The Sandwich

 
For most people, Super Bowl Sunday is a day to get excited about football. They linger over every game throughout the year, waiting to see if \”their\” team will play in the final end-all, be-all game. These are the people who know all the players, the stats and all the sports gossip. They watch the talk shows, big and small. They know obscure football facts and are able to recite them religiously like a 7-year-old reciting John 3:16 in a Baptist Sunday School. They are the real fans. Conversely, there are those of us who don\’t really understand football at all.

We are the polar opposites of the real fans. We\’re not anti-fans, we just don\’t get it. Take me, for example. My son played local community football for three years and, while I never missed a game, I still have a limited knowledge of even the most basic rules. It is lost on me. I cannot recite any football trivia, either. If you want to hear me recite like that 7-year-old in church I was mentioning before, you will have to ask me to recite lines from the BBC\’s \”Pride and Prejudice\” or \”The Princess Bride.\” I also know the quadratic equation, the Pythagorean Theorem and the process of oral biofilm and how it lives in, and destroys, the periodontium. Any of that is hardly useful in sports conversations.

The only football trivia I know is that Fran Tarkenton used to host \”That\’s Incredible\” with John Davidson and Cathy Lee back in the 80\’s. Also, Tebow and I can both recite John 3:16.

That\’s it.

What I do know about Super Bowl Sunday, however, is that there is glorious, fattening bar-type food on menus around the country–and maybe around the world. Any excuse to cook up some heart-stopping food brings me to the literal and figurative table.

Every year I plan a menu for Super Bowl Sunday (maybe we should rename it SuperBowel Sunday for people like me who have more digestion than interception on our minds). My father-in-law invites himself over and we all eat like crazy.

This year was no different. We pigged out in true Bacchanalian fashion and here is our menu:

• Pulled BBQ pork sandwiches on cheesy jalepeno rolls layered with guacamole, pepperjack cheese, fire roasted poblano peppers, sweet roasted onions, and a cool crunch of southwestern coleslaw
• Deviled egg potato salad
• Potato skins with bacon and cheddar
• Sundried tomato and caper cream cheese dip
• Plain ol\’ onion dip (Lipton Onion Soup style)
• Kettle chips, Doritos and Ritz
• Brownies and sugar cookies…and a Costco apple pie from my in-laws
• Various sodas, teas, coffee, etc…

I made almost all of the dishes the day before so that I could get the dishes done early and so that the flavors would be at their best. Here is what I did.

The Pork:
Using Country Style pork ribs (I used 4 and it yielded two meals for our fam of 6), rub with BBQ sauce and then sprinkle generously with mesquite BBQ seasoning. Place in roasting pan and cover with foil, slow roast in a 300 degree oven for about 3-4 hours. Cool slightly, remove bones from ribs ( I remove the fat, too, but only so I can stand there and eat it as I watch the food processor shred the meat) and shred the meat in a food processor (careful not to over shred). Mix with BBQ sauce, place in a Pam-coated casserole dish. Refrigerate overnight.

About 2 hours before you are ready to eat, cover the pork with sliced, sweet onions, cover and cook for another 1-2 hours, stirring up occasionally and carefully draining off the water from the onions every once in a while. You could also omit the onions and instead sautee them later on the stovetop.

The Guac:
To be done ON THE DAY of eating. An old neighbor of mine who hailed from Texas insisted that this was \”real\” guacamole: Peel, seed and mash together with a fork about 4 very ripe avacodos.  Gently fold in 1/2 of a diced, large slicing tomato (or a few romas), add lime juice, salt and pepper to taste.

The Slaw:
This was one of those things where I just kept throwing stuff in till it tasted right. This is my best guess at a recipe. Shred a small head of cabbage very finely. Grate a couple of carrots. Toss together and add about a cup of thawed (or canned) sweet corn and a minced 1/2 of a red bell pepper. Add about 4-6 bunches of green onions, sliced, and a can of sliced olives. Set aside.

Mix together in a seperate bowl about 1 1/2 cups thousand island dressing (we like Sayler\’s, which comes from a VERY old local Portland steak house) and chipotle Tobasco brand sauce to taste. Add a little sour cream for thickness. Toss salad and let sit over night for best taste.

Roasted Poblanos:

If the stems start to burn, you can snip them off with kitchen scissors.

Using a gas grill or stovetop, place the peppers directly ON the flames. Use a tongs to slowly turn and turn the peppers until all the skin is charred and the peppers are really soft. This is a slow process and do not leave them alone on the flames. (duh!) Transfer to a plate, cool slightly. Running cold water over them, peel off the skin with your fingers and pull out the center and seeds. Tear them carefully into halves and set aside on a plate. Refrigerate until the next day.

This is the charred appearance needed in order for the skin to come easily off.

