Funky again

Ya'll, I'm feeling funky again.

Like in that, football-is-over-and-baseball-is-a-ways-off-and-the-garden-isn't-growing-yet kind of way.

It's annoying and predictable and makes me all biggigity.

Which means that I must obviously need a project to keep my mind distracted from things like how come there's no good sports on TV and I wish I had vegetables growing in the garden to fondle.

And since I'm extra ADD - I am thinking I need at least two projects - and if some supplies arrive today from my friends at etsy, three projects, because my mind can't be funky AND do three projects at once as it turns out.

Salvation in chaos, I say.

Project #1: Amy Butler's Lotus Cami Tunic thingee

Kell sent this to me not too long ago and I want to make it and wear it just like this. Maybe over the jeans I just ordered from my favorite catalog of all time because WHOOPSY I think I just ordered a few things to ease the rainy day doldrums.

Well, these things happen.

So, tomorrow I plan to trot off to Eddie's and get some fabric and probably also some notions to put this baby together. With any luck it I will eye-fuck the measurements just right and it won't look retarded. I feel confident (probably unjustly so) since my last few items of Clothing I Made Myself from Amy's patterns came out decent and wearable and didn't look like *I made them myself* - which is an extreme bonus.

Project #2: Bake some lemon somethingorother

We picked sacks full of lemons and oranges from a friend's trees last weekend and now I'm getting the eye from Bubba which means I better get to baking some lemon somethingsorother pretty soon. Also, no one likes it when the lemons turn to dust in the fruit colander, which I found out the hard way will totally happen thanks to last year's debacle with six bags of lemons that didn't get used all the way. Ew.


Project #3: This is a dorky one that involves magnets, marbles and a dorkyDORKY collection I've been cultivating (also hiding) for a lot of years.

Once my stuff gets here I will get to dorking out for your viewing pleasure. Stay tuned and then don't judge me, ok?

AND (I couldn't stop at three projects - what is my problem?) I *might* take a stab at rounding out the Anatomy of a Sweater project, too. See, there's just the one big piece left and it just needs a few seams to become something other than discarded ugly sweater meat, so I should just get it over with and declare victory which is what I was after to begin with.

One last thing: if you're keeping score (which, I'll admit, would be a little strange but OK) in the Adopt a Crop race, our friends the Pickling Cucumbers have taken a surprise lead and are now ahead with 24% of the vote.

I'm not going to say outright that I am suspicious of subversive shenanigans, but I'm not ruling it out is all.

Either way, once the rest of my seeds arrive (AND I'VE RECEIVED A SHIPMENT CONFIRMATION WOO!) I will call off the voting and declare a winner, so go vote if you care to see posts other than those accompanied by suggestive and inappropriate photographs, but this time with cucumbers.

If you like that sort of thing then I guess you can just sit there and be pervy because it looks like the world is working out in your weird way without you having to even turn off the Cinemax or anything. Lucky you, cucumber lovers!

Also, hey!, I'm still running for those of you wondering if I've flaked, but I'll give an update on that later.

More PING, less sense-making

Since the random fashion by which I've been attending to this blog is being received fairly well, I'm going to keep rolling with it since the time has not yet come when I can form a coherent post on a single subject.

Deep breath.

Random thing #1: Skiing is fucking happening

You may not be aware of the dire lack of snow in Lake Tahoe and California in general but let me assure that it is indeed DIRE AS FUCK.

Not even close in the DIRE AS FUCK department

Like, we have had our season passes since, like, June and we haven't skied a single day. We haven't even been tempted to go ski a single day because we like our bodies and ski equipment in its mostly functional condition and throwing our bodies and equipment down any ski run in Tahoe right now would render all of our warranties and well-being completely null.

We'd die, is what I'm saying. And fuck our gear up to the point of replacement. Which is, no.

So, since we can't ski here, we're going to the only place of reliable snowfall with mountains in this great country of ours and that is Montana.

Glorious, snowy, cold, We're Actually Having A Proper Winter, Montana.

We're leaving our absurd busy schedules, life complications, unanswered emails and untended responsibilities to drive for two days so that we can experience the activity known as skiing and snowboarding on actual naturally fallen snow.

Skiing is fucking happening and I am at the point that I don't care that we have to drive almost to Canada for it.

Random thing #2: I'm going back to the podiatrist and I'm bringing my aluminum bat
If only I had an aluminum bat.

I've been telling Bubba for 14 years that my preferred weapon of self-protection is an aluminum bat, even though I have the world's shittiest eye-hand coordination, and yet still I have not received one for any gift giving occasion.

Which is too bad because I feel like that may be the only way to keep the podiatrist from mishandling my feet when I show up tomorrow to be fitted for my orthopedic I'm Old As Fuck insoles.

As in, he grabs my feet haphazardly and PING I knock his block off.

NO! You do not just grab a person's feet when you know them to have bone spurs and arthritis. NO! PING AGAIN FOR GOOD MEASURE.

So we'll see how that goes.

Until then, they're staying swaddled in down and CRAZY.

Random thing #3: It's go time. Like, for reals.
Remember how almost 2 years ago I was all, Hey! I quit my job and am getting a horticulture degree!?

Yeah, you remember.

Well, the last semester of that degree begins in less than two weeks and the graduation date is only a scant 4 1/2 months away which is, handily, the same time that I'll need to be starting a job in this new field and WHOA the flying time is a bit freaky.

So, I've written up cover letters and customized resumes for a handpicked number of places I'd like to work and now I'm just sitting on them like some kind of nervous hen, waiting for them to hatch into viable jobs without my having to actually send them out into the real world where they may receive nothing but rejection, or worse, no response at all.

That's right, folks, I've done the research to find places I want to work, sourced respectable references, written up cover letters, customized resumes and I'm sitting here not sending them out because WHAT IF NOTHING HAPPENS.

Do you like the self-fulfilling prophecy I've created? It's a goodie.

