Making your own yogurt

It’s the new … I don’t know, something or other. Something fancy that my mom-brain is too twoed out to actually think about.

First off, the resource I used was this one, as recommended by the always amazing Norma.

This was easier than anything I’ve ever done in the kitchen. Ever. Period. I keep wanting to make my own cheese, but passing it by as too fiddley…this was beyond simple.

The steps are clearly outlined in the above link, and I followed them as exactly as I could while chasing a toddler who was irate to wake up and find out that her father had GONE TO WORK and she was left with a MERE MAMA to comfort her. (I am assured that she wonders where I am when I’m gone, too. No, that doesn’t help).

I was a bit skeptical when the yogurt was cooking. It was very very watery, of course, and I was just sure that nothing good would come of this. I purposefully used milk that was On The Verge, and yogurt that Lucy was not a fan of. I kept thinking that I wasn’t doing enough, that it Couldn’t Possibly Work.

Turns out yogurt is like rice. The more I ignore it, the better it comes out. When I (due to my own bad planning) pulled the yogurt out of the crockpot at 1am, it was creamy and bright white, and quite lovely.

The real critic, however, had been asleep for about two hours at that point (I am aware of how late that was. I’m over it.). I was crazy nervous about trying the yogurt out on Miss Picky. For breakfast yesterday, I presented her with homemade yogurt with a generous spoonful of cranberry applesauce and pureed butternut squash that I’d cooked with maple syrup and cloves and ginger.

She took one bite, said nothing.

She took a second bite (which is actually the kicker).

She looked at me, said “Yum yum!” and devoured half the bowlful.

Totally proud mama here. And I’m going to save A FORTUNE. The only yogurt that I buy for her is the Stonyfield Farms kids and baby yogurt, and even that has more sugar than I really like giving her. With the natural sweetness of the apples (and maybe I cooked them with a tablespoon of maple syrup? Can’t recall, but probably), I don’t need any. Plus, no containers to recycle. Hooray!

How November ate my life

Hello, December! Hello Advent! Hello Christmas in 24 days! Oh, I’d better go lie down again.

Please excuse my absence; I’ve been Nanoing. I finished this year, wrote 50,000 words in a month, which is a first for me. Exceedingly proud of myself doesn’t begin to cover it. The words were spread out over two different YA books, but since most YA books are between 40-80K, and my first drafts are rarely half the words of where I finally end up, I am still calling myself a winner. Mucho de yay.

Not much knitting in November on account of all the writing; Alison, I’m still trying to find time to get pics of all the socks I’ve been bus knitting, I haven’t forgotten you. Also ready for a photo op is Lucy’s birthday sweater, a pink version of the Mason Dixon Fern; still haven’t worked out if I want to do the backstitching detailing, do it differently, ignore it all together, or find some pretty patches to sew on. When I know, you’ll know.

Heard back from the agent, who said no, but offered some really fantastic criticism, and said she would be interested in another query when I had revised. So not all lost there, not at all.

When I write more often, I sound less like I’m writing my holiday newsletter. Sorry for that. I missed you, please believe me.

Much love to you all.

Sending out the word

A few people still read this, and if you think it’s a worthy cause, maybe you can spread the word a bit.

I mentioned the other day that my Mom’s garage was a victim of arson, burned to the ground. Everyone is fine, but we lost a lot of possessions, and now that the person believed to be responsible is in jail, what’s hitting my mother the hardest is the loss of the memories. The creche she painted when I was about two, that I’d put the baby Jesus in every Christmas since I was tiny. The things from my little girl room that had been in storage until Lucy was old enough to see if she wanted them. My mom’s own stored little girl room. And all our Christmas decorations. All of them. Most of them we made when I was nine, the first year she and I were living in our condo, after she and my dad divorced.

I’m going to try and make a few, see if I can find some nice things at the local craft fairs. But if anyone has anything, has any spare time to make an ornament for a tree, that outpouring of kindness would be beyond wonderful. Just in case you can.

Love to you and your loved ones this season.

Well!

That went by rather quickly, didn’t it?