Deviled Egg Potato Salad:
Dice 4-5 peeled White Rose Potatoes. Bring to a boil on the stove and simmer until you can just break them apart with a fork. Drain and rinse with cold water. Transfer to a large bowl. Hard boil about 6-8 eggs, cool, remove the yolks (put them in a separate bowl) and mince the whites, tossing the latter with the potatoes. Add about a pound of thick sliced bacon that has been chopped, fried and drained and about 6 bunches of green onions, sliced. Finally, add another half of a chopped red pepper. Toss all together.

For the dressing, use about a cup of previously prepared Uncle Dan\’s Buttermilk dressing, the egg yolks (mashed with a fork) and a bit more mayo. You can add another 1/2 packet of dressing mix if you need more flavor. Mix the dressing with a whisk until there are no more lumps.



Mayo fest. I apologize for the mediocre quality of the photos. My family was giving me a hard time for taking pics of the food and not them.

 Toss and refrigerate overnight for best flavor.

Potato Skins:
I used 4 very large organic baking potatoes. Scrub the potatoes thoroughly and coat with olive oil, then large salt ( I used a salt grinder). Pierce them all over and bake at 325 for about 2 hours–I used convection bake at 300 for 2 hours.

Cool slightly, then carefully cut them in half. Scoop of part of the inside and set aside for another purpose (I am making baked potato soup with mine). Half the halves and set on a foil-lined cookie sheet. Cover potatoes with cooked, chopped bacon, shredded cheddar and sliced green onions, cover the whole cookie sheet with plastic wrap and set in the fridge for the next day.

On game day, cook potatoes (sans the plastic wrap!) at 425 convection roast or 450 regular for only about 10 minutes. Check frequently for doneness. We reserved some guac for these and added a sour cream garnish.

Cream cheese, sundried tomatoes and capers spread:
Place about 2 cups marinated sundried tomatoes (from a jar, such as the ones from Costco) and 3 Tablespoons capers with 4-5 cloves crushed fresh garlic in a food processor. Pulse until it all makes a paste.

Add 12 oz block style cream cheese (full fat is best). This is about 1 and 1/2 brick Philadelphia brand. More would make a milder spread. Pulse the processor until smooth, stopping to push down cream cheese as needed.

Refrigerate overnight.  This is great with veggie flavor Ritz crackers or nicer whole grain crackers… and red wine. With cheese cubes. : )

To assemble the sandwiches:

Slice the cheesy jalepeno rolls in half, cover in foil and warm in the oven if desired. You can find rolls like these at a grocery store bakery or a bagel shop.

Spread the bottom half with guacamole, cover with hot pulled pork and sauteed or roasted onions. Cover that layer with shredded pepper jack cheese and a poblano pepper (warm in microwave for a few seconds). Finish the top of the sandwich with the slaw and slap the top bread on.

Pig out.

The sugar cookies we make are found in any Betty Crocker cook book and we used boxed mix Ghiradelli brownie mix.

The resulting dinner was really fun. And fattening.

And what better way to celebrate a sporting event than by eating too many calories while you watch others burn them? To bad they can\’t burn OUR calories. Sigh. Whoever figures out how to do that would win the Nobel Prize.

Happy eating, and if anything is unclear, please let me know. I have no problem clarifying these recipes!



Amy and Annie in the rain with snow on the ground a couple of weeks ago. Amy loved the snowman they built, which melted within ten minutes of completion, and is to this day still looking out the window to see if he will reappear. \”Mom,\” she says each day looking out the window, \”Our snowman died.\” Yes, honey, and you may not see him for at least another year.



When it snows, it rains. That\’s just the way it usually is here in the Greater Portland/Vancouver Metropolitan area.

Even though it generally ends in disappointment for school children and a lucky few with government jobs whose offices close when it snows, a snow event around here typically begins, at least, with great anticipation and excitement.

When there is impending snow here in the Willamette Valley, everyone is abuzz.

Some people run out to the grocery store for last minute \”supplies\” as though it were Black Friday, some run to the tire shops and get snow tires or studs and everyone–absolutely everyone–watches the news as though the    real date for the end of the world were about to be announced.

And we are all certain the news channels love it.

They talk about it incessantly–for public safety, of course–as the newscasters on location stand out in the freezing night air before the cameras, telling us that, at any moment, the blizzard of the year will be upon us. They give each weather \”event\” a name like \”Winter Blast\” and tell us of impending worsening weather conditions. Meanwhile, we the people of Portland, all stare out our windows into the sky, waiting. When darkness falls and we can no longer see the sky, we stare into the street lights instead, to see if any tiny snowflake shadows might begin to fall, lest we miss it all.

While we do have the occasional real snow event (for us, that means about 6 inches max here on the Valley floor) and the truly dangerous (and more likely) freezing rain event, most of the time all our excitement is for naught.

The moment the clouds roll in, the temperatures begins to rise, the snow, if any, eventually turns to rain and can be gone in hours or minutes. Oftentimes it does not stick here at all.

