Insecurity

And then I thought, what if I am really bad at making Chex Mix?

The Transitory Nature of Material Life*

Last year we successfully made at least one handmade Christmas gift for all our family members; this year I was hijacked by two twin sized (hopefully) quilts for Rush and Tate.  But –miracle!- as of last night, they are finished.  The last stitch of a quilt amazes me every time.  I spend hours and hours and hours and hours working on it, then I sew the final stitch and all of a sudden I’m curled up under a quilt instead of working on a project. 

The whole process seemed, at times, a tad futile.  The first time somebody throws up on his quilt, I need to channel the Tibetan monks and their sand mandalas and remember life’s impermanence.  But making the quilts is about more than making nice bedspreads that will probably get coke spilled on them.  It’s giving them my love in something that they can wrap around their heads and using my hands for something other than pressing touch-screen buttons on my phone and continuing a beautiful art form in the midst of a society that’s probably going to forget how to write in cursive.

I’ll post some pictures after Christmas.  Let’s save some surprises.

So if I can finish one last gift for Tate, I will maybe have time to squeeze in a little handmade something for someone.  There are still a few available weeks.  If nothing else, I did finish my handmade gifts for the names picked in the family drawings.  Rush finished his too and already gave it to his cousin Remi:

It’s a wreath made of ribbons and tulle.  She seemed to love it and wasn’t sure if she was going to hang it on her door or find a round mirror and use it as a frame.  Rush is learning to cut with scissors, so he really enjoyed making it.

We’re planning to get our Christmas tree tomorrow and pulling out boxes of ornaments yesterday was getting me into an ornament making mood.  Maybe my Saturday night will include a felt, embroidery floss, sequins, and White Christmas.  Hot Dr. Pepper anyone?

 

*I borrowed that phrase from Wikipedia.  Do I need to credit that?  If so, done.

Occupational Hazard

When I was growing up, my mom would occasionally make junk soup.  Sounds delicious, right?  I’m pretty sure my mother kept a jar in the freezer and would randomly throw in vegetables, a few leftover green beans, some celery, a handful of corn, and when the jar was full it became junk soup.  Allegedly lots of people do this, my mom’s friend Ellen called it Soup of the Day and her friend Linda called it something else, something I’ve obviously forgotten because I was never very interested in soup that had been gradually taking shape in the freezer, growing from the things my siblings and I were so crazy about the first time around that we didn’t even finish them.

Then all of a sudden last week it was 4:30 and I had no plans for dinner.  (The phrase “no plans for dinner” could really go two ways – it’s either wearing a dress and heels and coyly talking to a gentlemen caller or it’s standing in the kitchen with a ponytail and two small boys pulling all the pots out of the cabinets.  In this story, it’s the latter.)   All of a sudden I find myself chopping up sweet potatoes and opening cans of black beans and tomatoes and finding half a package of frozen corn in the freezer and a carton of chicken stock in the pantry and here we are.   Important difference:  I’m calling mine sweet and sour peasant soup, not junk soup.

For most things I really don’t mind turning into my mother; she’s creative, hardworking, efficient, honest, giving, etc.  But I really didn’t want to start making junk soup.  I’m not even a big soup fan.  Unfortunately junk/sweet and sour peasant soup fits so well with my inclination towards vegetarian cooking, my goal to not waste food, and my poor dinner planning that it was only a matter of time. 

I’m making peace with the soup.  I’m just hoping I can keep myself from cooking turnips.  There are few things more disappointing in life than walking into the kitchen for dinner and seeing a big bowl of what appears to be mashed potatoes and then realizing, oh wait, it’s turnips.

hot glue gun, dude

We generally have the lamest Christmas lights on our street.  A few strands of lights onto the bushes, then we can’t find another extension cord and we decide we’re finished.  In the past, the quality has been of the level right below someone who didn’t put up any lights.

But this year, Trent’s brother inspired us with a new trick.  He sent a video panning the front of his house, white lights outlining all the windows and doors.  At the end of the video, we hear Troy’s voice:  “Hot glue gun, dude.”

It turns out you can use a hot glue gun to glue your Christmas lights right onto the brick of your house. 

 

Trent and I are a good balance for each other.  Trent would race up an unstable ladder with a boiling hot glue gun and climb onto the roof without a second thought and I would see the ladder and decide that we should stick to wrapping lights around the tree trunks as high as we can reach.  But we spend 5 minutes bickering and voila, compromise and 3 strands of lights are glued to our home.

No tree up at our house yet, but with it’s sequined pockets filled with treats and anticipation, our advent calendar is a superb catalyst for tantrums.  So far it’s caused tears for two out of three days.  There’s just something about a project that I spent hours and hours on setting off a fit at 7 AM that really gets me in a festive mood.

I think we’re past all that now (maybe?  yes?) and ready to get into the Advent spirit.

In Memory

Bolivar “The Bean” Howlong Williams

October 2006 – November 2011

We love you and miss you, sweet little Bean.