The cat and I have divergent talents

Yes,  I neglected to photograph everything before I started, but you've seen plenty of old furniture before.  

Insert your own appropriate memory here.

Last week I finally dragged my dowdy old dresser into the garage and took off the handles.  See how the unfinished wood inside the drawers looks nice and dark?  Hold that thought.

Is it really the safest?  Well, 3M makes Post-Its, and they're pretty safe, so yeah--probably.

I lightly sanded and primed everything, filling in a few dings with Dap spackle first.  I decided to strip the  top entirely and stain it, or just seal it if I liked the color.  This 3M stripper did a fine job--it took a few coats with scraping in between, and all that Navajo White paint came off.  But instead of nice dark bare wood, it was really light; almost like maple or ash.  I remember it originally being dark so it must have had walnut stain on just the top so the whole thing would match.  Whose idea was that?  

My groovy DeWalt hand sander looks apprehensive about all my projects.  Lillian refinished that little drop leaf table.

Anyway, since I had already chosen to paint rather than replace the brass hardware, I elected to sand the top smooth and stain it with some leftover black Minwax stain.  It took three coats to darken the pale wood, and then I sprayed it with clear sealer, painted the body and drawers with my special not-quite-white blend Rustoleum Ultra Cover,  reassembled the whole thing, and dragged it back inside. 

Anyone see a little smoochy-face there?  Just me?  God, I'm such a romantic.

Later we hefted the ugly television on top, but here's how a dresser should look.  No old tv anywhere.  

The dresser lives in the corner of the room, so I can push the bulky tv back further. 

Nobody sees it but me, and I like to watch for a while until I fall asleep, so I deal with it.

That's Annie, Sam and Lillie in a picture taken almost twenty years ago.

I'm very happy with the result.  I can (and probably must) live with it for another few decades.  I actually painted my pine bookshelves first (purchased unfinished when Annie was born and stained golden oak), and also a humble gray end table that was most recently Lillian's (one of a pair from a neighborhood garage sale twenty years ago) but I haven't taken their picture yet.  

My poor bedroom is a wrecking yard these days.  Be patient.

Kitty demonstrates the Y in DIY:  She has to catch her own lizards.

Not to be outdone by my species-specific skills, Lottie sneaked another big cranky lizard into the house while I was occupied.  I intercepted them before she could turn him loose in Lillian's room.  I did let her admire him in his plastic prison for a while before I dropped him in some ivy across the street; but she was miffed for the rest of the afternoon.

Forever or until I forget

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.^[1

Please do not get me started on curly bulbs

My mother (age 89) recently asked me how many Forever stamps it took to make 65 cents.  I told her two Forever stamps would do, because I knew she didn't have any twenty centers.  (I'll bet you did not know that the second ounce needs twenty cents.)  Why did she need 65 cents of postage?  Because her mail-in ballot needed that much.  I said I couldn't remember ever needing extra postage for my ballot--in fact I was pretty sure most ballots were postage-paid, but I'd go home and check.  Of course then I couldn't find my ballot.  I finally unearthed it from a large pile of unrelated crap--no doubt segregated from the regular mail so I could spend time reading and deciding.  I admit there are a lot of issues about which I am confused and candidates for all the various seats with whose politics I am completely unfamiliar.  

At any rate (postal humor-lol) the enclosed purple envelope indeed required 65 cents postage. The instructions stated that purple envelopes needed postage, but green envelopes were free.  Do some elections have green envelopes?  If so, why?

I'm trying to use up all my old stamps;  I overestimated how many I'd need before the last rate hike and have to mail everything with an obsolete 44 cent stamp and a leftover 2 cent stamp; of which I also have too many.  It seems ridiculous to buy a sheet of 1 cent stamps, after all, rendering the 2 centers useless.  If I were rich and/or smart I'd buy a lot of Forever stamps to send the occasional birthday or thank you card.  I might save a dollar or two each year.

But then if I were rich and/or smart, I'd do a number of things differently.

Three movies cowboys you remember, and one you don't

William Hart was actually my uncle, and a cowboy, just not that William Hart.  

Rest in peace, Uncle Bill. 

There is a section of Interstate 80 named the Alan S Hart Freeway, but not for my dad, Allan S Hart.   

