The Holiday Handmades: Part 2

This year, I received an early Christmas present. It came in the form of a phone call from my little sister saying, do you know what you're getting Mom and Dad for Christmas, because I have an idea. Her idea was simple, sentimental, and perfect for all the grandparents on our Christmas list. It was practically wrapped in a shiny red bow. I performed a happy dance (well, in my head I performed a happy dance, being too exhausted or busy pulling jumping children off of couches or both to physically muster said happy dance). Then, I crossed "fretting" off my to-do list and replaced it with "make garden pavers". Then I did nothing, for weeks, until Jason finished up his traveling for the year and took a two-week vacation, at which time I began frantically searching the internet for DIY garden paver tutorials. I found this. I prayed it would be as simple and straightforward as the directions made it look, because our margin for error was narrow. I could count the days until Christmas on one hand. I tell you, the man's a genius. Here's the process, in a very condensed nutshell:



First, we put poster paint on each child's right hand and made a print on the back of a cardboard cereal box. This is brilliant - 1) it takes the stress out of worrying if the child is going to scrunch his fingers into a ball in the concrete rather than make a flat handprint, and 2) you can do this with multiple children in rounds (we did Audrey's while the boys slept, then each boy on his own after he woke up) and then get your concrete mixed and poured all at once (after the children are in bed!!).



Second, you line the bottom of a cake pan (we had a few slightly rusty ones, just waiting for such a project, on hand and then bought a few more for a couple bucks) with a piece of paper. Ours is taped down with double-sided tape. On top, tape or glue down the handprint (that you've cut out of the cardboard) and any names or dates you want to include, assembled in a backward-fashion so that it appears the right direction when viewed in a mirror. Brush the whole shebang liberally with vegetable oil.




Next, mix and pour your concrete into the cake pans. Let them set at least overnight (possibly two days if you don't procrastinate and wait until the last possible second to attempt DIY projects for your relatives at Christmastime). Take the hardened pavers out of the pans. Peel any cardboard pieces from the concrete that might have stuck during the drying process (note: ours had most of the cardboard pieces still in the pavers when we took them out, but they were easy to remove). High five your spouse with exuberant disbelief at how well they turned out.



Finally, paint them with an outdoor patio paint and (after that dries) seal them with a coat or two of poly urethane. Marvel at your children's odd handprints. Stack the pavers up with a circle of felt in between each, wrap a pretty bow around them, and lug them to your family's Christmas celebration. Promise that you'll make a set of your own when it's warmer outside and you've had more sleep and you've figured out what you're doing with your backyard. High five your spouse some more, just because it feels good.

Feels Like Spring - at Least on the Inside

According to the latest weather report, spring is taking her sweet time. I can sympathize with her drip-like-molasses nature. But the children of this house are springing forward, with or without the weather's blessing.



Yesterday, we grabbed spring by her indecisive bootstraps and pulled her inside. We began our little planting project outdoors (mama thinking this would be the cleaner option), but the wind felt like puffing his chest and warning everyone about the coming storm. Dirt was in the air and our eyes. So after filling our little toilet paper tubes with seed-starting soil, we took our project indoors where Audrey added a couple broccoli seeds to each tube (and accidentally showered the rest of the miniature peppercorn-looking seeds across the brown rug).



A sprinkle of water and one labeled tongue depressor later, and our makeshift seed-starting cells were set - for whatever spring has in store (or at least for the laundry room counter).


*I found the directions for the toilet paper roll seed-starting cells in Gayla Trail's Grow Great Grub.

Digging

Today the world is awash with the scenes of moody watercolors, grays and browns swirling together in puddly masterpiece. But yesterday, the world was cast in a different palette, that muted-before-the-storm hush of barely-there blues.



As the temperature crept up into the mid-fifties, we crept out to join it, one with pitchfork, one with plastic shovel, and one empty-handed, to get ahead of the work of spring. I thought I might begin to turn the garden soil, pull out the rocks or wayward toys left behind from winter's play. I thought Audrey might want to help - in her own way. I assumed Nate would roam the yard playing with the half dozen balls strewn about, uninterested in our muddy ventures. Ahem.



Apparently, he likes mud as much as his sister. I wonder what his stance will be on worms...

Down the Spectrum

We seem to be moving down the spectrum this week: the color spectrum, that is. In reverse. Moving on from our violet and indigo, we're steadily into the blues today. Blueberries, to be exact.