But we are not daunted. In the face of our disappointment, we still head outside the moment we see the white stuff coming down, no matter what is is mixed with. Heck, it could be mixed with lightning for all we care. We build wet snowmen, make wet, sloppy snowangels and throw dirty wet snow at each other. It is just what we do. Why? Because it gets really, really old just looking at water falling out of the sky.

So, all you folks from the mountains, or from Minnesota or North Dakota, or Upstate New York … you folks who have the real winter weather. You know who you are. We know we seem ridiculous. And we like it that way.

After all, aren\’t we supposed to be keeping Portland weird?



Annie\’s never ending Potato Chip scarf. I don\’t recommend making one of these with baby yarn. Takes FOREVER! This one is now done.

 When you clean up a huge mess like a yarn stash (or a mobile home surrounded by mountains of unknown materials…I\’ve had to do both), you never know what you might find. In the case of the mobile home, you might simply encounter things that prompt you to contact Hazmat or animal control. But in the case of the yarn stash, you might come across things long unaccounted for–and much missed–like knitting needles or tiny stitch holders you thought were lost forever. You might find a missing hank of yarn that was intended to complete the yardage needed to someday create the perfect sweater. And you might find some of those perfect sweaters in unfinished states. These projects are good examples of \”UFO\’s.\”

UFO\’s are not the traditional unidentified flying objects (well, I guess they could be if they were cabled cardigans thrown across the room in frustration…). To knitters, UFO stands for UnFinished Object. Most of us do not have one UFO. We have many, many, many UFO\’s.

Take my stash mess, for example. I found much-needed needles, to my relief, in many sizes and styles as I cleaned. I found my share of missing skeins of yarn that I didn\’t even know were missing until I cleaned. And, of course, I found several UFO\’s.

Not even a child can get a leg in these



Dorm Booties, from Rhodes. The closest pattern I have found is here: http://www.tropicalyarns.com/index.cfm?PID=22&ProdID=307



Then there was the category of \”what the heck is this and who does it belong to?\” These items included a pair of unmatched \”Dorm Booties,\” so-named according to the pattern that was with them. It was from a store called \”Rhodes,\” which, upon some research, turns out was a local department store that distributed patterns for the Red Cross during WWII. These were not from one of those patterns. But were interesting nevertheless. They were typed on what was typical \”onion skin\” type paper with a manual typewriter. The ink is now nearly invisible after all these years, but I am trying to decipher it.

I think the booties were from my grandmother\’s things. It would be shocking to think she would not finish a pair, so I concluded that my mother must have been the single-booty culprit. My grandmother was always complaining that my mom didn\’t finish what she started. And there was another cabled sock that was so tightly knit that it would fit no one\’s ankle. Also likely mom\’s.

Next on the growing list of projects to toss or complete were a couple of unfinished projects of my own. There was a tank top that had too-narrow shoulder straps that I had intended to frog months before, some scarves meant to be gifts and an uncompleted sock design. I wanted a tornado of Harry Potter lightning bolts and worked on this pattern as I knitted up the leg of a sock in inexpensive yarn. I have since figured it out. I will be frogging this sock, too, and working it up properly.

Harry Potter lightning socks, coming soon

This was all very frustrating since cleaning out your stuff also makes you feel anxious and empowered to start whipping out some huge project. But, alas, I feel I must put on the brakes. I have decided to complete what I can, gifts first, then work out the faded writing on my grandma/mom\’s mysterious pattern for adult booties. Finally, I will complete that Harry Potter design, hopefully in time for Halloween.

Turns out that riding UFO\’s is not really that fun. The trip usually winds up taking longer than you think. And that idea that they travel faster than the speed of light? That\’s a myth.

This is ME, NOT Kim. And every time I look in the mirror, I have my more-than-fair-share of emerging wiry and squirrely grey hairs that will likely remain undyed  for a long while. I guess it just doesn\’t seem that important to me yet.



 I have this acquaintance. Let\’s call her Kim. She is gorgeous. Tall, blond, thin and curvy (each in all the right places) with lovely, lovely skin surrounding perfect, white teeth. Which no one sees. She cannot smile very well due to very regular Botox injections, which she laughs about, sans the smiling part.

Yes, she might be all about her appearance, but she makes jokes about her vanity frequently. Then, she always turns a little serious. She makes no bones about her lifestyle. She usually finishes one of her self-deprecating remarks with, \”So what? I don\’t want to look old. Ever.\” No body fat and no nonsense. I like her.

My friend takes her nearly-Death-Becomes-Her lifestyle very seriously and even is embarking on a personal business venture in an effort to convert the rest of us Northwesterners to her way of thinking. She has started a skin care business in her home where she provides clients with medical grade chemical peels, microdermabrasion and other age-defying services. She has been very smart and safe and uses a medical team–of sorts–to help her in her endeavor. And she has gone to school to learn all the necessary procedures and precautions. In addition to her services, she has decided recently to add a line of upscale products to her business, promoting skin care.  For this part, she needed a third party vendor.

