Whiskers

Today is my son's birthday.
He lives in Chicago and has a great job and a nice apartment and a new Jeep and a sweet girlfriend.
But once he was a funny little boy.
I'm sorry I'm too lazy to scan a half a dozen pictures that prove how adorable he was.

When Sam was almost two, we went to Vermont for Christmas.  I had two kids and two pairs of pink mittens.  We  spent one day sightseeing and walking everywhere while Sam fussed "ho-tey, ho-tey" and kept sitting down on the sidewalk.  He couldn't talk yet, and I clearly remember how heavy he was to carry.  At the end of the long cold day I pulled off his boot and out fell a Fisher-Price person--the cowboy one he called the horsey.  You'd think I'd have learned to check his shoes; when he first learned to walk he wore a cute pair of Air Jordans (from Grandma Rita) that he eventually outgrew, and I set them aside. At some point, I finally discovered, wedged deep inside one shoe and bearing the cramped imprint of five miserable little toes,  a solid wad of tissue paper, back from when the shoes were new.

I'm really sorry about that, Sam.  

Sam was a pirate for two Halloweens--he liked having whiskers drawn on.  I suppose I knew that he'd grow up and be hairy--the men on both sides of the family (and a few of the women) are pretty burly--but when he was little he was as silky and soft as a kitten. He was a black-haired baby that turned tow-headed, and then gradually got darker and hairier; I think he started shaving in the eighth grade. 

 I'm sorry you have a five o'clock shadow at noon, honey.

In the nineties, an awful lot of family portraits looked just like this.  Sam had a little tail of golden curls 

(which was his choice, I want to emphasize.)  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Again, I'm sorry Sam.

And now he's all grown up.  He's officially twenty-seven, but last year he found out he was really thirty, because once you're not in school any more and you aren't having fifth, or eighteenth, or twenty-first birthday celebrations, and have a big-boy career like a lot of other adults, you might as well be thirty.  I guess when he finally gets there it won't sting so much.

I'm sorry about that, too.

Happy birthday, Son.

The stork visits Downton Abbey

Season Three, Episode Five Recap

I was going to name this post "All of us hungry" but then you'd all be wondering what you missed in Sunday's episode.  Make no mistake, things might be tough over at the manse, but there is plenty to eat and lots of staff to carry the platters upstairs.  Lillian and I have been hard at work trying to cobble together a recap post.  It was no picnic this week, as you can imagine.

Just like last week, we noticed right away there were a few brief scenes on PBS that didn't appear in the UK version.  While none of them changed the story, they definitely added vital information.  

If you buy the series on Amazon or wherever, make sure you get the PBS version!

Nope

Picnics make me think of all the carb-y foods I'm avoiding lately; but somehow, it's working.  I'm down another pound this week.  (Yay me!)  At first I just counted carbs (I eat about seventy-five grams a day) but this week I went back to logging my food into LoseIt.com which keeps track of my calories (about twelve hundred), too.  I thought for sure that all-you-can-eat protein would translate into double the calories, but a lot of low-carb foods are low-cal, too.  Maybe the combination of low-calorie and low-carbohydrate eating will finally start to shift some of the blub I've accumulated while hiding from my responsibilities these last couple of years.  

But enough about me.  Go HERE to read this week's recap and remember next week can only be better.

OF COURSE, IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED EPISODE FIVE YET

AND WANT TO BE SURPRISED, 

 READ NO FURTHER!

Well, you KNEW she was going to have that baby sooner or later.

Meanwhile, back in the good old days of cross-your-fingers pregnancies, labors and deliveries, Sybil's baby arrived.  How was it that her hair was so sweaty and her silk nightgown was so dry? It's like it was staged or something.  Real mothers called BS on that one right away.

Of course, then something worse than damp pajamas happened, and we regretted making fun of Sybil's droopy maternity clothes.  

No, don't go!  We promise you can wear whatever you want!

But she went.