Blueberries were not on the agenda this morning. Then I walked out our door into a perfectly breezy, seventy-degree morning. Next thing I knew, I was making some sandwiches, packing a bag, and buckling a couple of kids into their car seats. Perhaps, I should have warned them about the lengthy car ride, which, apparently, wasn't on either one of their agendas. Luckily, my college psych teachers weren't kidding when they said the color blue creates feelings of calm. Subjects A and N calmed down instantly the moment we arrived at the blueberry patch and opened the car doors.

Perhaps, it's yards of tidy rows through which to run. Perhaps, it's the endless supply of snacks growing right at your fingertips or the companionship of other pickers (once strangers, but now called Emma, Mimi, and Randy) who seem happy to accept the berry offerings a little blond tosses into their buckets. It might ride in on the fingertips of a babe, brushing the leaves of a blueberry bush for the first time, or on the aging memory of a mama daydreaming of berry recipes tried and true. It could be in the lessons (as Randy answers your little one with a detailed description of how one could make a scarecrow), or the proclamations ("Mom, I want to live here forever!). Or the sweet sensation that leaves a mark on your tongue. Whatever the reason, sometimes the blues are oh so good.

The Color Purple

One wet day in March, Audrey and Jason planted some seeds. Those seeds turned into stalks, and a few of those stalks into vines that hug the fence posts. This week, one of those stalks gave way to blooms, purple and plush - the velvet of kings' robes.



Just beneath them are pools of thyme, their sprigs tipped with lavender buds. (The thyme used to neighbor rose bushes that, unfortunately, decided that they had seen enough springs and needn't bother with another. Every single one.)

Then, there is the lavender, itself. My most recent purchase a few weeks ago. Blooms have yet to be seen, but I can't help but notice that we seem to be cultivating an accidental purple garden. The thought makes me smile.

Although, this little one seems a little more inclined toward the yellow. Let's hope she doesn't mind.

The Audrey Bird

Jason strolled through the screen door this weekend after a quick berry check in the backyard. "I think we're going to have a bunch of raspberries in a few days," he said. As in, more than our typical handful. As in, prepare some angel food cake and pull out the whipped cream, or study the cookbooks for a recipe requiring a cupful of berries.

The week progressed. The berries didn't. We were puzzled. Jason could have sworn we'd have quite the little raspberry crop by midweek. I had remembered some promising blossoms. On further examination, we found evidence of the should-have-been berries, picked clean. "Do you think we have a bird problem?" I asked. Audrey, at Jason's hip, quickly agreed with the bird theory as she searched the bush. I looked at the berries again, their red tops plucked clear off, leaving a tidy white center behind. A little too tidy. I began to wonder if birds could do quite as neat a job, as I remembered Audrey's ability to swiftly pick raspberries last year, expertly avoiding the thorns on the full-grown plants. I asked if she had picked them. She said yes. But we were picking berries as we spoke. I asked if birds did it. She said yes. I asked if an Audrey Bird did it. Yes. I didn't know which way was up.

Until today. Today, with me safely tucked away inside folding sheets, I spied Audrey hopping from bush to bush, picking berries and popping them in her mouth. She would adventure in the yard for several minutes, and then (in what I imagine was a moment of appetite found from running about) she would ramble over to a bush, search it, snack, and run right along. She played away the afternoon, visiting each bush in turn as her stomach persuaded her. I can't say I blame the logic. Why stop inside when you have a fruit pantry at your fingertips? Now, how to deter an Audrey Bird?

Into the Dirt

Yesterday, rain close on our heels, we dug in the dirt with fingers and spade. We settled seedlings into new homes and carved out caves for new seeds to dwell and find their roots. With a few final pats of shifted soil, we left things where they lay, packed up our things, and took our leave through tiptoeing raindrops. We let the rain fall where it may and set about waiting - to see what the rains and sun will bring, what secrets those seeds might hold, like treasures unearthed from deep pockets.

First Fruits

The first ripe berry made its debut this week: red, ripe, and sweet. The picture doesn't quite do it justice, but I had to move fast. That berry didn't last long. Every day, Audrey runs out to check the strawberry plants for pops of red peeking out from green leaves (of course, sometimes she gets a bit eager and plucks an underripe one thinking it will pink up while sitting on the counter). Hopefully, several more crimson ones will find their way to her fingertips. Tis the season...

