Productivity, With Pictures

My weekend:

Friday night, I had five organic lemons and about half a quart of vodka. I was going to make limoncello--until I read the recipe again and realized I needed 160 proof vodka (or "grain alcohol," which I think is Martha Stewart Living's polite term for Everclear). My Absolut is only 80 proof, so we'll see what it turns into. All the floating bits of organic lemon peel look like some odd Victorian science experiment.

After that, I had five naked little lemons. So I juiced them and made a tart Saturday afternoon. It's like a French lemon meringue pie, sans meringue.















In between the fun with lemons, I knitted two presents for the office mates: No, they're not failed hats; they're going to be cosmetic bags. They got felted (shrunk) in my parents' washer, but were too damp to photograph.




















On Sunday, I fought other crafty types in the impossibly narrow aisles of the JoAnn Fabric and Craft Supercenter, looking for zippers for the not-a-hat felted cosmetic bags. Then I raided the parents' yard for tree branches and set up my Christmas tree back at the apartment:



















It's not the best picture, but I'm happy with the overall effect. My roommate hinted that adding some greenery would improve it, but I like the look--somewhere between Charlie Brown and something crazy and Victorian. (Crazy Victorian again--it's a theme!)

Other things I did this weekend that didn't get a photo: Worked on more (secret) Christmas presents; worked on a knitted garland (with pom-poms!) for the office; cleaned the house; did laundry; fell down in the icy apartment parking lot twice; got a new battery in the Focus, courtesy of my clever dad; and listened to Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli repeatedly.

Unrelated Information on December 1

1. Mark Strand did not wear a turtleneck. He did, however, wear a suit with a lavender shirt. And he had some sort of scarf-y thing draped around his neck.

2. I did not like his new poems.

3. I guess my brother is feeling better after his wisdon teeth surgery, from the "Light Meadow" comment last night.

4. Here are PUNS a friend forwarded to me:

A vulture boards an airplane, carrying two dead raccoons. The stewardess looks at him and says, "I'm sorry, sir, only one carrion allowed per passenger."

Two fish swim into a concrete wall. The one turns to the other and says "Dam!"

Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly, so they lit a fire in the craft. Unsurprisingly it sank, proving once again that you can't have your kayak and heat it too.

Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says "I've lost my electron." The other says "Are you sure?" The first replies "Yes, I'm positive."

Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a root canal? His goal: transcend dental medication.

A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse. "But why?” they asked, as they moved off. "Because," he said," I can't stand chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer."

A woman has twins and gives them up for adoption. One of them goes to a family in Egypt and is named "Ahmal." The other goes to a family in Spain; they name him "Juan." Years later, Juan sends a picture of himself to his birth mother. Upon receiving the picture, she tells her husband that she wishes she also had a picture of Ahmal. Her husband responds, "They're twins! If you've seen Juan, you've seen Ahmal."

A group of friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened up a small florist shop to raise funds. Since everyone liked to buy flowers from the men of God, a rival florist across town thought the competition was unfair. He asked the good fathers to close down, but they would not. He went back and begged the friars to close. They ignored him. So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest and most vicious thug in town to "persuade" them to close. Hugh beat up the friars and trashed their store, saying he'd be back if they didn't close up shop. Terrified, they did so, thereby proving that only Hugh can prevent florist friars.

Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail and, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. This made him ( a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.

Oh, it hurts so good.

Mark Strand is Coming! Mark Strand is Coming!

One if by land, two if by sea!

Mark Strand, the turtleneck-wearing author of such delights as the poem in the Gallivan Center and Dark Harbor, will be reading from a new collection of poems tonight at 7:00 at The Kings English. Come to see Mark--maybe he'll be wearing a turtleneck! (I know I'll be wearing one.)

Holden Catfield!

This kitty's name is Holden Catfield! It really is!

(Wow, how obvious is it I slept in and didn't have anything ready to post?)

Knit-tastic

Here's some evidence of the knitting frenzy of the last week or two: The hat, vest, and mitten (no, it's not an oven mitt) were all completed over the weekend.

As I was working on the vest, I was worried it would be too big, or look like it came from a circus; I was worried that after all that time and effort it wouldn't turn out. And I had to think, "This must be what parents feel like about their children."

