Bad Dog

This is a bad dog.

Just today, at lunch, I made a luscious grilled deli meat and cheese sandwich for Middle Son and placed it, piping hot, on his lunch plate. At that moment, Middle Son chose to dart off and attend to some pressing distraction. And also at that moment, this Bad Dog "seized the day" and seized the sandwich. It makes me VERY MAD when animals of the household steal human food. Very, very mad.

I know this is startling, but you'll have to forgive me if a tiny piece of me wished that Bad Dog burnt his tongue on the hot cheese.

I made another sandwich. Middle Son ate half of the sandwich. Middle Son chose to dart off and attend to some pressing distraction. Bad Dog seized half of the second sandwich, gobbled it down in one swallow and actually grinned . . . grinned at me!

Middle Son, still hungry, pulled a large, delicious dish of leftover mashed potatoes out of the refrigerator, set them on the counter and warmed up a full plateful. Middle Son left the potatoes out on the counter. Middle Son chose to dart off and attend to some pressing distraction. Bad Dog sauntered cavalierly into the kitchen, put his two naughty paws up on the counter, stuck his furry head down into that bowl and went to town.

When I discovered him, there was a quarter cup of potatoes left in one corner of the dish, and buttery mashed potatoes rimmed his smirking mouth and extended up to the corners of his ears.

Bad Dog . . . bad, bad dog!

I'm ready to banish him to the outside. I'm ready to call the pound. I'm ready to attach him to the mailbox with a large "Free Dog" sign on his chest.

But then . . . !

But then I find him playing "fort" with Youngest Son.

And I find Middle Son and Bad Dog curled up cozily on blankets on the living room floor, heads resting on pillows (yes, my decorator couch pillows), covered by a red throw (yes, my Martha Stewart red throw with pompons ::sigh::).

And the old buzzard lets Youngest Daughter lie right on top of him and pull on his ears and inspect his calloused "elbows" without a complaint.

And somehow I just can't do it. I just can't send him off to doggy jail. I just can't banish him forever and ever to the cruel, cold out-of-doors. And goodness, if I don't even find myself forgiving him and loving the old fellow all over again.

Tote Bags and Prince Charming

My knitting projects are not something you should plan your schedules by. If you want that, you had better go to Yarn Harlot, where Stephanie McPhee regularly rolls out a new pair of socks or a blanket or a full-blown lace shawl on a weekly basis.

I like to keep my knitting projects very . . . uh . . . fluid as far as schedule, color, fiber and any other variable is concerned. All are subject to be changed at a moments notice. They are also subject to being started and being abandoned at a moment's notice.

Which brings me to my current project. You remember the tote bag I was going to be working on?

(Photo Source: Purl Bee)

Knit in this stunningly warm and welcoming yarn?

Oh, I could cry just looking at it! I bought this from a small yarn shop up in Hendersonville, NC and unbelievably bought only a 50 gram ball!! What was I thinking. The tote needs 100 grams. So, weeks later I went back to the store to pick up another 50 gram ball. And . . . you know the story . . . no more 50 gram balls of this glowing sunshine of a color!!

I asked the proprietor if he would be getting any more. He looked shocked and said no, of course not. He is from Lebanon and every fall he leaves to go and buy his yarns in the countries bordering the Mediterranean Sea and brings them back to his shop to be sold in the upcoming year. Hence, the beautiful yarns. Hence, the one-of-a-kind projects. Clearly I was not shopping at Hobby Lobby.

And so, there you go, 50 grams of fiber sunshine tantalizing me . . . but not enough to make my tote.

I bought this cotton instead, but it's kind of like settling for going to the ball with your kid brother and watching Prince Charming whirl around with Cinderella.

Just as I was ready to lift the knitting needles to get going on the "Nest Tote," across my computer screen comes this distraction.

(Photo Source: Purl Bee)

This pattern is crochet. Crochet is faster. I'm tempted . . . really, really tempted. This pattern with the sage cotton yarn. It could work!

If I can't have the Prince, guess I can be satisfied with the Kid Brother. ::sigh::

See what I mean . . . always keeping my projects fluid . . . very fluid.

P.S. You can find the pattern here.

