« April 2009 | Main | June 2009 »
I'm just wondering...
Sorry I'm Late from Tomas Mankovsky on Vimeo.
And now, ways to make sure you're not late...and great Graduation gifts, too, I must say: the Sfera Radio Alarm Clock. This clock hangs above your head, lulling you to sleep by gradually decreasing the volume of music playing until you drift off. In the morning, the only way to turn off the alarm is to gently tap the dome at which point it rises up toward the ceiling and activates the snooze, requiring you to get up if you want to hit it again. Ingenious! Fortunately for me, I have the honor of being awakened by a Great Dane burping in my face.
Here's a great gift for someone you hate. You have to do 30 reps before the thing stops beeping. I might throw it across the room but that would probably only count as 1 rep and then I'd have to get up and throw it 29 more times and then the dumbbell alarm clock would have won that round and I won't give it the satisfaction.
Even though this product has been discontinued, it's worth mentioning simply because it's so wacky and because they claim this clock will improve your wake up time by 83% "(According to an Oxford University Press study that does not exist)." I love that kind of disclaimer.
I think it's apparent from the picture that the top part, the whirly part, of the alarm clock spins up in the air and beeps until you can retrieve it. And there's no way someone can run around a room looking for a beeping whirly thing and then just climb back in bed and fall asleep. Pretty effective, I can imagine, like 83% more effective, and quite unfortunate it's been discontinued.
Also from Baron Bob is this Puzzle Alarm Clock:
which looks simple (I think my kids had this puzzle and I played with it for hours!), but maybe not at 6 in the morning or after a night of college "studying," if you catch my drift.
Very appropriate for a blog called Cluck and Tweet, is the Kuku Alarm Clock:
When the alarm goes off the "chicken" lays 5 eggs into the little basket (it appears to lay the eggs through its comb, but who am I to correct people who come up with something as clever as this...it may confuse your children, however) and the alarm will not stop beeping until the eggs have been put back into the chicken. By which time you are sufficiently awake. And probably wondering why you ever bought this clock in the first place.
I think I'll stick with the Great Dane alarm clock. She has no snooze and doesn't necessarily smell that great, but who wouldn't want this in her face early in the morning:
Hey Mom-- I'll start this post with a shout out just to you, since I'm sure you're about to look down and go "Hey! That's MY Mother's Day present she's wearing!" So I'm just going to admit right now I shamelessly photographed its whole creation for Cluck and Tweet fodder.
While Sam and I were living the life of luxury here:
he leaned over to me and whispered seductively, "The only other place that complares to here is Eaton's Ranch," and I sighed with contentment, imagining a place equally lovely as Curtain Bluff and ordered another drink with an umbrella in it.
So you can kind of sympathize when three years later I arrived here:
and I felt like I was missing something. Something like a cabana boy.
Eaton's Ranch is located in Wolf, Wyoming, just outside of Sheridan and is the country's first real dude ranch. Its history is fascinating but that didn't change the fact that when we arrived I didn't see blue water, luxurious accommodations, or a wine list at dinner. What I saw was this:
Dust. Lots and lots of dust.
And I felt like this person:
who showed up at a party being held by these people:
...I didn't feel like I quite fit in.
Sam's mother began coming to Eaton's Ranch (hereon to be referred to as "THE Ranch," like it's the only ranch in existance. Because in this family it is.) in the 1940s and I don't think it has changed much. It's still run by descendants of the original Eatons. And the accommodations can be charming:
This is the cabin where my sister-in-law's family stayed with my mother-in-law. It's pretty much as cute as all get out. Our cabin was across the way and had a big, long porch, a tiny sitting room, and three bedrooms with twin beds in them. And it smelled. Like horse butt. Not horse manure, because I rather like the smell of that. Not the smell of a barn or tack, because that has a leathery undertone that is rather comforting. No, horse butt. Not that I've ever actually smelled horse butt, but what I imagine a horse's butt would smell like.
Upon arriving to your first meal, everyone is presented with a napkin ring. Rosemary, my mother-in-law, still has all of hers dating from the 1940s. They make a great souvenir, but they are also practical during your time at the ranch since they hold your napkin. Napkins aren't washed with great regularity and it's important that you keep track of your napkin and ring or you will be held accountable either by having your napkin ring go missing somewhere around the ranch or losing your right to breathe or something in between the two. And meals are hearty, but not gourmet. More like what I would cook while at home. But with more grease. Jimmie was 18 months old and would only eat bread with mayonnaise and bananas and noodles. He would play with his horse napkin ring during dinner and the mayo on his hands wore off all the paint:
Before: After:
Jimmie was 18 months old and it's really hard to explain time zones to anyone under 25, so he was awake every morning by 4. But he looked like this, so you couldn't really get very mad:
and his dad got up with him (always marry someone who doesn't sleep well in preparation for these moments) and took him outside to watch the horses come in.
Rosie gifted us this trip and it truly was priceless, for the memories alone:
Never do this, unless you are prepared to cart your girl child to riding lessons and barns and equestrian team meets while listening to her whine ask for a horse at every opportunity including Easter and probably 4th of July.
Grandma Rosie has a wonderful tradition of taking each of her grandchildren on a 10-year-old trip and two years ago she brought Anna to Eaton's Ranch, now referred to as Anna's "Favorite Place on Earth," as in, "Can we go to the Ranch?" "Do you think we could take a trip this year to the Ranch?" or "When can we go back to the Ranch?" This trip with Grandma was pretty special because her brother and sister took their 10-year-old grandsons as well.