When I was little that same dad told me that Jenny Creek behind my house was named for me and for years,  I told everyone who would listen. 

  

It was not named for me.

Come on'a my house, my house. I'm gonna give you candy. *

* Rosemary Clooney--click to watch the video

When Lillie was in Chicago living with Sam and three other boys, one of them dragged home a sorry little particle board side table, which was sort of beige with tan speckles.  Not endearing, but resolutely sturdy in a Mennonite kind of way, and Lillie saved it from being hurled into a dumpster.  Actually Sam wanted to drive over it a few times first with his Jeep.  So when she moved home the little round table (along with a stunning old headboard and footboard,which lived in the basement and no one in the building claimed, and which I am planning on putting to use eventually), made the long trip to the Golden State in one of those wobbly zippered U-Boxes.  Imagine the wonder in the little refugee table's eyes when we unzipped the U-Box and turned it loose to frolic and play in the land of milk and honey.

When I was pregnant with Annie and putting together her nursery, I painted my husband's childhood dresser, a hand-me-down crib, and a little square end table, Benjamin Moore Navajo White (I don't know why I remember that except that my mother-in-law [who is a Realtor and landlord] used that paint in every house she ever painted, including mine.)  It was a good color, although a little too banana milkshake for my taste now.  Remarkably durable too:  I've used that dresser and end table through three decades and many moves and it's looking pretty ragged    with nary a touch-up!  It's a little depressing that my living room holds the only furniture I have purchased since 1980 (except for a TV and mattresses)...but fortunately someone invented paint--so I could have "new" junk, and also to keep me from job-hunting.

What's this, round lizards?   No.  Phooey.

The little round table has a peculiar orange-peel  texture and the curves defy sanding.  Maybe I should have painted it orange?  And there is Lottie, checking out the larger ball feet (Michael's, with coupons) I chose to replace the odd small ones it was born with. It's still several inches lower than my mattress.  Yes,  well.

These are the new feet, painted Martha Stewart Camellia Pink Satin. 

Reptilian rapture, even while sporting a stump from his last pilgrimage.

When I came in from painting I almost fell over this lizard in the bathroom.  I am very grateful that I was not already...sitting down.  After an involuntary shriek I ran for the plastic cookie tub we keep handy atop the fridge to clap on top of the steady stream of lizards who come inside of their own volition (I'm convinced lizards have no brains at all) or are smuggled in by Lottie.  It does help if I am diligent about keeping the doors closed, but on the other hand, I've come to believe that lizards (1) enjoy being tortured by the cat and will find their way home from across the street just so she can chew off their tails and legs again, even sprouting replacements to keep her happy; and (2) think the inside of my house is actually lizard heaven and are divinely delighted to be here. Who am I to disagree?


Here is the round table all pink and ready to go live next to my bed.  When it's cured for a few days and I've artfully arranged a few things on top, I'll take a picture.

Time to come inside, little table.  Lizards love it in there, and you will, too!

That's the headboard leaning against the wall in my garage.  It requires a different  kind of bed rails which will cost about seventy-five dollars on Amazon and as you recall  I don't currently have much income to speak of.  It has a few minor dings and I don't know if I want to paint it or not:  yes it's beautiful solid wood (walnut, maybe?) but my walls are chocolate brown so it might not stand out much and it's not a family heirloom or anything (even if it was, that family's heirs [probably boys] couldn't be bothered to take it along when they moved); on the other hand most of the other bedroom furniture is painted except for my cedar chest which I use as my other bedside table, and my bedding is white with a jade green quilt.  My current bed, which I purchased with my husband, is brass and white iron and I never really cared for it but apparently neither did his girlfriend, so I got it along with the kids and his mother's old chairs and her kids' dressers.  I got the better deal though because the girlfriend had to take my husband.  Of course they bought all new furniture.

The next thing on my painting roster is that old Navajo White dresser--I think I'm going to strip the top down completely and stain or seal it, and paint the rest with my custom blend of 3/4 White : 1/4 Heirloom White Rustoleum Ultra Cover, but I have to heave the wretched heavy television off the top before I wrestle it outside.  Speaking of Memorial Day--where's there a big burly Marine  when I need one?  (That's what she said.)