Work has been beyond ridiculous these last few months, so no time to blog or write there; I was laid low by my now-traditional “viral sinus infection” (read: you will be stuffed and miserable, but we can do nothing about it; go home and lie down and drink fluids) last weekend, and then attempted work on Monday, failed, stayed home Tuesday, and was swampedcrazybusy on Wed-Fri. And here we are.

Today, the Church Street Marketplace — which passes for downtown, in our fair city — is hosting Trick or Treating. If the rain holds off — very big if — my friend Laura and I will take Lucy downtown in her fairy princess dress from the Ren Faire for some trick or treating. Then we go to David’s Bridal to pick out a dress for me to wear in her wedding next June.

And then I will make more applesauce. And then sleeping. Good times.

If you can spare a moment, please send prayers for my mom and stepfather. They’re going through a difficult time just now, which has culminated in their garage being the victim of arson. The damages are being estimated at around $80,000, though thank goodness no one was hurt, they have insurance, and the garage was detached, so there’s no damage to the house. But still, a lot of history was lost, and it’s hurting my mother hard — as well as the situation which caused all of this, which is not my story to share.

Love to you all.

Growing Up

So, the story that I was working on for the past few months — this is not the story about the sisters, the one that the agent is currently wrapped in utter and total adoration for, or at least is currently browsing through the full — was about adoption. It was a straight story, no fantasy, no edge, no ghosts or witches waiting to jump on scene. And it was as close to my story as I think I’ll ever get to actually telling. When I first started writing it, I felt incredibly ready. I felt like I could finally bare this, show the corners that no one ever talks about. The darkest parts. It started like this:

I know that I’m supposed to think of Tom and Sylvia as my parents, and they are, in all the important ways. They tucked me in at night and went to my kindergarten graduation and held my hair while I puked the first time I got drunk. So it’s the party line of all adopted kids. Your parents are the one who raised you.

Here’s the truth we never say when you’re listening: it’s a lie. It’s not the same. We miss our biological parents, even when we never met them.

I got about 30 pages in, all the character building and world building going easily. And then I got to the part where Lia, my MC, was going to meet her sister for the first time. And it all just fell through my fingers like so much vapor. I was too caught up in “What will Frank/Erin/Mom/Dad/whoever think if they read this? If I say this? If I tell the truth?” And you can’t tell a story like that. You can’t tell the boldest truth if you’re torn into tiny pieces, mincing around what’s actually happening.

So I’m backing off. And I’m proud of it. Because I’m not freaking out, telling myself that I’m a terrible writer, or that if I just fight through, I can still tell this story. I’m starting to think that writing about adoption is my version of tilting at windmills; I can’t see straight enough to tell the truth about it. It still has too many dark corners in my heart and mind for me to tell a story about it. Previously, stopping a story after 30 pages would have caused weeks of depression, followed by months of self-flagellation, before finally giving up and working on something else.

This week, while on my morning with Lucy, a new story flashed into my mind. And I thought, what the hell? Let’s go with it. So, off we go. I think I’ve convinced my MC to be named “Sarah” instead of “Caroline”, and that’s helpful. Don’t ask me why, but I really didn’t want to write about some chick named Caroline. Maybe because it will always make me think of Ma Ingalls.

Look at me, growing up. I know.

A morning at Lucy-speed

So, for various reasons, we skipped church this morning — mostly due to my concerns regarding Lucy’s ability to sit quietly for 90 minutes, given her 2-ness the past couple of days. I’m not calling it bad behavior, because it’s not, it’s age appropriate behavior, as she learns to differentiate between what she wants and what she doesn’t want. She’s much like both of her parents, and has passionate feelings on the subject. What she wants, she wants, and she wants it now, thankyouverymuch, and what she doesn’t want is poison, anathema, disaster…and her only way to express her displeasure is to scream “Yellow yo-yo!” as loud as she can.

It helps somewhat to hold her and explain the WHY of my No. “I know love, you want the yellow yogurt, but we don’t have any more, we can have orange yogurt or green yogurt, but until Mama goes to the store, there is no more yellow yogurt.” The colors refer to the containers, just so you don’t think I’m trying to poison my kid.