Here's Uncle Dave, Anna, Stanley, Charlie, and Grandma. Aunt Ginger, who died in November, is taking the picture, which just makes me feel all wistful inside and thankful Anna had this time with her delightful great aunt.
So, Eaton's Ranch may not be Curtain Bluff. Actually, in no way, shape, or form is Eaton's Ranch like Curtain Bluff. It's like comparing dust to water, oranges to french fries, pizza to crab cakes. But I get what Sam meant, because I love the place. And by the time we returned home, tired, hot, delayed by a day, I emptied out all of our dirty clothes from our suitcases and sniffed them. I kid you not. I held up the dirty jeans, the cowboy boots layered in dust and manure, and breathed in the scent of Eaton's Ranch. Because it no longer smelled like horse butt. It smelled like every memory we made there.
--A
I would gladly post a great dinner recipe today, except for one small problem: I apparently forgot how to cook. Okay, maybe not really, but we've had our fair share of dining out, salad-for-dinner, and "fend for yourself" evenings around here lately. Maybe it is the hectic spring schedules, or the fact that I've been doing some freelance gigs, or maybe it is just the fact that Yummies (our favorite downtown ice cream store) opened and I want to eat downtown because that always means a trip to Yummies for dessert.
This looks like an innocent moment, two kids on a slide, enjoying the warm morning sun.
Except for the fact that they were screaming "WE'RE BEING FLUSHED DOWN THE TOLIET!" The whole time. And when they hit the ground?
"Agh! I'm stuck in poop!"
and
"Look out! Here comes a dead goldfish!"
and my personal favorite out of the mouth a four year-old:
"Someone really needs to clean these sewage lines!"
Happy Memorial Day weekend!
--K
I understand the agony of shopping for a house, the emotional ties, the financial impossibilities, the personal wants and needs. I'm married to a Realtor, for goodness sake. And in this day and age, and Michigan market, the feasibility of house shopping becomes more questionable and more of a responsibility. I swear, someone has taken the fun out of it all.
I will blame Bernie Madoff. And AIG. And The Real Housewives of New York City.
I have stumbled upon a perfect solution, however. Not perfect in the sense that people stop buying houses, because that is a big "NO!" people. Did I mention that my husband is a Realtor? No, in the sense that you can buy your dream home for less than $100. You can't live in it, but you can buy it. I'm talking about a bird house, not one of those silly forclosure auctions you hear about. And is there ever a plethora of awesome birdhouses out there! Who knew? Well, now you and I do. And this knowledge is sure to impress your friends and neighbors. For instance, isn't this cute?
I adore the colors and especially the nails painted to look like flowers! How cute is that? I might have to just find some giant nails, pound them into the earth around my house, paint them and call them flowers. I would then be called "That Crazy Nail Flower Lady," but even I couldn't kill those babies.
Can you say, "Adorable?" Yes you can! This is a tiny little house for tiny little birds. Because tiny little birds need love, too.
There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He thought about investing, but found it quite absurd
So he bought a crooked birdhouse and give it to his bird.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
Um, really? Please tell me that birds won't fly into people's mouths, because that thought could give me a whole new phobia. This bird feeder/house just might train birds to do that, like, "Hey! If I fly into that person's mouth I could get some food or shelter! Cool!" And then there will be a whole new generation of birds who fly in people's mouths. Okay, so into the mouths of people who stand around gaping a lot, mouths wide open. People who are easily surprised or say, "UH UNH!" and forget to close their mouths. Now that I think about it, those people might deserve to have birds fly into their mouths.
If the birds in your neck of the woods are less pretentious, or of the horsey set, they might be attracted to this house. There's even a place to park their car.
This might be nicer than my house. It's definitely bigger.
$1500.00. On Etsy. I'm just sayin'. But as an aside, if you are trying to sell your own house for top dollar, glue some beads to it. It can't hurt.
What I wouldn't give to see little birds sitting on those little Adirondack chairs.
Here's the actual description of this bird house (which, for the record, I kind of like):
Sized for a nuthatch or a titmouse, this house is perched on a discarded lava lamp base. With a clean modern design appropriate to her heritage, Lily has wings made from aluminum dripguard, handmade tin flowers, a modern pull on an aluminum clad roof that lifts up for cleaning. A slight offset in the roof provides ventilation and drainage holes have been drilled in the bottom.
First of all, don't get rid of your old lava lamp. Here's a perfect way to repurpose it! Secondly, I don't think this bird house is appropriately named. I don't see "Lily" anywhere. I see "Courtney Love," or even "Anna Nicole," but not "Lily." Thirdly, "titmouse" is a funny word.
I don't think Sam would allow this in our yard, but it has a strange charm. Emphasis on strange.
Clearly the choices are endless but no need to worry about financing or foreclosure or location, location, location. Because if the birds around your house are anything like the birds around ours, they wouldn't go into the cute, adorable, gaping, strange, beaded, tiny, crooked bird house with Adirondack chairs anyway. That's why God made trees.
--A
The Super Superhero out-takes. Sometimes, a camera is lucky enough to capture the essence of its subject-- that core energy that is life and personality and all that good stuff. When taking pictures for the capes section of this post, Max and I had quite the photo shoot. We laughed. He jumped. And Jumped. And said "lemme see, lemme seeeee Mama!" no less than a thousand times after hearing the shutter click, click, click. So here's a few of the out-takes, because for some reason, I think they sum up my middle child just perfectly.
This is me.
see more dog and puppy pictures
I grew up with a mother who often called upon the name of the Lord. And not in vain, either. No, more like, "If the Lord wills...," or "Do you know the Lord?" or "This is the day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be glad in it!" Lordy, Lordy, that woman could talk some Jesus.