Enter the woman from Santa Barbara, California. Let\’s call her S.B.

The S.B. woman has made a very lucrative career in the Los Angeles area, providing exotic, effective products for individuals, day spas and other businesses like Kim\’s. She sounds to me like a Mary Kay-like deity from some sun worshipping religion, but, S.B. came highly recommended and Kim hired her upon their first meeting.

S.B. had recently moved from southern California to the Pacific Northwest in order to escape what she called the \”rat race\” and the hoards of people. She wanted a slower life for a while, a change of pace. She probably saw, no doubt, some print ads for Oregon containing enticing photos, probably promising sun, sand, mountains, skiing, desert, lakes … we have it all! Right?

Little did she know the truth about Portland, Oregon. It rains here. A lot. All winter. And the clouds are grey for months on end sometimes. Many a Californian has moved here, only to turn tail and run back to the sun soon after the first winter is over. Many of the more optimistic ones make it through one rainy summer, too, but few remain long-term.

The weather truly was a problem for S.B. But it was compounded by what, for her, were much bigger issues.

S.B. was here for only a handful of months–only partially steeped in the Northwest culture–before she exclaimed to Kim one damp day in utter disgust, \”What is wrong with these people? Why don\’t they take care of themselves? This place is full of ugly, fat, dumpy people.\” Within a year, she was gone.

It is true that within the single year she was here, the take home portion of her sales went from $800K in Santa Barbara to just $125K here in Portland, but that really wasn\’t her true problem with our city. Her dramatic statement reveals much more than a frustration at the loss of income.

After all, one can live here just fine on $125K per year. In fact, much better than fine.

S.B. was upset. Not about her salary, as I say, but at the morality of it all–what it means in her idea of the bigger picture. To her, decent people would just naturally care so much about their appearances that they would go to great length and expense to preserve it. They would spend a lot of time thinking about it, planning for beauty treatments and diets and maybe even cosmetic surgery. To her, these things are just part of \”taking care of\” oneself. In short, she was offended at the smaller market here for such things because she thinks it means that we must not care about anything.

Little did she seem to know that many people here, undyed hair and all, would take offense to her statement. Some might even say that her and her usual L.A. clientel are shallow, vain and a bunch of you-know-whats. Some Portlanders might say that we\’d rather spend our money on more meaningful things than appearance alone, like education or charitable causes. (After all, it has been said that we are overeducated, underworked coffee drinkers, and by kinder people. So we laugh at that one. It\’s charming.)

And we take care of ourselves, too. We enjoy organic and whole foods, and we not only exercise in our great outdoors, but we pride ourselves on our ability to stay outside no matter what the weather. It seems that hiking, kayaking, hunting and fishing might compromise our appearances, according to S.B.

But are we really that unattractive? I will admit that on any given ordinary day, I typically look more like the before picture in a Merle Norman makeover ad than a bathing beauty. But I still think we Northwest types can look quite well, au naturel faces and all.

And could it conversely be true that all the people in California are hollow, vain movie star wannabes who spend every waking moment (and dollar) planning their next tummy tuck or face lift? Of course not. That is ridiculous.

Finally, who the heck am I to even raise such questions? Do I even have any answers? No. I am no more an expert on social groups and norms than Mr. Green Jeans from \”Captain Kangaroo.\” And this situation is far, far too complicated to explore completely here; I did not set out to write a research paper. The brutal honesty of S.B. was just too rare to keep to myself.

And isn\’t perspective an interesting thing?

Whenever you set out to tackle a big project, expect delays. It\’s like attempting to drive to Disneyland from Portland in summer, thinking about how nice a road trip will be. You dream about the things you will see traveling by car and congratulate yourself on your patience–after all, you could just fly. As you set out, you quickly run into the first of many (oh, so many) construction delays unanticipated. The dreaded \”expect long delays\” signs and sunburned, hard-hatted people who control your destiny greet you without feeling. And your long, long wait begins.

My stash organization has taken on that sort of life.

I know my stash is not the biggest ( I have talked to many who beat me by a mile) but how many pairs of socks is this?

It\’s always tricky to finish a big project, but throw in a two-year-old, older kids, a full time job, yadda yadda yadda. Expect delays.

I did get a lot done since Wednesday when I decided that the right thing to do with my mounting stash of yarn and needles was to go exploring and discover what I really had, but the time seems now to stretch out before me like some vortexical tunnel. Stuff of science fiction? Nope. Just plain old reality.

I can see my floor!

In order to reorganize my yarn, I also had to clean my closet and dressers out, get a donation pile going and re-organize, re-fold, and re-hang everything. It was a mess. Then there was the original culprit, of course, the stash.