I imagine I'll freak out about this a lot while we're driving for two days each way to Montana, where I won't be able to do a damn thing about it from the passenger seat of the truck, and then come home and, before unpacking a single thing or even letting the dog out of the truck, will send all the resumes out in a rage of WHAT IS MY FUCKING PROBLEM SOMETIMES.

Yes. That ought to do it.

Random thing #4: I know I owe you guys an explanation about the not-being-a-farmer thing, but I'm not there yet. Soon? 
Yeah, soon.

Meanwhile, enjoy this perfect basil plant that I grew.

Totally appropriate for hot weather: Imp hat and mittens

Dear Donk,

I might have to establish a rule for future book picking out: All books must have full-sized patterns included.

Because I will tell you that there is nothing that pisses me off more than when I get all my materials carefully culled from the pile and I hunker all down ready to get started and then I turn to the pattern page and above the pattern it reads: "Enlarge pattern by 145%".

*Blood boils*

I *may* have mentioned this before, I can't remember for sure, but I know I've said it in my head before because that is just annoying. Why do I now, after finally deciding on a pattern and sourcing its materials and finding time in my life, have to go find a copier or remember to drag the book to work with me so that I can waste some more paper printing out this exact pattern at 145%?

Why I ask you? WHY?

What really annoys me is all the potential answers that crop up in my head that usually start with, "because it's cheaper to print the book that way rather than including fold out pages and such", but still - annoying.

ANYWAY - Once I got past that whole thing and I calmed down thanks to a nice cocktail, I just traced this pattern on a nice big piece of newspaper (Thanks SF Chron!) at what I imagined was 145% and went about my way.

So, for those of you who find notes like these above your patterns similarly annoying, I would like to share with you that piece of advice: Eye-fuck it!

• Slice the entire page out of your book (because you know there's another pattern piece on the other side - ANNOYING, TOO, BUT WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT NOW)
• Pull that nice big broadsheet out of the center of the Entertainment section of your local news rag
• Tape the book page to a window
• Hold the newsprint over the book page
• And with a nice marking device like a pencil, estimate how much that extra % will add to the pattern and trace it out all free-hand like
• Then cut your pattern piece from the newsprint and go to town

And while you've probably come up with this same work around, I thought I'd share because besides that, I don't have any tips to make this pattern easier because, well, it's pretty simple to begin with.

Awesome! A simple gift to stitch. What a thing. What a relief!

I'm not naming names or anything but some pattern that rhymes with Flap Skirt was a pain in my ass and required too much figuring for me to feel good about.

But these hats, which are destined to go under the godkid's tree this holiday season, were simple, quick and made use of materials I still had on hand from holiday crafting of year's past. All attributes I love in a project. Especially when the materials of which I speak are bulky and hot and I have to touch them every time I take fabric in or out of my storage closet in the summertime heat yuck.

So - less polar fleece in the closet and more holiday gifts in the stockpile means that I am now happy again with this book and know what I'm going to choose next time it's my turn to choose which won't be until September, but that's OK.

Let's not get into the fact that I just made polar fleece hats and mittens for two children that live in the molten lava heat of Phoenix and may only get a chance to crack out mittens once a year if they're lucky. No. The important thing here is that *I* have less fleece to deal with and if we will recall, it's all really about me anyway.

Speaking of me, I will be on vacation when the 1st of the month rolls around, so it's all you with the choosing of winners and projects and themes, so I'll catch up with you when I get back. Sound good?

Glad you're home, by the way, my life had a Kelli sized hole in it for too long there.

xo
Finny

Soup Person [RECIPE]

Hello world, I am a Soup Person.

Did you know there were Soup People and Non-Soup People?

Yeah, me neither. I just assumed all people ate soup since, you know, it's soup and not, like, foie gras or veal or something all controversial with its own blood-throwing advocacy group or whatever.

In addition to being labeled a Soup Person (which I'm fine with, by the way, this wasn't like being labeled a Snooty Bitch, which I might very well be but don't want to necessarily be labeled), I've come to further label myself as a Tomato-based Soup Person.

Why all the labels? Well. Why the hell not AND it's one of those little things Bubba and I learned about each other after we moved in together and the wintertime came and I started making things like minestrone and chicken soup (which, yes, does not include tomatoes, but go with me, here) and he would get all, "Yeah, OK. I'll eat it." rather than, "Fuck yeah I want chicken soup!" which is what I was expecting.

See, when we moved in together, there were shockingly few things we didn't see eye-to-eye on, so this was a big discovery. I realize people have bigger relationship/marital discoveries than soup preferences, but we haven't had many, so this counts. For us.

Friends, Bubba is a Cream Soup Person.

Weird.

So, when I was all, "Fuck yeah, it's raining and I'm making chicken soup and this is going to be perfect!", he was thinking, "Fine. I'll eat this woman's chicken soup and then I'll sneak into the kitchen and make broccoli cheese soup or some other creamy business that will illicit my current response from HER next time. Take that!"

Ok, so it probably wasn't that malicious, since Bubba's such a nice guy and barely ever sneaks into the kitchen to make creamy business (enjoy that last comment for a moment), but I definitely get more excitement from him when I produce a baked potato soup than when I emerge triumphantly from the kitchen with a perfectly recreated bowl of my mom's chicken soup.

Not that it matters to me at that point because I'm already head down in the bowl, but I register the lackluster response nonetheless.

Anyway, the point of all this Tomato-based Soup Person vs Creamy Soup Person (there are also, I've learned, Broth Soup People, Chunky Soup People, Seafood Soup People and Bisque People) is that I made a tomato-based soup that we both liked and which I've now eaten four nights in a row without starting to hate it.

Those are a lot of miracles for one soup, people, and I'll ask you to recognize the significance.

The original recipe came from a chef at my office who so kindly indulged my begging after I had the soup for lunch and decided immediately that I must make it and have it for four nights in a row.

I then adjusted the recipe, or so I thought, to accommodate the smaller crowds at my house (2) rather than the hoards of folks at the cafe for lunch (150+).

