Life's a Stitch

I walked into the kitchen at work. A co-worker from Iran offered me a treat. No thank you, I say, it's not on my diet. He seemed surprised, not sure why. I have a fair bit of middle age gathering around my waist, the equivalent of about ten pounds per child since my wedding day nearly thirty years ago. Then reality punched me square in my pudgy tummy. I looked at him and honestly replied, I have been on a diet for most of the past 42 years. 

Sad as that sounds, when I put my mind to it, I am most successful dieting when avoiding anything white that's not protein. I could've made a billion had I realized I was making up South Beach at age 18. 

What brought this on though, is the straw that broke the camel's back, one Fudge Cake with Coconut, albeit healthified. But how healthy can a cake that tall be, containing a half pound of cream cheese? It was light cream cheese. And I substituted half whole wheat flour. C thought it was so healthy that he had to buy ice cream to go with it.

Enough. If you have occasion to break a diet or want to leave your bad habits behind with a bang, this is the way to go:

Fudge Cake with Coconut

Preheat oven to 350. Grease a bundt pan.

Make the filling: 1/3 C sugar, 1t vanilla, 1 8 oz package of softened cream cheese, 1 egg, 1/2 C shredded coconut. Beat all until creamy.

Beat at high speed for one minute: 1 1/2 C sugar,1 C oil, 3 eggs

Add the following and beat for three minutes at medium speed: 3C flour, 3/4 C cocoa, 2t baking soda, 2t baking powder,1.5t salt, 1C hot coffee, 1C buttermilk, 1t vanilla.

Pour half of batter into bundt pan. Spoon filling on top, add the remaining batter. Bake for one hour. Cool in pan for 15 minutes before removing. 

Unbelievably delicious.

 

After all, it is a knitting blog. I know I've said that before, but the summer has posed a serious digression from the blog's intent.

Tid bit #1. Look at this cutie:

She accompanied her parents to our house for dinner. Chuck, the dutiful host, took her on a tour to show her the locations of the bathroom, TV, computer, everything of importance to a three-year-old.  Going by the knitting room he decided to engage her in a discussion about colour. WIth each open drawer, those saucer eyes became dinner plates. She took a deep breath and exclaimed "You've got too much strings!" Out of the mouths of babes.

2. Number two goes to Robbie, the visiting Cairn terrier. Now Gracee, the Scot, when it comes to other dogs, behaves in diametric opposition: she bares her teeth or is utterly indifferent. Almost ten-years-old this dog showed us a new trick. She stood in the middle of the living room emitting non-stop serial barks. Ruff…ruff…ruff…ruff. Little Robbie, also a Scot, calmly walked around her and very confidently proceeded to pee on my knitting basket. "So there" thought he. Now I know why I store my projects in baggies. 

3. The third bit of knitting tid is actually about crocheting. I remember in 7th grade English that being called artistic license. Thank you Sister Marion. You remember Robbie, from Number two above. Maybe that should have been Number one, considering the circumstances. Robbie's owners had just returned from visiting an elderly aunt who gifted them with a collection of historic family photos. This one caught my eye immediately. Auntie in her hand crocheted sweater circa the 1930's:

Both beautiful, the aunt and her sweater. Don't you think? I wonder if she was posing for her FO (finished object for non-knitters who have so kindly made it through to the end of this post) picture.

The second wave of summer visitors arrived, my sister and her family. While they were here:

We explored very high places:

Got caught in tight spaces:

Geocachers left no traces:

Arrghhh, self portrait faces:

"Yes, Bocce!" the Grace says:

The end.

 

This summer's beginning, although not consistent weather-wise, meant family time. With regard to the weather, it reminds me of a similar season, when my girls were little. Canada Day weekend, sitting by a pool, me clothed in Goretex, clutching an umbrella. The kids? Mercilessly immersed in swimming lessons. It was July after all.

Those girls, now all grown up, no worse for the swimming wear, came home for a visit with Grandma. 

