Five Green Acres

Not Paper towels

November 4, 2009 · Filed under I sew.

Here’s a little something I’ve been meaning to share for awhile.

I wanted to see if we could go without buying paper towels. I got tired of buying them, or more specifically, dreaded going to the great, big, bustling Mega Grocery Store that is at the exact opposite end of the Shopping Experience spectrum from my idyllic, shiny-happy, smells-good food coop where I do all my other shopping. And I got tired of feeling guilty for using giant pieces for little things and feeling like I was wasting them. For better or worse, there is some kind of Eco Red-Alert system that lives deep within my brain, and most activities using paper towels set it off with a quickness. I got tired of deactivating it, so when we ran out of paper towels, I decided to see what would happen if I just didn’t buy more. Well, that didn’t work. There were still messes too gross to tackle with the dishcloth-that-touches-the-things-we-eat-off-of; the dogs were still making all kinds of disgusting messes on the floor. (Hey – who wants to buy two sweet pugs? Step right up.)

So I made the logical mental leap that a person using cloth diaper wipes several times a day, who’s also looking to stop using paper towels is bound to make: cloth not-paper towels. Easy-breezy. I pulled out the towering stack of flannel receiving blankets, assessed that our baby was plenty well received and indeed too big for them, and cut them into what I deemed was the ideal size. I then took that even-more-towering stack of squares straight to my serger, flipped on the switch, and squealed with delight as I serged the edges. Here was yet another project to file away in the “THIS is why I needed to buy that fancy, newer, threads-itself-with-elfin-magic serger” category. (All the money I save from not buying paper towels will practically pay for the serger…..yeah, not really. But practically….no, not even close.)

The nifty hanging bucket was made in a frenzy of bucket-making that coincided with the purchase of Maya*Made’s Bucket Pattern. That great graphic fabric was some table linen I thrifted years ago and was too timid to use, for fear of not making something good enough with it. (Glad I got over that.) A note about the bucket pattern: I sew a lot. I’ve made a lot of bags, containers, etc. Hell, I’ve even designed my own diaper bag, so I could have certainly figured out how to make it myself without the pattern. But I had a hunch that she had the process and the pattern perfected, with all the bugs worked out, and I guessed that I could even learn a better way to construct a bag like that. And boy, was I right – what a great pattern. It’s concise, well-written and approaches the construction with a way better method than I had envisioned as I pre-sewed it in my head. This is a good lesson for a sewer who’s often tempted to figure it out herself. Did I mention that I’ve made a bunch of these? And I have many more to go; I may have even redesigned the layout of my studio to house a whole shelf full of these buckets. But that’s a story for another day, for some time in the future after I excavate my sewing work table and dust off the pattern.

And the Not-Paper cloths? A tremendous success. There are enough of them to keep the bucket always partially full, while the dirties circulate in the wash. And because it’s always just a few here, there, they fit nicely into the nooks and crannies of the existing laundry loads, not really creating more to wash. This makes my Eco Red Alert system happy. As for the really gross stuff – I use other rags, from tshirts and what-not, to wipe up those, and dedicate a small load for them alone. And for the really, really disgusting, too-disgusting-for-my-washing-machine dog messes? I’ve found that there are enough paper napkins saved from to-go restaurant meals or drive-through ice cream cones to take care of those.

Potential eco disaster averted….for now.

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Halloween Recap – 2009

November 2, 2009 · Filed under I'm Momma; this is my family.

Halloween morning presented the perfect opportunity to finally carve our pumpkins. The chill of the pumpkins’ cavernous innards was nicely tempered with the persistent warmth of the kitchen wood stove. The floor was awash in pumpkin detritus.

A modified Dorothy costume made its way into our Halloween festivities after all. This was for the best, I realized; it would have been waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too cold to wear any configuration of it Trick-or-Treating and still have it recognizable as Dorothy.