Cataloging and recording each and every last string of yarn, then photographing and editing it, then putting in all into the Ravelry database is a slow, slow task. I will admit here that I definitely slowed myself down when I took opportunity to practice my photography during the project, which really adds one more component. Unnecessary? No. Take opportunity when it presents itself, I say. And what about learning some organizational tricks along the way?

A mesh veggie bag makes a great holder for odds and ends!

I used Rubbermaid to store most of my yarn, which was fine for those larger groups of unused hanks and skeins. But what of the tiniest of balls? The odds and ends? I have, in the past, used a Sharpie to write the contents on plastic bags filled with these tiny wonders, which are usually too small to keep the labels with, but then I wondered if it wouldn\’t be better for the wool to breath.

Winding up sloppy skeins and hanks

In the kitchen drawer, I had several unused mesh, fabric vegetable bags with a drawstring top. Perfect. I added a hand written tag or two, filled them up, tightened the top and tossed them in the Rubbermaids.

Overall, I am happy with what I have accomplished. There are a lot less boxes and no more weird bags with unknown contents. Even the things I have not finished have at least been looked at and put together. That\’s right: I am not done yet. Just three more boxes to photograph and catalog.  And my kids still need to eat and my laundry still needs washing, and my husband and two-year-old still need attention. And I still need to work most days.

But it is to be expected. After all, the signs do say, \”Expect Long Delays.\”

A beacon of light? Why not.

11:35a.m.

Slurping spit constantly due to bleach trays. Life on this Home planet is quiet. Most life forms are at school. Smallest one soothed by Hello Kitty video. Huge mess here. Taking before pictures. Entered intent in previous entry, spent 45 minutes.

12:10p.m.

Small one expressing extreme activity, may need nourishment soon. She may be the key to my success–labeling her \”X-Factor.\”  Will not stay upstairs, keeps scurrying downstairs to bother daddy who is trying to work from home today. Reminding me of that Tribble episode on Star Trek. Or Gremlins. If she starts to divide madly, will run from house. Not getting very far on the cleaning.

1:00p.m.

Fed Tribble-Amy and myself some lunch. Explained 8 times to her why we don\’t watch Barbie Fairytopia video in the family room next to daddy\’s office. Waited through a 10-minute-tantrum. Heading back upstairs.

Mystery stacks

1:15p.m.

Wading through all the stuff I pulled out of my closet.  There are boxes lining the short hall between the bedroom and bath. From the other direction, they extend out into the hallway almost to the laundry room. Didn\’t know I had so many knitting baskets. Like 5. And several bags–Nordstroms, Fred Meyer (grocery), T.J. Maxx–filled with odds and ends, too. Put them on top of the boxes.

1:30p.m.

Decide that a shower would make my mind more settled. Put Tribble-Amy in front of the T.V. Husband comes upstairs, sees the mess. Cries out, \”I had no idea you had this much yarn!!!\” Get into an argument over alleged hidden receipts from Jimmy Beans Wool.

1:45p.m.

Take a shower. Amy\’s show is over. Tribble in my shower. Water hits her, no transformation. Relieved that she is not a Gremlin. Window is open by the shower. Leads outside to neighborhood walkway. Neighbors walk by, hearing Amy screaming and me telling her she can\’t put soap in her eyes.

2:15

Really? Didn\’t plan on cleaning drawers.

Deciding on what outfit is cozy, feels \”organized\” and makes me look thinnest. Choose leggings and a fitted white sweatshirt. White is \”clean,\” right? Put makeup on. Linger in the mirror to make sure I feel as thin as possible.

3p.m.

Took too long on the make-up. Look again at the mess. Walk around it, assessing the damage. Decide to go to Fred Meyer for more Rubbermaid containers. Will better hide the exposed stash. More marital bliss.  Head back to the mirror before I leave. Check another angle on the outfit.

3:10p.m.

Leave for store. Amy wants a cookie at the bakery. Purchase two large, clear bins. Head outside. Forgot to get the cookie. Head back inside, get cookie, head out and go home.

The view through my hair–seen here by the \”halo\” on the frame.

4:15p.m.

Try to settle back in to cleaning. Realize I had an hour and 15 minutes before I have to pick up my daughter from play practice. Then it will be dinner.

5p.m.

Pull miscellaneous items out of several bags and spread them out all over the bed and chest at the foot of said bed. Create a photo shoot site on the oak chest. Get out the camera. Don\’t know what Tribble-Amy is doing. Take a few pictures.

5:30p.m.

Leave to get Annie from play practice. Arrive 5 minutes late. Hurry home.

6:p.m.

Husband see my crazed look. Offers to get dinner out. Breath sigh of relief.

Helper Amy at 11p.m.

12a.m.