Plus, my adjustments also meant that the soup was thicker, rather than ahem, soupier, and sort of approached the creamy sensation Bubba's always looking for. This was because I omitted the 1/2 gallon of vegetable broth the original recipe called for. So you know. In case you want to serve this soup to your whole neighborhood OR want a soupier, um, soup.

What it comes down to is that I do most of the cooking, and I like tomato-type soups and Bubba will eat most anything anyway, so when I decide I'm going to make something that may not be his exact #1 choice of whatever, I have to find some way to make it seem like it's for both of us when really it's mostly for me and my desire to relive my lunch soup fantasies.

I know. I'm a sick person. With a small life. And boring fantasies.

OK, all Soup Person rambling aside, allow me to share with you my amended recipe so that you may serve it four nights in a row, or perhaps only one night in a row if you have a family of 10, and maybe most people will like it even if they're staunch Creamy Soup People like Bubba.

Freaks.

Chickpea and Tomato Soup

Original Recipe by Dennis Feray, Pure Ingredients Cafe
My changes in BOLD

Ingredients
2 cans of chickpeas (drained and rinsed well)
24 frozen whole homegrown tomatoes, thawed, skins removed, crushed (or 32 oz of canned, crushed tomatoes. Wendy says Muir Glen tomatoes are a good substitute for homecanned.)
1 yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, chopped
2 T ground coriander
1 bunch of cilantro, washed & chopped
1 bunch of parsley, washed & chopped
3 oz butter
Juice from 1 lemon
1 jalapeno seeded and minced (FOR GODSAKE - WEAR GLOVES)

1/2 jar of sliced HOT jalapenos, drained
Kosher salt & black pepper to suit

To make
In a Large stock pot, on medium heat, sauté onions in all of the butter until translucent, add garlic and sauté until fragrant, about 1 min.

If that's not the start of a fabulous meal, I don't know what is.

 Add coriander, cilantro, parsley, jalapeno (fresh and canned) and sauté for about 2 min.

This soup is also awesome if you're feeling choppy with your new knives.

Then add tomatoes and chick peas.

Bubba: "No tomatoes are as good as OUR tomatoes." but I still encourage you to make this soup.

Bring to a boil and reduce heat to simmer.

Don't you just want to put your face in there? I know. Me too.

Simmer for about an hour and then remove from heat.

Add lemon juice and puree soup with a immersion blender. Season to your taste with salt and pepper.

Serve with a parsley garnish and, if you're fancy and fabulous, a swirl of olive oil.
If you're EXTRA FABULOUS and/or serving this to me, for some reason, swap the olive oil for truffle oil and let the swooning begin.

Proceed to defend the Tomato-based Soup empire.

Oh - almost forgot - I had this last night with with a toasted pita filled with melted cheddar and goat cheese and it was pretty fucking good, so I recommend that, too. You know, if you're ever serving it to me and want me to get all swoony.

Also, there was gin, but I doubt that was related to the swooning. It was more to blame for my early 8pm bedtime.

That's all.

Maybe I *am* the boss of this yarn after all.

We can all thank Zarah for this post.

So, after seeing my failure right there in black and white (and orange), I think you know I had to have a little coming to Jesus with myself.

The kind where I malign myself for being such a loser, and then publicly admit defeat to a skein of yarn and then resolve to just go beat that yarn at its own game by knitting this "very easy" summer scarf properly.

Yeah! I'm going to beat that yarn's ass!

No. That makes no sense.

But, basically, that's the feeling I had churning inside of me when I sat down, yet again for the fourth time, with the pattern all right there in front of me and the yarn in my hands and NO COCKTAIL WHATSOEVER to cast on this scarf one final time.

I looked that yarn in the eye, and then realizing it had no eye, I sat it on top of the pattern so that I could deliver my warning equally, and basically told them both how it was going to be. Specifically, that we were going to knit this scarf whether we liked it or not and if any stitches went missing, I was going to hold them both personally responsible.

It is true that sometimes knitting makes me a crazy person.

HOWEVER, I'm about 3/4 of the way through this SO SUPER EASY FUCK YOU scarf and, you know what? I really like how it's coming out. Like, I can see myself wearing this thing. Which is nice, given all the stupid work I've put into bringing it into this world.

Of course, the moment I realized I liked it, I began thinking that it'd make a good gift, since it's all not jacked up and everything, so perhaps I stow it away and give it as a gift that will hopefully please the receiver of the gift while also making me seem, if only remotely, like a capable knitter.

That'd be something, wouldn't it? We'll see.

And, while I was hoping to post the scarf today in all its finished glory, I decided that I would rather focus all my attentions on The Venture Bros. last night after knitting for about an hour, so put down my needles and spent some time mimicking Werner Underbheit and The Monarch because that's what you do when you're a grown-up. You drink cocktails while lying prone on your couch and take turns with Bubba going, "Vy vould wittle old me cauz any trrrrouble?" while pretending to take off my metal jaw bone so my giant tongue could roll out.

Yes, that is what you do as a grown-up. Make a note of it.

So, while I can't present you with a finished scarf, I can present you with a nearly finished scarf and also a pinkie swear that I'll have it all finished up nice by 8/1, which is when we'll get new projects for the Craft: along and also when I hope to have the Tshirt Turned Swimsuit Cover-up finished as well as my first pickle chips canned and my first food processor white bread baked by way of my New Big Ass Cuisinart 14 Cup Food Processor.

Please note the even width of this scarf. That was done by magic, apparently.

Other things might happen by then, too, but I can't be putting myself out there too much. That could get dicey.

Also, and I don't want to get you too excited, but if you're anxiously awaiting hitting Zero Barrier on the Garden Tracker, well, you're about to be completed as a person.

Once I get home and can enter my handwritten weigh-ins on the tracker. Because LO I picked a random assortment of vegs last night and I'm pretty sure we're in the black now, which WOO! But I'll get into that in a separate post.

