Posie Gets Cozy

Mmmmm-mornin'

Monday ("Pastry-bag-day") already, huh? That weekend was sloooow, yet too fast. It was sloooow because it felt like the first one in I don't even know how long where Andy and I had nothing to do and nowhere to go. We puttered. He puttered, I sat. Mostly cross-stitching and smocking (show ya later). Tick tick tick the hours went by, quiet and slow. We watched Persuasion and Uncle Buck. He made rice pudding and Swedish meatballs. I made chicken and broccoli. Clover got long walks. We considered going various places and decided not to. Man, it was so great. All of us here needed that so much.

I'm blushing furiously over how many people downloaded the Pleasant Kitchen Dishtowel designs. Shelly told me she checked the stats last night and the pdf had been downloaded 1,717 times. DUDES! Seriously? I'm so pleased that you like them. I have really loved doing this project, and plan to finish all the bindings this week and help you with that, too. Really I'm just completely delighted that both the concept and the designs have found such kindred spirits. Some projects just need to be shared, so thank you for welcoming this one!

On Friday morning I attended a free "webinar" at Blurb. com. This was such a cool presentation, where you phone in to hear a lecture about making books with Blurb, and walks you through all the steps on screen. I first heard of Blurb last summer but I never really had time to do anything about it. I was a little intimidated by the software every time I started playing with it, too. But last month, when I wrote this post about the tomato soup and you shared your own family favorites, I had an idea to collect it all in a Blurb book. If I do decide to do it, I will send out a call to anyone who wants to participate, and have you resubmit your story, a recipe, and a photo of the food (or whoever made it for you). Then I'll take everything and format it into a Blurb book that would be available for everyone. I am excited about the idea, and just have to see when I will have time this spring to get going on it. I'll keep you posted on how it all shakes down, but just be thinking of one.

Dishtowel Thinking

I worked on the dishtowels all weekend and finished the embroidery part last night. I couldn't resist getting a bunch of new little 1/2 yards of fabric as I tried to pick something for the binding. I'll work on the binding edges tonight and hopefully finish many of them to show you tomorrow, and have the pattern, at least, available by the weekend. I'm very pleased with these.

I thought about my grandma a whole lot while I was doing these towels. For some reason they just reminded me of her and her kitchen so much, even though the items I pictured are things from mine. My grandparents bought their first house when they were in their seventies; previous to that they owned several apartment buildings on the west side of Chicago and in Oak Park, the last being at 209 S. Oak Park Avenue, on the corner of Pleasant Street across from St. Edmund Church and school. I lived in this building until I was three, when in 1972 my parents bought our house in River Forest, but my grandparents continued to own "the building" for many years afterwards, living there as landlords. We girls spent a lot of time with them. They moved to their little ranch house in River Forest, just across the park from our house, sometime in the early '80s, I think. We lived a block west but on the other side of a tall railroad trestle that bordered both our street on the east and theirs on the west, and so their back yard led onto the wooded hill that lofted those tracks about twenty feet above the houses. It ran along the length of our streets, and across the town, headed northwest to Minnesota and beyond. That was the Soo Line, and the sound of its locomotives and freight cars rolling along the tracks across from our house was a constant companion of my childhood, and I think my love of trains developed there. I miss the sound of that steady, soulful thing, especially at night, so much. Our neighborhood was an urban place, yet so sleepy and wooded because of the tracks, and the park, and that's what I always loved about living in River Forest, and still miss. I think living in the house was very quiet for my grandparents, compared to when they owned the building, in the middle of businesses and restaurants near the El tracks and the intersections, and had dozens of tenants to attend to. They were city people. I wonder if they liked that River Forest quiet. I don't know. I think they were probably lonely there.

My grandma wore what she called "housedresses" every day, and those were made of calicos of the kind that I feel nostalgic and even very emotional about now — tiny prints on dark backgrounds, usually navy or black. She made all the dresses herself, and they were very simple A-line dress without linings or facings, just trimmed in contrast-colored bias tape, with two big patch pockets on the front and probably a keyhole neckline that tied in the back with long ends of bias tape. My sissy and I were on the phone yesterday talking about fabric, and grandma's dresses, and where they were (all gone now). My mom was here over the weekend and I showed her the dishtowels and the fabric I had chosen for the trim and she immediately exclaimed, "That's so grandma!" without me even telling her what I was going for, so I felt I'd gotten it right.

When I think of my grandparents' little kitchen, I think about afternoons, and their table, covered in oilcloth, where my grandpa sat and peeled a yellow apple with a paring knife every single day. I think about the ridged, rectangular coconut cookies they bought every week from Dominick's. I think about this aqua blue plastic holder that they always had for their 1/2 gallon milk container, to make it easier to pour. I think about how disappointed my grandma was that her stove in the house was electric, and she never really got over that. As I write this, I suddenly realize that I've talked about it before. The images bubble up, usually the same, some absent, some new, but so . . . few, and always fraught with longing. Sometimes I feel like I could just sit and write about my grandma all day, even what little I know. When I buy little pieces of fabric, I feel closer to her. Those fabrics feel like home when home is gone.

