doing

catching up
It’s getting harder to stay caught up online these days, both blogging and reading blogs. While I take full responsibility, I’d also like to blame summer. Life on the internets is just going to be slower. Until when? School starts?

reuniting
Over the weekend, I attended my 20th college reunion. Yikes! My friend Caryl convinced me to go. I agreed, somewhat at the last minute. In the week leading up to the event, I spent a lot of time reflecting and reminiscing, and in all the happy moments and the (few) regrettable moments, I felt so much bittersweetness. Only natural, I know, but a little unexpected. The Friday evening party was poorly attended…just 10 people...but I understand other weekend events were livelier. Still, I couldn't put a price on how awesome it was to hang out with friends Caryl and Sue, who flew in from Virginia to attend. I honestly hadn’t had any contact with Sue since graduation. We had a wonderful evening, picking up where we left off, remembering that summer we all lived together on St. Clair (the house, admittedly a blight on the block, has long since been torn down by Macalester, which owned it), theater performances and cast parties, and countless nights at Sweeney's.

eating
arugula-pistachio pesto on pasta; fresh, local strawberries that will become ice cream; apricots and white peaches; Alaskan king salmon; The Cheesemonger (soppressata, provolone, pepper relish) from France 44’s new St. Paul outpost; Edy’s coconut popsicles

knitting
The olive-green tilting blocks scarf is humming along. Now that I've successfully hit the half point, dare I say that the pattern has become a tad bit tedious. It's gorgeous, though, and I've struggled, so no complaints. I am taking short breaks from the scarf to do a little automatic knitting—a neckwarmer, knit on a circular needle, with a knit 3, purl 3 pattern. For the neckwarmer, I'm using Malabrigo worsted in mariposa, a hand-dyed, variegated yarn in mustard yellow, seafoam green, and greenish-grey. The effect is neat and mesmerizing as each stitch forms. On Sunday (Father's Day), with little family in tow (no good for browsing), I made my inaugural visit to Borealis Yarns. Treasure trove. And, Borealis carries Noro!! I'm scheming a project for this gorgeous Japanese yarn. In the meantime, chainmail tunics (hauberk) are in the works, for the little boys and their cousin, Bjorn, to wear during Visby's Medieval week. More to follow, including photos!

reading to myself
Kate Atkinson’s Case Histories (for book group, which meets next week), David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (for the Infinite Summer challenge and because it’s about time I did), Elin Hildenbrand’s Barefoot (meaty beach read)

reading to others
Race to Dakar, actor Charley Boorman’s riveting account of riding the Dakar Rally (to John), Maze of the Beast, book 6 in the Deltora Quest series (to Winston), Darkest Hour, the sixth and final book in the Warriors series (to Simon)

listening
Peaches’ cover of “Search and Destroy”, Swoon, the new Silversun Pickups, Edward Upward live

on having survived a rainy weekend

The weekend wasn’t just rainy, but it was cold, too, which had all of us scrambling to find the warm clothing items I had, about a month ago, packed away. I truly don’t mind a wet weekend. It gives me an opportunity to hibernate, attending to all those inside-the-house projects I have been neglecting in favor of playing outside. Plus, my herb garden and the hostas and the grass in the front yard got a long drink of water. Still, the warm, sunny days of June feel like such a novelty.

Over the weekend, I managed to knit a lot. I started the Midwest Moonlight scarf again. And stopped and ripped out and started again. But now, on my twenty-third start, I’ve knitted further than ever, and I have a good feeling about this. But, I also pulled another skein out of the stash and started a back-up project—a neck warmer in a super-soft worsted-weight Malabrigo. This yarn is so gorgeous, hand-dyed, mostly a creamy yellow shot through with sage and olive and aqua (the label says "mariposa" for the color). I cast 80 stitches onto a 16” size 10 circular needle, and I’m knitting a criminally easy knit three, purl three rib.

When I wasn’t knitting, I helped the little boys with a 500-piece puzzle. The picture is an Egyptian scene with tons of hieroglyphs so I’ve had to go against my jigsaw best practices by looking at the cover to see where each piece must be placed.

And, I had a chance to read a little more in Junot Diaz’s brilliant Oscar Wao. It’s been awhile since I have read such a dense book so I’m feeling a little unskilled in that department, and my attention span is sorely challenged. I wish I could read more in one sitting.

In a total stroke of genius, John proposed going out for breakfast on Sunday morning. We took the boys to Highland Grill, where I had the special scramble—eggs with andouille sausage, caramelized onions, mushrooms, and pepper jack cheese on a bed of my favorite hash browns. I could easily pick this as a Last Meal. We killed time at a nearby bookstore so the boys could each pick out their first summer-reading titles. Then we saw Up at the Highland Theater. I love the Highland Theater. It reminds me of the two-screen theater just off the “town square” in Watertown, now closed in favor of a “multiplex” near the mall on the outskirts of town. Up was fantastic—heartwarming story coupled with striking animation.