Eat my profits, beotch.

For now, I'll just focus on keeping my stitch count even and getting this scarf finished. Because, you know, there's nothing else you need more during 90 degree summer weather than a scarf.

Oh noooooooooooooo [Thanksgiving Edition]

There's a reason that Jada's not wearing a collar and it's not because she's a dog nudist.

Like I was saying, last week was going to be soul-crushingly busy and frantic and crazy and then busy some more.

Actually, did I tell you that or was I just thinking it as I was writing that last post of randomness drunk with the power of a fully functional keyboard?

I can't remember.

Either way - last week was a self-proclaimed hell week of shit to do, people to not kill, events to not ruin, crops to harvest, a house to de-Addams Family, tests to study for, projects to finish, holidays to not destroy and mother-in-laws to not offend.

We got so close.

Bubba mastercrafted this amazing trip for his mom so that they could drive up the coast from Pismo Beach and stop at all of the monarch butterfly migration sites, eat artichokes, visit me at the greenhouse and just generally enjoy some California in November which is noticeably different from Kansas in November, which I'm sure you can all imagine.

Think sunshine and shirt sleeves instead of bitter cold and I NEED ANOTHER DOWN JACKET STAT.

You get it.

And they got it. The trip was perfect. Better than I could have hoped. The butterflies were present and accounted for even though everyone was all ready to ruin our parade by saying that "Oh, they're early/late/extinct this year. They won't see any." (thanks, asses), they ate many artichokes and artichoke-filled foods, they came by the greenhouse and botanic gardens for a tour during gorgeous weather - it was great.

I was feeling like not a failure as a daughter-in-law except for the whole working-the-whole-time-she-was-here thing.

Whatevs.

Then, much to my surprise, the success and not-fucking-it-upness of the week continued. We managed to get the turkeys we'd smoked (we = Bubba with a side of me sitting on my dead ass) sliced and packaged up with the other Thanksgiving-y things we were bringing to my folks'. We got to my folks' place in good time and, despite the crowd, talked to most everyone we'd set out to. We ate Thanksgiving-y things (but not too much somehow). We drank drinks (and not too many)(except after the oh nooooooo, which obvs.).

Does seeing this much turkey make you want to barf now?

We thought we were in the clear.

My MiL was leaving the morning after Thanksgiving, so as we sat down to have the festive holiday pie course (SO MANY PIES WHY?), I'll admit that I jinxed the crap out of us.

I thought to myself - we've made it. We did not fuck up my MiL's trip. We did not forget anything we were supposed to bring. We are not the most annoying ones at the party. We're golden.

And then it hit me.

The smell.

Of skunk.

And terror.

I bolted to the living room to find Bubba outside waving his arms maniacally, eyes bulging (and watering dramatically) and the dog throwing herself frantically against the deck, face first, trying to rid her puppy eyeballs of the two barrels of skunk spray eating through her mucous membranes.

It was not a pretty/welcomed/pleasant sight. As you can probably imagine.

Imagine this cute face looking as sad and eye-drooly and foaming at the mouth as you can. Then know that it was much worse and gross smelling.

I think you know that my first reaction, upon seeing Bubba outside trying to find a lighter so that he could put himself out of his misery, was to bellow a hearty, "Oh noooooooooooooo" while simultaneously removing the suede boots I was wearing for the first time in months.

I certainly wasn't going to be bathing a skunked dog in suede boots. Or the silk dress I'd put on in an effort to appear like a girl for once.

After the initial reaction, I think that you also know that there was a loud "FUCK" as I ran back to my mom's room to find some old clothes to change into, a bunch of old towels, baking soda and peroxide and a change of clothes for Bubba.

I'll spare you the grim details of the dog bathing, but suffice it to say that the 2 1/2 hour ride home in Bubba's new truck, dog sequestered in the back with the window down on a rubber mat, and my MiL (who does not enjoy pets to begin with) up front sitting quietly waiting for it all to just be over with pretty much blew the doors off of our Successful Visit With Mom.

We were so close.

And after tallying up the damages (bras, underwear, jeans, shoes, shirts, belts, collar, towels, bottles of Tecnu, peroxide and baking soda), this one skunk + dog that knows better than to play with the stinky black and white kitties cost us around $500.

Plus the forever ruining of our nostrils and the forthcoming cleaning bill from the shop for whenever Bubba gets his truck in for service.

Meanwhile, Jada's had so many baths that she's gorgeous and fluffy and exhausted enough to allow me to cuddle her but she still smells like rank skunk ass, so no one's cuddling. We're all just eyeballing her and waiting for her to stop reeking so that we can all YAY drive to Montana in a month where she'll get snowed on which will recharge her skunking for our enjoyment.

Hooray holidays.

Don't even look at me, dog. You smell like skunk and shame.

Extreme Sabbath Mode vs The Pork Chop

I set out to make pork chops the other night on Bubba's request but without the proper know-how seeing as I grew up in a house that didn't have pork chops because we were trying to be not-all-the-way-bad Jews. We didn't follow most of the rules, but I think frying up the uncleanest of all beasts in chop form on the stove was too much even for my progressive folks.

Meanwhile, my future husband was growing up in the midwest, far away from the pork fearful and in a household very much in support of Pork Chop Night, of which I have heard much legend. Legends about "cornflake crust", applesauce on the side OR NOT and the merits of pan-frying vs oven-baking. And just for the record, I never heard the words, "Shake and Bake" mentioned in reference to the Almighty Pork Chop until I said it out loud and had to suffer Bubba's evilest evil eye. Scary.

No Shake and Bake. Got it.

Thankfully the All Knowing Cook's Illustrated provided a fabulous and authoritative recipe by which one, even one of Jew-y background, can construct Ultracrunchy Baked Pork Chops.

Bubba was very excited to revisit Pork Chop Night and I was very afraid of this untamed cut of meat.