The point here is that she’s discovered that she can refuse things, and she is in love with this ability, the amazing chance to communicate her desires and have them honored. The way her face lights up when she communicates successfully — it’s great, and makes me happy for every time I blabbed to my kid about things that everyone said she was far too young to understand. Her verbal abilities are a big old haHA to so many people right now.

So anyway, none of this goes along with a good, mellow morning in church; Grandpa Frank (i.e. BioDad) wasn’t going to be there this morning, and I was completely overtired after the past few days, so we came to a decision to bag it for a day. And then, later on, Lucy and I decided to give Dada a little bit of space and go on a bookstore run, as all three of us needed new books to read.

So we wandered around the bookstore, chatting with my old coworkers, those few who are left in retail after two years, and walking “up an down da sta-irs” a couple of times. Lucy seems to share my utter detesting of elevators. And when we were done there, we needed to go to this awesome local store to get an adaptor for the little Kleen Kanteen we were gifted for Lucy, so she can use it as a sippy cup, plus a thermos for me, to attempt to reduce the amount of money I’m paying for coffee.

Lucy was militantly opposed to being carried, or being in a stroller, “Mama, Lucy walkin,” and I thought about overruling her for a minute, but I like to foster her independence when possible, and while downtown was busy, it wasn’t dangerous…so I let her walk. I didn’t hold her hand. She was never more than a couple of steps from me, and I just let her go at her own pace. It took probably eight minutes to walk half a block. And it was an incredibly enjoyable eight minutes.

I expected people to be annoyed, frustrated that we were taking up so much sidewalk. Instead, I got peaceful smiles, and compliments on how pretty she was, how happy she seemed, how nice it was to see her. We wandered into the store, our easy pace continuing. No one minded. My girl brought a smile to those who stopped and watched her for a moment.

A good reminder. It’s okay to slow down, to take things at her speed. Sometimes we have to rush, move quickly, but more often, it doesn’t matter. More often, we can relax, and just move forward and the speed that is comfortable.

And now, writing this, I want to thank God for catching up with me and providing that reminder. I guess I had my morning at church after all.

Because someone will ask: Lucy chose Mo Willems’ Elephants Cannot Dance, Robb wanted Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis’ Dragons of the Hourglass Mage, and I got Laura Kasische’s In a Perfect World and one of Kathy Reichs’ Bones books, I forget which one. Yes, I got two books, I was the one who had to do all the driving. Stop looking at me like that.

Falling down

I think feminism fucked me over.

I understand that I’m saying this from a place of total privilege. I’m white, I’m almost 30, I’ve never lived in a pre-feminist world.

But I still think that feminism fucked me over.

Lucy had a rough evening yesterday. She fell asleep on her way home from my mom’s, (5pm) and since she sleeps like the dead, there was no waking her until she woke — screaming hysterically because she’s her father’s daughter and she wakes up hungry, and at that point she hadn’t eaten in about six hours — around 8pm. Which of course means that I was lucky to get her back to sleep at about 10:30.

My alarm goes off at 5:30, she sleeps through it. No worries. I heard her mumbling a bit while I was WiiFit-ing, but I heard her stop, and figured she’d either fallen back asleep, or crawled up into bed with Robb, and was fine. She was asleep when I went into the bedroom to get dressed before work…and then she woke up. And all hell broke loose.

She’s fine if she wakes up when I first get up, and I have time to soothe her back to sleep with a boob. She’s fine if she wakes up after I leave for work, even two minutes after. When she wakes up right as I’m leaving, she’s completely inconsolable. Utterly. It’s a disaster. Robb finally kicked me out of the house, on the verge of tears myself, while Lucy screamed “Mama, no work! No, Mama! Cuddle, Mama!”

Good times.

I try to be articulate about this, but it’s very difficult. Whenever I try to talk to other moms about my frustrations with being a working mom, I get either a distainful, “Well, my kids are far too important for me to work, I couldn’t possibly stand to miss one millisecond of their diaper-filled lives,” or a longing “God, I wish Iworked, I’m so sick of diapers and playdates and all of it, I’d kill to be back in the workforce.”