Would that all weekends could be like this. But with a little more sunshine.

on knitting but having little to show for it

Dipping into my newly acquired yarn stash for the first time was a little like being a kid in a candy shop. I wanted to rip into every single skein and do a little stockingette, just to get a feel for the yarn. During this exercise, perhaps the yarn would tell me what it wants to become. Okay, I confess, I don’t roll that way as a knitter. I’m more firmly planted in the “find an irresistible pattern, buy some yarn, knit it up following the pattern to the letter of the law” school of knitting. It’s the same way with cooking. I am drawn to recipes by way of gorgeous color photography. I buy the ingredients and cook them up rather than dig through the fridge pulling out whatever lurks, whipping them into something edible. So it goes with music. I can read music like nobody but I struggle to memorize it, and I certainly don’t play by ear.

Though I yearn to be a more intuitive knitter, I know it will only come with more practice. Also, I need to branch out of beyond my comfort zone of stockingette and garter stitch to try lacy openwork and cables and intarsia or color changes—and I want to do it all. To avoid commitment anxiety inherent in the question of where to start, I closed my eyes and reached into my stash. When I opened my eyes, I was not disappointed to find a small, super-soft skein of olive-colored Rowan Classic yarn (50% merino, 50% silk in a DK weight). Fortunately I remembered that when I purchased this yarn at the Yarnery’s sale, I made plans for it to be knitted into a scarf.

And, some time shortly after my knitting class ended, oh, back in April (the 20th, to be precise), I picked up my #6 wooden needles and cast on 49 stitches. The stitches are easy to execute, even though my needles are a little grabby—they’re splintering and catching in the yarn. I found the the Midwest Moonlight scarf in Scarf Style—part of a fantastic series from Pam Allen and Interweave Press—where it was photographed in an icy blue. The scarf’s pattern is a variation of Barbara Walker’s tilting blocks pattern, which becomes quite evident after you get through the first 16 rows, with eight rows leaning in one direction and the next eight in the other.

A google search for “tilting blocks scarf” and “Midwest moonlight scarf” yields many references, as well as photos of finished objects. Here are a few. Popular indeed. A few knitters even noted the length of time it took them to knit the scarf, ranging from one sitting to four or five, which I imagine is reasonable for an intermediate knitter. But one knitter went so far as to call the pattern tedious.

Here’s what I have knitted.



And I’m ripping it all out. Somehow, I messed up the pattern, which is now difficult to distinguish. The frustrating thing: I have started this scarf no fewer than twenty-two times. Yes, I’m counting. For some reason I can’t knit the pattern for more than two sets before I completely screw it up.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I would learn how to “unknit” (knit back) as soon as I realize I have made a mistake so that I don’t go for rows, getting myself further in a pickle. Knitting in hand, I went to The Yarnery and got help during clinic. The nice ladies who were at the yarn shop, knitting during the middle of the day, gave me lots of advice. I came home, feeling pretty smug about being further along on this scarf that at any of my previous twenty-one attempts.

Eight rows later, I’d bungled the pattern AGAIN.

Sensing my mounting frustration, John has asked me to start a different project. I do have stash, after all. But, there is the commitment anxiety. And, something about this scarf is compelling. So I will rip out all the stitches, and start one more time.

A back-up plan would be wise…

trip preparations

In this day and age of travel, if you forget to pack an item, you can replace it pretty easily, almost anywhere in the world. Pain reliever, toothbrush, tampons, contact solution, reading material for the plane, ties and scarves—you name it, the airport has it. Or, if you’re traveling in the U.S., chances are good that on the path from the airport to your hotel, you will pass a Target store. Heck, you can even leave your plane ticket at home. Since the advent of e-tickets, a swipe of photo ID or a credit card brings up your flight information and allows you to print a boarding pass. Brave new world! Still, I overpack. Without exception.

You are, however, shit out of luck if you're leaving the country and forgot your passport at home. There’s no passport kiosk in the departure terminal. Yet. Hmmm, I wonder if there's a market for this? Personally, the possibility of forgetting my passport induces bad dreams the night before a trip. The Shepards leave for Stockholm/Visby in eight weeks, and guess whose passports have expired?

My passport expired a year ago, almost to the date. I am so glad to have a new book. Ten years younger and forty pounds lighter, but looking simultaneously hungover and startled, like a deer in the headlights, I have always despised the photo that I've had to face since 1998. I wish there was a way to continue filling the old passport, until it's full, with souvenir stamps. Mine holds many stamps for Schiphol (Amsterdam, the gateway to all of Europe in the 90s and early 00s) and Canada, and my older passport—the one previous to my previous passport—has my British alien residence card, a visa allowing me to travel in France (how old school?!), and an amendment changing the bearer's maiden name.