I grew up with a father who is a Gideon, those people you can thank for reading material when you've forgotten your book and you're alone in a motel room. My dad talks to Jesus like the Man himself has just cooked him breakfast, like they just finished a great round of golf (Jesus won, of course, but complimented my dad on his great game), like they're Facebook friends.
That man can pray.
I grew up watching the Billy Graham crusades. It didn't help that we only had three channels on our TV, and that was when the aluminum foil was placed just right on the antennae, the wind was coming from the East and I was standing on one leg, breathing out of my left nostril. There just weren't a lot of choices for my viewing pleasure.
He looks rather mild here, but homeboy had some scary eyebrows. And at the end of every night of every crusade he would call people to the altar. If you had even a shadow of a doubt, that you were going to heaven, you needed to get your butt down that aisle and in front of that altar. Or at least you should call their 1-800 number. Operators were standing by.
A shadow of a doubt. I've always had a shadow of a doubt. Not that I don't have faith, I do, but who am I to say that I should be let into Heaven?
This little "shadow of a doubt" has always haunted me. It's the reason that when I would come home from high school and no one was home, not even my mother who, to the point of being annoying, was ALWAYS home, I was sure the Rapture had come and left me behind.
I'm at home in the closet, hiding under some dirty clothes. If you, too, have been left behind in the Rapture, that's where you can find me.
I do pray, a lot, about all sorts of things like the lonely person I see standing on the corner, please sweet Jesus, send him some lovin'. Or for my children, lots and lots of pleas for their well-being. The occasional thank you, which is so important, but not as urgent. The rote prayers before dinner and bed. But I hate to pray out loud. To me it's such a private, personal time, a time that is fraught with great potential for embarrassment.
So I avoid it.
The month of May is my month for teaching Sunday school in our little church. I teach the 4th and 5th graders, but I haul in anyone from 3rd to 8th grades if they want to join us rather than sit in the service. I'm an equal-opportunity Sunday school teacher.
This month I threw the curriculum to the wind and decided to talk about prayer. And guess what? My first week teaching was prayer week. I hadn't even known, so I know it was a sign.
Our first week (and second, and part of the third...) we made Prayer Journals. I bought stickers and brought out the scrapbooking supplies I have at home and each kid designed his or her own prayer journal.
I love the idea of a prayer journal. I had used prayer journals myself and wanted our kids to understand how writing down prayers, especially worries, is a great way of relinquishing them.
We talked about some prayer warriors of different faiths, like Gandhi, who meditated for an hour a day and two hours on stressful days.
Some kids wrote quotes on their journals. Bow wrote the quote from Gandhi, "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind." Kate's Noah wrote, in stickers, "God, we are forever friends."
As usual, I learned more from them than they did from me.
Without a shadow of a doubt.
Amen.
--A
Yesterday two of my favorite people and I went to our creek. When I wasn't being devoured by black flies, I snapped a couple of pictures. Just the thought of those evil little creatures is causing me to itch:
So, although the picture above (Anna in the creek, not the black fly) looks idyllic and peaceful, in reality it was more like being pecked to death. That's the wonder of photography, really; the ability to create a separate reality.
Today I allowed each kid to edit his or her own picture. This is what Anna came up with.
What she loved about this picture is how Zoe stands out. We have our priorities.
I've never played with the different effects available through Photoshop Elements until today. I just clicked, clicked, clicked and Voila! The brown image you see before you. The one that apparently shows Zoe's best side. I saved it as a GIF 64 Dithered file. Whatever that means.
Notice the concentration, the focus, the "spear" in his right hand. Meanwhile, when not sacrificing my blood to black flies in order to take pictures, I'm running around maniacally, swatting at the gnat-like bugs, screaming at my children to get moving. "They're biting me! They're biting me!" Why my kids were spared, I don't know.
This was the result of Jimmie's editing:
an image he chose because it looks like he's in a jungle.
Maybe he is. After all, pictures obviously don't document the reality of the moment, but rather what we want to remember. There are no black flies in this picture. Anna is not wading through ice-cold creek water that leaves her feet numb. Dogs are not pulling at leashes or eating deer poop.
Ahhh...what a great day.
--A
Admission number one: I am totally, utterly and completely disorganized. As in, I was the kid in school whose desk always looked like this:
I have a confession. I am not a celebrity. I don't even know any celebrities. But I once pretended to be one. . .not like an imposter or impersonator:
(I'm not really the Pope. Or Abe Lincoln. I might be Sammy Davis, Jr., however.)
And maybe "pretend" isn't even the right word. It's more like I was treated so well I could have been a celebrity. Yeah, that's it.
Today, my peeps, it's all about Curtain Bluff, a small and elegant resort located in Antigua (pronounced "Ann-tee-Gah." Just a little pet peeve of mine. Like "ex-presso" instead of "ess-presso."). And although I usually write about my virtual travels, this is a place I've actually been to.
The story goes that this man (shown here with his hot wife, Chelle),
Howard Hulford, was flying over the island and fell in love with a piece of land. At the time the Antiguan government, hoping to bring in tourist dollars, would only sell large pieces of land to developers who would build resorts. So, rather than give up his dream, Howard built Curtain Bluff and made it into one the premier resorts in the world. It's consistently mentioned in Conde Nast Traveler's Gold List.
We certainly can't afford it.
And that is where this man comes in:
"This man" is Sam's grandfather, the man in the center of the picture, holding the Antigua poster. I think he might have liked being the center of attention. His lovely wife Mary is in the red dress (he used to go out and buy her Pucci dresses...just because. A gene that was not passed down to his grandson.), and their good friends, Roy and Dottie, are on either side of him.
