Running update: I do try not to die. Really.

I did not share this story with you before because I was frankly ashamed of my stupid behavior and obvious lack of brain power. But now I'm over it and am ready to tell you all about it because I've found a way to make it seem like I've learned an important lesson and, thus, redeemed myself enough for public scrutiny.

And I also hope it will serve as a warning to other people who think it's smart to go running when it's 95 degrees out at 8am.

Not that there are many other people who'd entertain an idea as stupid as this, but still. For the greater good, I say.

About a month ago, during the Spring Heat Wave of Aught Eight, when it was 95 degrees at 8 o'clock in the morning and I was already sweating from walking the dog at a leisurely pace, I decided it was high time I went on my scheduled long Saturday training run.

Oh, because clearly that is what you do when it's 95 degrees outside. You consult your technologically advanced printer paper training schedule magneted to the refrigerator and do whatever it says because it obviously takes the weather into consideration when calculating your mileage on it's inkjetted surface that was printed, like, a year ago.

You raise your eyebrows, but that's exactly what I did. I stood in my kitchen in my running clothes, already sweating from the slow ass walk I just took with the dog, and stared unbelieving at the schedule on the fridge.

"Well, it says right there, 9 miles. So, I guess I'm going to run 9 miles today. Even though it's so fucking hot I want to die right now and never go outside again."

To my credit, I did fill and wear my running Camelbak that I got during a recent moment of self-satisfaction and obvious delirium but, like I'm sure you already realized, it did me a fat lot of good since 50 oz of water is nothing when you're traveling 9 miles in 95 degree heat. Oh, and did I mention I was out late the night before drinking G&Ts like my life depended on it?

Sigh.

I'm sure there's some math in there that could more specifically detail the depth of my stupidity, but we all know I don't do math and, now it would seem, I also don't do THINKING because I strapped that pack right on, stuffed a few gel shots in the pocket and went off on my merry sweaty way as though it was the greatest idea in all the land which I can tell you now, it was not.

I think I made it about five miles before I had to stop running and walk. And I had been considering stopping to walk for about 4.75 miles at that point. Mostly because I was sure I was dying a little bit with each step I took.

It must have been the fact that the hose ran dry at about the five mile mark and panic started to set in that the walking suddenly happened. One of those moments where the body self-protects because the brain is too stupid to do what it is supposed to do and certain internal organs are starting to shut down.

Sadly the self-preservation was only intermittent because while my body was saying, "You need to walk and conserve energy, retard.", my brain was saying, "the more you walk, the longer it's going to take to get home to the in-door ice and water on the fridge so you better run."

It was a long four miles, to say the least. I ran and walked and tried not to die or look like a maniac the rest of the way and when I made it home I did not leave all day even though I was supposed to go to the beach with a friend and our dogs.

No, instead I came crashing into the house, delirious like a bat on a bender, took a shower and spent the rest of the day lying prone on the couch sucking down water through a curly straw and watching the Indiana Jones trilogy through one squinting eyeball because I was in 100% energy conservation mode and it required the least amount of remote control clicking.

I gave myself a nice healthy case of heatstroke, people. Like a big fat dumbass.

And for what? So that I wouldn't disappoint a training schedule printed on the reverse side of an old Amazon order and magneted to my fridge?

Oh the depths to which I will sink to prove to a piece of paper that I am dedicated to my training and not wussing out just because oh it's a little hot outside what are you some kind of baby?!

So now for the moral of the story: Don't run when it's really hot out because you could get heatstroke even if you're wearing a Camelbak and eating gross gel shots that taste like a horses ass.

NOT EVEN THEN.

Which I guess you could have figured out on your own, but I thought it would be good for me to tell you that I've learned my lesson and will not run when it's hot out like that anymore. I even told Bubba I wouldn't, so as long as he's home to protect me from my own self, I should be safe.

Other than that, my training is going well and I'm about to crest the double digit training mark if it's not too hot this weekend for such activities. If it is, well I'll just find a trilogy on TV and set to sucking on the curly straw without delay.

Sunset was sorta dumb but we still had pork

For the last few years my mom and I have been saying Oh we should totally go to Sunset when they have their open house or whatever and we kept forgetting. We'd remember in, like, September, when it was long over or we'd read about how great it was in the magazine and feel like asses for missing it again.

Because oh we were missing out on so much fabulousness what is our problem!?

Until this year. We actually remembered before The Thing happened, where The Thing is actually called Sunset Celebration Weekend, and it happened to fall on a weekend that wasn't already totally booked up for both of us.

Oh miracles! The stars were aligning! We were going to be present for the fabulousness of Sunset Magazine with doors open to the public! Woo!

Um, not really.

I'm sad to say that this event to end all H&G events was really not all we hoped for and more.

Let me put it to you this way, as we were walking in we passed a mama duck and her ducklings strolling the lawn and heading for what I can only imagine was a water feature of some kind and it was very cute. We both How Cute!'d all over the place and then mom made the observation of the day by saying, "Well, I bet that's the best thing we see all day. We're done. We can go."

Oh and how we laughed. Tee hee hee.

Had I only listened to my mother, we could have saved ourselves some needless torture.

The Event, which I had imagined as some sort of home and garden playground of lush flowering landscapes combined gracefully with informative speaker sessions and sumptuous food and wine samplings, turned out to be more of a county fair meets housewares expo awkwardly plunked down on the magazine's grounds.

And rather than go off on a rant about the irksome particulars which include carnies and loads of sweaty people unfit for public interactions, let me say that I still do love my Sunset magazine and am still sort of holding on to my whimsical fantasy that it is the HQ of all things garden and home and that just by walking through their doors you can be transported into a land of tastefully designed backyards, seasonal cuisine, eco-friendly decor and landscaping that doesn't involve tiki torches or guitar shaped swimming pools, but I daresay this event was not the showcase for such imagined fabulousness even though it *may* exist somewhere onsite.

This is a fantasy to which I am holding strong.

In the event that you actually want me to go off on a hell bent rant, let me know, but I started to write it out and was frankly bored with even bitching about it.