A Long Literary Tradition

I spent most of the long weekend finishing knitting projects (my own, so I could move onto Christmas Gift Knitting). I knitted while everyone talked on Thanksgiving, I knitted the next day at the laundromat washing the living room rug, I knitted at home in the evenings listening to Brahms or watching the Matrix movies

And, while knitting, I had time to mull over...some things going on in my life. And I had to conclude that the Relationship With an Age Disparity (or the "inappropriate" relationship) had a lot of tradition to back it up. (Not my own tradition; that's an entirely different post. And probably a lot more knititng.) Consider books sitting on my shelf right now: There's Jane Eyre, in which Jane is 18 and Rochester 35. There's Across the River and Into the Trees, in which the lovely Renata is 19 and the Colonel is mid-fifties (universally derided, but Hemingway always said it was the best thing he'd written). There's Rebecca, there's Fugitive Pieces (highly recommended; yes, Dad, I have your copy), there's even the wholesome and sentimental Little Women, where 26-year-old Jo ends up marrying the 40-ish Friedrich Bhaer.

I'm not sure what I'm proving with this book report, except maybe to say it happens fairly often and sometimes it works (unless your boyfriend is dying, or his country house burns down and he loses his eyesight trying to save his secret first wife, or you have a crazy housekeeper). Maybe I'm saying this, from The Hours: "They could have had a life as searing and potent as literature itself."

(Unless, of course, you're in love with a gay man dying from AIDs, like Clarissa in The Hours is. But that's a different sort of "inappropriate" altogether.)

Like Being Out of School

Starting tomorrow, I'm taking a holiday from posting until Monday. Most of my six readers won't be at work, either, so I don't think I'll be missed much. I promise to read something worthwhile over the weekend, so I won't have to post any more...

CAT PICUTRES!!

Good Old J.S.

With all the cat pictures lately I haven't mentioned I've been on what can only be described as a knitting frenzy--in the last 10 days, I've finished legwarmers, a hat, half a mitten, and about seven inches of my vest. Needless to say, my hands were stiff Monday while I was typing at work. But after eight hours of typing about Microsoft I desperately wanted something soothing and intelligent to do. My hands said, "No knitting!" and then I remembered the Goldberg Variations. I remembered how much I love Bach. And I remembered this passage from An Equal Music, which I read in college only once.

This passage ends the book; it's thought by the narrator as he watches his (married)beloved perform a recital of Bach's The Art of the Fugue: "Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope not to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music--not too much, or the soul could not sustain it--from time to time."

(By the way, I had copied that passage into an old journal sometime between May 7th and 16th, 2003, when I was moving. And if anyone thinks catching up on reading my blog lately makes them want to "go on antidepressants"--well, try searching through four years of journals to find a passage that asks, "why hope not to grieve?". That's all I'm saying.)

Maybe

Maybe someday I'll have something original to post here...maybe I'll run out of these cat pictures soon and return to literature...maybe I'll read somthing with more literary value than Little Women...BUT UNTIL THEN:

Whee!!!

Can't...Resist....Cat....Pictures.......

I'll just declare this funny cat picture week and bring it to an end, how's that?

Oh, the--

This Wordsworth sonnet came up in conversation last week, and I hadn't thought of it in a long time. It's a good poem to think of if you haven't been hiking for a while, or if you've been writing too much Microsoft marketing materials, or if your roommate has found a Russian pen pal who wants to come visit. Very soothing poem, I'd say:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


And in the same spirit, if you feel it's all too much but you don't want to read a poem, take a look at THIS:

BoingBoing has been posting some good stuff lately. Excellent.

Ch-ch-ch-CHIA

It just gets better, really: My brother was joking that instead of a dog, I should get a Chia Pet. Then, in true brother fashion, he decided no, a Chia Pet was a bad idea because I probably wouldn't be able to keep even that alive. So I saw him Sunday and he and his wife had found me this:

It's a PLUSH Chia Pet, one that cannot be killed, no matter what, and will always "grow" and always love me. Its name is "Puppy." I love Puppy. Sherlock Bowie loves Puppy. Life is grand.

The Cheesiest

So I got the macaroni and cheese made this weekend, and it did not disappoint. (Anything that calls for 3/4 pound combined white cheddar and fontina is going to be good.) I looked for a good recipe online and found one, along with the history of mac and cheese, on marthastewart.com. (Apparently, Thomas Jefferson liked it so much he served it at dinner parties. Who knew?) "It all started during the age of European colonization, when seafaring men transported dried macarone—one of the few staples that could survive a year aboard ship—from Italy to Britain and to the American colonies. American colonists did not have the selection of fresh produce and other ingredients that the Italians had; their meals were improvised from a larder of fresh or sour milk, stale bread, and pork drippings. So the imported pasta would often be served with a simple white sauce—milk thickened with flour and butter. Sometimes it was baked in a casserole with buttered breadcrumbs on top. A recipe for a casserole of macaroni, white sauce, and grated yellow cheese was first recorded in the “Boston Cooking School Cookbook” in 1896."

