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

spring cleaning

Last night, John and I watched an MSNBC documentary about a woman with a form of OCD that manifests itself in hording. She collects junk, the neighbors’ trash, and food thrown out by groceries stores because the expiration dates have passed. Repulsive and compelling at once, the documentary was directed by the subject’s daughter and details the steps that were taken to get this woman some help, especially as the city was threatening her with eviction. Her attachment to the trash in her house was so strong that she felt her sons, who had been enlisted to help clean out the house, were robbing her. As the sons and daughter waded through the detritus, they found a few dead rats and tons of rat feces. The documentary was exceptionally well done, portraying the anatomy of illness in a very real way, and it has a happy ending.

All I want to do today is bail out the house. I have wanted to do this for a long, long time. We’re not packrats in a clinical sense, but we’re collectors, each one of us in my little family. We have more clothes than we can fit in our dresser drawers. We have more books than fit on the bookshelves. We have more magazines and comic books than we can reasonably read each month before the next batch comes in.

Every closet and cabinet in our home is full. Our house is just shy of 3,000 square feet so we have lots of space to fill—and yes, we can see the floor!—but we don’t have a lot of traditional storage space, lacking an attic and basement. Yes! We don't have a basement (our home is built into a hill), and we don't have an attic.

John and I were properly frightened by the documentary, and although we’re in no danger of living in a trash house, I am determined to improve this situation. I want to give everything from clothes and shoes to books and bike gear a proper home. I want to encourage the boys to save fewer special items, especially art work and papers from school, as well as to make sure they pick up their rooms regularly. It’s time to face our modern home’s limitations and make adjustments, whether built-in or freestanding storage—we need it.

I'm not quite sure where to start, which is always a problem. And I envy those people I know, who, when determined to clean out the basement, unsentimentally chuck everything and have something to show for it at the end of the day. I tend to sort piles into smaller piles to be dealt with, but before I can get to the smaller piles, I have to push everything back into a bigger pile.

So, I'll ask around: Do you have clutter? How do you deal with it? Should I hire an expert?

spring break: days two and three, the double issue

Unwittingly, spring break 2009 has evolved a theme: eat ice cream every day. I’m not sure how that happened but I do believe it’s a tradition I could repeat.

Yesterday, the boys had friends over to play. These sisters typically bring their electronics, but came empty-handed. Now I know my boys are creative and capable of role-playing without props, but I hadn’t realized what a crutch the DS and the Wii had become when “entertaining” their friends. Fortunately, I had already planned to do a cooking activity with the kids when their play devolved into tearing the house apart, but I didn’t expect, given how things were going, that I would have to interrupt a rousing game of Mouse Guards and fort building to get the kids interested in making ice cream.

The sisters were the most excited to cook so washed their hands and rolled up their sleeves. I had them measure and stir, and we talked a bit about the process. You prepare your flavorings—fruit, chocolate, coffee, and so on—so they’re reading when the custard is done. Then you heat milk or cream and sugar, temper egg yolks with the heated cream, and re-heat the mixture until it thickens and you have custard. Then you strain the custard into the flavorings and chill in the fridge or over an ice bath. Later you freeze the custard in an ice-cream maker, according to manufacturer’s instructions, and voila!


Dinosaur Egg ice cream was inspired by one of our favorite flavors at Izzy’s. For the recipe, we used David Lebovitz’s amazing cookbook, Perfect Scoop, as a jumping off point. I’m including the recipe here because it’s easy and fun to do with kids, but the malted milk ice cream base is amazing so even if you didn’t add malted milk balls, you’d still be plenty happy.


Today we had lunch with another set of friends at Snuffy’s Malt Shop, where we had malts with our burgers, naturally. (I know, yoga body scupting be damned!) Winston and I split a vanilla malt, for comparison to our malted milk ice cream. The malt was sweet and delicious with the perfect amount of maltiness. I would add more malt powder to the ice cream base next time round.

Dinosaur Egg Ice Cream
inspired by Izzy’s and David Lebovitz’s Perfect Scoop

1 cup half-and-half
3/4 cup sugar
pinch of salt
2 cups heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2/3 cup malt powder (I might try 3/4 cup next time)
4 large egg yolks
1 cup malted milk balls, coarsely chopped (in the spirit of the season, we used Brach’s malted milk eggs)
food coloring (we used 3 drops of green gel paste food coloring; blue or violet would be awesome)

In a medium saucepan, over medium heat, warm the half-and-half, sugar, and salt, until sugar is dissolved. Take off heat. In a large bowl, whisk together the heavy cream, vanilla, and malt powder. Set a mesh strainer on top.

In another bowl, whisk together the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm half-and-half mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly. Scrape this mixture back into the saucepan.

Stir the mixture constantly over medium heat. Scrape the bottom as you stir. The mixture should thicken and coat your spoon or spatula (if you drag your finger through—be careful! mixture is hot—you’ll have a line in the custard). Pour the custard through the strainer into the malted milk mixture. Whisk. Place the mixture in the refrigerator or nestle it into a larger, ice-filled bowl.

