the day. On occasion the birds fly right up into their faces, no joke, and they never, ever snap. After, they celebrate - Bradley, by spinning in wild circles and Yoshi, by allowing me to pet him for five seconds. Sometimes, if I am lucky, he even wags his tail for me. 

Got Healed! That's right. Apparently, if you are unwell, achy, feverish, sore and generally poorly, one good cuddle from Bradley will set you more or less right. Or at least you'll feel well enough to sit upright and prepare a couple dozen par-cooked meals for your freezer. 

Finished a caterpillar, and stuffed a cat in it! (the yarn is Northampton Bulky - try it and you will not be sad, I promise!) Please remember that Mel is basically evil. He once took a chunk out of Gene's chest just because the man tried to play with him (toy with him, play with him; it's all relative). Finishing the cocoon was easy. Stuffing the cat in it? THAT was HARD! 

Chilled! Yes! We spent a day at Lake Compounce - and I bought a mug (featuring a blueprint of my favorite wooden coaster within 100 miles). We have issues with this place - or with Boulder Dash anyway. Blame Bill Childs. He started it. Best wooden coaster for many a mile. Best seat? Dead last! Bought a season's pass and I am going to milk every coaster-loving second out of it, for sure!

I hope your summer is treating you as well, because this is THE life! 

It Starts So Simply

Take Mr. W, for example. The man just wanted a nap. He come home from a hard day at the salt mines (nuclear plant, same thing) and just wants a little rest.

The boys miss their Daddy when he's gone all day, so they hop up for a snuggle. It's all sweet and happy and innocent.

But then it starts to change.

And before you know it there's a totally out-of-control melee in the middle of the bed, and poor Mr. W's nap has turned into a fit of grins and giggles as the boys completely lose it.

A free for all. All we really needed was the cat to make it complete, but he seemed to want nothing to do with the insanity.

Before you know it, they've worn themselves out, and it's back to normal - cuddle bug Bradley and aloof cat-like Yoshi on alert at the foot of the bed, watching out the window for squirrels and birds - lest they disturb daddy's peace and quiet, perhaps?

It's been that way with the kitchen project, too. 

One small thing starts off an avalanche of changes; some good, some bad, and all happening regardless of whatever brilliant plans we might have had in the beginning. And that's okay by me. God has a plan. I probably should have fewer, since His seem to work out better than mine. 

We've been here before, and it will all work out, and in the end it will be amazing. In fact, it's looking like it's going to be even MORE amazing than we'd anticipated! See, yet another reason why I should just stop making all these grand plans! I will miss these guys, my knotty pine pets. But it will be worth it in the end - you'll see!

I've been knitting a bit in my spare moments - those moments not consumed with kitchen design and swimming and dogs and planning my next book (What?!? Another book? Yes! Another book, but not for a year and a half, so no point in getting too excited just now!). A while ago we had an announcement of a most delightful nature presented to us in the most enjoyable way. In a kitchen full of people I love, just hanging out together and enjoying each other's company, I was handed an envelope and asked to open it and - if I could find the time - maybe make "some things" for the folks who handed me the envelope. "We don't need them right away - but in a few months..." they said. 

Can you guess what it might be, other than "stuff on my cat"? I'll give you a hint. The item on that cat is made from this pattern. (I used Northampton Bulky, if you're curious - one of my favorites, lots of good colors for this project, and snuggly warm to boot) And when I am done with this little project, I need to knit one of these - or maybe two, in case one gets lost? As Kathy pointed out, lost things of this nature can be catastrophic if there's attachment. So two of those, don't you agree? But identical to one another, just in case.

Today I got a special box from Meyer Hatchery. Seven little boys, all soft and fat and warm.

 

(browninsh Buff Brahmas, yellow Delawares and one big question mark in back)

Loud little peeping poop machines, really, but they are lovely to behold when tiny and wee. One is a bit of a non-performer and I don't think he will last the day. But that's par for the course, and I am not deterred. By fall I will be able to add roosters to my flock, and that makes me VERY happy!

I am so excited about the future and about life right now; watching things unfold and grow and happen around us and in front of us and to us. It's a pretty wonderful world, really! 