The event is billed as "...where the pages of Sunset come to life" and in reality it was more like where the pages of Tradeshow Week come to life.

Where I had expected to see mass plantings of creatively paired native specimens, there were tented booths set up hocking all manner of cheesy wares. Where I'd hoped for delicious samplings of local cuisine there were fair trailers selling $4 corndogs and gyros. (I had a corndog, OK - I am not without weaknesses.) Where I'd planned to spend an enjoyable afternoon strolling beautifully arranged gardens talking germination dates with my mom, I was dodging flabby carni-goers carrying trays of fair food for their hoards of screaming kids.

When I had to duck behind a tent just to get a peak at the landscaping for which Sunset is so well-known, we knew it was time to bolt. I had managed to snap a few photos of the plants not blocked by the freight train of blobby retirees in enormous sun hats, so that got to be enough.

We skipped out after only a few grueling hours and escaped to my backyard where we could have our G&Ts and compare notes on the event's most offensive missteps.

And then we grocery shopped as mother and daughter for some pork chops which is funny when you remember that we are Jews and apparently not very good ones.

Whoopsy!

I did manage to find and successfully execute another Chard Killer recipe, so if you've got a farm share of chard you're looking to offload, this recipe will do it.

BBQ Pork Loin Stuffed w/ Swiss Chard
Adapted from the pages of White on Rice Couple
My changes in bold

Serves 3

Ingredients
3 Boneless Pork Loin Chops, or similar cut (@ 1″ thick). Ask your butcher to slice pockets into the chops for you. They'll do a better job with their fancy sharp ass knives and skills.

Marinade Ingredients:
2 T Garlic (crushed)
½ T Sugar
½ t Salt
1 t Ground cumin
2 T Soy sauce
1 t Sesame oil
½ c Grapeseed oil

Stuffing Ingredients:

7 Lrg. Swiss chard leaves, ribboned and stems removed
2-3 cloves Garlic, crushed
2 Shallots, diced
1 c Pineapple, diced
1 T Grapeseed oil
1 T Sesame oil
Sea salt
Fresh cracked black pepper

Preheat BBQ for direct grilling

1. Combine marinade ingredients, then marinade pork for 30 min.

2. Bring pot of water to boil, add sea salt to taste, then par-boil swiss chard for 3-5 minutes. Drain, place in a ice bath until cool, then drain again. Squeeze out excess water.

3. Heat grapeseed oil in pan over medium-high heat, add garlic and shallots and sauté for 1-2 minutes. Add swiss chard and sesame oil, sauté for another minute or so, then add pineapple. Remove from heat and season with sea salt and pepper. Allow to cool a bit.

4. Remove pork from marinade. Stuff cavity with swiss chard mixture, then place on a pre-heated BBQ. Grill approx. 4-5 minutes on each side, controlling BBQ heat so it isn’t overwhelmingly hot. Remove from grill & eat with grilled corn on the cob and a giant salad from your share or garden greens that are running amok.

Also - Surprise Corn on the Cob recipe!

This is thanks to Bubba's mom who is the corn queen in my estimation. It might seem lowbrow, but it's way easy and will give you great results. No soggy kernels. No undercooked starchiness. No loss of flavor.

Ingredients
Corn on the cob

Soak a kitchen towel with cool water and wring it out. Shuck your cobs of their silk and husks. Wrap your cobs with the towel and throw in the micro for 2 minutes each. So, if you have three cobs like we did, you'd micro for 6 minutes.

DO YOU SEE THE MATH, PEOPLE, WOW.

Done.

We also had an enormo salad, but I doubt you need the details on that. The big news is that I made pork that did not suck and we ate summer corn which is one of the best things ever. Also I got to enjoy a few G&Ts with the great introducer of G&Ts (me mum) and we checked another event off our list so that now we're able to go do other things that we know we'll like such as walking around Golden Gate Park or whatever.

Just anywhere they don't sell kettle corn in sleeping bags.

Adopt a crop update: The Day has happened

I've talked about The Big Garden Moment of the Year before, but usually when I say it I'm talking about the tomatoes and who the hell cares what's going on with the rest of the vegetables because WOO the tomatoes are coming in and we're about to be awash in The Best Tomato Sauce Ever. Yep. WOO!

Not this year.

Well, OK, later this summer I'll still flip out when the tomatoes come in. Don't worry. You'll be able to see the melt down right here, so don't be disappointed and think I'm going to start getting all normal on you or anything.

Phew, I know.

This year I'm just introducing another Big Garden Moment because I obviously need more things to freak out about and because HELLO ADOPT A CROPPERS (yeah, you're your own group now. Excited?) the first cucumber of the season has arrived WOO!

Just the right size. For a pickle.

Also, subsequently, it has been eaten, so no pickles yet, but with the way this plant is producing baby fruits, I anticipate having at least a few chances to pickle things. And since we have runner-up plant #2 grown from seed and so.very.slow.to.grow - we may have two waves of cucumbers with which to play out our pickling fantasies.

Hi. I'm small. Can you see me? I'm behind all the fucking nasturtium.

There's a lot of tiny future pickles right there. You see them.

Oh my gawd the glamour, I know.

Anyhoo - I made a pretty great Just Picked From My Backyard salad all from things that grew there except the arugula which technically came from the farm share which is kind of in my backyard since it's local grown, but you know what I mean. The excitement here is that this salad, with its radish and its snap peas and its cucumber (woo) all got freshly yanked from the yard by my two hands and that makes me feel like a frontierswoman which you know I like.


Plus the radish was sorta misshapen which I also like because weird looking things entertain me.

My other side is bulbousy which I know is not a real word.

And while all Cucumber Mania was going on and my attention was diverted, the rest of the garden decided to keep growing despite my apparent lack of interest in their activities.

How nice that they can be independent adults that don't need my constant supervision and coddling.

This pretty chard forest is scarier than it looks.

The birthplace of many bulbousy radishes.

I tried to kill this beet and I am sorry.