The Boy also enjoyed the festivities. Pumpkin is a widely accepted “first food,” right?

This Unicorn, though lame, lame by our usually-high “Halloween-is-Handmade” standards, was nonetheless very warm and pink and exuberant. In hindsight, it was a tremendous luxury to spend the time preceding Trick-or-Treating not scrambling with the final stages of costume production. It was uncharacteristically low-key this year, which was just what we needed, considering it was also the first weekend spent at home in a long, long, long time.

The Boy Who Was to Be a Chili Pepper was in fact too big to be a chili pepper and instead went as Brown Bear. Never mind that this is his normal Going Outside warm outfit, at least for the next 10 minutes, until he completely grows out of it.

After Trick-or-Treating, we hopped aboard a Haunted Hayride, where we spied a spooky Headless Horseman, then warmed ourselves with s’mores, popcorn, and hot chocolate by the bonfire. I could tell you that it was a great Halloween, just what we needed this year, but I think Errol says it all. We were worn out, but happy.

The Mayor of Emerald City

October 28, 2009 · Filed under I knit. (and crochet)

The Wizard of Oz is on my mind this morning, after sending off The Girl to her Preschool Halloween party not in the Dorothy costume I made for her, but the dragon costume I bought at Goodwill over the weekend for $4.99. I had bought it as a dress-up costume, for everyday play, but realize now the folly of my timing. This morning has been a lesson in pride-swallowing and bending to the whims, unpredictable as they are, of this 4 year old. (Really, a DRAGON costume is not “less pretty” than Dorothy’s dress and ruby red slippers? Really?)

Thankfully this Boy is loving the Emerald City rag rug I’ve finished, the first of two. Perhaps you’ll remember when I first posted about the project? Now, as I reread that, I see that I promised to keep you all updated on the progress. Well, folks, there hadn’t been much. Said rug, in all its urgency, was quickly replaced by Painting! and Curtains! and other third-trimester super-human feats.

And then, about a month ago, the real urgency hit: The Boy needs to move around on the floor – the bare, hardwood, cold floor. Better get busy with that rug. So I pulled out the basket of greens and surveyed the scene. I quickly realized, with some dismay, that one large 8ft by 10ft rug was really not the best solution for the layout of the living room. (Really – what was I thinking?) What I needed were two smaller rugs, more flexible in future rearranging schemes. So I ripped out the crocheted part I had completed last winter in front of the fire. A few hours of crochet time was undone in about 45 minutes. Now, before you gasp too loudly, you should know that the most time-consuming part of the process is not in the crocheting, but in cutting the fabric into 1″ strips. So that work was not lost – as I unraveled it, I rewound the rags into giant balls to re-crochet, this time into a round rug. And about a month later, I think it’s done, at about 5ft in diameter. What fun it’s been, too, crocheting it. A little here, a little there, it’s so gratifying to work on because the progress is so dramatic – one revolution around the circle increases the diameter by about 2 1/2 inches. Just the thing for my short knitting/crocheting attention span.

And The Boy loves it. He hasn’t quite cracked the code of crawling yet, though I expect he will in about 10 minutes. As soon as that happens, this small triumph of a rug will be rendered far less protective, once he leaves its cushioning confines. Already he’s scooting to the edge, then tipping over to bonk his sweet little head on the maple floor. I’d better stop reveling in the fruits of my labor and get going on that second rug.

Yeah, I’m talking about YOU, Boy.

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The Annual Garden Report

October 27, 2009 · Filed under We grow things.

After last years’ less than successful Intro to Big Country Gardening, we approached this growing season with a pretty hearty measure of realism. We had a new baby, only weeks old, not many openings in the calendar, and we could still feel the sting of last years’ lack of success. So we decided not to put in a garden at all. That’s right, I told myself, just let go of the idea that you have to put in a garden and supply all the veggies you want your family to eat for a whole year. Ok. Done. I looked at my fresh-from-the-womb baby and thought, yes, I can let that go.

