I made these tonight using this recipe, which is super easy and remarkably tasty. If you’ve never made bread before, start here!
Category: Life
Zombie Weather!
The fog outside is ridiculous! Fog is my favourite weather, by far. When it’s as thick as it is tonight, it’s hard not to expect the lurching undead to creep out of the wisps, arms extended, questing for brains…
Really I think I love it because it’s so uncommon. A good fog, a real fog, like the one tonight, happens here maybe once a year. It’s so heavy that I can barely see the house across the street.
It gets the cogs in my mind going, picturing all the dastardly deeds that could be happening right beside you, muffled and hidden…
(photo by my dude)
It Pays to Be Nice.
I like to think karma works.
I went to Michael’s today; I had a 40%-off coupon that was ready to expire. I found myself wandering the aisles: knitting needles? Canvas? Frames? This isn’t my regular Michael’s (God help me, I have a “regular”), so when I stumbled across the clearance section it was a surprise.
They had these fantastic stretched-canvas prints, regularly $34, on for $10. C and I were just talking about adding some new decorations to the house, so it was perfect timing. I found a great little piece for the kitchen:
We tend to seek happiness
when happiness is actually a choice
Since it was on clearance, I couldn’t use my coupon, which expires tomorrow. So on my way to the checkout, I offered it to a couple of women who were still shopping. It made me feel nice, and that alone would have made my afternoon a little brighter.
But.
I got to the checkout and the cashier scanned the canvas. “That’ll be one cent.”
“Pardon?”
She turned the screen so I could see it. “One cent.”
I asked her a couple of times if that was right. She even re-scanned it, just in case. It came up the same every time.
The funny bit is that I never carry cash, and I literally had no money on me. I had to ask her to tuck it behind the register and hold it while I went to rummage through the car.
I got back inside and waited in line again, already getting the sinking feeling that the other cashier had probably spoken up after I left. Would I bother to argue if she quoted me the ten-dollar price I’d expected?
I approached the till. The cashier had a big smile by this point. “One cent, please.”
I plopped a single penny in her palm, and she handed me my receipt.
I like to think it was good karma for doing a small kindness for someone. The new picture looks great under the martini in the kitchen…
…and now when I look at it I’ll smile, since it comes with its own story.
Bonus ZoeyBomb:
PS – When she handed me the receipt, the register had printed another 40%-off coupon. Double score!
Domestic Little Weekend
This weekend was exactly what I needed. The week was exhausting, and stressful, and I still feel like the whole week flew by without my getting anything done. By the time Friday night rolled around all I felt like doing was hanging out under blankets and reading. So I did. Saturday we meant to go to the movies, but by the time C finished work neither of us was in the mood. So we had a nice dinner out, then bought movies and snuggled up on the couch. Today I went to a book sale with my mom, and out for brunch.
Then I spent the afternoon cleaning, and reorganizing, and reading the Young House Love blog. It’s time to get the house ready to be closed up all winter, to fill it with yummy smells and baking bread and rich, heavy meals. It’s the time when I start reading cooking and decorating blogs and making plans to cozy up the place. As much as I hate winter, it gives me a great excuse to just be comfortable at home.
This winter I think we’ll finally get around to redoing the living room floor. I want to get C’s blanket finished. I want to master this whole Crock-Pot thing and spend more time making good food.
The outside world is getting faster and harder and, frankly, meaner as time goes on, but that only means that home is more important than ever. So if you need me, I’ll be here: reading and knitting and working on my writing career. Working on what matters, what makes me happy.
The Library Book Sale
This weekend was my city’s annual library book sale (well, there’s one in the spring, too, but that one sucks and no one goes to it). What it means is that thousands of withdrawn library books and books donated by the community get hauled into a giant warehouse-style building at the fairgrounds and put up for sale. Cheap books. Books for a dollar. The sale runs for three days, and on the Sunday anything you can cram into a plastic shopping bag is yours for three dollars.
Let me reiterate: a bag stuffed with books for three dollars.
It’s like the best garage sale ever — you have no idea what you’ll find. Some years are better than others. Having broad interests helps: you’re bound to find something. I picked up books about hypochondria, Afghan women’s rights, and disappearing languages. I got one about the Muslim middle class that may turn out to be propaganda; if it is, I’ll toss it into the recycling. When books average out to something like fifty cents, you can do that.
Every time I go it brings out my primal instincts. There’s only one copy of most titles, and you’d better hope that you’re not reaching for the same book that I am. I’ll throw elbows. I have no shame. I get tunnel vision, eyes skimming quickly over spines, heart soaring as I find that one book I’ve been looking for forever, stomach sinking as I find a pristine copy of a book I only just bought last week. It’s a huge rush if you’re a book-obsessive like me.
The score? 24 books, easily worth a couple hundred bucks, for 11 dollars. I love today.
My Mom Loves Me.
Disgusting. Gooey. Gross. Does she know me, or what?
I wonder what it tastes like. Any guesses?
Why I Won’t Knit for Free
Lately I’ve been taking my knitting along to work with me. You know me and my fidgety fingers: if there’s spare time to be had, I’m using it.
I’ve sold some of my knitting in the past to coworkers and friends-of-friends. I knit for free for family, of course, but even then, depending on the project, I’ve been known not to get around to it for a really. Long. Time. I’m working on this blanket for my husband…at this point he’s wanted a blanket for three years.
Anyway.