Stayed up way too late. Husband forced to fall asleep on the couch downstairs while I was still taking pictures of the yarn and writing down details for further entry into Ravelry\’s storage area on my page. Eyes are stinging. Not sure, but Tribble-Amy may be sleepingin a box of yarn. Don\’t dare to look in the mirror.

Yarn Tribble

One thing is certainly true: there are no real Tribbles here. Only UFO\’s.

Today is January 11th. On this day, I am making a few more New Year\’s Resolutions. Why not January first? Because it is so cliche. So over. And also because this way, I trick myself into thinking my resolutions will not be just a few more to add to the billions that are made and broken each year (… like 6 billion, for those of you keeping track of the world population …). I want mine to stick.

In some ways, I am easy going. I like to laugh, I don\’t take most things too personally and I generally–and genuinely–really like others. I\’m not hard on my friends when they forget something–hey, I do it all the time myself. And I figure that they are, overall, more important to me than some forgotten card on my birthday.

However…

In other ways, I can be quite intense (enter comments from those who knew me in college here …). I enjoy assessing situations, organizing and categorizing the information I discover, then creating a goal and ambitiously heading out after it.



This should be ONLY my clothes closet. Please don\’t call \”Hoarders,\” I can handle this. But if I don\’t come out, save yourself.

Sometimes this can be a small thing like the time I suddenly decided I really, really needed to know the real endings to all those Disney fairy tales. I knew they were not written by Walt Disney himself. And I knew from a childhood book that the \”Little Mermaid\” dies in the end. I headed to the library at the center of town on that very day of decision and checked out every book I could find on fairy tales in their earliest forms and read myself sick for days.

Turns out Cinderella was quite the self-starter. Charles Perrault (author given credit for the written story) gave her a sort of wishing tree in her back yard where she would request her gifts–dress, slippers, etc. And those step sisters? They actually \”nipped off\” a \”bit of heel\” and toe to make that slipper fit upon the prince\’s arrival. When the prince saw the bleeding, well, their plan didn\’t work out and Cinderella still made out pretty well.



My Christmas gift from my husband: a swift and ball winder. Get ready to wind, label and stack!

 While the step sisters head to the first aid station,  let me get to the point: You can do a lot of things when you want to.

I completed six years of college with four, then five (after marriage) and finally six children at home. Don\’t get me wrong, I know all of you likely have some of your own pretty awesome stories of ambition and success that could put mine to shame. And I have some pretty big current ambitions of my own.

I want a clean, organized house. I want to fit back into my old jeans and I want whiter teeth.

While I can sit here right now with my bleach trays in my mouth, the other two are much harder to do. We all complain about frustration over organization and being thinner, but I really want to accomplish these things. Not over night–I have a whole year, right? Isn\’t that how this whole resolution game is played?

So … I have analyzed my situation and broken it down into parts. Part I: Organize my yarn stash, needles, books and patterns. I am afraid I have been much better at shopping than at putting things away. When you can\’t find your needles anymore, or you can find the plastic bag that once contained a pair, but there are no bamboo sticks in sight except the old chopsticks in your kitchen drawer, it\’s time.

This should be my nightstand.

Today, I begin with my room. My craft room. Which is really my clothes closet, my sewing desk, which is in our bedroom, my nightstand and the area around my favorite overstuffed green chair downstairs. There are bins, baskets, bags, boxes (some still with shipping slips) just overflowing with wooly chaos.

If I am ever going to make a sweater for some imaginary skinny body, I need to know how much fiber I have and what pattern I will use. And where the hell are all my sticks?

Time to dive in. I\’ll keep you posted. Literally. This will feel like no small task.

I love men. Not in the freaky deaky way you might think upon first glance at that statement, but as a group. They are generally more rugged in appearance than us, they have a different thought process than we do, and they like things that are typically very different from the things women like.

Men have whiskers, they smell like men, they don\’t really like doing their own laundry or ironing, they hunt, fish, watch sports (sometimes obsessively), work on cars (sometimes with great expertise, like my husband), chop wood, love electonics, put up our Christmas lights, mow the grass, paint the fence…heck, sometimes, they even obey their wives, who usually believe they have their men all figured out. Or do we?

Did reading the list above make you say a few things to yourself like, \”Hey, I am the one who does that!\” or, \”Women can do that, too!\” ? Or maybe, \”My husband is the one who does the laundry!\” or, \”My Aunt Una has whiskers!\”

For me, it was my Aunt Gertie, but the reason we notice the exceptions is because we as people like, of course, to categorize others, yet we recognize that there are always individual differences. They stand out to us.

Yes, anyone can surprise us. And men are no exception. I still love their male attributes, and admittedly some of the more traditional ones, but I love that element of surprise that can be found absolutely anywhere. Even in our husbands, boyfriends, sons and dads.

Recently, I found out that a friend\’s husband belongs to a group on Ravelry called S.M.A.C.K. The acronym stands for \”Straight Men Also Crochet and Knit!\” It\’s like a support group for male knitters who have wives, kids and regular lives that may or may not include frequent T.V. sports viewing. They just happen to love wool (and perhaps the precise German engineering in an addi turbo).