Spring Song

The calendar claims it's spring, but the days have been wearing more like the tank tops of summer: full sun with a breeze against your arms. Outside days. Bare feet upon spongy grass days. Days when you can hear your neighbors' business through thin window screens. Zoey, you better find your way home now. It's eight-thirty and your mama's calling you in. Days for planning and planting, watering can in hand - mama catching through her lens that before summer's end her little one may need a big metal watering can to call her own. Muscles weary by day's end, but eyes still alight with visions of new beginnings: the sprouts of the ground, the return of feathers to air, baby toes digging into carpet trying to push forward. Using up all the strands of day until we retreat to shade and home and table. At last tucking into some bread, and dreaming of meals of the harvest to come.

Weekend

Some much awaited sunshine, a few healthy scoops of dirt, a handful of fruit plants, and a whole lot of wardrobe. As winter gives way to spring, we find our little girl letting go of toddler ways, eager to wear her newfound independence. Literally. On those days that she dresses herself, I can't help but think we've entered the Pippi Longstocking age: the age of spunk and sass, big dreams, and dirty fingernails. Oh the dirty fingernails on these early days of spring.

* I would like to say that no strawberry plants were injured during the production of this photo shoot. But, only time will tell.

Easter by the Roadside

Some of you may have grown up with or read the Mercer Mayer Little Critter books to your children. Do you remember the one entitled I Just Forgot?

"Sometimes I remember,

and sometimes I just forget.

This morning I remembered to brush my teeth,

but I forgot to make my bed.

I put my dishes in the sink after breakfast,

but I forgot to put the milk away.

I almost forgot to feed the puppy, but he reminded me.

I didn't forget to water the plants. They looked fine to me."

That story describes me as well as any other. "Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I just forget." We left the house early yesterday. "I'm forgetting something," I said. It wasn't until we were several miles from the house that I remembered. "It's the camera." I had remembered the bottles, the extra changes of clothes, the thank you note, the checkbook, the diapers. I had forgotten the camera. And to fill up on gas. Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I just forget. Actually, I didn't even forget the last one - technically. I had remembered several days before. I just chose not to fill up. I was driving - who can remember where? I noticed the tank was half-full. I began carrying on an internal dialogue. It went something like this: They say you get better gas mileage if you keep your gas tank full. I should probably start filling my tank up when it's half-full. When it's not raining. Who are they and how do they know so much? [For those of you wondering how often I carry on silent conversations with myself, I hate to admit that I'm pretty much a non-stop internal dialogue machine. Have you seen The Informant? I am that man (minus the criminal shenanigans and deception) with fewer random facts and more fake interviews with Oprah and explanations to nonexistent police officers as to why it was necessary to have just run that red light.]

Well, I didn't think about that now-not-so-half-full gas tank again until Sunday when Jason told me to remind him that we needed to fill up after leaving my parents' house. Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I just (ahem) forget. Which, is how we came to be parked by the side of a farm-lined highway less than three miles from a gas station with an empty tank come Easter evening. It wasn't all that bad. The weather was perfect - a breezy warm spring (as if meant for stuck-on-the-side-of-the-highway folks) sort of day. The children were on their best behavior. More importantly, they were funny (always a plus when entertainment street-side is in short supply). The view wasn't shabby: fields, farms, and the sprouting of spring. And, Jason's mom and her boyfriend were ready with a gas can and willing to come to our rescue. I would show you a picture of our roadside stop, but um, you know.

Needless to say, I have no Easter photos for you today. No shots of pink polka-dotted Easter dress ruffles, or babes in blue knit hats, or brimming baskets of eggs. Nope. Today, you get the other snapshots of our weekend, those I did manage to capture: plumbing and planting.





Somewhere in between the spats of forgetfulness, a couple projects found their way to completion. First, a dripping faucet lost its leak. I should be embarrassed to tell you that we've had the hot water turned off on one of our sinks for a month due to this leak (but I admitted that I have lengthy conversations with myself, so I think we've passed the embarrassment threshold, no?). It's one of those hang-in-limbo projects: too easy to call the plumber about but not the sort of thing your mother teaches you over chocolate chips cookies while growing up. So it waited until I had sufficient time to search the web. At first, my search was fruitless. When I looked up leaky sink, I found how to fix everything but a simple faucet leak. Then, it dawned on me. I don't know how or why (but can you imagine the conversations she could hold with herself?), but Martha Stewart knows practically everything. From how to bake the perfect cake, to etching glass, to proper jail cell etiquette - she's your girl. Sure enough, she also knew how to fix a leaky faucet and demonstrated with beautifully photographed images. (You can check out her handy plumbing how-to's here.) A simple switching out of a washer (the circular black do-dad in the picture) and we were hot water happy and drip-free.