And, yes, I said passports, plural. Simon’s and Winston’s passports expired ten days ago. Children’s passports are valid for only five years—for obvious reason, but Winston’s old passport perfectly illustrates why. He had just turned two when he got his first passport—i.e., he was practically a baby and little resembles his current self.

On Saturday, the four of us schlepped way up to Roseville—Lexington and County Road C—to the one passport center within 20 miles that is open on Saturday. Both John and I needed to be present to apply for our minors’ passports. No kidding. I’m sure this is for our own protection but incredibly inconvenient when the post offices nearest to us only process passports Monday through Friday, 8 a.m.-1 p.m.

So we arrive at the passport place in Roseville, and we wait for 45 minutes before we’re granted an audience with the sole agent. As we’re waiting, I read a Donna Leon mystery, dreaming of a vacation in Venice, and eavesdrop on each person ahead of me in line as they face one bureaucratic obstacle after another. I felt pretty prepared for making our application. I had filled out the paperwork ahead of time and remembered to bring the old passports. To be honest, I left a few fields on the application blank—those for occupation (student?), work phone number, email (kids have them but hell if I’m giving them to anyone other than close friend/family), social security number—but I didn't think these would cause a problem.

And, wouldn’t you know, when we finally had our turn at the window, the first thing that agent noticed was that we hadn’t filled out the SSN. John asked politely, “Since it’s not considered legal identification, why do we need to have a SSN?” The agent answered, “It’s the law.” John challenged, “Show me the law.” Agent: “I don’t have time to know where it is, I just know it is.” Recognizing that this “logic” was something not to be messed with, John dropped the ball. And, I picked it right back up, “What if the kids didn’t have social security numbers?” Agent: “Then you’d fill in 000-00-000.” John, “So let’s do that.” Agent: “If you have a SSN and don’t fill it in, then you won’t be issued a passport.” John: “But they’ve already been issued passports.” Time to drop the ball again.

Then, as if there was actually a chance that we’d get our paperwork processed that day, the agent asked to see birth certificates. I hadn’t brought them because, according to the instructions on the application, a previous passport is sufficient to establish citizenship, as well as identification. Then the agent said, “You need a birth certificate to show the link between you and your children.” I had my ah-ha moment when I realized all these hoops were to insure that we weren’t trying to smuggle children-not-our-own out of the country.

In my head, I silently screamed: Look at these kids. I ask you Is there any doubt that they’re ours? Does the fact that they’re comfortably flipping and flopping and bouncing off the walls in this little lobby suggest in the slightest that they might be afraid of us or what we’ll do to them? Is child smuggling rampant? I’m not saying that an angry, estranged spouse wouldn’t be above kidnapping his or her own child, but do we really need these hoops FOR OUR PROTECTION????

Yesterday, John took the afternoon off so we could try, again, to get passports for the children. The clock is ticking—processing takes six to eight weeks. This time, we try the post office in St. Anthony, where nice clerks helped us five years ago. This time, I filled in the social security field, and I brought the birth certificates. We flew through the process with little grief, pleasantly chit-chatting with the agent. The boys were barely present, running around outside on the sidewalk. Sure, we came into the post office with two kids but were they matched up to their applications, photos, and old passports? Did the agent even get a good look at them? I...don't...think...so.

The boys are really concerned about not having their old passports returned.

Deep cleansing breath. The applications are in the mail.

hello june

Here we are in June. Can you believe it? I can’t. To me, summer isn't marked by Memorial Day—especially not this year, when Memorial Day came so early and the kids were still very much in school—nor by the solstice, the official start of summer, at least as far as the calendar goes. Rather, summer begins in June. The days are warmer and longer so one can comfortably do summer-ish things, such as riding a bike or gardening.

The arrival of June is a relief, too, because May wasn't such a great month for me. We were super busy, and at the same time, many plans were in limbo so I felt like I was in a holding pattern. We had a lot of family visits, which increased my stress level significantly and derailed my personal agenda. I didn't get much done and the house got messier and messier. My writing suffered. But it's done. Time for a fresh start!

With my family, I managed a few great activities this past month, though I think the biggest highlight had to be adopting cats. Becoming pet owners has been a very positive step for all of us. The boys love to play with Trixie, the kitty, and chase her around the house. The boys have also, with prompting, cleaned litterboxes and cleaned up the attendant mess. John likes to spend quiet time with Nancy, who barely tolerates Trixie and hides from her for most of the day. Oh, the cats are far more fun than I imagined they would be.