And look what else you can find online!

Says It All

Yes.

Kitty power!

Oh My God, It Could Happen! It Could Really Happen!!

(Thanks to Miss Amber for another delightful image.)

Some Unrelated Information

1. Did you know that women in the U.S. did not have the right to vote until 1920? That's only 76 years, folks--I know people who were alive in 1920.

1a. Women who did not vote: Now, really. This is still kind of a big deal.

2. It's hard to cook when you're sick. I've had a sore throat all week, which makes swallowing very difficult, which means endive and the makings of a Frenchified, gratineed macaroni and cheese are languishing in the refrigerator.

2a. Thanks god for frozen cheese ravioli, so easy to make, so soft to swallow.

3. I think I might have to get an imaginary dog, to go with my imaginary boyfriend, because people don't want to give dogs to single working ladies who live in apartments. Even though they're nice ladies. Here's a lyric to a Neko Case song that went through my head today: "Her jaw aches from wanting..." You can read all the lyrics here. (They are not about dogs.) But still.

Really. Big. Ears.

So remember the picture I lifted from Cute Overload of this goat with enormous ears? Well, take a look at Jack, the schnauzer-mule deer mix. How 'bout them ears, huh? Jack is in Idaho. Maybe he wants to come live with me! (To my roommate, if he's reading: At least I don't want to adopt a goat. Or a monkey.)

Alpaca Wrangler

Yep, that's me. With a real live alpaca. I spent Saturday morning holding alpacas by the necks while the owner of Blue Moon Ranch trimmed their toenails. I talked to them all in a soothing voice, although it didn't prevent two of them from trying to shake me off their neck like a rag doll. Then I got to help halter train a few. This is Bindi, who was a good girl and only tried to run away once.

Karma!

Who needs Xanax? I'm working with alpacas tomorrow! Alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas alpacas!

We Need Some Cute

Anyone would, really, after lyrics to "Die Nebensonnen." Here are, in order, Claire the alpaca from Blue Moon Ranch (where I will be working Saturday), a kitten named Amber off the Kittenwar website, and Oscar, a pug/schnauzer mix who's up for adoption at the Moab Humane Society. (I have been relentlessly pestering my roommate about a getting a dog. I got a "maybe after the first of the year" last night--success will be mine soon!)

Another Druidic Holiday + Some Unrelated Information

Today is Samhain, the Druidic equivalent of New Years Day. It's not an equinox or solstice, but rather one of the "quarter days," along with Beltane (May 1, the big spring fest) and Imbloc and Lughnasa, celebrated February 1 and August 1, to mark the end of winter and summer, respectively. (I know a lot about the pagan calendar for a Lutheran.)

In other news, I think a dog would be even better than an imaginary boyfriend. I found one online! (Don't laugh--I found the last real boyfriend onlne. And many nice pairs of shoes.) This is Joe. Help me convince my roommate Joe is necessary for my happiness.

Maybe inspired by old boyfriends both imaginary and real, I've been listening to the Schubert song cycle "Winterreise" (Winter's Journey) again. There's an incredibe, poignant, creepy song at the end called "Die Nebensonnen," or The False Suns. (Which I hear is a real phenomenen called parhelion: on very cloudy, snowy days, you see the clouds refracting many suns.) Here are the lyrics:

I saw three suns in the sky;
I gazed at them long and intently.
And they, too, stood there so fixedly
As if unwilling to leave me.
Alas, you are not my suns!
Gaze into other people's faces!
Yes, not long ago I too had three suns;
Now the two best have set.
If only the third would follow,
I should feel happier in the dark.

I don't think German translates very well, but it's exquisite with the music, trust me. The liner notes for the recording I have are delightful: "In the stature of this music, the traveller seems at one with the great mystics like St. John of the Cross, who wrote of 'The Dark Night of The Soul.' Never has the composer used his beloved key signature of A major and its inevitable contrast with A minor to more enobling effect."

I'm Only Going Trick-or-Treating If They Hand Out Xanax

I've decided it's time to re-adopt a habit I formed in my youth and get an imaginary boyfriend (past ones included Peter O'Toole and Schubert). My new imaginary boyfriend will be a combination of the David Bowie character from Labyrinth (we knew nothing good could come from that) and Sherlock Holmes. I just can't decide whether his name should be David Holmes or Sherlock Bowie.

I Say Oyster, You Say:

So I spent the weekend cooking and knitting again. (I know.) I made oyster chowder, and remembered this passage from the sixth Little House on the Prairie book, By the Shores of Silver Lake:

"First, there was oyster soup. In all her life, Laura had never tasted anything so good as that savory, fragrant, sea-tasting hot milk, with golden dots of melted cream and black specks of pepper on its top, and the little dark canned oysters at its bottom."