Back in the 1960s the Caribbean was undeveloped and just opening up to vacation travel. Actually, I think vacation travel was just becoming a possibility. This foursome decided to travel to Antigua, and with reservations already made, arrived at their resort. Only to find that the resort had no record of them. Remember, there weren't that many choices back then. So they were directed to the newly opened Curtain Bluff. It was so new that they had rooms to spare. And a friendship between the travellers and Howard was formed that lasted for many, many years. Sam's grandfather invested in Howard's resort, an opportunity that is no longer available, and because of that decision made almost 50 years ago, we got to spend a week at this world class resort.
Sam is wearing one of his grandfather's old blazers in this photo. It has golf bags on it.
Sam's grandparents would head to Antigua and Curtain Bluff once a year. One year a movie was being filmed on the island and members of the cast were staying at the resort.
Yes, that's who you think it is. Jimmie Rice was thrilled with this picture, so I'm told, and had it hanging in his cottage. I'm glad he wasn't around to find out O.J.'s true character. There's something about ignorance being bliss.
When we got to Curtain Bluff, Sam turned into a person that I didn't know: he was almost giddy, he wasn't crabby, and the weight of the world wasn't sucking the life out of him. It took me three days to get used to this side of him.
I realize as I write this that Sam's grandfather, whom I have never met, has still had a profound effect on my life. Family will do that to you. His decision allowed us to create memories that we will forever have. I was pregnant with Anna while at Curtain Bluff, but didn't realize it. Which may explain why I ordered kidneys for dinner one night. And our son is named for this man who went by "Jimmie" (yes, with an "i-e") until his dying day. I wonder what decisions that I make will affect my family fifty years from now. Here's to hoping the effects are positive. I can guarantee that they won't involve a white Bronco.
--A
Family game night is a big event in this house. The boys look forward to it, and Justin and I look forward to it. Well, we mostly look forward to it, except for the fact that we can't play Monopoly anymore because of a certain someone (JUSTIN) who is so merciless with his Parker Brothers greed that the children end up crying, or the fact that the boys go through cycles that have us playing the same game for three months and I am ready to scream and yell "I am NOT sorry!" while shuffling my four year-old's yellow dude back to start in that game that seems to. never. end.
Yes, this recipe uses canned salmon. Canned. And before I extol its virtues, let's just get this out of the way. Here's the salmon before:
and here it is after:
Yeah, I know.
I think if I could use the salmon from the before picture, just throw the whole can into the mix, like Kate wanted to in this recipe, I would do that. And it doesn't really get better because this salmon includes the bones:
Actually, the bones are a good source of calcium. I remove them anyway just because of the grossness factor. And sometimes I remove all the black skinlike pieces, too. And if you still want to try this recipe, I give you a lot of credit. Granted, you could use the left-overs from this recipe (which I found out later was steelhead trout, not salmon as I falsely led you to believe and was too embarrassed to reveal until now. Thanks, Dad, for pointing this out.), we just never have any left-overs.
After smooshing (an actual cooking term) the salmon to make mush, add the following ingredients:
1/2 tablespoon Worcestershire (Woosh-ti-shire? Wur-sti-shur? War-chester-shire? It doesn't really matter how you pronounce it, just don't say it outloud. Unless you're home alone, then say it out loud all you want.) sauce
1/4 cup mayonnaise (I'm a Hellman's girl)
2 tablespoons mustard (preferably something fancy)
1/4 cup breadcrumbs (I didn't have any and didn't want to pull out the blender, since I'd have to wash it later, to make any, and I didn't have any croutons, which add a nice flavor, so I used corn meal to hold it all together)
minced garlic (the garlic was absent on picture-taking day, and was added last minute when I remembered that my husband had asked me to add lots of garlic to everything...except for things like ice cream and perhaps cereal...in an effort to ward off mosquitoes. And probably everyone but close family friends. It's an experiment and worth a try because Northern Michigan mosquitoes are vicious little buggers:
I. Hate. Mosquitoes.
I'll let you know how the garlic experiment works out.)
Then I came up with a brilliant idea for cooking the salmon patties! A MUFFIN PAN!
Okay, so it's not the polio vaccine, and I probably am not the first person to come up with this idea, and most likely Martha Stewart or the Pioneer Woman or you have been doing this for years, but in this house I'm the first person who has thought of this particular idea and Sam was duly impressed because when the salmon patties came out of the oven, they looked like this:
Which is pretty good, except for the bloody-looking juicy stuff on the plate (what IS that?) and the rogue salmon patties that wouldn't hold together even if I had added super glue to the recipe. The end result being this:
And this, I now realize, looks like every dinner I ever make:
But it does taste different. I promise.
I made a sauce, as well, which is simply comprised of the following ingredients:
Although canned salmon isn't as romantic as a salmon filet, it does have its benefits:
1. Canned salmon contains healthy Omega-3, proven to support joint health, improve mental health, and help keep your heart pumping.
2. According to the Environmental Defense Fund, canned salmon is one of the best seafood choices you can make.
3. It's cheap.
4. And although not scientifically proven, this recipe just might keep mosquitoes away.
I should have posted this two weeks ago. It would make a smashing mothers' day present (I'm sorry, I've been netflixing a lot of British comedies as of late, and words like "smashing" are ever-increasing in my vocabulary). In any case, this makes a great spring/summer centerpiece or a great gift for any mama you may know (think handmade birthday present with the help of her little ones).