And then came the saddest scene ever filmed.  Seeing Violet and Carson (two old comrades who know how things really get done) in a such Herculean display of British bravery reminded me that I'm a soft American who can't distinguish fiction from fact.  Compared to Edith's wedding day disappointment (even though we woke up thinking she'll land on her feet), there is no good news to temper this bad news.  Lillie and I both wondered if we should just get back to Pinterest until the season ends; but after a hard-boiled egg and a Kleenex we were ready to type.  If Violet can Keep Calm and Carry On, who are we to give up?

Can we ever get our funny back?

How about this, then?

So, is that Sam's new Rock Lobster?

Nope, this is the new Rock Lobster right here.

Stay in school, kids.

All of us miserable

Season Three, Episode Four Recap

I'll get to work on the recap as soon as I find my glasses

Are you ready to read our review of Episode Four?  It's right here.  The links to the first three episodes are over there, too.

If you watched, you know that this episode was pretty grim.  We started late and typed back and forth  all weekend to come up with something.  Let me know what you think!  Lillian is back in school and busier now but we plan to start cooking on Episode Five starting tomorrow.

For those of you watching DA on PBS in the US--there is a pivotal scene that didn't appear  on the UK version.  Daisy travels up to Mr Mason's farm and asks him how he'd feel if she ever got married again.  He gave her his blessing and assured her that William would also have wanted her to be happy.  Didn't you wonder about that too?  I don't know why PBS included it and the UK didn't--but keep it in mind when you watch Episode Six!

I'm off to bed to dream about carbohydrates--this week I cut down to less than one hundred grams of carbohydrates per day, with as much protein as I can eat--I've lost a pound already and would love to drop at least ten more, if I can.  Aside from a mild transient headache (ketosis) and recurrent fantasies of chocolate and bread, it's not too bad!  It goes against conventional low-fat /high-vegetables wisdom, but I've been doing that with no success for a long time and the scale will not budge.  What do I have to lose except my spare tire? I'll post my progress, if there continues to be any.

See you next week!

All of us happy

Downton Abbey, Season Three, Episode Three Recap:

Not that Mr Carson, the other one

Lillian and I are back again (slightly earlier this week--we've been working on it since Thursday) with the recap for Season 3, Episode 3.  Here's a shot of your writing team in our deluxe office suite.  Chase is our food services grip, in charge of fetching the coffee, but frankly that's just an honorary title because as you can see he is asleep.

Episode Three is a crackerjack, so have your box of Kleenex ready.  We had a hard time getting screenshots because we had to keep stopping to blow our noses (and we've watched it a dozen times.)
(Say, did anyone else think it was peculiar that they didn't invite Aunt Rosamund to either Mary's or Edith's weddings?  I know they'd have had to give some her scenes and they probably just ran out of screen time, but they might have at least mentioned she was traveling abroad or something.)

All of us happy
Except Mary I see your slip

Here's the link to the recap at AnybodyCanDoAnything.com

Here's the link to Episode One's recap:

Finally happy

and here's the link to Episode Two, in case you need to get caught up.

Still happy

Time to start on Episode Four!  No rest for the weary (that's why we do this in bed.)  Thanks for sharing and most important, thanks for joining us in the first place.  Lillian and I have (at least) one thing in common--we hope people think we are funny.  Is that weird?  It's certainly not the only thing we want, of course, but being funny is right up there.

Not happy

See you right here  in one week--or sooner if I find time to write about anything else.

Not now, we're watching Downton Abbey (again)

So there were Lillian and I hunched on opposite ends of the couch typing our reviews of Episode One.  We sat there dividing up our best lines and  finally admitted that we'd probably get the best result if we collaborated and just posted one.  It's not like there is any shortage of Downton Abbey reviews, right?  Also, the bulk of our readers are related to us by blood or by accident, and we both got a lot of pressure encouragement to write something together (Here's the recap for Episode Two).

We hope this will satisfy Lillian's need to be breezy and descriptive, and my need to be cohesive and grammatically correct.  It also gives us another ridiculous project to distract us from the realities of life like work and school.  If you missed the recap for Episode One, it's right here.

It is our intention to recap each episode after it airs on PBS.  I hope that we haven't gotten in over our heads--this took literally all day.  Fast, we are not.  I guess we can rest between February and September!