Update:  The other side of the room looks like looters came--everything from my dresser is in shopping bags while I sand, prime and paint that dresser (which is turning into rather a pain in the paintbrush).  But I promised to take a picture, so there you go.  Here in all it's Samsung camera phone splendor, is the little pink table confidently performing its job as a nightstand.  Now I'll go put back all the litter that actually lives on top.

Photo credit to Meg from Radical Possibility for the Feminist Killjoy barrette picture.  

Not that kind of miracle

I don't think I've ever posted a recipe, but my daughter often blogs about cooking and baking so yesterday, when we decided to make enchiladas out of the chicken I was thawing, she pulled out her camera and started taking the pictures she'd need for her Miracle Method Enchiladas post.   There are innumerable enchilada recipes and you probably have your favorite but I'll bet you haven't made them like this.

Ingredients with a monkey, a dinosaur and assorted Mexican wrestlers.  Bonus!

As the sous chef  I decided to chop the cilantro using Lillian's new herb scissors--or as they are now known, the Edward Scissorhands Special Chiffonade Implement of Mutilation.  I'm clever enough to use regular kitchen shears to chop herbs but was no match for this multiple-scalpel tool, and almost immediately julienned my middle finger, including the nail.

Didn't believe me, did you?

Just give me a moment

In honor of my blood sacrifice and close encounter with nine-fingeredness, Lillian decided that I deserved to write the enchilada post.  (She also thoughtfully squashed an enormous speedy beetle in my room last night just before he galloped under my bed and prevented peaceful slumber; garnering herself favorite child status.)

My brother Patrick (all my siblings are wonderful and inventive cooks) came up with these enchiladas with his son Nathan, and he made them for us one year at our annual ski-n-gorge in Reno.  The kicker is that you may use your favorite recipe and this will still work.  I used a slapdash combination of two I had in my file.  All measurements are approximate, but it made enough to match up with one package of tortillas, which will fill one big or two small pans:

Three boneless chicken thighs (just because I freeze them three to a ziplock bag)
1 double handful of yellow onion, chopped (I chop and freeze several onions at a time, don't you?)
2 to 4 chopped garlic cloves.  You know, some.
1 can tomato sauce (not pictured)
1 can diced tomatoes
1 can olives, drained (Green Ripe olives are heavenly, but black are far easier to find)
1 can of refried beans (I used refried black beans, because I had them). Or use whole beans.
1/2 to 1 cup chicken or vegetable broth (Better Than Boullion concentrate is my favorite, but apparently not enough to get in the picture)
a big handful of chopped fresh cilantro (be extremely careful.  I'm just saying)
some chopped fresh basil, if you can get it (see precautions above)
1 tsp coriander
1 tsp cumin
A pinch smoked paprika  (I just discovered this and like it a lot.)
A medium sized jar of your favorite salsa, I like Pace Mild
1 pound of cheese, I used 1/2 sharp cheddar and 1/2 jack, chopped up into chunks
About ten medium size tortillas

Few things look less appetizing than raw chicken floating in cold water

Simmer the chicken thighs in a large pot about 15 minutes, drain and shred with two forks.  When that's done, soften the onion over medium heat in the same pot.  No photo of that.

Look out, here comes the Miracle!  Dump everything else, and the chicken, and yes even the cheese, back into the pot.  Heat until the cheese is all melted and it looks like soup.

I know, right?

While that's going on, wrap the tortillas in a clean towel, splash a little water on it, and microwave  a minute or two.  They will be steamy and soft.  Frying the tortillas is a big old nuisance, but if you really prefer how they taste, fine.  Make a hot greasy mess.   Next, oil your favorite enchilada pan (I prefer two smaller pans so I can freeze one and we won't get tired of eating enchiladas for three days.)

Oh, settle down.  That's sauce splashed on the wall.

Put a large bowl in the sink, place your big colander on top (over your wire rack if the colander wants to fall down into the bowl), and pour about half the pot of chicken soup into the colander.  Stir with a wooden spoon as most of the liquid drains into the bowl, then pour in the rest and stir some more, until it's mostly done dripping.  (Mmmmm...sounds enticing.)