A Recipe for Nothing Like Disaster

I've been trying to focus on designing and I am totally hung up on one pattern, so I am taking a mental health morning - and I guess that means I can blog! I recently finished this Elise Shawl.

I LOVE it. I added dagger beads along the edge because 1.) I had them and 2.) I love sparkly things. It was a fast crochet experience, blocked out beautifully, and even Yoshi approves.

Maybe a little too much on the Yoshi approval there...

Six year old me wishes I was my own grandma.

These are heading for Texas soon for Grandbaby April who is no longer any kind of a baby, but I still call her baby. I will have to work on giving that up soon, I think.

This past weekend was Father’s Day. It’s also shortly before Mr. W’s birthday, so it seemed a good time to gather the three local children around, with spouses, and celebrate the man. There was, as sometimes happens on these occasions, a fair amount of beer and wine. When it was all over, as I struggled to recover from being bitten by the wine bug, I concocted a really yummy seafood stew that I just have to share with you. Regardless of the brilliance of the stew, it’s a really good thing these sorts of events only happen a couple of times a year. Nothing slaps you in the gracefully maturing face like a long night.

Now, in order to properly prepare this recipe, you'd ideally have a clambake of sorts in your back yard, and get tanked with your adult kids. If you need to skip that step, I understand. The clambake part could probably also be avoided, but in case you want to indulge I am including that "recipe" too. For the clambake we used a combination of Martha Stewart and Ina Garten’s “Stovetop Clambake” recipes and came up with a fitting compromise, outlined below.

In the bottom of my big enamel canner we put three big Spanish onions, quartered. I set the canner rack on top of the onions and lined this with a large piece of cheesecloth – big enough so that the four corners of the fabric extend out of the pot and hang over a good bit. Next we added, in order, 1 ½ lb of small red potatoes (about 2 inches each), 1 lb of Andouille sausage (four links), 5 ears of corn (husked and cut in half), 4 pounds of steamers (scrubbed and rinsed) and 2 pounds of mussels (de-bearded and washed well). On top of this we placed 4 quarter lobsters. Quarters weigh between 1.25 and 1.5 pounds. We then poured a large (24 ounce) can of Rolling Rock (yes, Rolling Rock. Save the BBC for a glass, thank you very much) beer over all, and a second beer can of water for good measure. The cheesecloth was then tied twice on the diagonal, corner to corner, over everything to make it easier to retrieve the good stuff once steaming was complete. The canner was put on the side burner of our gas grill, which was set on high.

Unfortunately we lost track of time – I think it was the sangria - and our intended half an hour steam turned into something more closely resembling an hour. I don't recommend this step. Stick with the half hour. Set a timer. Anything. My rule is that when the lobster is red and the clams are open, it's all done. I am sure some official warning someplace says something different, but this is how I roll. We removed the neatly bundled shellfish and vegetables from the pot (the cheesecloth thing worked brilliantly) and dumped them into my big roasting pan. I squeezed two lemons over the whole mess. The broth from the clambake was strained into bowls, and a pan of melted butter was set out. On a platter to the side was a pair of very large, perfectly prepared (by stepson #2) sirloin steaks, my generous nod to Mr. W's birthday. I don't cook beef any more if I can avoid it. We all gathered, standing, around an eight foot banquet table, hacking into shellfish with various and yet entirely appropriate tools, and everyone ate until they were stuffed. There were leftovers. No matter how I fuss and plan, and think I am going to run short, there are always leftovers. The leftovers went into the fridge, and strawberry shortcake (the kind you eat, not the cartoon one) came out, followed by a not insignificant quantity of further imbibed cheer. I think the party drew to a close around 1:30am. I say “I think” because, well, I frankly wasn’t doing a lot of thinking by then. We all went to bed.

I woke up at around 5 am, definitely the worse for our evening’s debauch. As I lay there in my discomfort, I alternately contemplated my age vis a vis my stamina (is that the right word for 'complete inability to party anymore'?), and wondered what I could do with the leftovers. It came to me that a rich, beer-based, flavorful stew would hit the spot just right, if I could remain vertical long enough to prepare it. Not wanting to disturb the other members of my family - who were still recovering their feet - I slept (if you can call it that) until around 8. After I’d made breakfast for the stragglers, and everyone had headed off to their proper homes, and Mr. W. and I agreed that we are really much too old for this kind of behavior, I started the stew. It’s pretty amazing, and it definitely hit the spot at lunch time – and for a couple of days after! I even took some to my father and stepmother and they both expressed approval. So here I present to you this charming recipe, but only on condition that you follow the rules, including the above celebration of excess (with or without adult children), in order to make it.