That scar on the right side may or *may not* be from my thumbnail whoops.

Snap peas and beans. Growing simultaneously and with limited success. Oh.

Midget cantaloupe at its most midgetish.

And just to give the tomatoes their due, because god knows they're such fucking prima donnas that if I don't they'll just get all up in a huff and die just to spite me or something, I've seen some impressive progress in The Hedge.

These are just one bunch of tomatoes breaking loose in the new fancy ass cages which I am enjoying a lot even though my neighbor pointed out that they are nothing more than large gauge fencing wound in a circle and secured at the edges.

Why must people burst my bubble? Isn't it good that simple things make me happy? Would they rather I demand diamond studded tomato cages? I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU PEOPLE JUST LET ME BE HAPPY WITH MY STUPID SIMPLE THINGS OK.

GAH!

We are simple fabulous tomatoes and we like it when people fawn over us.
We also do not ridicule people for their simple tastes.
Enjoy our beauty.

My plants are so self-actualized. Also here is a volunteer sunflower that grew in front of the gate. I think he might be a flight risk.

Do you think you can catch me? I'm very fast.

I promise to stop animating my plants now.

Does NOT taste like a horses ass

Fava Bean Hummus
Doesn't it look like wasabi? So green it made me nervous.

2 cups shelled and cooked fava beans/broadbeans/whatever the hell you call them
2 cloves of garlic
Juice from 1/2 lemon
1T Extra virgins
Salt and pepper to taste
Potentially a little H20

To cook your fava beans, remove them from their sleeping bag pods and boil them in seasalty water for a few minutes or until you see the outer skins start to split. Drain the beans and run cold water over them to cool their molten lava exterior so you don't burn the crap out of your fingers when you then squeeze each bean from its protective outer casing into a bowl.

In a food processor combine favas, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, salt and pepper to taste. I start with about a tsp of salt and pepper and work it out from there. I like things salty, so there ended up being a lot more than 1 tsp salt in the final product.

Blend the ever-loving crap out of it until it's a nice puree and looks like wasabi. If your mixture is not mixing, try adding a little water, more lemon juice or a little more olive oil to get it to smooth out. If you're really crazy and not as afraid of the fatness as I am, you could add some tahini because it would be really yummy I predict. HOWEVER, again, this could result in Horses Ass taste, for which I will not be responsible. But if you try this and it's good, tell me exactly HOW good it is and then I can decide whether it's worth setting aside my aforementioned fear of fatness.

Once your hummus is hummusy, I can suggest serving it with some nice toasted organic rye (thank you bread share), crisp radishes (thank you farm share), fresh arugula (farm share) and parmesan, sea salt and cracked pepper.

I can tell you that, to me, it did not taste like a horses ass. It also didn't taste exactly like your average hummus because, well, it's made from fava beans rather than chickpeas/garbanzo beans/whatever the hell YOU call them, so it tastes like fava beans. I predict that if you like fava beans enough to eat them by their lonesome, then you'd like fava hummus. And if you layer enough stuff onto a big piece of toast with your hummus then chances are even better you'll like it.

I won't say who Bubba, but someone with whom I was dining enjoyed a good amount of pepper and parmesan on top. Then there's me. I liked the hummus so much that I shunned the bread and just started dipping radishes right in the hummus so that I could legitimize the amount of hummus going into my mouth.

I figured jamming my finger right in it or getting a spoon from the kitchen wouldn't leave me a lot of wiggle room in the "Everything in Moderation" department. A concept with which I am constantly doing battle.

My thought is this, if I really like something (Nutella, pie, green olive tapenade, brie, gin, Lay's potato chips), there's no use in trying to satisfy my craving AND exercise restraint at the same time. It just always ends in disaster because if I try to trick my craver by having a tiny bite of brie smeared onto a big old cracker, I'll just go back and have a hundred crackers with the same tiny bite of brie on them in order to get to the big slice of brie I wanted in the first place.

Had I just had my big slice of brie and none of the pesky crackers in the first place, it probably wouldn't have been as naughty in the calorie department as that same amount of brie on top of a hundred crackers. Right?

SO - I just go ahead and have the big slice of brie or the big slice of pie or the big scoop of Nutella
or the double G&T or all the Lay's I can eat before Bubba snatches the bag from me, and thus, save myself the unsuccessful trickster calories I would have eaten in crackers, toast, fruit or sandwiches. (Bubba's rule is that you only eat chips when you're also having a sandwich).

I think you understand my crazy girl math on this one.

Anyway, we had this for dinner on Saturday after we tried to kill ourselves with pupusas for lunch. It was a nice light dinner and went well with the local Syrah gifted to us by our lovely neighbors. It also didn't fight with the pupusas in the belly, which was a bonus. Those bitches can get feisty.

There's a bit left in the fridge, so I imagine that I'll finish it tonight, along with a slice or two of the leftover rye and arugula and radishes so that I can make room for whatever the farm share doles out this PM.

Also - coming soon I will have a very important Adopt a Crop update that you will not want to miss if you like cucumbers, garden ramblings and the probability of dick jokes.

All food in pie form - Strawberries

We've long been believers in the Put It In a Pie Crust and I'll Eat It culinary method.

We're obviously very sophisticated and high brow.

Even things I normally loathe, like eggs, are suddenly acceptable and edible when there's a nice flaky shell between my taste buds and their wobbly blobbiness. And when you put something I love; like tomatoes, strawberries, lemon, chocolate, spicy sausage, whatever between layers of pastry dough - I'm, like, SO there.

So you can clearly see why I took one look at last week's three pint allotment of strawberries in the farm share and knew It Was Pie Time.

And, because I've been having salacious thoughts about strawberries and pie and pie crust for at least a few months, I had managed to Star up some good looking pie recipes in the Reader, to which I could refer during this time of Pie Need.

I went with this recipe from Cake Maker to the Stars, Kittee because it looked amazing, called for mysterious tofu cream cheese and she called it The Strawberry Pie You Must Make which totally convinced me. Hey - who am I to disagree with someone who bakes for the stars? Who do I think I am anyways? Not a star, that's for sure.