That's a giant wad of paper towels in my glove.  You're welcome.

Like so

Spread some newspapers on the counter, which I usually do when I cook but forgot this time  (I was still wobbly from the slasher interlude.)  One at a time on a large plate, spoon about 3/4 cup filling onto a tortilla, roll it up and plop it into the pan.  If you are lucky, it will be about the right amount for ten tortillas.  Then, slosh the drained liquid over the pan of rolled up enchiladas, coating each one.  Don't worry about how marshy they look--it soaks up as they cook.  Bake at 350 for about 20-30 minutes until the tops look a bit brown.  The sauce will set up a bit more while you chop the avocado and get out the sour cream.  Throw away those  newspapers. (Whoa!  Clean counters!  After you made enchiladas!) I had to wash mine, once after the cilantro incident and again after the pans went in the oven.  There's no way to avoid at least a little mess.

And there they are

Nom!

Would you ever have thought you could melt the cheese in with everything else?  Your favorite ingredients will be even better than ever made this way and aside from the draining step, the whole process is simpler and makes less of a mess than the usual method of assembly.  Try this out next time you make enchiladas and see if I'm right.

If you're at least my age, you will need a Tums later because tomato sauce gives you heartburn, doesn't it?   But you're probably familiar with that.  If you are younger than I am, be patient.  Someday you'll have to keep Tums in the cupboard, too.

Anyway today my poor middle finger looks I flipped off an aquarium full of piranhas, but half-hearted not really hungry piranhas.  I found some steri-strips and taped the flappy edges together and wrapped a bandaid on top.  I hate wearing a bandaid on my hand because every time I wash, which is more often than I realized, I have to get a dry bandaid.  Fortunately at my former blood banking job I was given a giant box of premium  bandaids that have GIVE printed on them, so I have plenty (although not the waterproof kind).   I wish I'd stolen  been given more latex gloves though; mine are almost gone.

My restaurant post ended in heartache and my cooking post was gory.  I might have to go back to documenting home-improvement  adventures.

Evolution of a mother

Once upon a time there was a nice  girl named Jenny.  

She had three children:  First Annmarie, then Sam and finally Lillian. 

Suddenly it was ten years later.

Or thereabouts.

And then ten more years disappeared.

Poof!

Just like that.

Jenny's children were always very naughty.

She had two grandsons, Logan and Noah.

Also naughty.

Jenny is about to have another grandson.

His name is Brody.  He will probably be naughty.

Jenny has gray hair now.  She is not exactly a girl anymore, but she is still nice.  

And yet she does not know how or where they inherited all that naughtiness.

It's a mystery.

And they lived happily every after.

A pirate's life for me

I'll probably lose most of my friends now, because I am a thief.

A pilferer.

A pirate.

Yes.  I am.  I stole lemons from a tree down the alley that, year after year, grows a giant bounty of bright yellow lemons which then fall to the ground, rotten and ruined.  This particular tree is growing in the back yard of a rather neglected house with two detached apartments facing the alley.  For a while drug dealers lived there and the neighborhood suffered from round-the-clock unsavory traffic until the landlord got wise and threw the bums out.  Peaceful non-lemon-picking tenants live there now.

Now the criminal element is me.

The house behind mine was vacant until a few years ago.  There are two lemon trees in the yard.  When nobody lived there we helped ourselves to bags of fabulous lemons but now the homeowner gets them, which is fair but sad.

There are lovingly tended lemon trees in several yards nearby, some sporting handmade signs: "please, don't take my lemons", and I would never ever take any of those lemons.

I have my own adolescent  Meyer lemon tree from which, this year,  I harvested one large and two tiny fruit.  We were sad when those were gone.

But those abandoned lemons, going to waste every year, were also sad.  I can see them out my kitchen window.  "Make me into limoncello!"  I can hear them crying, "It will be heavenly!"

So I took some.  Well, Lillian and I did.   Pirate's booty, as it were.

One more sad thing.  Those wretched lemons are as dry as soda crackers.  

Crime, it seems, does not pay.