It’s like the vaccination debate. No one ever says “I don’t know, what does your doctor recommend?” Nope, it’s fire-and-brimstone, no matter which way you turn.

Maybe I’ll be more appreciative that I’m expected to do more than clean a house and cook a turkey when Lucy’s in school, and I would just be home alone and erranding, anyway. And if Robb and I have anything like the troubles we’re dreading when Lucy is old enough for school, I may get my wish, because I will live poor and homeschool before I let the public school system turn my brilliant, beautiful daughter into chum for the pretty, popular girls. Maybe, by then, it will be a welcome relief, maybe I will have a sense of contribution to my family. Hell, maybe Ms Agent will send me a letter, tell me what a genius I am (muh-wahhaha) and that she already had an editor lined up, and I just need to sign on the dotted line — they’re my dreams, darn it, I can be as irrational as I’d like, thankyouverymuch — and I’ll get to live a charmed life, homeschooling in the morning, writing in the afternoon, and having a quick chat with a domestic helper before creating a healthy, nutritious, and tasty meal which my family will compliment, and then we’ll all share what happened in our days, and laugh and love together like the daydream of American family that our government keeps breaking and breaking and breaking.

Maybe then I’ll feel like I’m supporting my family, instead of just failing them.

What, me, worry?

Instead of starting out the blog by apologizing for not writing enough, I’m going to just dive in.

It’s funny how I changed the location of the blog and the title of the blog because I felt tied in to talking about knitting all the time, and yet, here I am, not blogging because 95% of what I’m knitting is socks, and while I’m fascinated by other people knitting socks, I’m convinced that me showing you my bus knitting, day after day, would bore you into silence.

Heck, I don’t know if anyone’s even reading this anymore. Only myself to blame if you’re all off, spending your time on better pursuits.

No word yet from the agent. Every time my gmail window’s header switches to Gmail – Inbox (1), my heart stops, just a bit. We’re almost 6 weeks out, so it’s not an unreasonable amount of time, and I figure that longer is better…but I’m back to that place where I’m convinced that instead of being so caught up in the rapture of Cait and Genevieve’s story (vampires be damned) that she can’t find her laptop, I’m now convinced that Ms. Agent keeps trying to write me and gently tell me to keep my day job, but is instead overcome with hysterical laughter that I had the ovaries and idiocy necessary to send this baby out into the daylight unprotected.

The self-loathing of the artist is never to be underestimated, apparently.

I really am going to try and do better at this. It’s good for my soul, and I know that, but am whiny and easily distracted.

Love to you all.

How do I keep from going months without posting?

Wait, I know, find more time in the day! hahahahaahahaaa… oh, wow, that was a knee slapper, wasn’t it?

I’ve been well, these past few months. Overtired, overbusy, overworked — but well. Knitting somewhat took a summer holiday, although it’s picked back up now-a-bouts, and if the sun comes out today, I will see if I can take everything outside and give you some works in progress to ogle, but I promise nothing.

Last night, we had my brother and his new girlfriend over for dinner — we like her much better than the last girlfriend — and dinner was a huge success. I haven’t cooked tofu since I tried to be a vegetarian in high school, and it always came out slimy and bland. An online recipe suggested frying the tofu BEFORE you do anything else to it, and then marinating it, and that came out very well. I also roasted some potatoes and zucchini with olive oil, which would be uneventful, except the potatoes were the VERY SAME POTATOES that I had grown THIS VERY SAME YEAR. None of them were as big as my hand, even, but oh my goodness they were good. I never knew that potatoes were a different (whiter) color when you took them straight out of the ground, instead of buying them at the store.

And then, Natalie and Chris had been asked to bring over ice cream to go with brownies; they brought all the fixings for sundaes that a girl could want. Delish.