We're also deep into our soccer season. Winston is playing in the Littlehawks league on Saturdays, which is mostly skill building through fun games and a short scrimmage. It's an awesome hour of runaround. Simon's Blackhawk team is starting to gel as a team. Each player is playing better than when the season started. They've got excellent foot skills—one of the things at which Blackhawks excel—and they're not afraid to use them. Simon, who has always felt comfortable at defense, is now also playing a bit more aggressively at midfield.

June heralds
~ warmer weather, which may even creep up toward hot
~ sleeping with the windows cranked open
~ stone fruit (hallelujah! I’m climbing off the locavore high horse to gorge myself with peaches, cherries, apricots, plums)
~ summer break from school (no more homework or rigid bed-and-bath schedules)

June is also for hunkering down. Here are a few things on my to-do-list:

~ clean the yard (pull weeds, pick up sticks, landscape, plant herbs and flowers), a perennial
~ throw away ALL the clutter that bogs down our existence (do I write this every month?)
~ have a blast with the little boys as they have a fun summer ahead of them

June, I'm really glad to see you!

what's in a [cat's] name

Whenever I overhear anyone talking about baby names, I will insert myself into the conversation, even if uninvited. I love names. Before we even had the kittens, we’d decided to call them Pablo and Emmett. Of course we assumed we would be getting male cats. Instead, we’ve got these beautiful girls, which we have named Trixie and Nancy.

Trixie is a name I’ve always loved. My paternal grandmother—who I admired because she was a dedicated teacher, as well as being creative, artistic, and well-read—was named Beatrice, and, for as long as I knew her, she went by Bea. During my first pregnancy, I really wanted to name a girl baby after my grandmother, but call her Trixie, after my favorite teen-girl sleuth, Trixie Belden. This name was declared—by many, not just my husband—a hooker name and was shelved. I forgot about the name until we had a female kitten and proposed it to the boys. And, she’s a perfect Trixie…cute, energetic, curious, unafraid, sticking her nose in places it doesn’t belong.

Then, we had this other cat. Most of the names that were suggested seemed too immediate. I had this same problem when John and I were trying to decide what to name our children. If we knew someone with the name, good or bad, friend or foe, it was vetoed. It occurred to me that if we could follow the girl-sleuth theme to its logical conclusion and name the older cat Nancy (Drew Shepard). Amazingly, all my guys agreed.

Mostly I call her Fancy Nancy because she has a sleek, gorgeous blue coat. Or I call her Nancy Cat, which also seems to suit her.

now with cats

Yes, hell has frozen over. Succumbing to pressure from our children—and this is no small thing, as I am the queen of “I’ll think about it”—John and I adopted kittens. I know: we’ve always contended that we’re not pet people. Though, if we had to be pet people, we’d have a cat.

A month ago, Winston began making his case for a dog. Winston is scared of dogs, so he was thinking Chihuahua-size would be okay for him. And, when I asked why he wanted a dog, since he avoids them at all cost, he said, “Because if you have a pet, you get less stress and live longer.” Well, I want that, too. So we asked Winston if he could live with a cat, and it turns out that he’d love a kitten.

I bought Winston a great book about being a cat owner so he could see what he was getting himself into. He would read diagrams and captions aloud to me whenever we were in the car. He knows what to feed a cat (pasta, good) and what not to feed a cat (milk and tablescraps, bad), also how to train a cat to sit (reinforce with a treat, of course). But, Winston also read that if you have a busy family and are away from home often, you should get two cats so they can keep each other company instead of, out of boredom, ripping up your home. I have kids ergo I follow the logic.

After Winston’s soccer practice on Saturday, we headed to the Animal Humane Society, which, at 11 a.m. had many kittens available. But, by noon, AHS had one kitty. And she’s a cute kitty, at that. I thought maybe we’d come home with just that one, even though the plan had been to adopt two kittens, preferably littermates. Then, a blue-cream calico tapped John on the shoulder. They quickly became friends, and her fate to have a good home was sealed. The calico is a year old, so she’s a young cat, too. We’re hoping the kitty will keep her active since she’s a little overweight—not that it’s obvious, either.

The boys are both soooo awesome with their new pets, preferring to play with the kitties instead of with their electronics. Hallelujah!

Introducing Trixie


and Nancy

ipod shuffle, with annotations

I am anesthetizing myself with music today as I prepare for double-whammy, back-to-back overnight guests. John’s father arrives this evening, stopping over on his way to Coloma, WI, where he has a cabin. As soon as he leaves tomorrow, my mother arrives. She’s spending the night before taking a morning flight to Albuquirky to see my sis.

~A Forest (The Cure)
More than my own high school experience, The Cure always makes me think of that girl who hung out at Cahoots in the mid-nineties. I used to take manuscripts there, leaving behind the pages I read rather than schlepping around stacks of paper. Anyway, that girl skulked into the back room one day and spilled onto the sofa. In her hand was a Cure album, vinyl. She put the record on the turntable and sighed, declaring her devotion to Robert Smith. Ten years later, I wonder what happened to that girl and if I would recognize her. Certainly, though, she's still spinning "Head on the Door."