When the mixture is completely chilled, add food coloring and whisk well to distribute. We were going for a pale tint. Pour into ice cream maker and freeze, following the manufacturer’s instructions. When the ice cream is frozen, fold in the chopped malted milk balls.

spring break, day one

The boys are on spring break. I wish we had planned a vacation somewhere. I am in serious need of sun and warmth. But we didn't because John doesn't have any vacation time yet, not to mention that he's deep in a project and is needed. He is needed. These are words that feel really good to type, so I'm not complaining that we're here in the Twin Cities. We have a fun "playdate" lined up on Friday, but otherwise we're going to play it pretty loose and close to home.

In preparation for a week with Mom, I'd had a chat with Winston. He tends to not want to leave the house—ever—and when he decides he's not going out, he's fierce. It can get kinda ugly, so I had to make it clear to him that we would be making excursions and he would not complain. And I would make it worth his while.

Day One started kind of slow. I slept in, all the way to 9. Luxurious. We had a quick cereal breakfast, then I let the boys gorge themselves on TV while I finished reading Little House on the Prairie, something I started way back in October. After a lunch of grilled salami and cheese sandwiches and just shy of too-ripe pears, we packed ourselves into the car and trekked over to Linden Hills, a charming Minneapolis neighborhood.

First stop: Wild Rumpus, the most fantastic children's bookstore on the planet. This place is like something out of a dream—from the ceiling mural of an eggshell cracking open to the chickens and cats that roam the store freely. And, the books selection is amazing, especially the way the sections are arranged. There is a wall of quality fiction for adults, or for young adults who are ready for the challenge. There is a "haunted house", which hosts mysteries and kid-appropriate scary books, as well as a plexi-topped rat cage set into the floorboards. The bathroom sports a fishtank behind the medicine chest. And, throughout the store, more cages hold a bevy of animals, ranging from chinchillas to tarantulas. Simon picked up a the fifth book in the Warriors series, A Dangerous Path, while Winston carried around a stack of books that, once abandonned, I scooped up and purchased stealthily. He'll received Nicholas and Ripley's Believe It or Not 2009 for his birthday later this week.

Next stop: Clancey's Meat and Fish. This small shop is heaven on earth, though Winston noted that it smelled funny. Yup, that would be the iron-rich smell of meat that hasn't been subjected to plastic wrap. Dry-aged steaks in various cuts, confited duck breasts, fresh sausages, and more sit proudly behind a glass-fronted counter. We replenished our sausage supply with tiny lamb merguez, fat lamb links studded with pinenuts and dried blueberries, and traditional French garlic-pork. And, I picked up a tub of frozen lard for the pot beans I want to make later this week. This lard was rendered on site and is absolutely free from hydrogenated nastiness.

Last stop: Sebastian Joe's, a satellite of a local ice cream purveyor. Simon chose a scoop of Oreo, which was so thick with pulverized sandwich cookies that the creamy base looked like charcoal, but it also had really satisfying large chunks of cookies throughout. I had Chocolate English Toffee, which was so redolent of caramel as to give the chocolate a really unexpected flavor. And, Winston took a scoop of vanilla, which he declared to be the best vanilla he'd ever tasted.

It's going to be hard to top this near-perfect day!

knitting: easy bulky sweater: DONE!

Back in October, I started knitting a sweater for John from yarn that I had purchased two years ago. And now the sweater is done. It took longer than I anticipated, for such any easy pattern, but each time I encountered a new technique, I put the project away. When I was finally able to face the sweater again, patiently, quietly working through the steps, I caught on quickly and was able to motor through to the next challenge.



Knitting the sleeves down from the shoulder seams was pretty neat, even if it was very cumbersome to have the entire sweater on my lap. I’m glad I learned how to do that, and I think I may, in the future, want to try knitting an entire sweater from the top down.

Then the sleeves were finished. Two sides and two sleeves to sew together. Should be easy, but finish work has always made me uncomfortable, and a few of the sweaters I made during my early knitting years are downright sloppy looking, which is why I’d taken to having a professional do the finish work for a small price. So I pulled out the Vogue Knitting, my go-to source for any knitting question that pops up, and consulted the section on joining pieces. The book’s illustrations are very clear, allowing me to sew each seam, well, seamlessly!



I’m so pleased with how the easy bulky sweater turned out. Just in time, too, as we’re experiencing a brief return to winter. The sweater looks awesome on John. See:


I have an unused skein and most of another leftover, and I’m scheming about how I might use the wool. Any ideas?

I'm in

I found the golden ticket—and it arrived yesterday, in a fat, maroon-colored envelope.

At the end of February, I applied to the University of Minnesota’s College of Design in the hope of studying interior design this fall. And, the College of Design said, “yes,” they would have me. I have been accepted to the program!!

I am so excited, I can’t think straight. I’m excited to be a student again. I feel inspired by the possibilities of a new career. I am thrilled for the opportunity to do creative work.

Definitely, more to come…