So just how do you celebrate a roadside rescue and plumbing success? By planting pumpkins, of course - our first planted seeds of the season. Now if I can just remember to water them. Hmm...

My New Garbage Bowl

If we could shorthand the last two weeks to the catchphrase "gratitude," then the next couple weeks could just as easily be termed "preparation". It's become our focus: preparation for the holidays, preparation for the change in weather, preparation for the newest member of our family. But with all of this preparing and the list-writing that typically ensues from such an idea, I'm trying to keep things simple, in the spirit of not rushing (or at least tricking oneself into feeling not rushed). To achieve this, I try to pick things from the list to work on that I feel inspired to work on that day (with the exception of doing those few tasks that have to be completed for that day or the next). I leave the rest for another day, when hopefully, those jobs will seem like the ones that will energize me rather than wear me down.

In true recovering (or not-so-recovering) procrastinator fashion, this leads to some interesting tasks being pulled from the list first, which is how I came to acquire my new garbage bowl.





You may be familiar with the "garbage bowl", made infamous by Racheal Ray. She sets a bowl on the counter as she cooks, whose sole reason for being is to dump her food scraps and trash so she doesn't have to make trips to the garbage can during meal preparation. I have been known to drag out the entire garbage can and place it at the end of the counter to shove food scraps into as I work, therefore omitting the step of carrying or cleaning a garbage bowl. But, for the last two years, following the onset of our adventures in gardening, I've been pining for a compost bin. It just seems silly to keep buying dirt I could make myself. Finding myself with some nice weather last week, and finding this tutorial on a DIY compost bin, I decided it was time to stop pining and start composting.





Now, buying a Rubbermaid container to house our compost might not seem like the most eco-friendly option we could find, but the $7 for a first composting effort beat the heftier prices of already-made compost bins that I've been eyeing for years. I drilled some holes for aeration, and Audrey and I began to layer our compost: shredded newspapers; dried leaves; dirt mixed in with yard waste; food scraps; and more newspaper.





We stirred our waste lasagna, drilled some holes in the Rubbermaid container lid, and popped it in place. Then I found an airtight container (pictured in the first photo). It spends its days under our kitchen sink until I begin preparing meals. Then, like any garbage bowl worth its salt, it takes its place on the counter to catch all the food scraps that can be composted. Every few days I take it out to dump it into the compost bin with more shredded newspapers, dried leaves, or torn-up cardboard toilet paper rolls. Only time will tell how well our compost bin will provide, but as our weather drops down to the forties and I find myself shivering, it's nice to think we're preparing in some small way for the spring to come.

*I also found this pint-sized book, Composting: An Easy Household Guide, by Nicky Scott to be a helpful reference as we built and layered our bin.

(And now back to my list, to see what needs to be done in, ahem, December).

Transition

This weekend we headed outside and ushered in fall by planting some mums. Then we potted up some basil and brought summer back in.

Hello September

The sun is still shining, but a chill lingers in the breeze. Each time we head out to the garden to collect that afternoon's bounty, I am reminded to hold on to the here and now. These just might be the last vibrant colors of summer (and oh, how I love the purple). As much as I'm looking forward to the fall, I'm letting myself linger on the colors and tastes of summer for as long as they last.

We grabbed the above vegetables from our garden, and after admiring them on the counter for a little while, it was into the saucepan for a Ratatouille of Sorts Meets Jambalaya - Kristin-Style.



Ratatouille Meets Jambalaya:

Olive Oil
1/3 Tbsp. butter
Half red onion, diced
One medium zucchini, diced
One red pepper, diced
One green pepper, diced
Two large tomatoes
One clove garlic
One smoked sausage, halved and sliced (we used turkey sausage)
1 c. arborio rice
3 c. chicken stock
Dried thyme
Salt and pepper

Heat a glub of oil olive (probably a Tbsp.) and a sliver of butter in the saucepan while chopping the veggies (except tomatoes, further instruction below).

Brown the onion. Add the garlic followed by the green pepper and red pepper. After those softened a bit, add zucchini. Blanch the tomatoes in some boiling water for just a minute until the sides start to split. Dunk tomatoes it into a bowl of ice water. After that, the skins should easily peel away. Dice and add to the saucepan.

Add the sausage, arborio rice, and one cup of chicken stock. When the chicken stock is absorbed, add another cup. When this cup of chicken stock is absorbed, add the third cup and season with a few shakes of dried thyme, salt, and pepper. After the third cup of chicken stock is absorbed, dish into bowls and head off to the table to enjoy a little summer. (Serves 4).