~Perfect (Flyleaf)
John gave me the Flyleaf album for Christmas. Not sure I like it. Certainly haven’t given it much of a listen. Just thrilled by the thoughtfulness of the gift, especially since he did a ton of research. That, and we have some overlap in our musical tastes, but ultimately listen to some really different stuff.

~Puttin’ on the Ritz (Taco)
A few years ago, when invited to our friends’ houses for dinner, we would bring a “mix” CD, constituting whatever music we were enjoying at that moment, as well as the requisite bottle of wine. Friend Scott reciprocated with a mix CD of his own that had such unexpected tunes as Taco’s one-hit wonder.

~Rockaway Beach (Ramones)
It’s the Ramones.

~The Barry Williams Show (Peter Gabriel)
A lifelong dream fulfilled when I saw Peter Gabriel in concert on the tour promoting Up. Gabriel’s later music isn’t my favorite, but I appreciate that he continues to buck convention. This song is seven minutes, long.

~Listen Up (Walt Mink)
I wish this local band had enjoyed the same sort of album sales as Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins—they certainly had similar accolades from critics and fans.

~Protex Blue (The Clash)
Minor and barely tolerable song; let's face it, the world's greatest band had some klunkers.

~Does Everyone Stare (The Police)
I’m always happy when The Police are shuffled, although since they constitute a large part of my ipod, I don’t know if their appearance here is entirely random.

~Tongue Dance (Les Rita Mitsouko)
Cheeky.

~War on Culture (Carbon/Silicon)
Preachy lyrics set to unbelievably catchy melodies, which has always been Mick Jones’s weakness.

in which I leave the residue of my estate to my husband

This morning, John and I had our will executed, which means that we went to our lawyer’s office and signed on a couple dotted lines. Once for the power of attorney. Once for our respective wills. And, once for a health care directive. In the end, it was less painful—and less expensive—than closing on real estate. Voila!

We can die now and know that our children will be in good hands…or will they? I’m not worried about our choice for guardians, but should they be called upon—god forbid—they must pass muster by a court of law. So, the guardians are mostly a done deal, as notorized in a legal document. And, I thought assigning a guardian was the really important part of signing a will, at least for those who have children.*

However, the lawyer informs me, the health care directive is a much bigger deal. The health care directive, while not a do-not-resuscitate order, was hard to complete. If I am not terminal and have a rapidly deteriorating condition would I want oxygen? antibiotics? pain medication even though it may be lethal? I have no idea.

We have been volleying the will around for the past three years, so it is with great relief that we found a good lawyer who was patient and understanding, who started the questionnaire last October and had a document for us by December. But, now it’s done and I can cross off another line item from my metaphysical checklist!

*Don’t get me wrong, though, cuz if you have children, you should have a will. Verbal agreements for your sister/brother/Aunt Sally to take care of your children upon your untimely death don’t hold any weight.

going to villa villekulla

It’s official. We’re taking another Shepard-family vacation this summer, with John’s mother and husband, as well as his two brothers and their little families. We’ve taken a number of these vacations over the past eight years, as they’ve been a great way for this far-flung family to assemble. I think we all agree that it’s important for the cousins—Simon (9), Winston (7), Bjorn (7), Dodi (6), Sophia (4), and Scarlett (2)—to see each other on some occasion other than Christmas. And, I miss watching my nieces and nephews grow!

When John and I were casting about for a summer trip with the boys, we were initially thinking about national parks. Yosemite, Yellowstone, Voyageurs, Crater Lake, Rocky Mountains, all came up in conversation. So, too, did Canada—Vancouver, Lake Louise/Banff, Montreal. On the flipside from the rugged nature, I’ve been fixating on England, a trip that would have been totally extravagant, but that would have mended a big gaping hole in my heart. All of these would make fine vacations and will go on a very long list of places to visit before we die or the boys grow up and get complicated lives, god forbid.

Then we came back round to family, deciding this might be the perfect year to visit John’s brother Will, who lives in Stockholm, Sweden. For years, Will has been begging us (and shaming us with stories about all the other family friends who’ve made this particular trip) to spend a week in Visby, the walled city on Gotlund island. It wouldn't be just any ol’ week, either. We would come for Medeltidsveckan—medieval week. Yup, like the Renaissance Festival, all day, every day, for a week. I’m excited and I’m fearful. I can usually take a few hours of the RenFest before I want to run screaming from the oppression of giant smoked turkey legs and being called “m’lady” or "wench." I'm mulling how into this I'm going to be—twenty-first century innocent bystander or eleventh-century costumed persona??