I'll ring for a servant to write that for you

While I was hemming and hawing over my version of the season premiere of Downton Abbey, my daughter Lillian whipped out her own blog post, complete with screenshots, which was so much better than mine all I can do is let you read it for yourself, with her permission.

I get all bogged down by spelling and grammar and punctuation and which word says it better, but decided that's my own hangup.   I hope you enjoy her post as much as I did.

Every New Year is the direct descendant, isn't it, of a long line of proven criminals?

--Ogden Nash

In 2012 I managed to offend a few people, mostly by having humanistic social views.  One of the people who still likes me the way I am is my sweet grandson Brody.  I am unlikely to amend my personal constitution, having long ago determined that my moral compass is pointing me in the right direction, but if I've made a new year's resolution, that is to keep my more controversial feelings to myself.  My goal is a report card which displays "plays well with others" with a big checkmark next to it. 

I used to point out to my endlessly squabbling children that they were quite free to STOP ARGUING because of course, it is impossible for ONE person to argue.  As incentive, I was careful to emphasize that the first person to be quiet is essentially the winner.  Also, all parents hate listening to children argue almost as much as they hate listening to a baby cry at three in the morning.  I would have promised them anything.

It's important for everyone me to remember that arguing has never changed anyone's mind, no matter how sincerely we believe it's the only thing that will change anyone's mind.  

It's been four years since all the kids and I have taken a picture together, and it never gets any easier to pick one that we all like.  If I had known that they were all smiling and not hitting, I would have pulled in my stomach and tried to look more festive.  And yes, that is brown paper taped all over the carpet and walls; Annie's house was being painted over the holidays.

Mister Carson enjoyed decorating the tree, and also enjoyed undecorating it.  

The kitten (who continues to grow at an alarming rate) thinks I am perfect and agrees with me about almost everything, except pestering the other cats.

You remember the parable of the dog in the manger; all the cats wanted simultaneous access to the sink, but none of them wished to share or take turns.  Mister Carson is the pushiest and bulkiest, so he commandeered my [shamefully cluttered] bathroom counter while the other two hung around and complained and were grumpy.  This was just moments before someone took the first swat; ending the fragile cease-fire for the three hundredth time in the two months he's been here.

2013 has to be the year I get out of my own way and go back to work; it's either that or the whole house of cards comes down.  If I get a haircut, a new watch battery, and renew my CPR certification, I should be ready to go.  If it ends up being as easy as it looks on paper, you'll read about it here.  If it's much harder than that, though, I may keep it to myself.

Slouching toward Bethlehem

Last year, after having one of those great ideas that later backfire somewhat, fifty twelve-foot-long, two-by-fours, which were free and thus seemed like a potential income source, came to rest in my garage.  We stacked them along the rear wall so our cars could park in front of them.  There are three sets of Rubbermaid shelves [filled with heavy crap] between the wall and the lumber. Fast forward to December:  of course,  trapped on the bottom shelf was a bin filled with Christmas decorations.  It was like one of those logic problems we used to get in school.  Ultimately, Lillie and I unloaded the top three shelves, lifted it straight up, and slid the bin out like a drawer.  I'll make one more announcement to any locals who need two-by-fours, and then they're up for bid.  

Maybe they'll help me afford a new fence, because one really ridiculous  and virtually useless gate blew down in a big windstorm.  I may have mentioned that my fence was built by some perpetually stoned pals of my contractor, who neglected to assemble functional gates and whom I had to call and beg for weeks to return and fix them.  The Dorito-eating pals eventually wandered back and attached hinges, but never installed posts or anything to latch the gates TO; they just lean sleepily against the stucco walls of the house.  Almost immediately the gates  sagged, so that we've had to open them by lifting and dragging them through the dirt. 

Reefer madness!  Anyway, I need a new fence.

To be fair, better fences than mine blew down.  This one didn't stand a chance.