Why is it so pale? What's the story with this big bone? How do you know when it's done when it's buried under all that seasoning? What about that big word that stands for the scary germ that lives in pork? Trich-ta-somethin-somethin...?

All very scary and bizarre. Plus I was afraid that it would taste like ass and I would have to chew and smile and be all, "Yes, my love, this is very good and worthy of your childhood memories", when I might really just want to hack it up in the trash and pretend it all didn't happen. But I went forward, somewhat bravely, into the dark scary forest of the pork unknown armed with my issue of CI and some chops that Bubba brought home from the store, all despite my Jewy inner fear of The Pork.

And then my oven rebelled by falling apart.

Yes. It fell apart. In the truest and most sincere sense of the term. I went to open the oven to begin the pork baking and upon grasping its one big handle, SNAP, it ripped off clean in my hand.

The handle. It broke the fuck off. Just right there for all the world to see.

And then the stainless steel sprung forward allowing the heat proof glass to come sliding onto my kitchen floor.

SNAP! SPROING! SHING! SLAM!

"What the hell was that??"

"Hehehe hahahaha heeeeeeeee hahaaaa"

"Baby? Are you ok?"

"Um....hehehe hahaha hehe"

"What are you holding? What was that crashing sound?"

"Oh. You know. My BRAND NEW OVEN just fell totally apart and apparently I think it is pretty damn funny."

And it kinda was. In the sense that I was standing in my kitchen, holding the big handle for the oven, which was in no way connected to the oven itself, while standing over a very large piece of glass watching the stainless steel available-at-an-extra-charge sproing to and fro, having been freed of its enclosure. Holding in my other hand, a rimmed and racked baking sheet with two perfectly coated pork chops ready for baking.

It was at this moment I realized the actual purpose of the Sabbath setting.

"Sabbath Mode: Beyond the automatic shut-off feature of this particular model, this ingenious and militant option keeps your oven free of any filthy unkosher items. When set, the oven will go to all lengths to maintain the sanctity of its observant interior, resorting to self-destruction if any attempt is made to force unclean flesh into its depths with the intent of cooking or otherwise."

As it turns out, my oven is something of a self-righteous Jew. Who knew this?

Anyway, my oven fell totally apart and I'm blaming it on my made-up oven feature for which I previously had no explanation (come on, did YOU know what Sabbath mode was for? See, no.) and the shoddy craftsmanship of some appliance manufacturer which will remain unnamed. Sadly, most of my appliances are from this particular manufacturer, so everything in my kitchen is getting the wary eye at this point, especially those with inexplicable features like Pots and Pans Cycle, Filtered Water Dispenser and Permanent Press. WHO KNOWS WHAT THIS ALL MEANS, REALLY?

It could be anything.

However, I think you might be happy to know that despite the Extreme Sabbath Mode setting under which my oven was previously operating and the fact that the door handle BROKE THE HELL OFF, I still managed to bring to life the ever-cherished Pork Chop Night in our humble yet combative home.


Bubba assured me that they were indeed quite good and definitely didn't seem like they'd been made under duress or anything, so I felt better knowing that at least his dining dream was coming true.

Meanwhile I stewed about the time I was going to have to spend escorting the retards from that service center which will remain unnamed until I have had my issue satisfactorily resolved around my kitchen so that they could fix these things that should have never broken, and certainly not so soon after I purchased them. Ahem.

Good news - I didn't have to spit anything out in the trash.

Pork Chop Night 1 - Oven 0.

It's official - I'm a child.

Neckdown Long Hooded Cardigan
by Diane Soucy for Knitting Pure and Simple
Yarn: Blue Sky Alpacas Dyed Organic Cotton in Graphite
Needles: Circular 9 (24"), 9 (16"), DPN 9 & 7, tapestry needle
Raveled here

So, I started another sweater.

Even after last time when I had an emotional break down with the Hourglass Sweater pattern that turned out like a pile of horseshit thanks to a bunch of different and evil issues.

I don't want to talk about it.

But, I went back into the water with sweaters anyway because I have always wanted to knit myself a sweater (like, a good one that I'll really wear, not a big fugly one that'll just be so I can *say* that I knitted a sweater - you know) and also because Philigry, who is chaperoning my re-entry into knitting, managed to knit up a sweater so excellent and allegedly so quick and easy that I felt safe getting back on the water skis for another trip around the harbor.

Or whatever. You've seen Jaws, right? You know what I mean.

So, with shaky hands, I went on to Jimmy Beans and ordered myself up a scary large amount of organic cotton (for my supah sensitive wool-hater skin) and then Yarnmarket for the needles I didn't have in my I'm So Anal Retentive Needle Case (I'll have to show this to y'all someday - it's silly) and then sat there on my couch and quietly freaked out about trying to knit another sweater.

Because of the Fear of Horseshit Knitting.

Don't mock me - it's a real thing. And I have it.

I then entertained the idea of what if the yarn doesn't show up and I don't have to tempt failure and maybe feel like a loser, but then the yarn showed up in, like, the blink of an eye, and by some miracle I'd also finished the Crazy Ass Knee Socks, so I had no choice but to dive in and hope for the best.

And also No Sharks, please.

Thankfully, this pattern started off super easy like Sunday morning. Cast on like a mutha and GO. And then, basically, keep going for a long time - making some INCs here and there, and do try to stick to your one cocktail maximum so that shit doesn't start falling off the needles as can tend to happen after cocktail #2. Or so I hear.

I was loving it a lot. I was moving fast. I had a HOOD, for godssake! Things were great - there wasn't any horseshit in sight! But, deep down, I was still worried. Eventually there HAD to be some snag. Some insurmountable disaster. Some pattern acronym unknown to man and inexplicable in the natural world.

Well, sorta.

So - I'm simple. Like, in the head simple. After knitting the hood and doing a jillion INC rows for the shoulders and back and starting to feel like HEY I'VE TOTALLY GOT THIS DOWN (I should know better, yes) I came to the increases for the armholes and nearly lost my shit trying to figure it out.