That was New Year's dinner, 1880, in the middle of what would become North Dakota. In all her life, Laura had probably never even tasted an oyster.

Thursday Night Guilty Pleasure

David Bowie is brilliant, Jim Henson was brilliant, I'm suddenly 10 years old and going to some now-forgotten girl's basement sleepover party--it's Labyrinth! I have to confess I own the soundtrack, and the track during the ballroom scene is actually pretty fab, as far as lyrics go. Here, I'll share them!

"There's such a sad love
Deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel
Open and closed within your eyes
I'll place the sky within your eyes

There's such a fooled heart
Beating so fast in search of new dreams
A love that will last within your heart
I'll place the moon within your heart

As the pain sweeps through
Makes no sense for you
Every thrill has gone
Wasn't too much fun at all
But I'll be there for you-oo-oo
As the world falls down
Falling
Falling down
Falling in love

I'll paint you mornings of gold
I'll spin you valentine evenings
Though we're strangers till now
We're choosing the path between the stars
I'll lay my love between the stars..."

And then you repeat the chorus a few times while some Muppets dance around. Anyway, you have to love lyrics that spell out the "you-oo-oo's" and remind you of when you were 10. Especially when sung by David Bowie.

Said In A High Kitty Voice:

(Thanks to Miss Amber for cheering me up with this. Who wouldn't be cheered up, I ask?)

Chestnuts (Not Roasting)

Looks like what I thought was a picture of Bombay Sapphire on yesterday's post was instead an advertisement. Damn advertisers. My apologies. (The picture today, by the way, is of chestnuts.) I do like chestnuts. From W.B. Yeats: "O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer,/ Are you the leaf, the branches, or the bole? O body swayed to music, o brightening glance,/ How can you tell the dancer from the dance?"

Things That Go Through Your Head While Making Risotto

1. Boy, this takes a long time.

2. What is the etymology of gin, anyway?*

3. I blame the books of my young adulthood for a lot.

4. "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I will tell you all."

5. I want a curly grey dog. I would call him Sasha.

Item 4 is T.S. Eliot, from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." I almost never remember that part; I think having to help (well, cut) my roommate out of his mummy costume this past weekend brought it to mind. (Long story. But look how literature is appropriate for any situation!)

*from the Dutch word for juniper, "genever". Who knew?

Uncollected

You may have noticed from the posting times lately that I'm pretty much rolling out of bed and writing something--maybe not the best plan, since it leads to obcervations like this:

1. Orrin Hatch's re-election billboards (of which there are two I have to see on the way home from my parents' house) make him look like a cadaver.

2. The word "whiskey" came from Scottish Gaelic uisge beatha and Irish uisce beatha, both from the Latin aqua vitae, or "water of life."

Tomorrow: The etymology of gin! Oh, boy!

Knitting, Part 1

I didn't get the finished project photographed last night, but really, the UNfinished projects are so much more impressive:

We have an ivory scarf for a birthday present in the front, the bluetocking sock yarn, a sample skein of the grey alpaca that will be the travelling cloak (for me), red merino/cashmere tweed for a Christmas scarf for my roommate, two kinds of varigated yarn for a secret Christmas present, a second green fingerless glove for a welcome-home present, and some "gingersnap" colored yarn for a chunky vest for me.

But I did get the black alpaca shrug done. Slowly but surely...

Books of My Childhood

Watch out: I got a package yesterday of paperbacks I loved as a "young adult" (that is, an 11-15 year old). Yes, one of them is a horse book: My Friend Flicka has a sequel, Thunderhead. (There's a third to make a triolgy, but it's out of print.) The other two are by Lucy Montgomery, the author of the beloved Anne of Green Gables series. Watch out, indeed.

I know pictures have been scarce this week. I've been meaning to take pictures of some knitting projects, both finished and un. I'll try to get that done tonight.

Karma

Guess who was on the daily update at Blue Moon Ranch today? Aww....

Recovering

As much as I can intellectually accept that change is part of life, I have a hard time accepting it emotionally. New jobs are hard. Change is hard. (I was going to say "stupid," but reconsidered; it's not a particualrly literary word.)

So how do you recover from a first day? You stop at the yarn store on the way home and buy yarn to make socks. Hand-painted blue sock yarn, so you can make blue socks and thus be a bluestocking. (Because after all, you're literary. You avoid words like "stupid" and embrace semicolons.)