These guys say they recognized that the men who were knitters were not really recognized as a legitimate group, yet they do exist. Just like those ROUS\’s in \”Princess Bride.\” (There is a joke to be made here about \”unusual size,\” but I am just not going to do it.)

Further, these men found out that when their wives/significant others/daughters/female friends learned of their knitting, they thought it was great, perhaps even charming and awesome. Their group on Ravelry celebrates their hobby and the bonds they form with others–and fibers–and encourages anyone to join.

And those Ravelry friends are not alone. There are dozens, if not more, groups and websites dedicated to men who knit. There are even exclusive men\’s patterns and entire books dedicated to the cause.  It seems to be spreading like wildfire. Or wool afire.

Now some of you ladies who may have read the historical account in Nancy Bush\’s book, \”Knitting Vintage Socks\” regarding men and knitting, may be feeling threatened. You may be recalling how men were the first ones thought to be the knitters, and that in some regions, these same men had to follow intense knitting apprenticeships, followed by almost walkabout experiences, in which they had to create never before seen stitches to ultimately be included in knitting guilds as \”Master Knitters.\” You may be thinking, hey! it\’s our turn! You may especially feel this way if you are a woman who heard the medieval story of how women were not allowed to knit at home for fear that their brains may catch on fire, but take heart. I say that if we want sexual equality, then let them knit. Or eat cake. Or knit while eating cake. Or knit while eating cake and watching the Bronco\’s beat the Steelers in sudden death overtime…that\’s what I was doing today, and I\’m not even a sports fan.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. I personally love it that men knit and I would be proud if my husband or sons picked up a pair of sticks and went to it. It\’s a good idea.

In fact, knitting is good for everyone. It is being used more and more in schools as therapy for kids who are bullied or feel like they don\’t belong, for kids with learning disabilities like ADD, and in rehab programs for drug and alcohol addiction (see Eunny Jang\’s great personal story in the latest issue of Interweave Knits). I even heard someone say they heard it was being used in prisons as a way to change the mood.

The obvious \”OZ\”-like danger of that last idea aside, we all know that knitting takes you to another place during the actitivity. Further, think about how you feel when you connect with another knitter or when you are in your knitting circle. It can almost become like a religious experience.

So S.M.A.C.K. guys, for all these reasons, I completely, unabashedly, soap-box-style support you in what you are doing. I joined your group. And I love all that you are, yarn porn and all.

Go ahead and saddle up your horses, but don\’t forget your needles.



This is me, imagining I am keeping this scarf. Guess it\’s back to the store!

 My good friend had a birthday this past New Year\’s Eve.  She is a sweet lady–the sort who, at work, might pass you in the hall and say, \”Hey, want me to get you a coffee?\” as she leaves for a quick errand. Then she would return with it and say, \”It\’s on me.\”

In fact, Camille and I have been working together for 3 years. I started at our dental office right out of college and she has been a great help and encouragement to me. Her long, loud joyful laughter can be heard throughout our place of work…and she is the only one I can easily share an off color joke with. Without words. I am glad she is my friend.

For her special day this year, I knitted her Joelle Hoverson\’s \”Big Lace Scarf.\” Camille is the sort of girl who loves cute glam stuff and adores accessories: she has more Brighton, Silpada and Stella and Dot Jewelry than anyone I know. She even has an Ebay account to help \”rotate it.\” And to soften the Cleopatra-esque bling, she loves to wear scarves.

This scarf is knitted in Lion\’s Brand Hometown yarn, extra bulky weight, and is bright turquoise so it will show off any gold or silver jewelry she is wearing. I added some embellishment, too, or it just wouldn\’t be glam enough.

I used Interweave Knits Edgings stitch dictionary for a few of the knitted flowers on the scarf and another stitch dictionary of crochet stitches for the rest.

I used a double crochet to \”wagon wheel\” the center of those flowers, and chained up 4 for the next round, using double crochet again. For the petals on the final round, I chained up 4 more, made a bobble, chained 4 more and finally secured each petal in the next stitch, beginning each consecutive petal in the same spot. Those flowers are the larger pink and green ones on the corners in the pics.

For a final touch, I used some of my grandmothers vintage buttons–VERY heavy compared to today\’s–which I have had in storage for about 25 years, now.

What better use?

Happy Birthday, Camille!



Baked chicken parts smothered in 99cent Kraft BBQ sauce. Convection: 350 uncovered for 1 hour, reapply sauce for final 15 minutes, add chopped green onions for garnish

 Realizing today that the blog is nearing its one year anniversary, it got me thinking. One of the first posts I did was about my grandmother around her birthday, which is at the end of March. As I was thinking about how the time has flown by, I realized that I was really hungry for a Grandma Miller Dinner. (The capitalization of the letters is out of respect.)