So I bounced the radical idea off Andrew, who took some coaxing, but then also agreed to let it go.

And then, the weekend before Memorial Day, we found ourselves unexpectedly at home, a WHOLE WEEKEND with no plans; a blank slate. So, of course, we went to the Farmer’s Market with our newly-acquired (rummage sale!) off-road Radio Flyer wagon and I filled it to the brim with heirloom tomato plants, peppers, cabbages, an eggplant, fennel, onions, collards, and, oh my gosh – CELERIAC! (I really, really wanted to grow celeriac) We returned home with a tiller, obliterated the overgrown wasteland that had triumphed over last year’s efforts, and tucked in the last plants and seeds as the first drops of rain arrived, the precursor to a nice, soaking thunderstorm. We talked about how, for it to work, we had to keep up with the weeds, as a family. The spring air was swollen with hope and optimism and water-soaked seeds.

Then, of course, Summer hit us with its full force. We got out to weed a few times in the first couple of weeks and then completely lost control. But what a strange summer it was – so cool, even cold, much more than it was seasonably warm. We harvested a couple of heads of broccoli. Come tomato-harvesting time, our tomatoes were lagging behind, firmly stuck in the green and hard stage. As they slowly started ripening, I realized they were stricken with the blight that was prevalent all over. I harvested a handful of jalapeno peppers and one bell pepper from the few plants that managed to sneak past the neighboring bully weeds. The red cabbage has still not formed heads. The green grew to the size of a softball before I harvested it. (that is very, very small)

A triumph, though, was the garlic. Planted late last fall, I again called upon the talents of my Garlic Girl and we harvested a healthy stash of garlic to carry us through the winter. Also, there was a lot of popcorn. I waited patiently to harvest it, letting it dry on the stalks. Mostly, I forgot all about it, until that day last week, when we set out in the sunshine.

After all that hard work, we shucked the cobs, and laid them out on the picnic table to admire them.

There was a lot more drying that needed to be done, so they were loosely piled in a bushel basket….until they were discovered on Sunday to be molding. Sigh. “Popcorn” has been moved from the Garden Success column to the Abysmal Garden Failures, Threatening all Future Garden Plans column. And that is where this year’s harvest leaves off- frustration and bitter disappointment.

Same mantra for next year: scale back. Because we will no doubt try it again; such is the way of gardening, I’m gathering. We will surely give it another go. But there will be store-bought popcorn this winter.

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Barn Dance

October 20, 2009 · Filed under We like music.

When I told Isadora that we had gone to a barn dance the night she spent with Grandma and Grandpa, she replied with a puzzled, “isn’t that just for animals?” Indeed, we had read a book about a midnight barn dance, where the animals paired up and stole out of the barn to partake in some secret midnight dancing. No, I responded with a laugh, there were no animals, but it was no less magical. As we lay there snuggling together at bedtime, I described the scene for her.

The night air was that perfect combination of sharp cold and crispness that only October can perfectly conjure. The barn, a grand old structure, was illuminated with a few simple spotlights. The windows gave mention of tiny white lights dancing around the vertical beams within. The magic wafted through the drafty slats of barn wood, drawing us in with wispy tendrils of fiddles, banjo, and guitar. In we went. And we were looking sharp, dressed as we imagined appropriate for such an occasion: beaver skin hat and red square-toe boots. (unfortunately not picked up by the photographer)