So we're going. When I told the boys that I had booked our tickets to Stockholm, Simon asked if we were going to Villa Villekulla. His class is reading Pippi Longstocking right now, which pleases me to no end because it's an awesome children's book and because I wanted to be Pippi when I was nine. I said, “Yes,” we’ll go to the Pippi playground in Stockholm, but little does he know that the Villa Villekulla movie-set house is in Visby!!

If only Villa Villekulla took reservations...

another banner day

Following an exhausting yoga practice with Joel the Dancer, I accompanied my little family and a couple other families to Taylors Falls. We hiked the River Trail on the Minnesota side of Interstate Park. The boys and their friends climbed the jumble of glacier-moved rocks and stuck their heads into the potholes. Despite the beauty, Interstate Park makes me a little crazy. The boys tend to push their play a little close to the edge of the bluff...and consequently my comfort zone. I'm not an overfraught mother, by any means, but I'm always sorely tested here. Nonetheless, we had a great hike, then hightailed it back to St. Paul for a special soccer practice and scrimmage. I got to read aloud from James and the Giant Peach, there and back.

banner day

~ Free Comic Book Day: stopped by Uncle Sven’s for free comic books. Not just for kids, John and I received a pack with a dozen or so comic books.
~ Lunch at Groveland Tap, next door to Uncle Sven’s: happy hour-priced Summit beer (tried the Horizon Red, didn’t love it, though cold beer is always refreshing) and pierogies. Yum.
~ All-day playdate for kids; John and I got stuff done around the house and rode our bikes up the hill to Grand Performance where, courtesy of an air compressor, I had the grips popped off the Milano's handlebars.
~ Family bike ride to SeaSalt, a seafood eatery at the foot of Minnehaha Falls. Gorgeous, if slightly chilly night. We were the only fools not wearing polar fleece. Two sweet Barren Point (WA) oysters to start, followed by grilled marlin tacos for me. An Australian chardonnay in a plastic cup…not bad.
~ Homemade lemon ice cream for dessert. Cannot stop eating it. Maybe the best ice cream I have made in the four years I’ve owned an ice-cream maker.
~ Another full day on the horizon. Good night!

spelunking

Yesterday I accompanied Simon’s third-grade class on a field trip to Crystal Cave in Spring Valley, Wisconsin (don't you know that Crystal Cave is one of the most popular names for caves). First, I have to say that I was only vaguely aware that this cave existed. Second, I urge you to visit it. Spring Valley is approximately forty-five minutes from the Twin Cities, making it an easy day trip.

The cave was discovered in 1881, by two teenagers, who were allegedly chasing a rabbit that disappeared down a hole in the ground. Legend has it, the boys probed the hole with a stick, which then dropped. As the stick clattered down the hole, the boys knew that this was not an ordinary hole. They returned later with kerosene lamps, tied a rope around a nearby tree, and lowered themselves into a hole, discovering the cave. The cave was later developed for commercial purposes. It has always been privately held, and is currently owned by former geologists who maintain it for educational purposes.



In the early 90s, new exploration of the cave was begun, and the length of the cave tripled. Crystal Cave, at a mile long, is the longest cave in Wisconsin. To enter the cave, you descend a staircase, just as if you were going down into a basement—and voila! You’re standing in a limestone cave. It was amazing and beautiful and I totally get the appeal of spelunking. Everywhere you turn, there is something interesting to see. Yes, there are bats, which appear as fuzzy growths on the walls. Though the bats were smaller than I anticipated, I did not find them cute. Fortunately, the bats were, for the most part, still in hibernation. And, there weren’t that many that we could see.


The guides were really fantastic, giving informative short speeches in various underground chambers. I learned a ton of new vocabulary, including speliothems (any cave formation, such as stalactites and stalagmites), cave bacon (a rippled effect), and drapery (kind of self-explanatory).


The kids were also fantastic, not straying from the group. I think it helped that only the rooms we were occupying at the moment were lit, which discourages moss growth. Otherwise, most of the passageways were dark. Also, the kids asked a ton of questions, and the guide wearied of them quickly.

Naturally, I want to see more showcaves—neighboring Wisconsin has seven—and read books about caves. Cary Griffith just published Opening Goliath: Danger and Discovery in Caving, and I heard him on MPR's "Morning Edition" just the day before the field trip. He'll be at the St. Paul Central Library on May 17.

kit

Apropos of everything, the article of the day at wikipedia today was kit. As the term relates to association football, or soccer, kit refers to “the standard equipment and attire worn by players.” The article details the history of jerseys and colors and emblems, and it’s all quite fascinating. And timely as I have spent the past two days up to my eyeballs in gathering uniform orders for Simon’s soccer team—just one of my many team-manager duties. According to the article, the term kit should not be confused with strip. The strip includes the jersey, shorts, and socks, while the kit encompasses those things plus shin guards and shoes (or “boots”), as well as details like colors, logos, and numbers.