One of my coworkers asked if I’d ever auctioned off any of my knitting. Oh no, I thought, here it comes.
“…because my nephew’s hockey team is looking for items to auction off…one lady’s mittens sold for sixty dollars!”
I never really know what to say in these situations. I’m not great at saying no. So what came out was something like, “No, I don’t knit unless it benefits me. Sorry,” which, while true, came out wrong and totally makes me sound like a bitch. Here’s what I meant:
I won’t knit for you for free because:
1. Knitting takes time. This is listed first for a reason. My time is valuable to me. I like to spend it in ways I enjoy, which, when it comes to (free) knitting, means at my own leisure and on projects of my choosing. Believe it or not, even someone speedy like The Yarn Harlot can take 16 hours or more to knit a single pair of socks. I can do a lot of other things in 16 hours.
2. Knitting costs money. True, I have the needles already. But if I’m making your project for free, I’ll need to supply yarn. I’ll either need to give up some of my stash, which cost me money, or go purchase new yarn, which will cost me money. Either way, I’d be paying to do you a favour. Not happening.
3. No one works for free. Do you know how much money those mittens would “cost”, in real-life terms, if I charged by the hour? Do you realize that I’d have to give up other things in my life to make the time to knit for you? Would you come over and make me 16 free dinners? Or wash 16 loads of my laundry for me? Why not?
4. It’s my hobby, and therefore it needs to benefit me. When I knit for myself, this is a no-brainer. I get to use the end product: wear the sweater, use the gloves to keep warm, revel in the luxury of perfectly-fitted socks. When I knit for family, in ways that’s even better: I take time to pick just the right project, and colour, and yarn. I sit and smile to myself, imagining the recipient enjoying whatever it is that I’m making. It makes me no money, but it’s incredibly rewarding. If I donate my knitting to a charity — which someday I’d like to — I’ll still feel the warmth of knowing I’ve kept a preemie’s head warm, or gotten a handmade bear to a child with cancer, or whatever.
When I’ve knit for paying customers, that glowing feeling is replaced with cold, hard cash. Still beneficial.
If I give you something to auction for a league sport, neither of these things happens. You could just as easily sell chocolate bars.
5. I plain don’t feel like it right now, which means forcing myself would make it feel like work, and we’ve established I don’t work for free.
This isn’t the first time this has come up since I taught myself to knit. It’s kind of strange, if you think about it: asking someone (oftentimes a mere acquaintance) to give up hours and hours of their time and some of their money, as if it’s something you’re entitled to. Sure, I enjoy my knitting, but I bet there’s lots of mechanics who enjoy their work, and I don’t see them giving away free engine overhauls.
I Ate a Severed Thumb
I went camping last week with a couple friends from high school. Both are vegetarians, so tofu hotdogs were on the menu. “No problem,” says I, “I don’t mind veggie dogs.”
Cue the package being opened and the dogs being doled out. I had threaded mine onto a coat hanger classy upscale roasting implement when I noticed something odd.
It looked a little…grotesque. The package must have been sealed too tightly, squishing the hotdogs together, and resulting in a strange discoloration.
Either that, or some dude at the factory lost his thumb and no one noticed.
I ate it anyway. It was delicious.
Attack of the Killer Carpet Monster
I had trouble sleeping again last night. After tossing and turning, shutting the light off, then on, then reading, then lying quietly with my eyes closed, I gave up and decided to get a glass of water.
I went down to the kitchen and flipped on the light.
An impossibly huge carpet monster fell off the wall.
What’s a carpet monster, you say? One of these little bastards, so dubbed in our home due to the fact that they blend perfectly with our carpet, so you could be walking within inches of one and never even know:
Ew ew ew ew EW EW EW.
It would’ve startled you, too, something furry flopping onto the floor then running straight at you. I screamed like an impossibly sissy girl and ran in a rough circle, trying to scare the thing the way it had scared me so it would run away and not touch my feet with its horrible, horrible legs.
It moved like lightning on crack. I was getting ready to propel myself ass-first up onto the counter when it zoomed past, waving at me with its million legs, and hid under the fridge. I was alternately paralyzed with horror and…well. You should know this about me: when I am overtired, like really, really sleep deprived, I get the giggles. The smallest, unfunniest thing will make me laugh until I cry and choke on my own saliva. It’s so sexy, you don’t even know.
So here I am, backed against the counter, and it occurs to me how silly I’m being, and my brain knows this but my body doesn’t give a shit what my brain has to say and I am completely unable to move. I’m stuck there, laughing and shrieking and finally C comes in to check whether I have completely lost my mind.
I manage to cross the room and perch on a bar stool, feet tucked up under me so the thing can’t get them.
C says, “I gotta see this thing.” And what does he do? He gets down on the floor in front of the fridge and tries to lure it out.
The whole time, I’m gigglescreaming uncontrollably and panicking that it’s going to get on him and he’s poking around under there with his bare hands and the whole scene was just not cool.
He never did find it. And I don’t think he believed me when I told him it was the size of a mouse.
To be fair, a house centipede isn’t dangerous. They’re supposedly helpful and eat other bugs or some shit. I don’t care. What I care about is that there’s an unholy creature with a billion legs made of pure hatred running around this house and IT’S ABLE TO CLIMB WALLS. Which means IT COULD FALL ON ME. And EAT MY BRAIN. Totally unacceptable.
sniderwriter 