It was actually our third square dance in about as many months. How great is that??? I don’t think I’ve yet mentioned the Date-Night-to-Define-All-Subsequent-Date-Nights that we shared the first night of the Sugar Maple Music Fest. I’d better bring you up to speed. That first night of the Sugar Maple, we had secured a babysitter for the kids and headed out to the fest. On the way, I mentioned seeing something about an old-time dance later that evening. Frankly, we were just happy to be going – the specifics of the entertainment were icing on the cake. At the fest, when they announced that dance lessons for the upcoming dance were being given in a smaller tent, we went, expecting to finally learn how to waltz, maybe, or some other mysterious dance. I didn’t know what kind of moves were involved in an old-time dance, but we were game for anything. It was Date Night, after all. When Dot, our ebullient instructor, lined us up by couples to form a square… the light in my head went on. I turned to Andrew, my eyes lit up, big as saucers, and exclaimed in as contained of a whisper as I could manage in my excitement, “THIS IS A SQUARE DANCE!!!” How funny that we had no idea until that very moment. And what a terrific surprise! We absolutely loved it. And we gushed on and on about it to our friends, family, ourselves for weeks after. Where could we get more of this? We were hooked.

photo courtesy of Wikipedia

When my friend Lily sent an invite to her Square Dance Birthday Party, you know we rearranged our schedule to accommodate it, bringing our camping friends along with us before setting off the next day on the lively camping trip mentioned here. And that very night, I spied on her fridge the poster for the Barn Dance that became our third dance of the year. So far. There’s lots of dancing time left.

This is a shot I snapped on the very last teeny-tiny bit of battery power, right before my camera called it a night. A collection fit for a living history museum exhibit, these are the Caller’s own collection of dances, a whole index card file of allemandes and promenades and do-se-dos. The incalculable value of this repository struck a nerve with me. They’re not unlike Great-Grandma’s recipe cards, a meager bunch of ingredients jotted down on an index card, their dishes coming to life only with the knowing hand of the card’s author, or through someone well versed in Great-Grandma’s method. These particular cards and dances are almost meaningless to anyone but their author, yet in his knowing hands are worth their weight in gold.

I might add that I haven’t always been so enthusiastic about square dancing. If you were to time-travel and find my 7th-grade-self amidst the dreaded square dance unit of gym class and hand her a printed copy of this blog entry, she’d no doubt look at you through her hair-spray-encrusted, intricately lofted bangs and smirk, “Yeah, right.” It’s hard for a girl wearing MC Hammer pants and black patent leather shoes to don the glasses of the future and foresee it holding anything musical but more Milli Vanilli or Vanilla Ice. I have to think that Mrs. K, who patiently taught us the steps of square dancing way back when, even though it must have seemed a lost cause for our ” too cool” selves, would have a bit more faith in my generation if she could see how her diligence has come back to serve me well.

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Tiny Desk Concert: The Swell Season

October 14, 2009 · Filed under We like music.

This is making me really, really happy right now. If you like it, check out the whole Tiny Desk Concert via podcast or YouTube.

Flowers dried.

October 13, 2009 · Filed under We grow things.

Nasturtium flowers, snatched from the garden before Jack Frost descended with his prickly white blanket. What to do with these? I haven’t decided.

Calendula blossoms. These represent only a fraction of the calendula that grew in my garden this summer. I had intended to harvest much, if not all, of it. But didn’t. Which is a shame, because Calendula packs within it a punch that makes illness run for its life. It brings munitions to keep Immunity well-stocked. Which would be handy these days, what with the Swine Flu. I haven’t yet mentioned how the buzz about the porcine illness has got me shaken up a bit. But it has. In an effort to protect myself and family, I’ve cut off all contact with pigs.

And I almost left it at that, cut off this post with that closing statement, to leave you wondering if I was serious. But you know better than that, right? Right?

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Tomato Math

October 5, 2009 · Filed under We are busy in the kitchen.

Tomatoes have been the thrumming beat moving us steadily through the days of late September and early October. Some stretches of milling, peeling, or canning have been marathon-like, blocking out all else on the To Do list; others have been snuck into the regular workings of the day like rags plugged into a drafty window. Now lining the shelves of our pantry are various representatives from the Tomato Clan: stewed tomatoes, the backbone of the pantry and only repeat visitor, as well as some new visitors - Tomato Soup, Ketchup, Pizza Sauce, Plain Tomato Sauce. Slated to arrive shortly: Spaghetti Sauce. Three boxes of Grandma’s Roma tomatoes are waiting patiently for their transformation, the final bit of tomato canning for the season. I hope. I think that I, too, have participated in the grand tomato metamorphosis: my blood has no doubt turned tomato, the bouquet of scent that is My Own now carries with it the unmistakeably essences of garlic, onion, and basil.