Watermelon Sorbet

The recipe had been calling to me for weeks. "Watermelon Sorbet." Those two words said everything that I thought needed to be said at the end of a meal on a warm summer evening. What a way to end the summer . . . with a delicious watermelon sorbet. Sweet, frosty, mellow. Goodbye Summer, you've been wonderful!

The recipe promised "delightful flavor and texture." "Family Favorite!" it crowed.

So I planned for this pièce de résistance that was going to delight my family. Picked the watermelon. Picked the evening. Picked the meal.

When I sliced open the watermelon, it was end-of-season pink, instead of the full-bodied red I was dreaming of. Oh, well, nothing a little extra sugar couldn't cure.

I made the sugar-water syrup, chopped the watermelon, added the lime juice, processed in batches in the blender, chilled 2 hours. And then slipped it into its icy metal home to be made into sorbet.

Ten minutes after starting up the ice cream maker, there was a distinctive thudding sound, instead of the placid swishing I was looking for. I peeped in and found the whole substance to have become a stiff mass, clinging to the paddle, like so many chickens backed up against the hen house in the face of an oncoming storm. Thump, thump, thump, it clunked around.

I rescued the mass from its dizzying revolutions. It promptly separated into a thin, watery liquid and sharp icy crystals. I chopped, refroze, chiseled, scraped, and by the end of dinner I served what was to be my signature "farewell to summer."

"I'll pass," said the Man of the House, who doesn't care particularly for watermelon even in its native form.

"Watery," declared one of the 5 food critics at the table.

"Too lime-y," said the another who had questioned the addition of that ingredient from the beginning.

"Icky," piped up the third, apologetically.

"Delectable," said Oldest Son, clearly wanting to escape dish duty for the night.

"Delectable?"

He consulted his I-pod and its link to the online thesaurus.

"Enticing! Swashbuckling!"

Uh-huh.

"Good!" said Youngest Daughter, dreamily, delighted by anything in which she could find a pure, source of sugar.

Ah, yes, goodbye, Summer. We've loved you. And now we send you off with a less-than-rousing farewell.

So, what to do with a half-gallon container of rock solid watermelon ice? Partially thaw and reblend.

Watermelon slushies, anyone??

Coming and Going

There has been a lot of coming and going in this household lately. More than I would like. And more than is good.

But with Oldest Daughter taking some dual credit classes with a local university, volleyball season in full swing, school starting up for all 5, and all the other responsibilities that you know as well as I . . . well, there's just a lot of coming and going.

And sometimes that coming and going can begin to make me feel stressed and a little lost in my own world and anxious.

This past Sunday Youngest Daughter brought home yet another coloring page from Sunday School. I accepted it from her with mild pleasure and slight irritation. After 5 children and 17 years of school art, camp art, church art, home art, and more, I am guilty of feeling, "Now what am I going to do with this?" Don't stone me. It's true.

We've worked out a system where the current art goes up on a cupboard door for a week and then the "art fairies" come and whisk it away to their fairyland where they can enjoy it forever. Okay, that's what I tell myself. I've never explained this to Youngest Daughter and she hasn't asked!

I have to confess, I never glanced at the artwork that came home last Sunday and went dutifully up on the cupboard door.

But this week as I was coming and going, as I was looking at a "To Do" list that was much longer than humanly possible for a single day, as I felt the pressure start to creep up the back of my neck, and as I began to feel alone in the swirl, my eye caught the piece of childish artwork and, even better, a blessed reminder.



Ah, "The Lord keeps watch over me as I come and go." He is with me. He is my helper. The day stopped swirling, the stress crept back down my neck. I am not alone.

I called Youngest Daughter over. "Honey, this is beautiful! Can you tell me what the picture is?"



"Well, this is me and I'm sitting on the green grass and I'm blowing bubbles and the sun is shining. Oh, and these are God's eyes. He's watching over me."

Oh, lovely, delightful Father!! With me in the car! With me as I'm making up another daily "To Do" list! With me as I'm deciding at 6:05 p.m. what to make for dinner with frozen chicken, 3 red potatoes, and an eggplant that should have been used yesterday.

For this God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even to the end.

Dreaming

Today I'm dreaming.