The Blackhawks’ U9 boys kit consist of a white jersey, a black jersey, black shorts, and black socks. Plus, I had to assign numbers. Last summer, I numbered the team with our assigned range, 14-24. There must have been some logic to these particular numbers, though I didn’t ask at the time. In theory, the boys can wear their jerseys for two years. But, the boys don’t stay with their same team from season to season, especially as boys move up an age group. So, I’ve got a handful of players who came to the team with their fall numbers, none of which fall in between 14 and 24. For those who need new uniforms, I’ve been given 41-49, but I am to avoid 44 and 48 since boys on other teams already have them. Somehow it all worked out, but I feel a headache creeping up just thinking about it now.

At any rate, go read the article on kits and click on some of the other links. We’re eating, drinking, sleeping soccer at our house, all of which imbuing me with super nostalgic for England, where I couldn’t swing a cat without hitting soccer…on TV, with my mates.

introducing...yarn stash

When I first learned to knit, eighteen years ago, I vowed that I would only work on one project at a time. Why?

1. Knitting can be expensive, especially if you’re making an adult-size sweater, which often requires upward of 12 skeins of yarn. A skein of yard can run from $8 to $30. Yes, a skein. You do the math.

2. Current stashes in other pursuits include more books than I will be able to read in my lifetime. By comparison, eighteen years ago, I owned only a fraction of the books that I now own. The last time we moved, we had over 50 boxes of books. The first time I moved, from my college apartment to my post-college apartment, I had two boxes. Although the inventory (for insurance purposes!) is far from complete, I'll err on the side of caution and say that my personal library holds 2000 books.

3. I love my mother, but I strive, daily, not to become my her. It’s probably too late, but still, a girl can hope. My mother is an accomplished seamstress (what an old-fashioned term!), and I envy her ability to knock off a garment within a few days. In high school, she sewed 80s power suits so I could look intimidating to rival debate teams. I owe some of my success to her! When she built her dream house she had a laundry room that also served as her sewing studio, with amazing natural lighting and loads of cabinets for storing bolts of fabric and bins of patterns and other sewing notions. It didn’t take long to fill those cabinets with stacks of fabric for countless projects. Then she branched out of the sewing room to a closet that had floor to ceiling shelves as then undedicated to any particular purpose. These shelves seemed tailor-made for housing her fabric stash. Projects backed up to infinity. This would would never happen to me (see #2).

All of that said, thanks to a small discount for enrolling in a class, as well as an opportunity to shop The Yarnery's annual sale pre-sale, which coincided with my last knitting class, I have recently acquired a yarn stash. I believe this earns me capital-k Knitter status. I offer no apologies and I am completely unashamed. Since finishing John’s sweater and taking the class on finishing, I have been bitten by an overwhelming need to do creative work, specifically to knit more often. And, I figure, to knit more, I have to have some yarn to choose from.

My plan is to knit more often throughout the year and not just during the winter. The only way I'll be able to knit during the hot, hot days of a midwestern summer is by taking on smaller projects, such as hats, scarves, and mittens. I have my eye on some really neat one- or two-skein patterns, some of which will make wonderful gifts for family and friends. Additionally, I'd like to experiment with yarns in different textures and weights. Pardon the really fuzzy photo...I guess each of my yarns—Lamb's Pride bulky (the color range is pretty amazing, making it difficult to choose), Jo Sharp rare comfort infusion kid mohair, luscious hand-dyed Malabrigo worsted, some fun multicolored dk weight skeins, and a few Rowan yarns, Cocoon in a lovely celadon—possibly the softest yarn I've ever touched—and Cashsoft Classic dk in a mossier green.

what do you stash?

a day in the park

Back a few weekends ago—Easter weekend, to be precise—I traveled to Watertown, little family in tow. It’s inevitable that at some point during our visit with my parents, we will take a long walk in Memorial Park, a county park abutting their property. The park is small, but its beauty is unfettered. Okay, the buckthorn strangles healthy roots of almost every plant, and my parents work very hard to see that the park is properly maintained. Once you look past the results of the upkeep, which my mother is quick to point out, you see the souvenirs of time and the elements. These are the things in nature that move me the most.

Star. I would love to have counted the rings in this sawed-off branch.

Twisted. How long did it take for these branches to intermingle?

Wispy. Without leaves, trees look so crazy...and a little scary.

Smooth. Roots worn satiny and gnarled, like arthritic hands, by lake waves and wind.

open call for music

The weather is getting warmer again, though very windy over the past few days, and I’m preparing for my inaugural bike ride of the year. For the most part, I’m looking for the arm warmers and putting air in the tires. But, more important, I need to set up my tunes. Yes, I know it’s somewhat unsafe to wear earbuds while riding in traffic, but I stick to bike lanes and dedicated trails. Plus music is really necessary to stay motivated while I’m exercising—how else would one make it through a spinning, aerobics, or yoga class.