Snow Village

On Sunday, I put up my precious and most-beloved village, and saw snowflakes. For a few minutes, snow was there, and I watched at the window thinking it was an illusion. As nonchalantly as it started, it stopped. In that moment, I missed Illinois more than I can say.

I had a memory of standing in Ann's apartment in Hyde Park near the University of Chicago watching the snow pile up, later walking in our wool coats and leather boots to the Medici for a bowl of ravioli, and later watching Roman Holiday on her tiny TV as the snow continued to fall past the streetlights.

Until I moved to Oregon ten years ago, snow was a major part of my life. It's a major part of most Midwesterners' lives, really. There's a sort of camaraderie snow engenders that rain doesn't inspire. Snow seemed to unite us. I walked to Keystone Park with my pom-pom topped skates over my shoulder most Sundays. I'd meet Monica at the end of my street. At school she acknowledged me if necessary, but back in our neighborhood we had a secret, simpler life we rarely discussed beyond its borders. Underneath our jeans we'd wear long underwear, two pairs of socks. At the park, they'd plow the snow into stout, frozen berms and then flood the big field, adding layer after layer of ice. We'd change into our skates in the old warming house then skate for hours and hours, practicing figures, chasing and fleeing, learning to spin, thinking up complicated routines and judging each other harshly for our efforts. We were not good, and neither of us had ever had a lesson, but we skated in that park every winter for years. Behind the huge, gnarled oak trees of our old, pretty town the sun set low and glowing. It was so, so cold. I'd walk home as it was getting dark, and the house would be dark and very warm, my mom making sauce, my dad smoking and watching Channel 11. I'd stand at the sink, frozen-cheeked and wild-eyed, and run my hands under warm water until I could feel my fingers again. Then I'd stand there, still and warming, until someone told me to shut the water off already, and move along.

Woodland Hearts

Yesterday we had a busy day but it was nice to get into the Christmas spirit.

We'd gone to the tree lot last week when I had my idea about garland — and thank you to everyone who had such great ideas about making garland from cuttings. Sweet Nadja at Red Shed Trees, a local tree farm that has been selling trees in our neighborhood for years, was so nice — she gave me a big box of free cuttings from the bottoms of her trees. I had strong suspicions that I would not really want to be making my own garland the minute I read the comments. Then when I saw the cuttings — well, the sight of the cuttings made me want to curl up on the sofa and drink hot cocoa and watch someone else make the garland. But that's just me. I left the cuttings in the trunk of my car and I will say that they made the whole car smell great.

So yesterday we went back to the tree lot and bought the feathery, delicious-smelling garland ready-made at $1 a foot. Nadja still has lots of cuttings there that she says you can have for free if you are more ambitious than I am and want to make your own. Andy and I decided that it is probably better this year to not have a tree and make it a little easier on the puppers (and, frankly, on us) — our tree is silver tinsel, and very old and fragile, and totally covered with vintage glass balls. A puppy's Christmas dream come true. Well, we will miss you, sweetheart silver tree. Next year, I promise.

At home, we wrapped the garland with lights and wooden hearts and draped it across the panels of the fence. The hearts came from the Woodland Holiday collection from Martha Stewart at Kmart. They are not for outdoor use but I am not troubled by such things.

I really like it. It's simple, and pretty, and just what I wanted for Christmas.

Nature's Decorations

While waiting outside for Andy so we could go get some stuff to decorate the house for the holidays, I noticed how Nature decorates for the season, too.

Unfortunately, many of our flooded neighbors here in the Northwest probably aren't noticing the beauty right now. My thoughts and prayers are truly with them.

Adding Light

Every morning I wake up and I think, "Oh yeah, I keep meaning to show somebody my candle!" And then do I show you my candle? No. I forget. No, this is not a metaphor. I really do have a candle and I am obsessed with the candle.

Mine is a blatant copy of the candles pictured at right from the Wisteria catalog. I would've ordered theirs if the one I wanted had been in stock, but I really did go running to the web site the minute I got the catalog weeks ago and it was already unavailable, I swear! So one of the things I got on my many jaunts to Michaels a few weeks ago was red puff paint (puff paint: a very underappreciated medium, if you ask me, and could be flammable, but I don't think it will get that close to the flame when it's attended) and then I found this short wide candle at Target for $7.99. And then every night I've been freehanding this design around the side. The motif repeats four times. You have to go slow, a little bit each night, to give the paint time to dry lest you smear the whole thing and wreck it and get it all over your comforter, which would be bad since it is fabric paint, meant to stay on fabric.