Again, I'll remind you that I'm simple in the head.

Specifically, the pattern says "Cast on 12 for the armhole and knit across the back stitches" or something to that effect, which is totally innocuous and not scary which made my sudden but complete failure to comprehend the process all the more alarming.

I started to Cable Cast-on, but it was leaving this bizarre connector thread dangling across the armhole that was

1. Wrong and
2. Wrong

Then I tried the so-called Knit Cast-On which produced similarly aggravating results. It's possible that I was doing both of these methods wrong, even though I've done them both before without issue.

My mind was boggling. Also, I was saying a lot of bad words and, in my last attempt at getting a Cable cast-on to work - I snapped the working yarn.

FUCK ME.

Oh yeah, I said it. Just like that. And I woke Bubba up in the process from the couch across the room. NOT a good moment for either of us. Thankfully the dog had gone to bed so she didn't have to be there for mommy's melt down. Rocket, however, looked up from her butt cleaning in alarm. How dare I?

Anyway. I knew it was time to get out the big guns and solve this once and for all. The sweater was going so well that I wasn't prepared to admit defeat with less than 1/4 of the sweater actually done. My only hesitation was that if I went for the big guns and found that they, too, were useless, I would have to go crawling on my knees to fellow Ravelers and beg for help due to my simplemindedness.

To be clear, Big Guns = My Big Vogue Knitting Book.

For those of you knitters who don't own this book, please stop everything you're doing (even if you're knitting at this exact moment) and go get this book. It will save you a lot of pain and suffering, especially if you refer to it BEFORE you overwork yarn to the point of snapping, like a normal person might.

And even if you do abnormal things like I mentioned earlier and only resort to it in a fit of anger and frustration, you'll be rewarded all the same with answers to your every knitting question. For instance, if your question is, "How the fuck do I cast-on 12 stitches with only one tail without creating a bizarre and unworkable connecting thread?" your answer will be on or around page 54 where it outlines the very simple process known as the Single Cast-on Method.

Oh.

The Single Cast-on Method. The one that goes like this and only requires one tail and is the "best way to teach a child" how to cast on stitches as they "learn to knit" or something similarly insulting that made me not want to use it. In the end though, I tried it and HOLY it totally worked.

And just like that, I was back on track.

Albeit, I was a "child", but I was back on track all the same and didn't have to admit defeat to my sweater which is a wonderful and enlightening thing. And it makes it easier to go to sleep knowing that a ball of string hasn't triumphed over one's very soul.

So, yeah, I'm knitting a sweater and it's going pretty well so far, minus a short diversion in which I said every bad word. And I hope to have this enormous beast done sometime in the next decade because, despite its fast and easiness so far, it's still ruuuuuuuuuuully long and so will probably take some real deep down wanting in order to finish.

Wish me luck. Please. And also no sharks.

Eventually my eyes will stop watering.

I really thought I'd have more glamorous shit to report from our New Life In The Country, as it's been called, but who the hell knows why I thought there would be glamour in the country.

Mostly we just have skunks.

Hey buddy! NO THANK YOU.

OH MY GOD THE MOTHER FUCKING SKUNKS.

Remember how I got so over our old house projects before that I never wanted to hear the word, "kitchen", again? Or garage. Or bathroom. Or porch. Or fireplace. Or bar.

Because of the all-consumingness of those projects? Because we were spending all of our waking hours discussing the ins and outs and details and plans for those projects? Those projects that were going to result in a remodeled kitchen, a garage with electricity, a bathroom without a time machine shower,  a not-collapsing porch, a push button fireplace and an effing BAR?

OH TO BE SAYING, "BAR", OVER AND OVER RIGHT NOW INSTEAD OF, "SKUNKS".

And then to get a fabulous new BAR instead of...just not skunk smell.

Yeah. So, we're there with the skunks.

These sick bastards went to absolute town on our house one week before we moved in.

Sprayed the garage. Sprayed the guest house. Sprayed the deck.

Our eyes are watering, but still - COCKTAILS ON THE DECK. MUST HAVE IT. NEED THOSE ONION GOGGLES. Also, please enjoy our ski fencing while the deck railing is finished. 

I'll just say that moving day was fragrant. Eye-wateringly so.

Yay.

So yeah - all the glamorous fun projects like tearing out miles of heinous carpet, redoing a tragically tiled kitchen, setting up a media room or staking out my new garden has taken an abrupt backseat.

Because WHY DOES IT STILL SMELL SO BAD?

See...glamour. It's my life.

Thankfully, we now have A Skunk Guy.

We have traps set and they're baited with hard boiled eggs (I almost vomit a lot) and they're sitting out waiting to catch us the grand prize of a funking skunk.

That will probably spray again when The Skunk Guy comes to take him away.

Hooray.

At least we got the garbage disposal fixed on the home buyer's warranty!

Oh, not glamorous either.

Ceiling fan spins now?

OK, also boring.

New propane tank!

Snore, I know.

But the stairs! We had the hilarious contractor built us some awesome stairs! And they're pretty!

You'll have to do.

And he had his painter do the painting part and OH MY GOD LOOK A THE PAINTER GUY'S DOG:

I'm sure you realize that I cuddle raped the absolute pants off of this dog.

And then we've had some good looking sunsets.

Nicely done, Country.

And twilight turkey hunting.

And Jada's kinda in heaven.

Plus, we're managing.

Beer is why country dog walks are superior to suburban dog walks.

So fuck the glamour.

We have skunks, sunsets, stairs, turkeys, a happy dog and beer.

Running update: Now 100% More Random

Without an event looming in my future, my running life is pretty random.

I mean, it's not like I stop my Supah Technical schedule of 2x/week tempo runs and 1x/week shortish-long runs, but my End Goal About Which I Fantasize Constantly during actual training for an actual booked event is non-existent.

Because I don't have an actual booked event. Yet.