Plus the pictures looked really good and there is a big ladybug involved, so there you go.

And rather than adapt the recipe, like I'm prone to doing, I left it be and trusted that tofu cream cheese would not devastate and destroy the perfect strawberries I was sacrificing to the pie gods.

In the end, that meant 3 things:

1. I learned that Tofutti Better than Cream Cheese is better than cream cheese, but really only if you can't eat dairy because it has about the same calories and fat (85/9g) as regular cream cheese. Whatever. Maybe next time I use reduced fat regular cream cheese because I'm not afraid of dairy but I am afraid of fatness.
   
2. Cream cheese in a strawberry pie may now be a necessity because it is so good and soaks up the strawberry juiciness, thus saving the crust from sog
3. You can get the recipe direct from Kittee's post since I didn't do any fucking with it that would necessitate my documenting my misguided steps here
   

Oh, and one more thing, when enjoyed with hot tea during the quiet wee hours of a Sunday morning while the dog and cat roll in the grass and no bastard squirrels are munching the garden, a person can imagine heaven on earth.



And that is as sappy as I'm prepared to be right now.

Wrap Skirt: Better than I thought + Helpful things

Hey Donk,

So, I'm glad you finished your skirt before I did, since you were the lone positive voice in my head as I approached this project, and also you kept me from dragging my skirt to the trash about three separate times.

"It's the nicest thing I've ever made."

These are big words from Mrs. I've Made a Million Things, so it immediately helped me move forward even though I was *sure* I was going to not love this project so much. Like, I was already imagining how I would break it to you when I decided to make another Barcelona Skirt and pass it off as my wrap skirt by putting a ribbon belt on it or something.

I know. I'm bad.

But this skirt had two strikes against it going in. Specifically, it appeared to have a HIGH waist (I'm more a fan of the "So low as to bring in to question the appropriateness of particular undergarments" waistlines) and it wasn't the Barcelona skirt, which we all know I love and to which have dedicated a good portion of my closet.

In the end, I forged ahead. I had a lot of that green linen leftover from my ill-fated Pintucked Runner project and I needed to convince myself that it wasn't cursed and, thus, sitting with the rest of my fabric stash just cursing it all up.

Also, I don't like to publicly shame myself, so coming to the sew-a-long table with nothing but a sad look and some "cursed" fabric, pretty much put me in Public Shame territory and wasn't something I was willing to deal with.

Helpful Things

Problem
I am lazy, as is well-documented, so when I read through the pattern and it called for precisely pressing the 3" ribbon in half to make sure that the belt would be picked up on both sides when sewing the waistline, I sorta panicked.

How precise is precise? Obviously too precise for me, Mrs. Hey That Looks About Right as I Eyefuck Things That Require Exact Measurement.

Solution: Blanket Binding

Not only did I manage to find it (after ruthlessly digging through the drawer below the poorly stocked display) in a good color - it was cheaper than similar width ribbon from the shelf and WOO was already pressed in half precisely by a very precise machine somewhere so I didn't have to worry about my imprecise methods. WOO again.

I was very tempted to get the hot pink, but didn't want to call attention to the fucked up buttonhole I was sure to make, so left it at the matching sage green and called it a day. After I also bought a pale yellow and an icy blue, just in case I got frisky and decided green was too bland.

Miraculous sidenote: The buttonhole did not come out fucked up! I know. I was shocked, too.

Problem 2
Darts on a skirt are scary and there weren't any pictures (I need more pictures, people!) showing me exactly, stitch by stitch, how to sew the darts and when I can't see it for myself I start to doubt that it can happen and then I start doing stupid things like "interpreting" directions in a way that makes some kind of sense to me. And then things go horribly awry and projects start going in the trash.

Solution: Youtube
This nice woman showed me step-by-gloriously eye-opening-step just how one goes about sewing darts in clothing. And, strangely enough, it looked almost like she was sewing the same size darts I was, which was a handy coincidence seeing as I need things spelled out for me in the most specific Tell Me Like I'm Four kind of way.

Also, she shows you how to tie a tailor's knot at the base of your darts so they stay crisp and nice, which is a great little touch and made me feel professional, if for only a moment between swears and sips of my G&T.

Anyway, at the end of the day, I'm proud to say that I do, in fact, like this skirt and I did not end up throwing it out. No. It's stowed safely in the closet, near the Barcelona Skirts, waiting for its debut.

I'll say that I'd rather it were a little longer (not a fan of my scarred soccer knees) and a little less poofy (why must we accentuate the hips?), but when worn at the proper waist height with a fitted blouse and my 4" heels, I feel a little prissy and a little prim and like my grandma would probably be proud of her prim and prissy granddaughter for five minutes. And also probably glad that, for once, she wasn't going to have to stare at the birthmark on my lower back all day.

That's right y'all, I was born with a tramp stamp - no after market ink necessary.

Anyway - good call on this one, Donk. I'll start thinking about next month's project soon and will report back on July 1 with my answer.

Happy travels - I miss you already!

xo
Finny

Here's something I didn't fuck up (hint: I didn't knit it)

This picture, of my prettiest hummingbird feeder with its newly upgraded flower drinking holes, is my proof that I can do some crafty things without totally fucking them up.

Because, let me tell you that The Thing I Have Been Knitting is not looking so hot and it's making me sad to think that I may just not be cut out for the knitting thing anymore. I think my fingers/brain forgot how to do the knitting or forgot how to measure or can't read English or have finally started to revolt against All Things Math because I'm *thisclose* to being done with my sweater and it is just not right.

The damn neckline is huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.

Like, maybe this could be a cowl-neck sweater, kind of huge. Like, maybe I'll wear it off both shoulders with a hot pink tank top underneath and my hair in a side ponytail because it's suddenly 1982, kind of huge.

