Bust Out Your Non-Skid Shoes

Because at some point we realized, we are adults.  If we have a dream, we can make it happen. 

We still need to think of a name.   I recommended naming it after me, as boats are female and I’m the only female in this family, but so far no one else is very taken with that idea.  It’s a little awkward to push to name a boat after yourself, so I’m not going to mention it again after I plug Kelly Michelley one more time.  She will be named by her inaugural trip into the Gulf of Mexico in a few weeks.  Until then, we’re taking suggestions.  If you suggest the wining name, I’ll make a bag for you out of the sail when it wears out.  You’ll have to wait years for your prize, but it will be totally worth it.

Goodnight Mush

It’s rodeo time in Houston.  I love this time of year.  What Texan doesn’t love seeing the trail ride heading through downtown Houston?  I love that I never seek out the trail ride, but year after year just happen upon it.  Rush and Tate were laughing and waving out the window when we pulled over to let the horses and covered wagons pass on our way to visit Trent at work and check out the job site.  Cowboys and horses and excavators and dump trucks in one day???  And it was garbage day!  It’s too much!

(Which is why both boys are still too adrenaline filled to nap and are both screaming and jumping in their beds.  Or maybe at this point they’re both in Tate’s crib.  I don’t even want to know.)

The best thing about the rodeo is the reminder that as non-western as you may be, if you live in Texas you’re going to be a part of it anyway.  My western wear for Go Texan Day (today) consists of the same thing year after year:  jeans and cowboy boot earrings.  Rush and Tate had even less luck with their cowboy attire; I couldn’t even find Rush’s armadillo t-shirt.  Trent was lobbying again today for me to get a real pair of cowboy boots, and even though most people in this area actually do own boots –even my mother- I would only wear them once a year, rodeo time.  So I’m passing on the boots.   But I’ve still got Texas in my veins- my wooden boot earrings were whittled by Pop, my grandfather who drove cattle when he was a child and actually owned an oil well.  I guarantee that even the most urban or hipster Texans fit into some proud Texas stereotypes. 

I may not have proper western attire, or be even slightly cowgirl-ish, but I am married to a man who wears boots to work every day and I can sit at my kitchen table eating chili (state dish) watching a mockingbird (state bird) flit around in our pecan tree (state tree).  

However, the opposite of chili is the worst dinner that I’ve ever made: lentil rice.

There are few foods I like less than a big pot of mush.  I’m on board with a lot of the health-foody items that have gone mainstream, like bulgur wheat and quinoa.  But something about lentils grosses me out.  Like bananas, I want to like them for their nutrients and convenience, but…hmmm…consistency maybe?  I thought maybe this recipe would work. 

After shaving 10 minutes off the cooking time when it seems to be getting overly mushy, I trusted the final step of the recipe, which called for removing the pot from heat, covering it wish a dish towel, replacing the lid and letting it sit for 10 minutes.  Mistake!  Agh, such a steamy, disgusting mistake! 

Oddly enough, every time I make something so mushy that I can tell just be looking at it that it was a fail, Trent happily eats seconds and deems the recipe a keeper.  One time I made cornbread so dense with creamed corn and green chilies that it was heavy and almost gray and Trent proclaimed it “the best cornbread I’ve ever made.”   The same man who loves fancy raw tuna really gets into a bowlful of mush. 

I’m hoping to replace the memory of lentil rice with a big oniony bowl of chili soon.  I didn’t purchase any frozen chili from St. Mark’s last fall (it’s the best chili ever, so big mistake on my part) so I’ll be making my own.  The most surefire delicious cookbook I have is Lone Star Five Star, a gift from my sister-in-law.  Every single recipe we have tried from that cookbook has been excellent and the chili looks promising.

It’s rodeo time, a time where we can all give up lentils and enjoy a spicy bowl of ground meat.  God Bless Texas.

Biased

I self bind all my big quilts and typically purchase bias tape for smaller projects, but in the interest of learning something new, and because sometimes it’s just easier to make something than to go to the store, I recently made bias tape.  Here’s a mistake that I’ve made way too many times:  if something about a pattern seems incorrect, I read it a few times before deciding that it’s probably an editing error and move forward with my own plan.  Every single time so far, the book was right and I was wrong.  So the directions for binding a mini-quilt say to use a 1/2 yd (42 cm) square of fabric and I read that as 1/2 yd/42 in.  Then I measure half a yard and it’s not nearly 42 inches, so clearly there is something wrong with the book and I just decide to use a 42 inch square. 

So I have a lot of bias tape.  About halfway through as the fabric was pooling all around the ironing board I stopped.  Now making a normal amount seems so simple.  Measure twice, cut once isn’t as effective if you’re glazing over the instructions.

I also finished baby quilt, the second completed project in preparation for a fall craft fair.

My favorite part is the back.

I like that back so much that I hope I don’t get bogged down and just make a big stack of quilts that look like the back of that one.  Our booth may end up looking like Ernest P. Worrell’s closet.

Valentine Remix

Back in my corporate days, my work friend Orlane, who is from Belgium, would spend Valentine’s Day exasperated by her co-workers exchanging candy or cards.  “Valentine’s Day is for lovers!”  In her French accent, it was very convincing.