I was *thisclose* to hitting the Register button for the upcoming Jungle Run 10K, but then got an email from Bubba asking me, all subtle-like, if I would maybe-possibly-if-I'm-free want to go sit in a luxury box at the All-Star Game and Home Run Derby in Anaheim this year.

It was very literally a race to see whether I'd reply, "FUCK YEAH", or shit my pants first.

The reply won by a narrow margin.

I then realized that we'd be traveling for the half-week of baseball-related festivities on the day of the Jungle Run, so that snuffed out those running plans and nothing else has really caught my eye since. I mean, yes, I'll do a turkey trot somewhere this year, but that's not until the end of November (obv), so clearly I'll need something before then.

But what? Any ideas, party people?

Just so you know, here are some of my race requirements: (Yes, I have many needs. You just don't know the half of it.)

1. Should be located within a 25 mile radius of San Jose, CA
2. Should begin between the hours of 6-8am
3. Should not include the following words in its event name: Mountain, Death, Marathon, Tri or Ultra
4. Should not include other sports unless the other sport is cycling or pie-eating
5. If it's a trail run - it shouldn't be longer than a 5K (for now, I have to try this once at least. GIVE ME A BREAK, ALREADY.)
6. If it's a road race - it should be shorter than a half marathon because you already know I'm not doing one of those this year as a rule.

That's all I can think of now, but you know there are more so I just want to warn you for whatever reason. And now you can share your suggestions.

Also random in my running life has been this new and exciting twinge of pain in my left Achilles tendon. It's not pleasant and began rearing its naughty head as soon as I hit the road after my duathlon. So, I ran "quietly", as I like to tell myself, to see if I could figure out what was causing this pain. When "quiet" (which is just me running without the mind-numbing distraction of my iPod and traffic) returned zero answers, I took a hard look at my stretching routine. But, my stretching routine has not changed or wavered, so that didn't help much either. Though I did have a nice stretch on our new patio which I'm sure was great entertainment for my judge-y neighbors.

I finally decided it must be the shoes. Because they are oldish and have turned that tell-tale shade of gray/brown that comes from spending a lot of time racking up miles and kicking up road gack while training for races and what not.

So I got new shoes (no thanks to the Brooks people, yet) and my run this morning felt mostly twinge-free.

And while I was buying new shoes, I also got a new running top in a shade I like to call, "If You Hit Me While I'm Wearing This, There Will Be No Mercy On You In Court."

Also handy is its silky breathiness, which is barely a pair of words, but I think you get what I'm saying. However, by the end of my short tempo run (3 miles) the thing had sort of stretched out even though it wasn't tight to begin with. I imagine that after a longer run, like, say 6 miles or more, it'd start to take on the characteristics of a startling evening gown.

In other It's Broken So I Guess I'll Get a New One AGAIN news, I got another iPod.

My most recent iPod, the generation 3 Nano (?)(you know, the square one), crapped out and would only let me skip forward in my playlist and wouldn't go back to the beginning of my playlist no matter how many swears I lobbed in its general direction. I even tried throwing it on the ground, which did nothing.

Why doesn't that ever work?

If anyone's keeping count, though I'm not sure how or why you would, this would be my 6th iPod, a fact that shames me to no end.

Seriously. I am not one of those Mac humpers who lives and dies by the white apple. I just need to be able to run with tunes plugged into my ears and this is the easiest way to do so. I mean, sure, I could get a Zune or other random knock-off MP3 player, but I just don't have the energy or desire to go back out into the world of over-priced music media players to source one.

So, alas, I bought another Nano (this time in awesome orange, which made me feel a *little* bit better about the purchase) and have since shoved my running playlist on there and begun to mull the possible uses for its built-in video recorder, which I find to be a mostly useless addition that made my purchase needlessly expensive.

Whatever. Perhaps I'll be able to video the fight I'll inevitably get into with someone who tries to run me down with their car even though I'm wearing a safety orange running top. Or homeless people having sex on Los Gatos Creek Trail.

Ew.

OK - that's as much random running bullshit as you need for one day. I'm sure of it.

BIGHUGETHINGNEWS

For a second I was all, “I wonder if it’s even going to seem like BIG HUGE THING NEWS anymore after all of this hype and waiting around and not helpful tweets like this one.”, but then I realized that, No Way.

It’s totally still BIG HUGE THING NEWS.

To me.

And since this blog is all about me and that’s what you guys have been reading about for the last seven years (still wows me, that number), I think you’ll still see it as BIG HUGE THING NEWS, too.

Because the BIG HUGE THING NEWS is all about me and my life and also Bubba and our life and how I’m apparently doing my damndest to change it all.

I’m throwing a curveball, friends, a big fat life curveball and I’m hoping for the best while also knowing that there’s a very real Worst out there that could take over these best intentions of mine and set me back on my ass, OUR asses, like nothin’.

To give you an idea of the big fatness of this life curveball I’m throwing (and let’s not forget for a minute that I have zero eye/hand coordination and that throwing’s not my game to begin with), I already had (and have) a pretty sweet life.

One that didn’t, from an outsider’s perspective, probably need a big fat curveball thrown right at it. No, I imagine that most people looking at my life would have been like, “Hey, that’s pretty sweet. Great job, amazing husband, cute dog, evil cat, fun times galore, much drinking and misbehavior. Good going, weird girl.”

Not, “Ugh, what are you doing with your life, weird girl? Get your shit together. Throw a curveball. Change everything you’re doing because WOW you’re really fucking shit up.”

Which is what I’ve always thought was the premise for changing one’s life - the act of majorly fucking it up for a long time and needing a big fat curveball of change to shove everything back onto the rails.

But my life was great - IS great - and yet still, I’m shoving and curveballing and basically, if looked at on paper, fixing what’s not broken.

Except on the inside, I knew it was broken.

I was, in my early 30s, still living the life that I designed for myself when I was a teenager. Which, if you think about it, is what a lot of people do because that’s what we’re sort of guided along to do, right?