Mind you, the rest of the sweater is mostly fine. I mean, the sleeves, once they're hemmed, could be a little bit longer and the body could also be a little bit longer, but if the neckline were right, I'd love the whole thing and probably be wearing it right now. BUT NO - the neckline is so wide and huge that it won't stay up on my shoulders and when I tried it on I became very sad.

My one million dollar yarn was not looking nearly so beautiful as it hung limply from my shoulders or scrunched in as a makeshift cowl. Not attractive. Not at all indicative of the amount of time I spent carefully stitching away. Not representative of the fancy Addi turbo needles I bought special for the sleeves. Just not at all good or right.

Boo.

Thankfully, there is the invention called Ravelry that gave me hope that with some careful frogging I *might* be able to fix the neckline to the point where it'd fit. Because apparently this Giant Neckline Through Which One Could Drive a Truck is a common problem with this pattern and has since developed something of a knitting fixer-upper following. I love very much that there are 767 (actual number) other knitters out there who have either finished or are in the process of working through this pattern and have pictures and stories to tell me about what a bitch this neckline is.

"Be careful!", they say.

"Knit extra neckline decrease rows!", they say.

But do I listen?

Well, yes, actually I do. Because I'm not in the business of ignoring people when their instructions could save me a lot of time and aggravation and precious silk yarn. But somehow it's still not working out, so now I'm going to have to go back to that neckline and make some adjustments. But I don't think I can do any adjusting until all the other finishing bits are done since I'll get too despondent looking at loose ends and gaping armpit holes while I'm trying to adjust the neckline that I'll probably throw the whole thing on the ground and throw the aforementioned shit fit right on it.

So0o0o, I'm thinking that if I get through my two sewing projects this weekend and make the strawberry pie from all the berries in our farmshare and then get the dog to the beach and run my 9 miles and make a new chard recipe PLUS FAVA HUMMUS - I *may* finish the rest of the sweater and see what I can do about going back and frogging that neckline into something that looks halfway decent.

If not, I may the route of Ms. Nell at Chicken Knits and reknit that yarn into a Wicked.

On the bright side though, I was able to shine up my favorite old, previously discarded as useless, hummingbird feeder with some handy dandy lemon juice (yeah, I just said handy dandy) and then bring it into the world of Useful Bird Feeders by carefully painting the copper flowers with red and yellow acrylic paint and a coat of clear nail polish.

The hummingbirds have been ALL OVER this feeder ever since.

And since it's a lot prettier than it's cheap but popular predecessor, the very KUH-lassy plastic $4.99 Home Depot model which only held a cup of food and was covered in bird shits, this one act of craftiness alone leaves me with a glimmer of hope that I'm not a totally useless crafter. I can make some things, as long as my tools are Cover Girl clear polish and paint in a tube.

That's something.

Easy chard thing

(Yes. I know I just used this picture yesterday, but it still works so relax.)

Every week I open the farmshare bag with fear because I know that there's more chard in there.

More chard to add to the chard that's already taking up a lot of space in the crisper that's full from the chard coming in from the garden.

I might start having nightmares about chard. Scary red, yellow and green dreams where I am sauteing and boiling and ribbon slicing to no avail because the pile of chard keeps getting bigger and scarier and OH MY HELL!

You know.

If you really do know what I'm talking about because you have a life threatening overabundance in your house, too, or just because you keep seeing these big impressive piles of chard at the farmer's markets - I thought I'd share my new favorite way to get rid of a big ass pile of chard like that *snaps fingers* in a way that is also tasty, fast and a good way to make use of new non-stick pans that were SUPER STICK up until a week ago.

I think I covered all my bases on this one.

Beware though, it does involve some frozen items I've only found at Trader Joe's, but if you're inventive or at all resourceful, I'm sure you can recreate this Chard Killer in your kitchen without too much hassle. And don't judge me for using frozen food because sometimes we can't just be making gnocchi from scratch what with full time jobs and dogs that need walks and just life in general. Ok.

Gorgonzola Gnocchi with Chard

Ingredients
1 T extra virgins
1 package of Trader Giotto's Gorgonzola Gnocchi from Trader Joe's
1 heaping pile (I used 6 gigantor leaves) of chard, sliced into ribbons - chopped stalks set aside
Pepperoncino fino or cayenne pepper powder
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil in your KICK ASS NEW NON-STICK SKILLET or whatever and, once the oil is fragrant, throw in your chopped chard stalks so they can soften up before the rest of the mess goes in the pan. Let these saute for a good five minutes or so before tossing in the whole bag of frozen gnocchi. Stir this around until the cheese melts and the gnocchi is tender - about 5 more minutes.
Pile your heap of ribboned chard on top of the gnocchi in the pan. Stir this all around with the gnocchi until the chard reduces impressively in size. Add pepperoncino, pepper and salt to taste.

Serve.

Super technical recipe, I know, but I will tell you that it was good enough to get two raised eyebrows from Bubba (which is a good sign in our house no matter what it means elsewhere) who normally doesn't like a lot of messing around with his treasured gorgonzola gnocchi letmetellyouwhat.

And since it left a big gaping hole in my crisper where the Chard Farm used to be, I called this a winner and went on about my worrying of WHAT THE F am I going to do with next week's chard since I can't be eating gorgonzola gnocchi all the time if I'm going to wear a bikini in a few short months in front of people who aren't my mom and are therefore not required to tell me that I'm thin and perfect and beautiful and a giant ass is very attractive and "in".

Tell me what you do with your chard so that I can stop stressing over the stuff I'm picking up tonight, ok?

Go.

Adopt a crop update: If it were warmer, this would be more impressive

The weather around here has been a finicky son of a bitch lately.

Like, one minute it's 105 degrees and I think I'm going to die and then the next minute it's fucking raining and I'm out turning the sprinklers off and walking the dog with an umbrella.

Is it April? Is it August? Who the hell can tell.

But, the good news is that these plants of mine are making the best of the crazy ass weather. When it's hot, they grow REAL fast and do things that make me go, "OOH! BUBBA! Look what the garden did!" and when it's raining and chilly, they suck up the moisture and don't get that crispy-around-the-edges look that comes with the heat.