Hair of the Dog Seafood Stew

Leftovers from the night before (or new if you're wimping out on the party part):

1 cup BBC Lost Sailor IPA, the dregs of a growler (feel free to substitute your own beer selection)

1 cup corn (previously steamed and stripped from ears)

2-3 small cooked red potatoes, cubed

3-4 ounces leftover lobster meat, chopped roughly

6-8 ounces leftover mixed clams and mussels, chopped roughly

4 ounces andouille sausage, chopped roughly

New stuff the morning after:

1 Tablespoon olive oil

2 carrots, chopped

1 red onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic

2 teaspoons salt-free Creole seasoning; we like Tony Chachere's (if salt is allowed in your house, feel free to use the regular kind)

1 - 6 oz. can tomato paste

1 - 15 oz. can diced tomatoes 

1 - 15 oz. can stewed tomatoes (I used my own pints of canned tomatoes for these)

2 cups water

1 - 15 oz. can seafood stock

Prepare all leftover steamed seafood and vegetable from the previous evening’s clam bake. Chop potato and seafood and sausage, and remove corn from cob. Set aside in a bowl.

Chop onion and carrot. Add oil to 6 quart stock pot and set on high. When the oil is hot, add the carrot and onion and stir. Allow to cook down for a minute or so before reducing heat to avoid burning. Let sweat for a few minutes, and chop the garlic while you wait. Add garlic and sauté until garlic begins to change color and the onions are translucent. Add Cajun seasoning and stir all well.  Add beer and let reduce for 1-2 minutes.

Add seafood stock, tomatoes, water and tomato paste all at once. Bring back to a low boil. Reduce heat to simmer. Allow to simmer for 15 minutes, then add the leftover seafood and vegetables. When the leftovers are hot, the soup is ready! 

In fact, it was SO ready that before I could take a picture of it to show you it was all gone. Made me want to go buy a ton of expensive shellfish and start all over again. But maybe next year...

Whole New World

Tonight I enacted phase one of the Chicken Unification Project. I cut a hole in the wall between the layer babies and the big birds. Tomorrow I will add some framing and a little door that latches. That way if the youth become obstreperous, I can give the grown-ups privacy. It will be a few more days before I let them all outside together.

 These things can go well or they can go badly, depending on the birds involved. A too-forward young bird can put himself at risk of life and limb by pecking off more than he can reasonably "chew". 

But a little girl might think more about the possibilities and take her time before rushing in.

There's usually a little awe on both sides.

Well. Maybe more awe on one side than the other...there's a lot to look up to when you're only four inches tall.

I left the babies to their adjusting and took a look about; just a short ramble in the yard. I love pansies and johnny jump-ups. I find them unreasonably cheerful. They never fail to make me smile.

I especially love these little peach and lavender ones.

When I headed back into the "barn", I saw that everyone had discovered the door, and all were jockeying for position. Things look to be going very well, and by morning maybe they won't need a door that latches. This would be good because I need to clean out the meat birds barn. AND I am not sure I have the right scraps to make a frame for a door. And I really don't relish a 7am trip to town for lumber scraps.

When my mother died, Katy's Tribe gave me a gift certificate for a memorial plant from Wanczyk Nursery. I had a really hard time deciding what to get. I went last year in search of something, but came away empty handed. Two weeks ago Gene and I went back, and I found exactly what I wanted. A very mature plain old lilac; Syringa vulgaris. 

 

And already it has blooms. My mother loved spring things; forsythia, lilac, and especially lily of the valley which grow in abundance around my front door already. The blooms are a token of good things to come in the ensuing years, I think.

Finally, last but not at all least, on Saturday we enhanced our brood by 6. One did not survive, but here are 5 sweet tiny Ameraucanas who one day will grow big and lay lovely blue-green eggs! 

I love spring. It brings new life, promise and hope. Hope is almost my most favorite thing of all!