We hope you're enjoying the tastes and colors of your season's table, whatever they may be.

Out of the Garden and into the Sauce Pan

We came home to eight large ripe tomatoes and a basket of cherry tomatoes. I am particularly fond of these homely heirloom ones. The wisps of green streaks seeping from the stem base seem to give these guys some character: tomatoes that have been around the block - weathered. With more almost-ripe on the vine, I decided to try my hand at fresh-from-the-garden spaghetti sauce. Of course, most of the sauce recipes I could find use canned tomatoes. So I had to improvise.

First, I found this website, which shows the process, in detail, of freezing tomatoes for future use in sauces, etc. I followed the instructions to prepare my tomatoes: giving them the hot tub treatment by boiling them in a large pan of water for just a minute before shocking them in an ice bath. Poor guys. This made the skins really easy to peel off before I quartered, squeezed, seeded, and drained them. Then it was time sauce it up: tomato-style.

I found this recipe for Giada De Laurentiis' Simple Tomato Sauce. Of course, it calls for canned crushed tomatoes. I threw caution to the wind and ignored this. I halved the recipe and when it was time to dump in the crushed canned tomatoes, I threw in my fresh tomato quarters. Then I waited. For an hour.



Luckily, I have just the thing to distract one from worrying too much about the state of spaghetti sauce in the form of a two-and-a-half-year-old blond. After a stint of trying to convince her that she had successfully "washed the dishes" (which entailed her climbing upon a stool, scaling the counter, and hanging herself over the sink so she could run water and soap into the pile of dishes I had amassed - with some cherry tomatoes and the wooden tomato basket thrown in for good measure) the sauce was almost done. The tomatoes had cooked down a bit with tomato chunks throughout. This went into the food processor where, after a quick pulse, it thickened into a traditional-looking tomato sauce. Except, it's orange. So it looks a bit more like creamy tomato soup. But, it still tastes yummy. Roma tomatoes are the ones typically used for sauces like this. We didn't grow those in our garden. Maybe they make red sauce. For now, we've got orange. Good thing it's one of Audrey's favorite colors.

Sweet Smelling Surprise

I'm cheating a little today. I usually do the Week in Review on Fridays, but I'm going to put that off until tomorrow. Today, you get this little picture - a sweet little surprise I discovered this week while starting a mulching project. Several months ago my kind neighbor, Nor, offered me a peppermint root from her family's thriving patch to plant in my yard. I planted it, watched it wither, and forgot all about it. This week, as I was weeding our front mulch bed before adding new mulch, I found this beautiful green plant that smells even better than it looks. Don't you just love good surprises?

Farm Fresh

We are hot and tired, and our quart containers are brimming with our success (well, not quite brimming, but it feels like success). We spent the morning tagging along with friends to a berry farm. On the menu: pick your own blueberries and black raspberries.

This was Audrey's first foray into berry picking (and my first time to pick blueberries). If you want to take your toddler berry picking for the first time, blueberries are a pretty ideal start. The taller bushes reach their eye level. The berries are easy for little fingers to pull off, without thorns or anything to prick them along the way. And, after a little explaining, they can pretty easily discern the dark blue ones from the green. (Oh, a blue or purple outfit to camouflage stains doesn't hurt, either).

Audrey's concentration bobbed between picking berries and chasing her friend, Michael, down the walking paths between the bushes. There is much to be discovered in a berry field: sticks; flowers; bugs; other kids, picking with their parents, who just want to be left alone and don't understand why a little blond keeps tailing them; dogs; more sticks; mom's water bottle. It's a bit of a hot, sticky adventure - one with a built-in snack.

If fact, the toddler years may be some of the best for dragging your little one around the berry farm, while they still have that odd internal thermometer that says 50 degree water is ideal for swimming and 90 degree weather is perfect for running around and performing manual labor.

As for me, after spending more days than I care to count quarantined inside in an attempt to keep incessant sneezing at bay, this trip seemed like a nice introduction back into the best of what summer has to offer. Deep purples and blues against a sea of green. The sound of kids discovering outside. Fruit so fresh it begs to be eaten before you can leave the field - before it makes it from bush to carton. Work with a reward so great, it becomes more of a quest than work - a scavenger hunt for fruit.

We left the field with some sun on our faces, some grass on our knees, and berries in the backseat. Tired in the best of ways. Thankful for some time outdoors and time among friends.

And then we journeyed home to find rest. And taste summer.