It's very efficient out there and I enjoy that. Plus, nothing else has died and I like that even more.

SO, for a crop update - we've got some future pickles out there, people.


And because my third round of cucumber seeding finally took (Hi! I'm here in this wild kingdom! Can you see me?), I think we might also have some future FUTURE pickles in the event that this poor little plant can grow despite the encroaching everything going on around it.


I like to think that this dude feels protected and cozy rather than claustrophobic and frightened by the very enthusiastic nasturtium and borage going HOG ASS WILD around it. I decided to give it some breathing room by turning the protective overhead cage on its side to push back the other cucumber plant and Super Nasturtium so that this guy didn't get lost in the shrub I call my third vegetable bed.

Plus, he was asking for it by doing this:


So, if he wants out - he's out.

And not to be outdone, the other vegetable monsters are doing things like:

Turning into a beet, slowly but surely

Looking a lot like a radish

Growing anew like a strong little beet after I so rudely pulled it out from another bed

Popping out a new tomato every day

Making peas

Making a lettuce hedge

Growing more chard than I can eat

Plus, the bees are busy like they tend to be and this means good things for all those big blossoms opening up all over the garden.

And if the minutia of these posts hasn't already melted your brain, feel free to hop on over to Flickr to mouse over the photos of these vegetable beds to see exactly what goes where and who is overgrowing whom.

Maybe place some bets. I'll take the squash for $100.

Tomato bed, Squash bed, Cucumber Bed, Other Bed

Thank you for not letting a tree smash our truck.

Do you know who might deserve The Perfect Oatmeal Cookie?

Um, neighbors who don't let a tree fall on your truck, that's who.

So, once upon a time last week, there was this fun situation while Bubba was gone called, "Our Street Tree is About to Drop a Limb on Whoever is Parked in the Street When the Wind Blows".

It was precarious, to say the least.

See, our sad but lovely shade-providing street tree saw a few tumultuous early years before we were there to supervise and/or over water it. Apparently when it was planted as a vulnerable sapling, the former residents of our quaint home had a child or hairless monkey who liked to swing from its bendy and not-so-developed young branches with such frequency that it eventually grew one of its main branches more horizontally than vertically to accommodate this monkey child's swinging needs.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when our big 'ol street tree had a big 'ol limb hanging mostly horizontally out over the street at the exact moment that a brain-damaged meathead in charge of maneuvering a very tall four-panel truck down our street chose to look down at his CD player or pick something out of his pubes and all of a sudden WHAM!

There goes half the tree limb.

When I came home from work, the limb had been placed ever-so-gently on our sidewalk as though to say, "Hello, friend. Here is that tree limb you ordered. Enjoy!"

*Sigh*

Then, a week later after Bubba was out of the country and I was on my way home from work, the tree met with another large but unidentified vehicle likely driven by another absent-minded hammerhead trying to assemble a ship-in-a-bottle or something equally distracting and ridiculous.

(I just refuse to believe that someone could be so idiotic as to be paying full attention to their driving AND still hit our beloved tree, so I'm choosing to imagine that these incidents were fraught with neglect, recklessness and sub-human intelligence.)

Anyhoo, after the last instance of vehicular limb destruction, our tree was left with something of a dangling and crooked arm. Something I didn't immediately notice because I was distracted by the dinner I was planning in my head and the freaking out the dog was doing at the front door since I was late taking her for her walk.

Thankfully one of our very nice neighbors came over to tell me that:

A. I should move the truck because a tree is about to fall on it and,
B. He is going to get his saw and ladder so could I please move the truck now.

He is a man of few, albeit meaningful, words.

I will admit, my first thought was "But what about my dinner I'm SO HUNGRY?", but then I realized that he was probably also not eating his dinner while sawing down my broken tree limb, so I should probably just get the keys and be glad I wasn't going to have to climb up on our ladder with the Sawszall and a death wish before or after my master planned meal.

We assembled in the street, my very nice neighbor and I, and I watched him hacksaw away at this gigantor limb while perched on his ladder, while I did little more than hold the ladder and try not to get in the way.

Just as I was starting to calculate the time it would take for me to then hack up the limb into acceptable Santa Clara County Yard Waste Removal sized pieces, two more neighbors emerged from their houses carrying tree trimming shears and push brooms and before I knew it, this previously aggravating and poorly-timed situation turned into another reason to love our neighborhood.

Much like the relocating of giant piles of dirt and bark mulch, this was not glamorous work, but for some reason, these very nice and also busy people with full time jobs and dinner on the table decided to come help Oh Woe Is Me in her time of tree falling need by gathering their tools and taming The Tree Limb Named Destruction.

It was very heart-warming and also effective since, in the time it took for the three (four, if you count useless Me) of us to cut down, saw and sweep into a pile this giant branch, two police cars and a fire engine showed up to help another house with a tree limb issue.

It was a windy week.

Anyway, I think it was that moment that brought home the magnitude of the situation for me. Specifically, I have rad neighbors that are aware of and seem to care about our comings and goings to the point where they'll go the extra mile to help a sister out when her strapping husband is traveling and, thus, away from his trusty Sawzall.

Despite the fact that we're not the cookie-cutter couple with the two kids and the regularly scheduled Sunday church going and the rules about drinking before 5pm, they'd still rather not watch a tree fall on our truck.

Well, not all the neighbors are like this, but the ones that count anyway.

Anyway, the neighborliness inspired a bit of baking, and since Thimbleanna just posted a recipe for the most perfect looking oatmeal cookies, I set out to make them for our neighbors who didn't let a tree fall on our truck.

For the ones who just sat idly by and made snarky comments about, "Hey that's a nice tree limb on the sidewalk. I bet that'll be a bitch to cut up for the yard waste people.", well, they might get paper bags on their doorstep but it will probably be heavy with something other than oatmeal cookies and it may be on fire.

Just saying.



But for the good ones, they got perfect oatmeal cookies and Bubba thanked them for saving his truck/wife. And then they didn't didn't even say a word about our 2pm cocktail hour.