Sunday, Lillian and I bought a Christmas tree from our favorite local merchant, Simonis Family Christmas Trees.  They always have lots of smaller silver tips, which is our favorite, and their prices for these bright fresh trees are excellent: we paid just twenty dollars for this four-foot-tall baby.  Lillie prefers a real tree, so our unreal tree spent another holiday in the box.  By Christmas day I definitely appreciate how Faux Bois doesn't sag or shed and is always symmetrical, but I like the real ones, too.

The Santa on top is a little too menacing; he might have to get back in the box.

Yes, two of the cookies have "No" painted on them.  Christmastime can be stressful for some people.

Today we made sugar cookies and painted them with colored icing.  The idea was straight out of Martha Stewart, but in practice, painting cookies is guaranteed to make you feel like a stroke patient in rehab, and I genuinely mean no disrespect toward stroke patients, but I assume that one of their struggles is being unable to do simple tasks that used to seem easy. Folk art, we'll call this. We also made Red Cross Fudge (a variation of Fantasy Fudge) and my specialty, almond toffee.  Lillie made Oreo cake balls, almond and peanut clusters, and dipped apricots, and they'll be in the mail shortly. Except for the little kids, nobody gets gifts anymore.  We've chosen to donate [what we can afford, which is precious little this year] to the Shasta County Women's Refuge.

Cooks Illustrated Soft & Chewy Sugar Cookies: (They won't share their recipes online!)

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking POWDER
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 sticks butter (not margarine, of course)
1 cup granulated sugar (plus more for rolling)
1 tablespoon brown sugar  (secret magic ingredient!)
1 large egg
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

You know the rest: Cream wet ingredients and sugar, stir in dry ingredients, roll 1" balls of dough in granulated sugar and flatten with a glass.  Bake at 350 for about 8 minutes.  Decorate however you want.

Carson loves Holmes On Homes because Mike always busts up lots of stuff

My birthday present arrived and is as big as Sam wanted.  The  new   "old" television is now installed in my room so I can watch the news in the morning and at night while snug in my wonderful bed.  I've decided this is a message from the cosmos that I should stay home and watch cable seven days a week.

I think that's entirely reasonable.

And I won't have to steal  so many  any lemons  this year.
There are about two dozen beautiful fruit on my Meyer Lemon tree.

No fear, sit here

I have four very old oak dining room chairs.  When I was first married and living in San Jose, about thirty years ago, my mother-in-law gave me a charming vintage oak dining room table with spiral legs and two cunning little extensions.  Someone had given it to her but she didn't want it, and I did.  Match made in heaven.  Unfortunately, when you sit at the table you can't cross your legs because it has some kind of fascia-board around the top (to hide the extensions, I suppose); but that's a small thing.  Anyway, all I had were some metal-and-vinyl chairs from the now defunct Ski's Royal Furniture in Campbell which was a delightful emporium of new, old, and peculiar items at rock-bottom prices.  But my lovely little table deserved better dinner companions, and one day we saw four chairs for sale in someone's driveway.  I'm so good at this.

Yuck.

The original chair seats were covered in leather so scrofulous that if you sat on one you'd shed brown leather flakes for the rest of the day.  I must have imagined that someday I'd have a blog where I occasionally posted my thrifty DIY projects, so I scraped off the original cotton-and-horsehair padding underneath, which, although repulsive to look at, was not terrible to sit on [when covered], and re-used it.  The seat bottoms were saggy and creaky woven slats so I convinced my husband to make four new plywood ones.  I hadn't discovered yet that he was no good at being married, but he could sure cut shapes out of plywood.

Mister Carson thinks everything in the house is just fabulous

On top of that, I stapled forest green chenille (it was 1980), which proceeded to absorb the sticky spills and greasy drips of thirty years of  dining with children.  Somewhere along the line I stopped looking at them altogether because they were so intensely gross.  The chairs, not the children.

From left: Vile seat cover; disgusting padding; serviceable seat bottom; very old cat.

On Veterans Day, JoAnn had a great 50% off sale, so I bought some bouncy new 2" foam and two yards of dark brown leatherette that we used to call Naugahyde.  It was simple to cut four seat-size foam shapes, and that lulled us into thinking the whole project would be a snap.  The old padding was mostly flat and last time I reupholstered the seats, it was almost effortless. (Or maybe it was hard and I've just forgotten.)

