Mom, she's copying me!

Recently I was wasting time looking at one of my favorite DIY blogs.  A lot of Jillee's ideas are downright dopey, but I have to hand it to her: she keeps rolling out the posts.  As I hopscotched through her archives I landed on a clever item (which she borrowed from someone else)  about making grocery bags out of  T-shirts.  As clever as that project sounds, I'd never thought of it, and it was ridiculously easy.   Believe it or not, I can't think of everything.

God, my carpet looks grimy.  Might be about Bissell-time again.  Disregard.

I'm willing to bet that you have far too many "event" T-shirts.  (Until now, one = too many.)  They multiply almost as fast as plastic grocery bags.  If you're like most women (and some men), you never wear them after the event because, let's face it, those boxy crew-neck Hanes tees are woefully unflattering.  I understand; they have sentimental value so you don't get rid of them or anything else.  

See where I'm headed with this?

I had already cut the crew neck and sleeves off this one: nope--still dorky 

First, I turned one inside out and cut a U-shape out of both sides of the neckline (I traced a plate and pinned it together, but I think you could just free-hand it.)  Next, I cut off the sleeves.  I used my old pinking shears only because Lillian's boss Martha Stewart  scissors were hidden in her room and I didn't have all day to  am reluctant to dig around in there.  Knit fabric doesn't ravel;  the edge rolls over nicely and looks finished.

I measured down about 12" (you could go longer if you wish, of course) from the armholes, and sewed straight across the bottom with a double row of stitching; nice and sturdy. I trimmed that seam.   Since I prefer box corners I folded the bottom corners into points and sewed across, about two inches in. 

See where I'm pointing up there?   

Still with me? You can do this!

Here's how those box corners look from the outside.  Deluxe!

 I trimmed that seam  and turned my new grocery bag right side out.  It almost couldn't be any easier.

Bam!  Done.

I'm thinking about Santa Claus right about now, aren't you?

And there's my new bag pretending to hold groceries.  A medium-size T-shirt makes a bag about the size of a regular plastic grocery sack.  Man-size shirts will logically make deeper sacks.  You could sew those a little shorter, to keep you from stuffing in too many  wine bottles  fruits and vegetables.  

I sincerely love my stash of cloth bags and don't shop without them, but these are softer and cuter.  

Move over, bougie Old Navy stuff-'n-save bags!  You've been out-greened.

These took about five minutes each and cost nothing.  I've used them already!

Obey the rocks

"The ship that will not obey the helm will have to obey the rocks"  --old English proverb

I may have mentioned that I -sort of- collect rocks.  Not valuable, portable things like hundred dollar bills.  Nope; it's rocks.  I am descended from dedicated rock-hounds, my adventurous maternal grandparents, and just can't help admiring pretty or unusual rocks.  I lug them home and pile display them all over my house and yard.  I have only one box-full of my grandparents'  beautiful, carefully labeled specimens because, in a rare flash of insight years ago, I realized that it was truly unwise to own more special rocks than I could carry.  Besides, if I ever want to look at the rest of them I can since my brothers have them, which makes their wives extremely happy, because I mean really, wouldn't you want your spouse to bring home half a ton of rocks?  Don't you want to live right where you do now, (because who moves a thousand pounds of freaking rocks), until you die?  

At least if either sister-in-law ever wants to bash my brother's head in frustration, there are hundreds of lethal weapons within easy reach.

When I bought my house, it hadn't been built yet, but alone on the lot stood an old fireplace, hand built of native stones.  Patiently waiting for me to come along and build a house with this view out my front window.  The Dowager Countess of Grantham had Downton Abbey; but I have 

The House With the Fireplace. 

I don't believe in fate, but if I did, then this was meant to be.

If I stand in my yard and look west I can see this pile of rocks heaped in my neighbor's side yard next to the street.  It's been there for years--there are weeds and lizards in the pile--and when I  go past on my morning stroll power-walk sometimes I look to see if any of them are pretty or remarkable in some way.  They are just garden-variety boring old landscape stones, but one day I spied an attractive tiger-striped one and rationalized that if I replaced it with several similar-but-plain stones from my yard, I wouldn't feel bad about bringing the stripey one home.  After all, her net rock volume would be twenty pounds higher than it was before, which seemed more than fair.  Generous, even.

So that's what I did.

Apparently she saw me.

I'll never eat lunch in this town again.

"Next time do it in the middle of the night!"

He tried to tell me.

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.