What is a GMD? You ask.

My Grandma Miller was an extremely frugal woman. She lived successfully in a pretty swank retirement community for most of my life on an incredibly fixed income. She would supplement her social security by doing things like seamstress work for her wealthier neighbors, wore her clothes for 10 years at least before recycling them into other useful objects, boiled her used plastic bags to \”sterilize\” them and then hang them to dry on a mini makeshift clothesline she put up in her kitchen.

The kitchen itself was cozy and always steaming with activity. It was a galley-style apartment kitchen with an attached eating area, which was complete with four vinyl seated chairs surrounding a plastic-covered (yes, I mean a sheet of plastic to protect the vinyl tablecloth) dining room table with a small plastic flower arrangement in the center. It was light and cheerful, with a large window adjacent the table. It was always ready for company.



The secret to Grandma\’s cornbread: Make the recipe on the box adding double the sugar and one extra egg. Use a 8×8 or 9inch round pan, not muffin tins, 350 for 35 minutes

 My grandmother prided herself on her hostessing skills. Many times she told the years-old story (1945 at least) of the pastor, who came to their farming town for a visit with the pastor of the local baptist church. His reputation for his dislike of rabbit preceded him, and the townspeople whispered about it madly–it was a staple to them, and how could a man who should embody humility be ungrateful for any meal?

Grandma Miller, quiet in her usual way, did not participate much in the gossip. But she was always listening. Upon her first meeting with this man, she invited the new pastor to her home and whipped up her best rabbit dinner for a special welcome to their town, but did not share with him what the meal would be.

\”That was the best chicken I\’ve ever had!\” He exclaimed as he leaned back in his chair after he had eaten three hearty plates of food, picking his teeth, \”Mrs. Miller, you sure are a good cook.\”

\”Oh, good!\” Grandma Miller said, \”That makes me so glad. The ladies of the baptist church will be glad to know that you like rabbit after all.\” She smiled sweetly.

My Grandmother particularly liked the next part of the story and she stifled giggles as she would tell it.

She said his eye grew wide, then almost wild. He again thanked her for the meal, stood up, looked around and stiffly walked out of the house. He did not eat with her, or any members of the church for the remainder of the visit.

At this final statement, she would allow herself to howl uncontrollably, enjoying the moment each time as if it had just occured.

Grandma Miller may sound like a trickster, but she was not. True, she may have been trying to teach him a lesson in humility as the other ladies probably wished they had been given a chance to do, but she may have merely been testing her skills as a cook: If she could pass off a rabbit dinner to a rabbit dinner hating guest, well, that made her the Iron Chef of Oregon City, OR, South Bend Road. And a for a rabbit dinner to be so satifying was a feat, too, because it was cheap.

Cheap was never a word my grandmother used. Not once. She talked about saving and not wasting–she was a newly married adult during the depression, after all–but she never said \”cheap.\” In fact, she hardly used the word \”money\” either. To her, it was a moral obligation to use things completely, no wasting and no frivolity.

She took this to her kitchen, and seriously, even long after her farming days. Well into her 80\’s she made her own bread. In summer and fall, she used each and every vegetable and fruit that was given to her, either canning green beans (hard to do, but not for her), in making her own jellies and jams for the year, or just serving them fresh.

She purchased only the most inexpensive cuts of meat, too. Ground beef was the only beef she bought–it was less money and went farther in any dish than other type of beef. And chicken was only purchased on the bone and in the thigh and leg variety. For special occasions, she would pick up a turkey loaf, which was made up of various turkey meat, chopped and pressed into a 3-dimensional rectangle and frozen into a mini aluminum bread pan.

From all of these things, my grandmother, like she had done long ago for the visiting Oregon City pastor, could whip up a veritable feast. And she loved to do it. When I was small, we were asked over quite often to her house for dinner, and I antipicated each meal with feverish excitement.

My parents\’ red grapes, picked in their back yard, made into homestyle jelly

She would lay out a plate of homemade bread or her own special cornbread for us on that table by the window. Next to it would be a bowl of homemade jelly and a purple melmac plate with Nucoa on it. She would bake some chicken legs and thighs, boil some frozen or canned vegetables (I particularly liked the mixed ones) and, for a final touch, she might even put a small fresh flower arrangement where the plastic one held the place the rest of the time.

It always tasted so good and I would eat till I was sick. It felt like the food supply was endless.

Tonight, I wanted that experience again, as I do from time to time. I did not make rabbit, or frozen vegetables, but I did make her special sweet cornbread, baked chicken legs and thighs and some sweet frozen corn, all served with my homemade grape jelly (my parents grow and juice the grapes–I am in charge of the jelly now) and real butter.

My four kids thrilled with delight over the meal, and notwithstanding my own feelings, that makes it all more worth the while.