Those are some good neighbors.

I am such a good date.

I stopped watching Oprah about a million years ago when she brought around that human penis, Dr. Phil, but I remember watching her show and other daytime talk shows (oh college, how I loved your carefree afternoons of drunken TV watching) and all the counseling they'd do of woebegotten women who'd forgotten how to take care of themselves.

Like, they were all sad because the man in their lives wouldn't take them out to dinner or they had no man and didn't get to go out to dinner at all and it was making them feel like less of a woman and does my ass look fat in this muumuu, etc.

Anyway, amidst all the DUH advice she would give them, like, paint your toenails and shave your legs even if you're the only one who's going to see it (perhaps this is why they were not getting man love? Just a thought.) she would also tell them not to forgo doing things just because a man wasn't taking them out to do them. Which, at that drunken time, seemed to me like a lot more DUH advice thankyouverymuch because I was very independent minded and also stubborn like a damn mule so just the suggestion that I might need a man to escort me to my favorite eating establishment (unless I was broke, in which case it was an accepted necessity) was, like, blasphemous.

Then Dr. Human Penis appeared on the show forever and I stopped watching and thus began my lifelong condition known as Throw Up In My Mouth Whenever Oprah is Mentioned.

If you love Oprah and want to leave me a comment about what a despicable whore I am, feel free, but know that I won't read it because it will make me throw up in my mouth.

ANYWAY.

Last week I received a pair of tickets to see the first showing of the new Indiana Jones movie which I was very excited about because I remember when Harrison Ford was REALLY FUCKING HOT and thought I could reminisce about the good old days of hotness by squinting at the screen while he ran around with his hat on chasing spiders or whatever it is those movies are about.

But Bubba is out of town (still, yes.) and all my friends have children or other stupid grown up responsibilities that keep them in lock down during the free-wielding and job-ignoring hour of 4pm, so I was suddenly facing the very real possibility of OMG I might have to go see this movie by myself.

I've never done that. Gone to the movies alone.

I mean, I never pined about Oh, boo, I really want to see XYZ but woe is my sad sack no man will take me, because I don't usually care too much about movies and am happy to wait for Netflix to bring them to my lovely flat screen, but this time, I was sort of getting sad sack-ish.

Until it was the day of and I had been telling people (including Bubba) for, like, four days that, "Oh yeah I'm just going to go by myself and it's not a big deal." even though I was totally *not* going to go because, what, am I going to go alone? Come on, already. Don't be ridiculous.

It seemed like the right thing to say, and frankly the right thing to DO, since I had already started fantasizing about Mr. Ford and his hat and that bullwhip that he always has strapped to his belt and all, but I when it came to actually getting into my car and driving, unaccompanied, to the movie theater, parking the car, walking up to the ticket tearer chick with my one ticket and no one behind me to whom I could say, "Go on, love, I'll meet you at the concessions where I'll be buying the world's largest popcorn." - well, I just couldn't see it.

Until I just went ahead and shut up that stupid bitch in my mind who kept telling me that someone was going to think I was a loser weirdo going to a movie all by my stupid loser self and walked right up to the ticket tearer chick and she was a dude and he was like, "Enjoy the show it's #11 on your right." and no one was laughing.

I didn't even hear one of the five bazillion people in the ticket line (who HAHA had to wait and buy tickets - who's the loser now?!) snicker even quietly under their breaths about the loser girl going to the movies by herself.

Now, maybe I missed it because of the loud screaming by children whose parents do not believe in babysitters or strangling, but I'm pretty sure no one even looked at me weird. Frankly, I think Bubba and I get weirder looks when we're together than I got when I was alone, but that might have to do with the intense game of grabass in which we like to engage.

Who knows?

So I went in. I went up to the concessions and got myself a popcorn, and even though it wasn't the biggest one they had and even though I didn't have anyone to tell about the popcorn I was getting, it was still really fucking good. Which may or may not have had something to do with the amount of Pour Your Own butter I put on it (thank you AMC theaters for this feature - you have enriched my life). I can't say for sure what made it great, but I can say that not having to share makes any concerns about being seen alone in a movie theater go right out the window because when they hand me that little bag (I did indeed get a small because of that other bitch in my mind who won't shut up about the fat ass thing) I know I'm going to get to eat as much or as little of it as I want and no one will say two peeps.

SWEET.

In fact, the whole situation from getting in the car to getting back into the car afterward was pretty enjoyable and scandal-free. In fact, I had a few singles sitting around me, all carefully spaced out with a seat between us, we made Row #5 look like the Place To Be If You're a Self-Righteous Movie Watcher until Thickness and his band of Cheeto Munchers came sidling up behind our row going, "Hey, are those seats taken and can you just all scootch down so that we can all sit together and make a lot of disgusting eating noises while alternately scratching our asses on the armrests?"

Ok, so I made that last part up, but they were, in fact, gross and eating Cheetos and they smelled like old dog's breath. Whatever, I scootched down to the far end of the row away from them and their orange fingers and butts and enjoyed my popcorn while watching a not totally un-hot Harrison Ford chase a misshapen glass head around a jungle while he wore his hat almost the whole time and used his bullwhip at least three times in the first scene.

Thank you for that, Harrison.

Anyway, at the end of the day I decided that I am a very good movie date.

I usually get good parking spots, I'm totally up for movie snacks, I remember to put my cell phone on vibrate, I don't make conversation with the amazing crackheads that sit close by and when the movie's over, I'm all for taking the exit at the front of the theater that goes out to parking lot instead of mooing through the cattle drive out past the restrooms with everyone else since I don't have to pee every five minutes.

And so, even though I was tearing off of work to go see a movie rated in the PGs, I felt like a grown-up. Like I'd done a grown-up thing that grown-up people would do in the event that a movie was happening and they had tickets and no one to go with them to sit and chew popcorn side by side in a dark room.

Plus, my toes are always painted and my legs are ALWAYS shaved and I play a mean game of grabass, so I might just be a good and grown-up movie date in general. I suppose that is always a possibility.