We go through school, all the while being prepped for the idea of college and trying to do things to get into the college that will serve us best in the long run. Which means deciding what we Want To Be.

When we’re, like, 12 years old.

So, shit that’s important and shiny and fun when you’re 12 is what you end up basing these decisions on.

And when I was 12 and impressionable and watched MTV (at my friend’s houses, we never had cable) and went to the mall and did whatever, the shiny interesting shit was what was on TV and blasting out at me from billboards and the radio (terrestrial, since there wasn’t satellite radio then - savages) and Cosmo and what not.

Which is to say - advertising.

I really absorbed a lot of advertising. And not the messages, necessarily - like I was running from one parent or store to another going, “I MUST HAVE THIS THING.” - but the concept of it and its power.

I saw that advertising did, despite folks’ intentions, influence people. It spoke to people. It got into their heads and got them moving. Albeit in some of the most tragic and ill-advised directions, but it got people doing shit.

And not for nothing, the stuff was sorta glamorous and shiny and cool and rad and all of those teenagery things, too.

I wanted to be a part of that. When I was 12.

So, I set out on a crash course to become part of that world. I took special classes in high school for graphic design, I went to junior college courses during high school to get ahead, I chose my college based on where I could major in Advertising and Marketing rather than just “Communications”, I steered myself right back to San Francisco’s Financial District as soon as I graduated so that I could work in one of the ad agencies I’d been ogling since my youthful days of traveling to Giants games with my mom, I then worked many long hours in various ad agencies and, when the age of internet advertising came along, I went full force into that world. Then I worked at the hub of internet advertising for nine years all up to my ears in it.

It was fun, thrilling, sucky, stressful, interesting, boring, exciting, depressing, awesome, lame and every other emotion in between. I cheered, I cried, I swore LOTS, I met some cool people and some shitty people and I changed.

Over the time I was living this self designed life of my 12 year old mind, I totally changed.

I mean, truly, I was probably working on this change my whole life, but didn’t really pay attention to it until I was sitting in a meeting in a conference room on The First Day of Spring and couldn’t stop thinking, “I should be outside.”

“I should be outside and my manicured hand that I’m now looking at typing away furiously on this keyboard should be balls deep in my garden knocking down the cover crop that’s rapidly going to beans so that it will have time to break down enough to feed my summer vegetable plants when I put them in the ground in a few weeks and...”

I’m in there with my laptop open, trying to contribute to a day long brainstorm session about online advertising operation strategies with my four inch heels jammed into the low pile carpet while routinely bashing my knees on the sunuvabitching table brace as I swiveled back and forth from looking at the overhead projector to my teammates to the laptop and, eventually to the window so that I could let my little inside voice get a word in edgewise for a little moment.

That was a few years ago.

I was still fully up to my eyes in internet advertising, the world of online technology and all the things that come in that burrito.

And it had started to feel not right.

I started to feel like maybe one day I was going to have to change burritos. I’d been an al pastor for most of my life and maybe I wanted to try being a bean and cheese for a while. Or a carne asada with pico de gallo. Or, maybe what if I was something completely different like a brandywine caprese salad with buffalo mozzarella and lettuce leaf basil...

What if that?

And then the little inside voice started to get not so little and then, eventually, not so inside.

I’ll spare you the intense, mind-numbing, extremely boring-for-people-who-are-not-me rehashing of the very self-reflecty and soul-searchy years that took place during my wind up - from the time when the little inside voice got too loud to ignore and when it became an outside voice making choices and throwing life curveballs and I’ll just cut to those curveballs...

BIG HUGE THING #1
Five months ago I enrolled in college (never thought I'd say that again) to get a horticulture degree in Organic Agriculture and Crop Production.

That's right. I'm going to be a farmer.

BIG HUGE THING #2
At the same time, I started building a business model for the kitchen garden coaching company that I’m about to launch.

BIG HUGE THING #3
And almost two months ago, I quit my job. My very great and lovely job at the very great and lovely company for which I’d worked for nine years.

And then came the pitch: Walking out the doors of the Great and Lovely job and into a life of uncertainty and excitement and passion and dirt and closed toe shoes and let me teach you how to test your soil and can your tomatoes and sow a cover crop and then WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE.

Except, the WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE part has not yet occurred. I imagine that’s on the horizon somewhere.

For now, I’m just basking in the glory of the pitch on its way to the batter.  The curveball is an unpredictable pitch that can throw off a batter something fierce and, in the case of my curveball hero, it breaks late and wears a disguise until it crosses the plate, so you never really know what you’re getting until it’s too late.

Also, I do not know when this became a baseball analogy, but since I do like baseball and I expect you not to argue with me while I’m pouring out my BIGHUGETHINGNEWS soul to you, I’m going to keep rolling with it.

So, quiet you baseball haters. I don’t understand you anyway.

The point is that Bubba and I - and let us not gloss over, meanwhile, the amazing, heart-swelling, superhuman husband strength that this man possesses which is pushing this whole life curveball over the plate that I will cover in many future posts - are changing it up.

(Now that I think about it, I should have used the changeup as my pitching analogy of choice, but I think that the world understands a changeup even less than a curveball, so I’m going to give myself a pass here, so nevermind this.)

We’ve both changed jobs, I’ve started school and a business and we’ve set our futures on a completely different trajectory than it was when we first got together a dozen years ago. We still want to end up in the same place, but our road to get there just now looks a lot different.

And he has finally gotten his true deep-down wish - I am forced to wear proper shoes. 

I will wear proper shoes. BUT ONLY FOR THE FARM TOUCHING. And only under protest.

You just can’t wear flip-flops while working on a farm. Which I was told in no uncertain terms during our first outing to the department's farm for my organic ag lab in my Reefs.

The next week I showed up in my Van’s, worn Atlas gloves and ballcap and promptly shoved my arm shoulder deep into a pile of compost.

I was home.

And now you all get to watch as I take a swing at this life curveball. Enjoy.