On Friday we had the opportunity to attend the annual school carnival, an event that raises money for field trips and extracurricular activities...things not included in the regular school budget. It's a necessary event, I suppose, but I paid each kid $20 last year not to go. And I saved money.
So, imagine my glee when neither kid wanted to go this year. And neither one bribed me, either. I think it's the constant running, running during the week that made them both want to have at least one afternoon when nothing was scheduled, no times were set, and nothing had to be done. So we picked up their dad and, after I saved our cat from a rabid fox (that's a whole other story...but suffice it to say that I am quite the superhero), went out to look for morel mushrooms, the holy grail for mushroom hunters in the Great Lakes region.
Sam and Anna love mushrooms. Jimmie and I, not so much, but that doesn't mean it's not fun to go looking for them. And it's not easy. People guard their morel hunting grounds like Great Aunt Fanny's award-winning chili recipe. On their death bed they may tell a close relative their secrets, but even that is not a sure thing. The recipe for Coke is probably more accessible. With rain the night before and sun and warmer temps on Friday, it seemed like conditions were ripe. But, what do we know.
In the tradition of the legendary truffle hunters of France (the fungus, not the chocolate), I brought the dogs. Anna wanted Zoe, of course, since she hadn't seen her for probably a whole 7 hours:
Which meant that I got Holy Moly. I had a sneaking suspicion that she might have an innate talent for sniffing out mushrooms. I was wrong. She has an innate talent for eating deer poop and wrapping the leash around juvenile trees. Not to say that she didn't work hard, however:
Notice the tongue. And, by the way, that Gentle Leader might be the best thing for walking a dog since legs were invented.
We walked for an hour-and-a-half. All of us together, but yet alone in our thoughts:
Noticing things that we wouldn't have if other distractions like iPods or cell phones or computers or plastic toys had been accessible or available. And looking down at the mulchy leaves, all shades of brown, in various states of decomposition, I noticed this:
which, honestly, would be a unremarkable and plain and ordinary sprig of green were it not for the drab surroundings in which it chose to sprout.
I also appreciated the Spring Beauties, little bits of pink and white, hardly noticeable:
along with the Trout Lilies and the delightfully named Dutchman's Breeches shown at the top of this post. We came across one living creature who was quite menacing and hissed ferociously at Moly:
Oooh! Scary! I did have the fleeting thought that it might be a rattlesnake, because that's how my mind works, but it's obviously not. Jimmie wanted to take it home, but fortunately couldn't catch it.
But we didn't find even one morel mushroom. Not even a spore. Not that spores are detectable by the human eye, but still. Sam declared the day a failure. But I don't think he could even agree with that statement. Because we took a day that looked like this:
a not-so-very special day, not real warm, not terribly colorful, just the bones of Spring, and found the beauty in it.
And we didn't have to go to the school carnival.
And Sam found these Saturday morning when out for a walk with the dogs.
Not every story has a morel. Some just have bad puns.
--A
My husband can attest to the fact that I am. not. a. morning. person. In fact, if anyone even tries to hold a conversation with me before I have ingested enough caffeine...well, they might end up facing this:
While I do love our community garden plot, and while I try to eat as local as possible all the time, I cannot lay claim to being any sort of homesteader. We don't raise much in terms of our own food-- the plot is more about the kids digging in the dirt and discovering the cycle of seasons; we have a CSA membership for the real stuff-- and our family is not exactly self-reliant (unless you count the fact that we don't have tv, which technically makes us sort-of self-reliant in the entertainment category...right).
--K
Is there an addict group for sewing? Because if there is, I may need to do the whole, “Hi, my name is Kate, and I am a sew-a-holic” thing. I cannot stop dreaming and scheming up projects (little projects that only use fat quarters because I am still afraid to use anything bigger). First, it was the bread bag. The next day? I whipped up this sweet vintage-inspired apron (with pockets!),
following the general guidelines in Amy Karol’s Bend the Rules Sewing book.
If you are new to sewing (or if you just like cool projects) I would so highly recommend Amy’s book– it has been such a great resource for me. Plus, she’s a mama craft blogger turned author, and that’s just plain cool.
Today, however, was a big day in my new wide world of fabrics. Today, I ventured off the tutorials and patterns on websites or books and decided to just make something. And I’m posting the tutorial right here, right now– can you believe it? I must be like a craft genius or something. Just don’t expect clearly defined pattern directions or look too closely at those stray threads or wobbly hems. Ahem. Oh, my, “a-hem.” That really was an unintended pun. See? Addicted.
I just realized that the “hems” I am referring to may actually be called seams. I’ve got a lot to learn.
Anyway…without further ado….How to make your own reusable sandwich/snack sack. Stop laughing. I think this is sweet (and by sweet I mean totally awesome dude).
For my picky lunch crowd, any sandwich eaten outside our four walls is a packed sandwich. Being that our family values include caring for the environment, sticking sandwiches (or the snacks that are required for any outing that lasts more than 30 minutes) in plastic baggies is just not very cool. I’ve seen– and actually own– the little reusable bags that are popping up in hip stores all over, but they aren’t cheap, and for a household of five, I’m not about to spend $50-65 to get enough of them. Instead, I decided to make my own– and it actually, honestly worked.
Here’s how you can make a sandwich/snack sack too– all for under $3!
Measure out enough outer fabric for a sandwich (remember to make allowances for seams). If you find a cool fabric that is a fat quarter, you’ll be able to make at least three bags from that alone. Anyway, mine measured about 6.5 inches on each side. One of the cut outs needs to have a flap (about three inches on each side at a diagonal) to fasten the bag with velcro. I actually made both pieces like this and after realizing only one side needs a flap I ended up lopping one flap off (oops).