The beat goes on

Yesterday there was a tremendous thud on my living room window.  I jumped up and ran to look.  The first thing I saw was a wad of feathers stuck to the glass and, looking down, a large bird gasping on the grass outside.  Chase slept through the impact but Lottie, who was was outside, is not above gnawing on anything that looks like a bird and tastes like a bird, alive or dead, so I went outside to shoo her away from his body while I debated what to do next.

She heard the thud too and was right there with a knife and fork, but he was still breathing,  so I grabbed her and put her in the house.  I hoped he'd be one of those silly birds that spank the window, sit down for a few minutes collecting their thoughts and then fly away fit as a fiddle.  Some are too injured to fly and suffer for a while before the angels come.  I hate that, but my skills aren't equal to bird rehabilitation, or even convalescent care.  All I could do was prevent Lottie, who is a little closer to her hunting ancestry than Chase the doddering pacifist, from chewing on Mr Bird while he counted out the minutes.

He died by the time I got back out there.  He was so beautiful:  stunning black-and-white houndstooth vest, tail feathers shiny black on top and burnt orange velvet below, and a soft brown face with a long strong beak.  I moved him a little, just in case, but he was dead as a doornail.  I hoped he didn't have a family of hungry babies waiting in the nest for their dinner of grubs.  Later Google identified him  as a Western Flicker, who behaves like a woodpecker.  He (or one of his teammates) had lived in my neighborhood for several years, making woodpecker noises.

Now he's gone.  I  wrapped him in a plastic bag and put him in the trash can so Lottie, or any other creature, wouldn't ravage his carcass, and I wouldn't have to dispose of him in a week when he had grown significantly less lovely.

Poor birdie.

In other news, Chase heard about a new fad, like Planking or Draping, called Cat Breading,  and he pestered me until I fixed his costume and snapped a picture.  He is especially pleased that he's the same color as Sara Lee Whole Wheat Lite bread.  Perhaps all this talk about dead birds was kind of a downer; or else he already forgot.  Probably the latter.

Don't even think about it

This morning I decided to take a few minutes before I made lunch and run the vacuum around.  My previous vacuum blew up a while ago and I replaced it with a Shark Navigator; a bagless dynamo that I adore.   I thought it was picking up WAY more dirt than the old vacuum had and I soon realized, with intense shame, that all carpet is just basically dirty and now I could SEE that every several days I was sucking up a double handful of hair, dust, crumbs, etc.  Eeeww.  Sometimes at night, instead of peacefully sleeping,  I think of all those years I went a week [or four] [or longer in tight spaces or empty rooms] without vacuuming because the carpet still looked clean.  But it wasn't; it was loaded with disgusting crud, of which I was blithely unaware.  If there is a heaven, I will not be allowed in because I was oblivious to the cruddy carpet.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  I decided to vacuum and then, because I had seen a dust bunny lurking under the edge of the refrigerator, wrapped a rag around the yardstick to chase out the bunny and any of his friends and relations nibbling on the dry cat food that had sneaked under there too.

The rag-wrapped yardstick wouldn't fit.  But my refrigerator has little wheels and is relatively easy to roll out of its parking space, so that's what I did.

My little project began to expand to fill the time slot previously assigned to making and eating lunch.  Because of course when you have ample time to do something and approach it with all the necessary supplies and equipment and are dressed appropriately and have already eaten a satisfying meal, the next thing that happened, doesn't happen.

On top of my refrigerator is a pickle jar filled with kombucha tea mother.  It is Lillie's edible pet and lives there quietly, peacefully growing thick layers of gelatinous mushroomy blobs.  (Sounds delicious, right? She likes it and doesn't serve me any, so I don't care.  Remember when you used to keep a Tupperware bowl of sourdough starter on your counter?  Like that.)  She has another, bigger kombucha mother that lives on the counter that she replenishes and drinks the tea; but the fridge-top pet is, I guess, a spare which we ignore most of the time.  Until today.  When I rolled the refrigerator out it must have startled the jar, which panicked and leaped to its death, shattering on the floor and splattering big slithery kombucha blobs  and broken glass across the layer of dust bunnies and dry cat food.

The whole house instantly smelled like a distillery. Yeasty and vinegary.  Powerful.  Fortunately today is warm so I opened all the windows.

I scraped up the swampy layer of glass shards, bunny wads, cat food and kombucha  flop.  I washed the whole floor and wiped the walls and cabinet doors.  I emptied the trash, which smelled like a salad.