Anyway, I'm not quite done with it, but I want to use it on the table for Thanksgiving. I have this tablecloth and white dishes, and I think it will look really simple and pretty. This is actually my first time as a married lady having both my husband's and my family in attendance and I am a little nervous! Like, I thought that was just a myth or something — I'm not generally a nervous hostess, but maybe I am after all! I just want it to be nice for everyone. I think of pretty party-giving as a way of saying thank you, really. You just want it to be so nice for everyone so that they can have a special day, a day that's fancy and full and just . . . not like every other day. I remember, as a child, being so excited to get dressed up and go to my grandma's, or even just stay home for that special dinner. I have high hopes, but I always do. I guess that's the Hostess M.O.

Nevertheless, I don't think any of us can think about our own dinners, parties, or families without thinking about those who won't be able to get home, or who have nowhere special to go. There are so many ways to give and places to donate to help ease this. Last night as I was surrounded by bits and pieces of light-bringing Santa Lucia and her candles, I was reading the editor's letter from the January issue of Hallmark magazine, where Lisa Benenson, the editor-in-chief, writes in a very moving way about "adding your light to the sum of the light" — doing whatever it is you're able to do, even if it's small or you think it can't really matter much, to contribute to the collective effort to bring peace, health, comfort, and love to our world.

Here in Portland there are many ways to do that this season. Starting tomorrow, Loaves and Fishes has teamed up with many area grocery stores to make it easy for you to donate a meal to seniors when you do your shopping. Zupan's markets has partnered with the Sunshine Divison to accept donations for dinners this week, as well. Hands On Portland has dozens of opportunites not just to donate this holiday season but to get involved. Nationally, here are a few options for Thanksgiving charities recommended by the Fine Living channel. I know there are so many more, and so many more ways, and so many people who know better than I what the world needs — it's easy to feel overwhelmed. But I think that every flicker of light adds to the sum of the light, so even one way helps someone, somewhere. I would love to about what ways other people have found to add their lights, as well, especially around the holidays.

Well jeesh, maybe there was a metaphor up there after all. Two years of MFA school does this to you, I swear. You're like a gumball machine, spitting 'em out. [That one's a simile, but what's the diff. Can't help either one.]

Winter Sheets

Time for the flannel sheets. I love village scenes like this, don't you? This summer we did a huge puzzle, Andy and I. It was a seaside village scene in fall. It was right after Audrey died and I didn't think I could do anything other than figure out where to put those little pieces. A thousand of them. I lost myself in the layers of the little village — the village bakery, the hotel, the boat shop, the tiny trees getting smaller and less distinct the further they moved up the hillside. Maybe there's a metaphor in it all, but it doesn't even matter. It worked — that is, it relaxed our sad heads — and when it was done, maybe a week after we'd started, we felt strangely better. A bit better.

These sheets I've had for maybe five years now. Another Christmas present from my mom, from Garnet Hill? I can't remember. And the blanket is from my mother-in-law, maybe the Company Store? You see how my mommies take care of me. My mother has bought me sheet sets all my life, and I keep my sheets for years and years. Since grade school I have cared a lot about my sheets. When we went to the beach with my sister a few months ago, she pulled out a twin flat sheet I hadn't seen in thirty years — dancing cartoon cats, doing ballet. I have a lot of my old blankets and sheets from Chicago. Every day after school, I'd walk past Marshall Field's on the way home, and my mom's office was a few blocks away from that beautiful old department store with its dark green gate and gold clock. I remember going regularly with my friend Mary Davis, who was infatuated with an English guy named Simon who worked in the shoe department and looked like the guy from A-ha. She'd head for the shoes, and I'd head for the sheets. I was infatuated with a mint green comforter with pink flowers. I went to flirt with it constantly. The day it went on sale I flew out of the store, back toward my mother's office. I raced into her building and skidded to her desk saying, "Mom! Mom! My comfie's on sale! Pleeeeeeeeease can you lend me some money to buy it!" (Riiiiight — "lend.")

Of course she came down after work and got it for me. Of course I promised to pay her back but surely didn't. I worked as a movie-theater candy girl all through high school and spent all my money on various things from the Hallmark Gold Crown store. And this place called Essence that sold Crabtree & Evelyn soaps and lotions. I had every Spring Rain thing that they made. I have the comforter still, though. It's on the guest bed now, and kitten-soft after twenty-something years. I love to sleep, but I haven't been getting too much lately. For the past several weeks, I have been working on revisions and additions to the book, and re-shooting and adding a lot of photos. The night before last I was so worried about everything and going over it all repeatedly in my mind that I didn't sleep at all. Andy had gone with his friends to see Junior Brown and he came home around 1 a.m. He smelled like the bar and could not stop talking, then woke Clover up to play with her on the bed. I require all residents of the bed who can't stop talking after 1 a.m. and who will, within four seconds of hitting the pillow after a few beers, start snoring like foghorns to sleep in the guest room. So he left, but I still couldn't sleep. I read half of Still Glides the Stream, which has seriously got to be one of the most soporific books on earth, but it didn't even work. Finally around 5 a.m., the snoozing ensued. Clover woke up at six, and you know the rest. 'Morning, sunshine!