The easy part.

At first Lillian and I pretended that I could do this by myself.
After we stopped laughing, she held everything while I stapled.

Thank you to everyone who offered instructions on how to properly miter corners.
With all due respect, you are wrong.

Lillian and I struggled with my big staple gun which, although a useful and powerful tool, is unwieldy at best and aggressive to boot. (Hello, it's a gun.) The foam was quite springy and hard to press down enough to evenly attach the leatherette, and folding down the corners nearly made me cry,  but I did it when I was a clueless twenty-something and by God,  I would do it now. If you are wondering, I didn't use a layer of batting, since the chair seats drop into a little tray area on the chair's frame, and batting would make them too thick to fit.  For the type of seat that screws atop the frame, batting is recommended to soften the sharp edge of the plywood.  I also might drill a few holes in the plywood so that the air can poof out when someone first sits down.  The leatherette prevents poofing, so it's a bit like sitting on an exercise ball.

I'm surprised we finished all four chairs with our fingers intact.  (Well, I did get a few painful snags from all the wretched staples I pried out, but I've had a recent tetanus shot, so don't you worry about me contracting lockjaw.)  The next day my wrists were so wobbly I could barely lift my coffee cup.

Mister Carson fearlessly sitting upon a newly reupholstered chair.

I still need to refinish the table and chairs, but they look markedly better, and anyone may safely and cheerfully sit on them.  I think next we'll tackle the head-and-footboard  lurking in my garage.

Annmarie Jane

It was a cold night twenty-nine years ago, after I spent the weekend fielding Braxton-Hicks contractions every few minutes, already three centimeters dilated, ten days until my due date with my first baby. We got Chinese food down the street and went to bed early.   But in a few hours my water broke started to drool, and I sat on a towel in a rocking chair near the wood stove, rocking and timing my contractions. Before long, they were three minutes apart so I woke up my husband  and we went to the hospital, by six-thirty I was pushing, and at eight-thirty I delivered a six and a half pound girl with a headful of black curls and as hairy as a monkey.  I named her Annmarie Jane.   Don't hate me for having easy deliveries.  I'm sure you're really good at something, too.  It's not like a talent I can use too much these days.

I realize now what an easy baby Annie really was.  She nursed all the time, which was fine because I didn't have anything else to do.  Sometimes she'd spit it all up and come back for more, but I had a washing machine in my house so I didn't care.  This was the heyday of natural childbirth and no-worries childrearing.  There was no internet, no mommy bloggers, and I already had fifteen nieces and nephews.  There was practically no way to get it wrong.

Annie started talking at one year old, but was so shy in kindergarten that her teachers thought she couldn't speak.  At home, though,  she chattered like a parakeet, especially once Sam was born and she had a captive audience. She danced and acted her way through highschool [which wasn't all sunshine and lollipops], and then lit out for the bright lights of Sacramento, where she met and married my stellar son-in-law.  She gave me three perfect grandsons, about whom she frets constantly.  I was not a much of a fretter.

Because she was born on the twenty-first, her birthday will never be on Thanksgiving, and it seldom comes as close as the day before, like this year.  But I am so very thankful for this child. She changed my life forever when she made me a mother.  Those of you with children know what I mean--no matter what else happens in your life; there is before and there is after.

Happy twenty-ninth birthday, child of my heart.

Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' in the oven

So recently I ran across a new recipe for chocolate chip cookies to try.  I estimate that I've made about four hundred batches of Tollhouse Cookies over the years, and Tollhouse Cookies are pretty darn wonderful.   It was the first recipe I ever memorized (other than, say, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.)

But this one got rave reviews.  I was too lazy to copy-and-paste and I was also out of printer ink,  so I found a sheet of notebook paper and wrote it down.  I baked up a batch and they were, indeed, superb.  A few days ago I pulled out the as-yet-unmemorized recipe to whip up another batch and noticed this:

Noticed what?

This.

No, I have no idea.

Unless the cat is gaslighting me.

He does look kind of sneaky back there.