But let’s consider the percentage of people who are happy with those parameters.  From elementary school on, I was analyzing the store bought Valentines from the boys in my class and trying to decide if “Hi, Friend!” meant Bob Edson liked me.  I couldn’t accept that fourth grade boys don’t even write names on the cards, they just sign their own names on the back and randomly pass them out to everyone in the class.  Then in high school on into old age, people who don’t have a date are bummed because they don’t have a date.  Add in anyone who is married or has been dating longer than 2 or 3 years, because that’s when people get lazy.  So Valentine’s Day for lovers only works if you are new to a relationship and not dating an idiot.  What percentage of the population would you guess falls into that category?  Eight?

I thought I had solved this by deciding last year that we would celebrate Valentine’s Day with a nice family dinner party.  So this year and last year, I decorated the table with balloons and heart streamers and paper doilies and cooked a nice meal.  Last year, it was great.  This year I realized it meant I was doing all the work to make the day special.  Trent bought a card for me at the grocery store and sat down to enjoy the steak that I cooked.  My feminist ways rebel against this.

So decided that we should reclassify Valentine’s Day and participation is optional.  Valentine’s Day is for People Who Give A Shit and if you don’t care, you’re out, go eat canned green beans and watch a movie with the other people who don’t care.  Everyone who wants to make cards and eat a Butterfinger in a pink wrapper can join together and party.  Rush and Tate, covered in chocolate covered strawberries, you can participate for now.  All the moms in Rush’s class who sent thoughtful Valentines with your kids, you can party with me.  My sister-in-law who sent really creative handmade cards for Rush and Tate and my great aunt who sent the family picture titled Mason Valentine #63, totally approved.

My husband who participated in this conversation in January-

Me:  I have an idea for a valentine I want to make for you, but it’s going to take forever and I’m not sure that you’ll care.

Trent:  I won’t.  I don’t care about that kind of thing.

Denied.  He can reapply for participation, but for now he’ll be free to work in the garage next February 14.  My mom, who went to visit my sister because, “Dad and I have already celebrated a lot of Valentine’s Days together.” will be joining Trent.  But anyone else who wants to potluck your fanciest heart shaped desserts next year, you’re welcome in my home.

Update:  Literally at this point in my typing, Trent walked in the door with a big bouquet of flowers in an attempt to redeem last Tuesday.  Well done Trent.

The flowers bring up the glitch in my plan.  I want a Valentine’s Day where people can choose to participate or not, but I want Trent to want to participate.  This is why his favorite scene in any movie is the post-dinner party scene in The Break Up, Vince Vaughn shouting, “You want me to want to wash the dishes?!”

So I don’t know what to do about Valentine’s Day, except conclude that you can’t hang your hopes on your spouse or boyfriend or the person you’re stalking to make the day special.  If you care about making it special, do it yourself and make everyone’s day.  It’s about sharing love, so smother the people you love and your co-workers and classmates and the people in line with you at Dollar Tree* buying balloons with as much love and candy as you can.

 

*On Valentine’s Day, Tate was crying and crying while waiting in line to check out with our balloons.  The woman in front of us found a dump truck in the store, gave it to Tate to play with, then bought it for him.  When I tried to stop her, she said “Don’t limit the blessings.” Amen, sister.

Please Welcome to the Stage, PANTHER

Well, I guess I’m ending my unofficial break from the computer.  Blame it all on the Facebook Timeline.  I tried to be proactively involved instead of issuing my usual eye roll at an unnecessary update, so I clicked the button to “Try Facebook Timeline!”  As soon as I saw that I was graciously offered up to a week to tweak the reorganization of all the information already on my Facebook profile, I realized not only did I not want to spend a week doing that, I didn’t want to spend any time on the computer, or see any of these people again for the rest of my life.  I didn’t actively decide not to use the computer, I just almost couldn’t make myself do it.  I forced myself to check my e-mail every few days, but that was kind of a chore.  I had other things to do, like help this guy adjust to our family-

Welcome Panther, the newest member of our happy home.  He’s about 4 months old and so very scrawny, not accurately displayed in that photo.  So far he’s also the chillest cat ever.  Have you ever seen a cartoon child hold a kitten and squeeze him and hold him and love him forever?  That’s Rush and Panther doesn’t seem to mind.  He even puts up with a fair amount of affection from Tate. 

After 3 weeks (I think?) in the Williams family, Panther is adjusting quite well.  As far as I know, he’s used a litter box pretty well today, so fingers crossed we’re making progress.  Jetty’s gradually warming up to him as well.  I need to cherish these kitten moments because soon he’ll be a cat, happy to ignore me for the 23 hours of the day that he’s sleeping in front of a window.

Someone please remind me of this when my kids are bigger and I decide we should get a dog:  I like that cats ignore me and that they are so low maintenance.  We’re here together, doing our own thing; we snuggle when it’s really cold and I can dump out a giant bag of cat food when I go on vacation.  I’m pretty sure a dog is the maintenance and affection and guilt of a kitten times ten, at least.  A playful new kitten who has to learn to stay off the kitchen table and can’t often remember where to find his litter box is at the upper end of high maintenance for me.  When I decide to get a dog, someone remind me!

For now, I’m a content cat person.  I’m getting my allotted 30 minutes of affection from Jetty right now as I try to keep her off the keyboard.  All is right with my world.

News From Gobbler’s Knob

Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, so six more weeks of winter.  Thank God.  There’s still time to actually wear a sweater or even jeans.  80 degree February days create a gnawing, underlying sense of panic that makes it difficult for me to face the gigantic piles of laundry that need to be folded.  If it’s 80 in February, does that mean 100 in April and 150 in August?

I was really rooting for shadow this year.  Phil and the sun, I thank you.