Other news is that I finally got my courage together and mailed off some query letters to agents. (!!!) So far, most of them came back within 24 hours with a thanks-but-no-thanks, but the most recent agent has had it for three of the four weeks that they state is their response time. Of course, I’ve turned the peak of the mountain, and instead of being convinced that they are interested, I’m convinced that they’ve lost it; the official “four weeks” will pass this Wednesday, and if I haven’t heard back, I will send a polite check-in email on Monday. But I’m just excited to be trying to start this process, this business of becoming more “professional.”

Robb starts school at the end of the month; Lucy is talking in three and four word sentences. It’s crazy around here, I tell ya.

First Mother’s Day

Today, Robb has to work (the perils of retail revealed), so we had a mother’s day celebration yesterday. I was not informed it was my mother’s day celebration until the end of the day, which because I’m me, and was raised Catholic, and can feel guilty about the rain with pressure applied in just the right way, was very good.

We all woke up together, which was very nice; Lucy has been slowly transitioning to her own room this past month (by which I mean that we put her in her bed at night, and by 2am she’s crying to be brought into our room. It’s fine, I still get more room to stretch than I was getting) and it was a sweet feeling to be all together in bed. We bummed around a little, then talked meal planning for the week so I could go to the grocery store By Myself.

If you’d told me three years ago that grocery shopping alone was going to be a treat, I would have called you a liar. I’d also never tried to get anything done quickly and efficiently with an adorable redhead in tow. Do you know how many times people want to stop me in stores and tell me her hair is red? A couple of times, when I’m *very* tired, I’ve responded with comments like “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Anyway.

I went to the nice grocery store, the local-organic market one, which I frequent less because of my crunchy nature and more because it’s difficult to find a locally owned store that has decent produce, and also, this is the one where I can get beans and spices in bulk.

I did my shopping (got chick peas to make myself some hummus and kidney beans to make chili — very proud of myself as I got brave and got them dried and am slowly rehydrating them today), mailed package that has been sitting in the house for weeks, because I didn’t want to juggle it and Lucy long enough to get it mailed, and then headed home to briefly relieve Robb (Lucy was an utter terror yesterday morning) so he could shower, and then… you won’t believe it… I went to the yarn store without comments, concerns, or notations on how much money I should or should not spend.

It was a heady time. I’m not sure how I kept control of myself. I’m sure the fact that I had just seen, quite literally, every single piece of my stash kept me in control.

It was a fun day to be at the store; Kristen Rengren, who just published Vintage Baby Knits was there with several samples of the knits, and a very friendly attitude. I’ve met a lot of authors, working at the bookstore, and I’m always so pleased to meet the ones who are friendly, nice, who understand that we’re there to talk about their books, and they are happy to be there, too. Cranky authors shouldn’t do signings.

Kristen was wonderful; we talked for a bit, and I told her a little bit about Lucy, and she was happy to point out which patterns in the book are already up to a 2T, and which ones would be easy to size up. What really impressed me was how our conversation started at a fairly basic level of knitterly knowledge, and then scaled up quickly as we talked. I don’t mind someone thinking I’m a beginner, but it annoys me to be treated like a beginner when I’ve explained that I’m not. And yet, at the same time, I’m still very new at certain things…anyway, I think you see what I mean.

I bought her book, and enough Buckingham in a lovely soft pink to do one of the sweaters in the book. Now that I’m looking at it, though, the wool fumes may have made me dizzier than normal, and the gauge may REALLY not work. If so, we’ll improvise. It’ll be okay; don’t worry, I have to finish the Dale sweater first, anyway.

After I had my fun at the yarn store, I went home for Robb and Lucy, and we packed ourselves off to the mall, where we acquired pants for running (if it ever stops raining), and cute new T-shirts for Miss Lucy. Then, Miss Lucy was dropped off with her Mere-Mere, and Robb and I went to go view the new Star Trek movie, which was BRILLIANT, despite our terrible seats. Zachary Quinto continues to terrify and wonderify me. I didn’t recognize Jennifer Morrison until we saw her name in the credits.

From there, we went out to Tiny Thai, a fantastic Thai restaurant near us that we always say we should go to more often, but never go to. Then to pick up Lucy, and home.

It was a wonderful day. Happy Mother’s Day to everyone out there.