Then if you're not recovered enough, you watch Brazil. While finishing up your big black alpaca sweater. And if that's still not enough? You make the potatoes-baked-in-heavy-cream gratin, which makes your roommate happy and finally puts you into a fatty food-induced coma, so you wake up ready to take on another day.

Soundtracks

So it's Monday morning of a new blog address (so much for thinking I'm anonymous) and a new job. And what song is in my head for the occasion? Surprisingly, it's not a song about a certain Maggie and her farm, as much as I love Dylan. It's not even Carmina Burana. No, it's "Feeling Good," as sung by Miss Nina Simone.

New Address

Come Monday, look for the Cute Kitten Picture, Unrelated Information, Potential Band Names Found In Everyday Conversation, and maybe even the Office Snack of the Day at this new address:

www.karenkaminski.com

And to send us off in style here at the old address, here's a bit of Roethke I don't recall the title of (perfect) and a cute bunny picture (wearing a sweater--even more perfect).

"Arch of air, my heart's original knock,
I'm awake all over."

Random Post

I finished the knitting part of the sweater project (yes, still that one) last night while watching Dr. Zhivago. Now I just have to sew it up.

And I found the rules for the Roy Rogers Riders Club yesterday!

1. Be neat and clean.
2. Be courteous and polite.
3. Always obey your parents.
4. Protect the weak and help them.
5. Be brave but never take chances.
6. Study hard and learn all you can.
7. Be kind to animals and take care of them.
8. Eat all your food and never waste any.
9. Love God and go to Sunday school regularly.
10. Always respect our flag and our country.

I like how "be clean" is rule 1 and "don't be a heathen" barely makes it in at number 9.

Cooking

After the Tuna Helper Incident last week, I haven't strayed far from M.F.K. Fisher's ideas about food--two nights ago it was lentil soup wth red wine and tomatoes, and last night it was a "classic potato gratin." The ingredients: potatoes, heavy cream, a smashed garlic clove, salt and pepper, and cheese to spread on top so it gets crispy. I used Edam. If you have never had potato slices baked in heavy cream, run--don't walk--to the kitchen and get going.

I'm blaming Madame Fisher for any weight gained this winter.

In other news, the address of Better Living Through Literature will be changing. Look for an announcement here by the end of the week. (I know all 4 of you who read this will want to update your bookmarks.)

Friends With Photoshop, Part 2:

Just when you think something is safe in its cuteness...

Thinking...

No time for literature (not even picture books)...must keep on task...only a bunny today...

Mousekin's Golden House is REAL

That was the title of a book my brother and I loved, about a mouse who hibernates in a jack-o-lantern. (Sadly, it's out of print and now is selling for "rare book" prices.) Imagine my delight when I checked out Cute Overload this morning and saw this--not Mousekin, but close:

These Boots Are Made For Walkin'

Remember the new boots that were coming Wednesday that made life worth living after all? They came. I am wearing them today. I feel like Jane Eyre. Or Captain Jack Sparrow. (I can't decide if they're Victorian boots or pirate boots.)

Speaking of Captain Jack Sparrow, here's a site where you can create a licensed, branded talking pirate email. It's kinda fun, so visit Dead Man's Mail. And remember, temporary happiness is just a purchase away.

Latin

The (admittedly few) people who read Better Living Through Literature are a good bunch--you ask for a Photoshopped pirate cat captain and you get two of them; you ask for a translation of "Have hobbies and see what happens" into Latin and, by golly, someone finds a friend who was a Classics major and sends it to you. I even got it in Greek, but I don't think the characters would publish online very well.

"Have hobbies and see what happens" gets
translated technically as "Have (hold) the pursuit of leisure and see what happens (becomes)." Which in Latin is "Habe studia otii et vide quid fiat."

So Much for M.F.K. Fisher

Last night's dinner: Tuna Helper.
Last night's quotable quote (yes, I'm quoting myself): "Tough love is letting someone you care about do what they want."

But it's not as bleak as it sounds: New shoes are arriving today, and life is always worthwhile with new shoes.

Let the Randomness Begin

It's only Tuesday, but it's high time for some unrelated information. First, here's the long-awaited picture of the third-prize winning jacket at the state fair:










And here are two pictures of alpacas from Saturday at the ranch (the close-up is of a feeding frenzy that occurred when I gave them carrots, and the distant shot is of them running to the barn to get fed):










Here's a picture of a goat with really big ears, from Cute Overload:















And finally, here's a sample of Worth 1000's "let's photoshop old progaganda posters into something funny" contest:

Cute Kitten Picture Monday!

Doesn't he look tired? I think he looks tired. He's probably tired because it's Monday.