It should be said that these tomatoes are not from my own garden, for the most part. The Blight that was pandemic this summer found our overcrowded, not weeded, not-properly-supported tomato plants the perfect place to take up residence. So I secured 30 lbs from a local grower and stewed them. And then I bought three bushels (150 lbs) of the biggest tomatoes you’ve ever seen from the farmer’s market. And we made ketchup, soup, pizza sauce, and running out of steam in the last bushel, just plain old sauce, unable to chop one more onion or head of garlic. Somewhere in the second bushel, as we were elbow deep in blanched tomatoes, the phone rang. It was Mom, wondering if we could use any of Grandma’s surplus. Andrew laughed as he handed me the phone, that laugh that is a combination of irony and weariness and look-out-here-we-go-again. Turning away good (free) tomatoes nurtured by Grandma’s magic hands is surely bad karma, and I try to respect the karmic rules at all times. So they sit right now, a chorus of red voices chanting, whispering, and beckoning, the volume growing ever louder as they reach the peak of ripeness and pull me away from all else but the sink, the mill, and the giant roaster that will turn them into sauce.

Lucky for me, I have help. Lots of it, in fact – Mom and Grandma teamed up to can 3o quarts of stewed tomatoes for us, securing their spots as Most Prized Mom and Grandma for a long time to come.

So here’s the math:

310 lbs raw tomatoes yield:

6 pints of ketchup

6 pints of pizza sauce

45 quarts of stewed tomatoes

6 quarts of soup

5 quarts of plain sauce

and an estimated 9 or 10 quarts of spaghetti sauce

That’s a lot of tomatoes.

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Mr. Dapper Man

September 22, 2009 · Filed under I sew., I'm Momma; this is my family.

A family wedding provided the perfect opportunity, er, excuse, to sew Errol a nice party suit. It was a prototype of sorts, crafted while he slept, with only some measurements and other clothes of his to use as a fitting guide. It’s about 90% perfect; a bit tight around the hay-belly, as you can see, and a smidge too tight around the big fat cloth diaper butt. I had no idea it would be so fun to make little clothes for a boy! Given the appalling lack of ready-to-wear options, it would seem that very little designing time was spent on the little guys. No matter – I can do it myself, thank you.

The fabric is some faux-herringbone velvet-like fabric I pulled from my stash. (this is why it’s nice to have a big stash) I lined the pants with white flannel for a comfy softness befitting wee, chubby legs. The bow tie, crowning the ensemble like a juicy red cherry, was actually a man-sized bow tie that I had to cut down to size and sew shut by hand. The embroidered running stitch along the edges of the vest was great fun too, and made for an entertaining ride in the car as we traveled to the wedding. Because of course I finished it hours before the wedding. Of course I did.

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The Camp Hat, or THIS IS WHY I KNIT

September 9, 2009 · Filed under I knit. (and crochet)

I think this story is straight out of the DIY Homesteader’s Handbook. Or it should be.

Let me set the scene for you.

We’ve just arrived at our campsite. Baby is juggled, Girl is happily riding her bike. Captain Daddio assembles the tent, the cots, arranges the tent layout, almost single-handedly. In a rare moment of baby-nursing, camp-chair-rocking meditation, the wee, usually-muted voice of my subconscious was finally allowed to speak. We packed no sleeping bags or pillows. Damn.