My
boys were so excited about this fabric. Anything with skulls is
currently an instant hit around here. After you’ve cut the outer
fabric, iron it and then use it as a pattern to trace (using a fabric
marking pen– it erases with water) the inner lining– I used an
inexpensive sport vinyl– easy to clean is the key fabric requirement
for the inside (think almond butter or mustard residue needing to be
removed daily).
Once that is cut too, pin the inner and outer fabric together– making sure you pin the fabric so that the right side is facing out and the inside is what is faced with the vinyl.
Next, take the two sides of the bag and sew together, right sides facing each other as you stitch the seam. Make sure you only sew three sides, leaving the top (with the additional fabric flap) open. When the seam is complete, turn the bag right-side out and press. Add velcro (I like the self-sealing velcro squares) and voila!
A handy-dandy reusable bag, sure to be a sack lunch/beach snack bag favorite. I know it will be around here, as I had to make two more already (and by request, even!).
Happy sewing!
Perhaps because it’s May and not yet 60 degrees outside. Perhaps because the leaves are barely dotting the brown branches in our woods. Perhaps because the color of my skin is so white that even Edward Cullen would look tan next to me.
Also known as Cedric Diggory
Or perhaps it’s because members of our family just returned from an 8 day catamaran vacation in the British Virgin Islands. Yeah. That’s it.
So, while I drooled looked over their pictures and pretended I was on that trip with them, I did what I often do when other people go on vacation and haven’t invited me. I pepper them with questions. People love that.
I am not annoying.
What I found out is that out of all the islands that they visited, my family members, whose opinion is of great value (are you reading this family members?), loved the island of Jost Van Dyke out of all the islands in the BVIs. I thought it might be Virgin Gorda, the home of Little Dix Bay, a frequent destination of mine when I virtually travel:
I am the tall, leggy blond lying on the beach.
But it’s not. So I’ve looked up Jost Van Dyke to find the best places to stay. The Soggy Dollar Bar and Sandcastle Hotel looks fun
Wastin' Away Again in Margaritaville
And at less that $3,000 a week for 2 people on a MAP (modified American plan, which means that the price includes 2 meals a day), this is a pretty good deal. It is also the number one choice in Jost Van Dyke on TripAdvisor . Okay, it’s the only choice on Jost Van Dyke. Unfortunately, children under 16 cannot stay at the Sandcastle Hotel, so this eliminates it for us.
White Bay Villas and Seaside Cottages also look promising.
This looks promising. I promise.
And it has gotten good reviews on TripAdvisor (in the “Specialty Lodging” category…which has a total of 3 entries) and Fodor’s. No meals are included (buying groceries on Tortola or St. Thomas is recommended) and the price is between $$ and $$$$. I know. I’m not sure what that means, either. If it means between $2 and $4, I’m leaving for the airport immediately. But for some reason, I don’t think that’s what it means.
So I checked out Vacation Rental by Owner (VRBO), my old standby, and found this:
Yes, it's pink. Or sunburned.
This is a dream location for my family. It’s on a small island not over-run with tourists (because when you come from a tourist town, the last thing you want to surround yourself with is tourists…not that you’re one yourself or anything), it’s right on the beach, and some guy named Frankie is the property manager. How much more tropical can you get? It’s a little pricey ($3450 to $4450 a week for 3 bedrooms…which seems a lot more than $$ or $$$$), but if you went with another couple who had no children but loved yours and didn’t find them at all annoying and who wanted to pay half just for the pleasure of your company, this place would be totally affordable.
This is also available:
"Bring me a fruity drink, hot cabana boy."
and is quite affordable at $1400 to $2550 per week depending on the time of year and number of people.
The last place I found was Sandy Ground Estates, a group of villas all located in the same relative area of the island. They share a beach (or as they seem to call it, “sandy ground”). Any one of the villas would work for me, but this may be my favorite:
My one complaint being that the two bedrooms are separated by a floor and I like my kids to be closer to us than that. I’m funny that way. This rental is similar in price to the previous entry.
Apparently there are few options on Jost Van Dyke, and I won’t be scheduling my flight any time soon, so I might just dress my husband up in a speedo and make him bring me a Piña Colada while I sit in the hot tub. He would totally do that.
This is not really Sam.
–A
One of my more recent beads, an encased floral made into a pendant.
Corina is beyond amazing. And very giving with any "secrets" she may have uncovered. Her book, Passing the Flame, is all I used to teach myself lampwork beading. Granted, I've got a ways to go, but her beads are like the Holy Grail. I also bow to the artistic prowess of Jill Symons:
Fantastically inventive beads and great photography to boot.
I'm a Lina Khan wannabe:
And Sarah Moran of Z-Beadsleaves me in awe:
I just know I have a lot of work to do.
Keep checking back to see if I ever progress beyond mediocre.
--A
This picture just makes me laugh.
One of the things I love most about
springtime (in addition, of course, to the fact that I can stop downing
a bottle of Vitamin D everyday and my long johns can have a break and
my children sleep in that deep, fresh spring play kind of way and color
starts sweeping across the landscape) is weekend movie nights outside.
With extra-stuffed blankets and pillows, the kids hit the deck in their
PJ’s and pop in a great DVD like Planet Earth (the incredible BBC mini-series). They snuggle up and settle in and ever-so-often fall asleep.
It may not be as exciting as a drive-in, and may lack wow-factor of a
big screen showing, but there is something so simple and sweet about a
bucket of popcorn and a sippy cup on the back porch that makes weekend
movie nights fantastic. What warm-weather activities are you most
looking forward to with your family?