Her priorities will change when she realizes she has slivers of glass in her knees.

Since my fresh-this-morning yoga pants were already wet and dirty, I decided to clean under the stove, washer and dryer, and then I mopped the laundry room and both bathrooms.  Since the floors were clean, I sprayed and wiped down the sinks, counters and toilets, and then gathered up a load of towels and my yoga pants and started the washer.  And the dishwasher, which was full.  (If you give a mouse a mortgage...)

All I originally wanted to do was a quick vacuum.  The most discouraging aspect, aside from being extra hungry, is that everything looks essentially the same as before, but it's two hours later.  Lillie was able to rinse off a few of the grimy kombucha blobs and turn them loose in a new jar.  We've elected to keep this one in a cabinet.

There are no pictures of this adventure because at the time I was not having much fun, or technically any fun at all, and who wants to see pictures of me not having any fun?

I'll be on the lookout for photo opportunities that feature me having a big old time.  Like splash dogs.  Nobody has more fun, ever, than splash dogs.

This splash dog,  Josh,  didn't even place but he didn't care because he was having the Best. Day. Ever.

No more elephants. For now.

On Sundays Chase likes to read the paper.  And take a nap.

He didn't care that my other fabric had arrived from Santa's workshop Amazon.  But Lottie decided it was fabulous, and I agree.  I was surprised at how large-scale the pattern is; in two yards there are only a couple of repeats.  The color is wonderful, kind of golden-yellow on cream and the cotton fabric is nice and heavy.  I washed and dried it and it shrank about six inches each way so there wasn't enough left to make anything except coasters to put under our coffee cups.  It only took a few minutes to hem up a biq square (I hemmed a black sheet round to go underneath it back when I made the table, so I wouldn't need as much fabric for the topper).

And there it is.  I wish all my projects were so easy.

How's the car?

This morning my check-engine light came on.  My little Camry is very reliable, but it is now fourteen years old (which seems impossible to me) and from time to time problems crop up.  I wasn't terribly worried but called my mechanic, also very reliable, and arranged to bring the car in to be diagnosed.

The funny thing is that when I saw that check-engine light I immediately thought of my dad.  "It's my Janny!" he would exclaim when I called him or when he'd call me.  And then he'd say, "How's the car?"  I suppose that phrase embodies the perpetual worry about their children that many fathers carry with them.  It meant, how was I getting along in the world?  Did I have what I needed to get by?  Was I safe?

My parents divorced when I was small and I grew up without my dad under my roof.  I saw him regularly but we didn't have a particularly close relationship.  (Although many of my friends whose fathers did live with them report not being especially close to their dads, either.)  I'm sure I was an adult before I gave any thought to what that was like for him.  He was as much a product of the times as I was and I recall one of his oft-repeated mottoes was, "never cry unless there's blood" which seemed to reflect his dismay at having fussy children who bawled about everything.  He also said,  "eat what's near" because he grew up in a large, poor family and cleaned his own plate but spawned such thin and picky eaters it's a wonder we lived.

(Disclaimer: I apologize in advance to any of my siblings who might rightfully argue that they were not crybabies and that I, in fact, was the whiner.  Whatever.   Dad also told me that I got "the good feet and the good ears" and I'm not sure what special attributes he assigned to any of them but I have always been very vain about my fine flat ears and stunning feet.)

My old dad tried hard to teach me how to change my oil and a flat tire and put on chains.  He could fix anything, build anything, and make anything grow.  Understandably, he must have wondered how I would ever get by, especially when it became clear that there wouldn't be a man around to do any of those things for me.  It may just have been a reflex to ask "How's the car?"  but now I understand what it means to have a child wandering loose in the world without a dad to fix everything.

My dear mechanic just called to tell me that he's sorry but the Camry needs a lot of work.  Of course  I don't relish the idea of my meager, carefully guarded savings account sagging even more than it already is,  but maintenance is as inevitable as heartache and my little car needs to last well into the foreseeable future.

Dad would roll in his grave if he knew that  Al Hart's Chevron  was now a head shop.  Sigh.

So at least for now, Dad, the car's all right.