Do you see this big comfortable leather chair with comfy pillow and blanket to pull around one's toes? I'm dreaming that I am totally by myself sitting right there. I'm dreaming that there's no dog hair caught in the pillow or floating around my head as I plunk down.




Do you see any cushions askew, any blocks sticking out from under the couch, a slingshot, dirty tennis ball, or stack of magic cards that need to be carried up to a bedroom? No, me neither. Because all is tidy and calm. Because I'm dreaming.




By my side is a big basket full of soft yarns. Do you hear any voices? No, I don't either. I'm all by myself and there's no one yelling, "Mom, what's wrong with my white shorts if I put them into the dirty basket wet and now they have black, fuzzy spots all over them?" There's no one interrupting me as I slip, purl, yarn over, and knit two together . . . calmly . . . over and over.




On the table beside me is a freshly made salad that I'm going to eat with no one picking out all the black olives.




And I've got a stack of books right beside my salad. Books I've tried to get to all summer. Books that have been inviting me to have a good, long visit for quite a while.


All is neat, all is quiet. I am alone. It is bliss.

-*-*-*-

And now that I have set up this scenario of blissful perfection, let me tell you what would happen approximately 30 minutes after I had achieved my "Nirvana."

I would become bored . . . and lonely . . . and irritable. And I would wish for the chaos and noise and mess that transform these walls from house to home.

Dreams are good . . . but only for dreaming. When it comes to living . . . give me reality!

Goodness . . . I love this life!

Geranium Love

I love geraniums!!


I didn't know I loved geraniums until this past week when I babysat three precious specimens for My Mom.



They sat in huge pots on my front porch, drank in blistering sun without complaining, and erupted in cheerful explosions of color, adding charm to the front of my house. Even their leaves are flirty.



What have I been thinking? Why hasn't this fun, hardy plant been part of my "landscape"? (I use the term "landscape" very loosely.)





I guess it took babysitting them and getting to know them to make me realize how much I need them!



I've heard that can happen with babies and puppies. Apparently, it's also the case with geraniums.

Two Worlds Collide

Here's a funny moment my blogging buddies will appreciate.

Several weeks ago I did my "100th Post Giveaway." When I had a winner, I packaged up the goodies and took everything to the UPS Store to have it boxed up and shipped.

I was waited on by a young-working-his-way-through-college clerk. I gave him the individual packages to box up and a little note to lay on the top that had the sentence in it: Thanks for being a sweet reader.

I saw him read the little note. And then his eyes widened, and he stood a little taller and asked with admiration, "Are you an author?"

I paused a moment. A nice long moment. A nice long moment in which I savored the words "you" and "author" being used within the same sentence. I smiled indulgently.

And then I shook myself and said, "Oh, no, no. I just have a little blog and I did a little giveaway."

"Wow, must be a pretty big blog to be able to do a giveaway!!!"

Well, uh, no, you dear young thing. Giveaways pretty much pop up like wildflowers in an open field here in Blogland.

"What do you blog about?"

Oh, my. I dove right in. "Well, just, uh stuff like, uh, being a mom and home and, uh, stuff like that," my excellent verbal skills proving my true claim to the title of "author."

Ahem. What was he to do with this information?

"Well, uh, I guess at least there wouldn't be many people who would blog on that topic." ::nervous giggle:: "So, at least, uh, you'd have a corner on that market."

Oh, my, you dear naive boy. You dear-naive-working-your-way-through-college-at-the-UPS-store-totally-outside-my-realm-my-world-my-sphere-boy.

Yes, there are 3 of us that blog about home and life.

Million.

3 million* that is. At least that's what it was when I went to bed last night. By this morning it was 3.4 million of us domestic/creative/bloggy type people out there.

The UPS clerk quickly boxed up the goods and avoided any more converations that would involve blogs, writing or domesticity . . . clearly three subjects far outside his comfort zone.

Then he returned to reading Hot Rod Magazine and drinking his Jolt Power Cola.

And I drove home to blog about painting my deck with my boys and making tabbouleh and knitting eco-friendly cotton market bags.

*Note: I have NO idea how many crafty/domestic/creative bloggers there are. Don't look to me for a source of statistics!! I just randomly pulled this fact out of the air : )