Did I just paraphrase a song from Hee-Haw? The fact is, I greatly dislike potluck dinners. Okay. I hate them. For one simple reason. I am 43 years old and I don’t like my food to touch. I’m also afraid of alien abduction. But, should you need to take something to a potluck dinner, or if you just need a side dish for tonight’s dinner, or if you need to take a dish to pass for your next alien abduction, here’s a pretty good one. If I do say so myself.
That hole you see in the picture is where I took a little taste. It was good.
First, take about 3 ounces of whole-wheat pasta, break it into 3 inch pieces and prepare, following the instructions on the package.
Which means: boil until done.
In the meantime, take a package of broccoli slaw:
preferably some that is “Fresh & Crisp!” and mix with the following:
1/3 cup
which actually should be
unless when you take it out of the fridge you find it empty. Then just use any old vinegar you can find. Add 2 tablespoons of sugar
3 tablespoons of soy sauce:
1 tablespoon olive oil:
1 teaspoon of minced garlic: 
I always add at least one clove. For good luck. And to ward off vampires. This recipe also calls for 1/2 cup of chopped green onions (don’t have any), 1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro (the taste of which Mr. Incredible hates in a very hateful way), 1/4 cup red pepper strips (I had yellow. And honestly, I couldn’t tell the difference), and 1/2 cup of frozen baby peas:
You are now required to toss all of these ingredients together. Toss! Toss! Toss! This is one of those words that looks weird when you type it too many times in a row. Toss it again. Then stick it in the fridge for 2 hours. Or, if you’re like me and can’t plan that far ahead, stick it in the fridge until the rest of dinner is ready. Enjoy! 
The original recipe can be found here. Keep it away from the red Jell-O and green bean casserole. And aliens.
–A
You know you are a chronic new-hobby person when you call a friend– excitement exuding from your voice– to announce the fact that you just bought a sewing machine– and that friend responds (between fits of laughter) “Do we need to medicate you?”
Ahem.
While it is true that as a mother of three small children I may tend to be, um, a bit of an over-committer. I also tend to get so interested in so many new skills or activities that I engross myself fully for a week or a month and then, well, I get exhausted and burnt-out because I can never quite find the balance between kids and housework and hobbies and husband and…well, you get the picture. Or not, because I refuse to post what the base of our toilets look like when one of these bouts of imbalance sets in (I do have three boys living in this house. I’ll leave it at that).
So when my lovely little sewing machine arrived on my back door– we live too middle-of-nowhere-ish to actually have a machine shop nearby– I was giddy with the possibilities.
Aprons. Dresses for Lizzie. PJ pants for the boys. Skirts. Curtains. Coats. Pillows. Play tents. Bags and smocks and basically anything in Amy Karol’s beautiful Bend the Rules Sewing book. I tore open the box, expecting to somehow instantly understand the inner workings of this machine…despite the fact that even the word “machine” gives me the willies. Imagine my disappointment when I realized I did not even know how to thread a bobbin, let alone set a stitch.
The day my machine arrived, it was a glorious 70-degrees outside. I sat, with the season’s first Oberon, and read (and reread) the manual on my back porch until it was too dark to see. Frustrated with my lack of ability to comprehend or retain any of the jargon I was trying to digest, I set the manual down and went to bed.
In the middle of the night, a thunderstorm hit. So my first sewing experience ever? It had nothing to do with a needle and thread. It had to do with my sweet husband carefully drying a sopping wet sewing machine manual, which had been left in the rain.
It was a good lesson in going slow. In walking away when frustration levels rise too high. In getting creative with solutions and being able to laugh at mistakes. And in looking forward to new projects. All of these things, I do believe, will be my guidelines for sewing. Because oh, my, I do love it.
So here’s my first tutorial– just in time for Mother’s Day!
Or not. It is actually something to dress your homemade bread.
Because
it looks so naked this way, right? Really though, homemade bread
doesn’t usually last too long, but it can be kept a little bit fresher
in a linen bread bag, according to the ever-crafty-and-wonderful Amanda Soule.
For a pattern, I took an actual paper bread bag from our local bakery
and cut it down the sides so that it was only held together by its
bottom “seam.” I traced the bag onto a piece of washed linen fabric
using a fabric marking pen (that disappears when you wash it– nifty!)
and then cut it out, sewed up the two sides with a straight stitch, and
turned the bag right side out. I hand embroidered the drawstring
holder and then added a piece of ribbon through by cutting two slits
and threading the ribbon along with a safety pin. Then I used the
fabric marking pen to draw on a fresh “loaf” of bread and the phrase
“Rise up with gratitude and joy” — a nice reminder for my household
each morning. I hand embroidered these things
(which appear backwards thanks to Mac photo booth. I swear. Oh, and please ignore how Vanna White I’m being. Something about photo booth makes me act like a fool. Every time.). I plan to do a few more of these (bags, not self photo sessions) before Mother’s Day and bake some fresh bread to go with them as gifts.
Next up? An apron. And this sewing tattoo.
Okay, again, not really. But seriously. A sewing tattoo? It is too good to not post.
I probably do need to be medicated.
Here’s a picture of my mom and dad on the occasion of my dad’s 80th birthday. There’s no music, so if you came for that part, just hum something in your head. Or out loud. Doesn’t matter either way.
Here they are, back in the day, probably close to 60 years ago. Even in a black-and-white photo I can feel the sunshine blessing them, the future holding out its hand, and the two of them looking forward to all the good things life has waiting for them. Like me.