Buffet Bliss-Out

Oh, storage solutions, how I love you! This is our buffet, our first real piece of purchased dining-room furniture. It holds everything I have. I'm so happy!

It came from IKEA on Sunday, and Andy put it together for me. It is actually a Christmas present for us from my mom, which is so nice. Andy and I are having Thanksgiving here, and Andy's mom and grandpa are coming from Chicago. When Andy's mom was here we went to visit it at IKEA and she helped me decide that it was the right thing to get. I have a hard time making decisions like that. So I couldn't wait until Christmas for it. I was bouncing in my chair. It is called the Liatorp buffet and it is exactly what I have needed for years. A lot of this stuff was previously all over the mantle.

Last year, or maybe it was two years ago and last year we repainted, but sometime in the last two years we switched the dining room and the living room in our house. So our dining room is really in our living room, and vice versa. A lot of the china pieces lived above the fireplace. Now they live in their very own cabinet. Sigh.

I was rereading the post I just linked back to, and I realize it was written right around the time I opened the antique booth last fall, which I closed this summer but forgot to tell you that I closed. Everything was such a blur. Pretty much as soon as I opened the booth, I realized that I was going to be so busy I'd never have time to go there and take care of it as I intended, so it got very neglected. And it never made any money. And then they kicked me out because I was neglecting it and it wasn't making any money, which is understandable. But all this happened in the middle of the summer when I was wigging, so it only barely registered and actually was a huge relief. So now my basement is full of boxes of vintage stuff, and I still haven't decided what I will do with it all. Just too many things going on all the time.

I think I'll just sit here and look at this vanilla layer cake of wood, glass, and china. Ahh. Serenity now.

Thank you Mommy! Thank you Andy — you did such a great job with it. (I actually left the house for the afternoon in case there was a furniture-putting-together hissy that no one wanted witnessed, but the report was that there were none, and the directions were very clear — yay IKEA!). Thank you, honey! I love it!

Puppy-Proof Herb Garden

The little Clover Meadow likes to chase the kitties through the muddy herb garden, so Andy put up a corgi-sized willow fence yesterday.

(Green-green basil, until the first frost.)

Awww, bummer. No more mud. Wahhh.

Got anything else for me to mess with? Oh, you do?

Be right over.

IKEA Afternoon

Andy got cancelled from work early yesterday morning so we picked up our friend Shelly and took an unexpected trip to IKEA for lunch and gawking and shopping. Shelly is an industrious home-improver. Just looking at all the amazing things she has planned for her place inspires me. Here she is out on her lanai. She has an in-ground pool, too, and it all feels totally '50s California. I want a frosted-roof-covered lanai. There's sort of a mellow brightness about it, the light coming through a piece of waxed paper.

IKEA is cool! I'd only been to two of them before, one in Seattle and one in San Francisco. I'm very excited that we have one in Portland. When you're there you don't feel like you're in Portland. Andy Paulson, our official Swede, helped us navigate the long lines at the restaurant by finding a "shortcut," waving us out of the line we'd stood in for twenty minutes to the "short" line, only to be gently reminded by the IKEA employee that it wasn't really a short line, it was just the front part of the "long" line that everyone had been waiting in for . . . ever. Nevermind, having lost our place in line we flew down to the cafe for $1cups of meatballs — we had had had to have meatballs before doing anything else — then back up to the showrooms, where Andy helped translate things for us. "Oh, 'Korral Fisk' — now, see, that means 'Coral Fish,' you guys."

"Mmm, thanks, Sweden. I never would've guessed."

I know, I'm so sarcastic lately, I'm sorry. We had a great time. I love IKEA Portland! I like the way they're always just all laid out and you can follow the little arrows and just wander around on a path. You don't have to think about which way to go. It was really crowded, as usual, but it didn't even matter, we were that excited. Nevertheless, what happened to me the last two times I went to IKEA happened again, and that is that when I'm approximately 78% done with it, I suddenly and desperately start wishing I was already home and on my own sofa, watching TV with my feet up. It's like, 22% too big. Twenty-two percent away from the checkout area, just after the lamps, I suddenly feel exhausted, wonder if I'm actually going to make it across that last football-field sized warehouse, and seriously consider climbing into the shopping cart and having someone push me directly through the warehouse, through the checkout line, and to the car.

Right? Actually, I just thought of something. IKEA should design one of those Segway things and put it right there, at 78% of the way through the store. I'd buy it.