Here’s last year’s playlist. So far, I’ve got a few songs from recent CD purchases—King Kahn, The Black Keys, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, U2, and The BPA—but I’m looking for more.

What songs motivate you to finish climbing that exercise hill? What songs just generally kick ass?

doing

bailing out the house
purging all the crap, organizing the good and useful items

reading
delicate edible birds (stories by Lauren Groff), fatally flaky (culinary mystery by Diane Mott Davidson), the other side of the island (YA speculative fiction by the incomparable Allegra Goodman), animal, vegetable, miracle (nonfiction by Barbara Kingsolver)

listening
new Yeah Yeah Yeahs'a album, It's Blitz, adoring the first two tracks, as well as acoustic versions of others. Yup, I totally buy into the cult of Karen O. And, the single "Zero" is the purest homage to 80s synth pop that I've ever heard. Check out the video (embedding disabled) Channeling Chrissy Hynde??

eating
launched burger of the week

exercising
yoga, twice—sometimes three—times a week practice at CorePower studio in St. Paul, heated (85 degrees)

parenting
monitoring homework and getting back into respectably earlier bedtimes (the boys and the parents, it’s harder than you’d think). Since spring break in early April, we’ve been way out of synch on these things, and have recently introduced weeknight soccer practices to further foul up schedules.

researching
doors and windows, we need to replace some rotting window frames and warped mechanisms, as well as the damaged door, and we need to upgrade some seriously energy deficient doors. these aren't the kind of sexy home renovations I live for...just that basic home maintenance shit that costs a fortune anyway.

celebrating
April is our busiest birthday month of the year (John, Winston, Krista, Dave, Sarah, Jill, Anders, Ruhi, and my mom)

marveling
buds are unfurling, which I find so magical…how do they know to do that?

knitting homework

Last night, I had a major cram session to complete a knitting assignment for the second session of a three-part class I’m taking at my local yarn shop, The Yarnery. I swear, this is the best homework I have ever had.

Finishing is the knitting term for putting the pieces of a project together, such as sewing together the seams of a sweater front and back or knitting the collar on a sweater. I have knit countless sweaters over the past 18 years, but I have never felt confident about my finish work. The last sweater I knit, which was flawless in every other respect, had my nerves wracked as I tried to sew it together. At the end of the day, I’m pretty pleased with how the sweater turned out—the bulky yarn certainly was very forgiving. But, if I’m going to call myself a Knitter and engage in some of the projects I have my eye on, then I need to come to terms with finish work.

Led by a local knitting luminary, the class has been awesome. For the most part, I am a self-taught knitter, using a glossy book with wonderful illustrations as a reference to every new technique I have needed to learn, as well as a refresher between projects. And guess what I’ve discovered during the course of the class? That I put together sweaters exactly the way you’re supposed to. My book has served me well! But, I certainly don’t know everything, and I’m glad to learn some new tricks. After all, as my guru Theresa Gaffney says, you need to have a variety of tools and know when to use them. Which really means that I need to do more knitting.



For the class, we’ve knit the front, back, and sleeves for a cardigan—wait for this…the cardigan is for a stuffed bear. The small scale lent itself well to knitting up quickly but it’s also a bit of a struggle to sew together. When the edges roll, which is their want, you’re left with not much to hold onto. Sewing together a bear cardigan has been, well, a bit of a bear. Pictured above is a teeny tiny, itty bitty sleeve for the bear cardigan. I'm using a scrumptious superwash merino wool from Karabella that is machine washable, and knit up easily, even on needles that were too long for the tiny project.

Each of the ladies in my class have arrived with a tote bag, burgeoning with yarn skeins and gear. One woman even pulled out an intarsia sweater she's working on, and it was intricate and beautiful and I coveted it. But, I'm trying to, as my yoga instructor encourages, "take my yoga practice off the mat," and resist the temptation to compare myself to the other Knitters in my class. One session remains, and I still feel far from confident of my skills. I know I simply need more practice.

phone old school

I haven't decided yet whether this is the coolest product I've seen, or if it's just silly. A retro phone handset—the likes of which went out of style in the 1970s—with an adapter for your cell phone. Makes sense if, like me, you despise conducting conversations longer than a few minutes on tiny cell phones. I love the colors. You can purchase them here and here and straight from the source.

Just one question: where do you store the handset when you're out and about? The handset seems somewhat incompatible with the simplicity of keeping your cell phone in your front pocket. Another question: Will purses become ridiculously huge again?

Image courtesy of Neiman Marcus