I'm not even mad.

There's a careful balance in our house that I never EVER want to upset.

Specifically, I do the cooking and Bubba does the dishes.

It is very rad because that means I get to master plan meals like a mini-psycho Iron Chef (without the cow eyeballs like they do on TV) and make them without having to take any time or mess saving measures to avoid having to do ONE MORE DISH OH MY GAWD I CAN'T MANAGE IT.

This is important because it means that I won't leave out a crucial ingredient like, say, the pork in Ultracrunchy Baked Pork Chops, just because it's going to mean I have to clean another bowl or pan or cutting board or whatever.

I'm very lazy and we know this.

I mean, I'm very enthusiastic at the outset of a recipe. I put together my careful little shopping list and go hunt down all the ingredients from where ever they may hide (even if that means I have to buy poppy seeds in bulk at the fruit stand three hours from my house on a trip to my mom's so that I can have them on hand for bread WHATEVER) and then I regroup in my kitchen, put on my apron, spread them all out before me and then dive in like a witch at her cauldron all sure of myself that I'm about to create something fabulous and incredible that will knock the socks right off of my beloved YAY!

But once that fabulousness is all plated and then eaten with glee, the thought of doing dishes is enough for me to start checking my steak knife for sharpness.

When Bubba gets up from the table and clears our dishes and walks to the sink with the determination and focus of a Marine - To Do The Dishes - it is really quite swoon-worthy. I love it a lot.

AND SO - it is important that we don't upset the man as he's making his way through these dishes. We want him content, satiated and well-stocked with supplies with which he can achieve the utmost cleanliness of dishes.

So when I hear groaning and scrubbing and scritching and swearing and then also see the handle of my favorite and most well loved skillet flicking around with annoyed rage, I have to investigate.

Even worse is when I slap the skillet down on the stove-top as I'm preparing my witch's brew of fabulous dinnerosity and hear Bubba ask me in his most Don't Hate Me When I Suggest This But Please voice to maybe use more oil in the pan because it's impossible to get the burnt-on ugliness off after I sear the ever loving crap out of the chicken on there.

Oh.

But wait? That, my love, is a non-stick pan. Everything should just wash right off. No scrubbing required.

Not so.

It seemed, after four years of almost daily use, that my beloved 10" Calphalon NON-STICK skillet had somehow become SUPER-STICK. As in, every fucking thing was sticking to it and was not coming off. As in, Bubba was having to use a gallon of soap and scorching hot water and all manner of elbow, knee and toe grease to get it even marginally clean. And it was making him mad.

NO!

What if he won't do dishes anymore? What if I have to start doing them? WHAT IF I DIE DOING DISHES?

Unthinkable.

Idea: Send that shit back and tell them it's broken.

Assumption: They won't give a rat's behind and will keep my skillet and send me a Xerox of their asses.

Reality: One week after shipping it to them with a note detailing my inappropriate devotion and love for this pan, a brand spanking new one shows up on my doorstep, no questions asked. And frankly, no details supplied. Just a new pan.

Which is fine by me.

NEW PAN!

So, Bubba is coming home soon from his worldly travels and I have a lot of cooking in store. Cooking that will involve my brandie new supah slippery very easy to clean 10" Calphalon Contemporary Non Stick skillet and no cow eyeballs whatsoever.

But maybe some pork.

Calphalon people - I like you guys and won't talk shit about you here like I do other people that piss me off. Good job!

I'm almost done knitting something

Seriously, even if this sweater looks like a pile of horse shit when I'm done, I doubt I'll care because then I'll have officially knit a sweater which is, I think, the hallmark of actually being a knitter.

Not that I haven't been knitting for about eight years now (minus the giant hiatus I just came back from thanks to The Great Wool is Gross on My Skin Realization of 2008) and not like I haven't made a lot of things, but to me, an official Knitter is someone who has the demonstrated ability to make a sweater.

Because what is the annoying first thing anyone asks you when they find out that you knit?

"Did you KNIT that sweater you're wearing?!!"

And if you're not wearing a sweater at the time they will ask you in that same excited about-to-pee-the-floor-with-astonishment voice,

"Can you knit ME a sweater??"

Now, I don't want to knit anyone a sweater because I'm a bitch who's selfish with her time BUT I would like to be able to at least say that I could knit them a sweater if I wanted to which I don't sorry I don't have that kind of free time or whatever.

Yeah, so it's not always fuzzy nice playtime at Finny's house.

ANYWAY.

I'm almost done with my #1 sweater and I'm pretty excited about it. Mostly because it doesn't look like a total pile of horse shit right now (don't let the photo deceive you - it looks much more promising in person and while drinking) and I still really love the yarn I chose and for which I nearly had to mortgage my house.

I still kinda wish that it were a solid army green rather than this variegated business, but I realize that when I go to buy yarn I have a hard time just picking a normal solid color because it seems boring and I get all distracted by the pretty colors and LOOK HOW FUN THIS ONE IS and I have no real control over my buying habits at that point, so now that I know this about myself, I'll be more aware of my tendencies and will aim to go back and buy a nice solid color yarn for my next sweater.

OH YEAH I SAID IT, PEOPLE: my next sweater.

Which, based on how this one turns out in the end, may be another Hourglass Sweater knitted in a worsted cotton of, perhaps, navy blue. Solid navy blue.

And if I get all big balls it might even have a button placket on one shoulder that I can leave unbuttoned like my TV crush at present so I can pretend I live in his clothes because I'm a weirdo like that.

As a side note, this is a habit in which I indulge while Bubba is out of town, too, so if the sweater is ever knit, Bubba will only be able to go out of town during cold months when it will make sense for me to wear both his clothes and this sweater at the same time.

Otherwise, I might look like a crazy or something.

Anyway, I'll be back with final photos when this sweater is all the way done.

I hope it does not look like shit when I put it on and take a picture otherwise you might just be seeing a photo of it wadded up on the floor looking a lot like someone pitched a tantrum right on it.