Driving home and back to get them was out of the question. Instead, we headed to town to see what we could find. Two more sleeping bags would have a legitimate place in our camping stash, we reasoned, once the kids got bigger. In the little town with a big tourist economy, we combed the streets for a purveyor of sleeping bags. After attempting to live the “buy local” ideal I support, the owner of the hardware store shook his head and pointed the way to that great, big, evil store I despise so much. Daddio ventured in and returned with two sleeping bags of varying quality (slim pickings this time of year) and a heaping slice of humble pie.

And that night was cold. So cold. I had drawn the short straw and was stuck with the sleeping bag of lesser quality, which, when you close your eyes, feels rather like a handful of plastic bags sewn together. Plastic bags with that big W logo on it, I imagined, and a smiley face spiting my every attempt at sleep. Errol and I shared this bag throughout the long, tortuous night. To be fair, Daddio was sharing his sleeping-bag-made-by-a-legitimate-manufacturer-of-camping-gear with Isadora, which he claims was no better. Isadora said she slept great.

So this was the precursor to our jaunt into a nearby town the next day: a bit crabby, sleep-deprived, and looking for a better solution. Daddio’s first stop en route to the fishing lake was to return to the scene of the crime and buy some more blankets. A good man, that one. Me? I started fantasizing about a hat. That would have made all the difference, I surmised. If only I had a hat.

Wouldn’t you know we came upon this Utopian shoppe, nestled among the other quaint stores of the town? The first hank of yarn I spied was the chartreuse – locally spun wool dyed naturally with french marigolds. Are you kidding me???? You know I had no choice but to buy it. The sheer magnetic force of that yarn drew me to the bin of local alpaca roving. There was a small reddish ball in there that would be perfect paired with the chartreuse, and soooo soft against the skin. Sold. I sought out one of the owners and gave her the lowdown: was camping, was cold, needed to knit a hat REAL FAST. Could she recommend a simple, quick pattern, something maybe like this example here? Oh sure, she said, and told me the simple how-to. Then, an epiphany, and she went to her own knitting bag, pulled out an index card with the basic instructions written on it: Elf Hat with Ear Flaps. EAR FLAPS! I shrieked, for all to hear. That’s perfect! I guess I said that pretty loudly, but I wasn’t fazed by the strange looks or giggles. It happens to me a lot.

Edit: You can find the pattern here!

And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I knit. Knitting is POWER. Power to see a problem (damn cold) and to solve it. (with gorgeous, local fibers)

Yes, yes, I know that any normal person could have just gone out and bought a hat or toughed it out another night without, but that just wasn’t an option for me. This, rather, was the realization of a long-born DIY fantasy, a test of resourcefulness and think-on-your-feet-ed-ness, whose solution (a warm, awesome hat) produced incalculable satisfaction from its inception en route to the campground, to its completion by the campfire, illuminated by the soft glow of lantern and fire light. Aahh. No, really – aaaaaaahhh. Is it a coincidence that my favorite books growing up were of the Alone-in-the-Wilderness; Must-Be-Resourceful-to-Survive genre? Probably not.

And it was lovely to sleep in. Lovely and warm. The tails of the yarn were woven in minutes before the hat was called to action, about 10pm, I believe, keeping my promise to finish it before going to bed. I didn’t even have to sleep with 4 double pointed needles attached to the unfinished hat, though that was Plan B. I chose to knit two strands of the chartreuse together to create a bulkier yarn that also knit up faster. A good move. Technically, it’s not exactly the best showing of my knitting: I did some random decreasing in the wrong places, probably stopped too soon at the top, and have a few ends still sticking out. But hey – the lighting was poor and the lively campfire conversation had me laughing too much to concentrate fully. And the hat is a bit too big. Perhaps the medium size would be perfect? My anal left brain tells me to rip this out and re-knit in the smaller size, omitting the random errors this time, but my right brain says NO! It’s perfect as it is! I wonder which side will win? Right now, I’m leaning towards keeping it as is and reveling in the hat as a culmination of an experience.

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