My dad is a handsome devil. Still. He’s so not devilish. He’s about as devilish as a deviled egg. Or deviled ham. I like deviled ham. I like my dad, too. He takes full care of my mom. But that’s not why I like him. That’s one of the reasons I admire him. Because I couldn’t do it.
The mom at the top of the page is my mom, and it’s also not my mom. Which sounds like I’m disowning her, but I’m not. It’s just that neither one of these moms in these pictures is my mom, the 1970s mom who did ceramics and ran a sheltered workshop for young adults in the area with Down syndrome. I don’t think you ever really know your parents, but neither mom shown here is the mom I have stored in my head. Who actually may never have existed.
My mother was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma about 13 years ago. I was still teaching at the time and I remember my mom and dad stopping by to tell me about her diagnosis. I remember that feeling of not being able to breathe. I remember feeling so scattered; life had turned chaotic and unpredictable in the expanse of seconds. I remember wondering that fall day, air crisp and smooth, sunlight on the turning leaves like shards of crystal, how did the earth still rotate? How did people simply continue on with their lives when mine had just been ripped up and thrown into the air, floating and spinning and landing somewhere. It would have to land somewhere, wouldn’t it?
The internet had not yet been fully developed at that time, which is probably a good thing. I didn’t have a chance to look up all of the awful outcomes that were a possiblity. I’m one of those people who doctors love…the ones who google every symptom. I’ve so far self-diagnosed myself with tuburculosis, breast cancer, gangrene, and melanoma. And, recently, hip cancer. That one turned out to be strep throat, but I was on the right track. Fortunately my doctor is used to my hysterics. And, more importantly, she has a sense-of-humor.
This is not my doctor (she's much prettier), just a representation of what she probably does after I leave her office.
The woman who began this journey is not the woman you see here thirteen years later. Actually, none of us is. Because when someone you love goes on the trip through cancer, you go on it , too. I’ve stood by when she was misdiagnosed (there are many, many types of lymphoma, all with different protocols) and then required to endure week-long chemo treatments in the hospital when really she only needed one treatment, out-patient, once-a-week. I’ve answered the phone call from my sister who, thank God, was home to help our dad when my mom broke her arm after the lymphoma ate away at the bone. Somewhere in there she broke her leg and had a titanium rod put in, and somewhere in the last 3 years the titanium rod broke (yes, the titanium rod) and needed to be removed and replaced. And I’ve watched both parents try to shield their children from the brunt of it all. Because that’s what parents do.
One of the biggest gifts of having children is the ability to appreciate your own parents. My mother, who has gradually been losing her mind in the last 13 years, drove me insane as I was growing up. I realize this is common. I keep asking Anna (who is 12) if I’m annoying her yet. Because I know I will.
The mother who annoyed me talked about “the Lord” to anyone and everyone.
And she talked to anyone and everyone, which might be the most embarrassing thing ever to a teenager who simply wants to be the stage hand, not the star of the play. And the two things together were mortifying. Now I see her as a woman of strong faith who raised her three children to have a strong faith. Hey, I love me some Jesus, but I’m not going to be talking to you about “the Lord” anytime soon. That still embarrasses me.
This woman packed the worst lunches ever. I never, ever had anything that anyone would trade their Doritos for. Ever. A typical lunch consisted of a grated cheese sandwich with mustard and a banana. You’ll notice the lack of Doritos. Because Doritos contained the preservatives BHA and BHT. No one ever read labels in the 70s. Except for my mom. Cap’n Crunch? Oh no, that would be Team flakes for Alison. Twinkies? Tang? Not even Kool-Aid. It was practically un-American. But I have to admit, my kids have been trained to read labels and look for high-fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils among other things. I buy organic if at all possible. And I realize and appreciate that my mother was ahead of her time. I might even brag about it a little.
This is a woman who nursed the baby me when formula was considered best. This is the woman who started me in school when I was 5 going on 6 (I’m a November birthday), to give me more time at home to mature and grow. This is a woman who read to me every night before bed until I was 12 years old. She taught me to embroider, she taught me to read, she told me you can never spoil a baby. She loves me like no one else ever will. And I get that, because I’m a mom.
When I first realized that my mom was not quite my mom any more I called my brother Phil. “What are we going to do about Mom?” I asked, more than a little panicked. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but he’s the oldest in the family, almost 10 years older than I am, and he lives 3 doors up the road from our parents, so I just wanted him to fix the situation. “What do you mean?” He asked back. “What do I mean? I mean, she’s losing her memory! She’s forgetting her grandchildren’s names! She can’t remember birthdays!” Just typing this leaves me with a jarring sense of what I’ve lost. But Phil, who lived with the same mom I did, but also a different one because of all the years between us, said the one thing that has made me okay with losing the old mom. He said, “This is the mom I’ve always wanted.” And I get it. This mom doesn’t complain about the restaurant food and send it back to be warmed up. This mom doesn’t ask if you’ve washed your hands in that accusing tone that suggests you might be Typhoid Mary. This mom whispers, “Buddha,” to me in church on Easter Sunday. This mom offers Motrin as an appetizer before dinner. This mom makes Phil laugh.
So, I miss the other mom. I wish my children knew her like I did. I wish I could have appreciated how smart she was, how intuitive. I would have enjoyed the time to become her friend, not just her daughter. I’m pretty sure she had a wicked sense-of-humor that propriety kept from us when we were younger.
But I can also see the blessing in having the mom I have now. And instead of wishing for what I don’t have, I’ll enjoy the one I do.
“Buddha.”
–A
Show the world you're one of our peeps!
Check out our products: t's for you and the kids, mugs, bags, bibs and more! It's all here at our CafePress store.
Follow us on Twitter