All three little darlings were home at once:

The girls and I did uncharacteristically (for me anyway) girly things. Manicures, pedicures and feathers in our hair:

The little birdies once again flew the coop and this week my sister and her family have joined the nest. More on that later, just wanted to catch up. 

 

Once upon a time there was a family. The mother of the family opened her backpack and discovered the LCD screen of her little camera smashed. Oopsie. 

The mother called one of her daughters to share her woe. "That's OK, Mom, I dropped my MacBook." Oopsie."It still works but is dented and closes wonkily."

Then she called the boy. The boy is in fourth year at the local university studying film making, which continually amazes the mom considering the trials of his last year of high school. She shares her camera woe. "That's OK, Mom, I dropped my Go Pro movie camera into the ocean and had to hire an urchin diver to fish it out." He gets the oopsie prize. "It's waterproof, so it still works."

If things happen as they say, in threes, then the oopsies are thankfully over and the family can live happily ever after. 

*****

I got almost five good years out of that little camera, having broken my last one at my daughter's wedding rehearsal dinner. This time I went for one with fewer bells and whistles and concentrated on my preference for wide angle and macro capabilities.

 

For Father's Day an observation regarding today's dads. So different from the Leave it to Beaver days, much more involved. The non-profit for which I work includes Childcare Resource and Referral services. We have an increasing number of fathers taking responsibility for day care arrangements. 

So one day, I'm on a crowded bus. Two guys, in their thirties were standing in the aisle immediately in front of me, their conversation plain as day.

"Hey, how's the little guy?"

"Almost a year now, we have to find daycare."

Thinking to myself: we're so fortunate to live in a country with a year of paid maternity leave. 

"That's a big job."

All I could do not to whip out a business card.

"We have a list of four, the first three weren't so good. The fourth is way across the railroad tracks, we're going there tomorrow."

A list? That's encouraging, they've already used our services. I've probably seen them in the office.

Dad continues, "All I want is for him to feel secure and not stressed."

Wow you get good Daddy points.

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

A pregnant pause and a sigh.  

"And how's your dog doing?"

Honest to God they were talking about dogie daycare. Thank goodness I didn't give them my card. I guess doggie dads have changed, too. 

 

 

Not much progress in the rib department. It is a slow area of the body to heal as they don't get any rest due to the need to expand when breathing and occasional bodily induced setbacks such as sneezing and coughing. A workweek in Toronto, complete with 4.75 hour flights and luggage lifting, slowed the progress. Enough whining. Thanks to all for the good thoughts. 

A fair bit when it comes to project progress. Those 4.75 hour flights helped with the growth of Seraphina, now halfway done:

Progress? After thirteen years without TV in the house, not sure what possessed me, but we've joined the rest of the world.

I know what did it. A call from the cable company, explaining that for the same price we pay for phone and internet, we could have all that plus cable with free equipment including PVR. Further temptation was six months of a 50% discount that could be used to buy a fancy shmancy TV. 

Negotiations regarding placement in an unobtrusive space produced a TV room in the back of the house. C is in heaven, he has his video valium back. ME? I'm guarded. The one who doesn't appreciate the drone and flashing lights, still has a quiet house despite the intrusion of progress. I do have to admit though, I was an eager participant in watching the hockey game. 

I could have called this one Oops I Did It Again, but that it far too common a blog post title, usually referring to a project the second time around. Not for me. I Did It Again refers to falling while wearing perfectly sensible shoes travelling on foot at a reasonably moderate speed. I'll turn a long story into the Reader's Digest version, as one of my former bosses used to request of staff.

Police incident, downtown. Man wielding sword, cops in pursuit. Bus behind police tape unable to turn around. I'm on bus. Three shots. Rubber bullets, how Canadian. Didn't work, go figure. Taser used, ineffective, Tackle him! Man down. Still on bus, ringside seat.

One more hour, let off bus. Finally! Let's grab a cab, step off sidewalk, woman down. Prone on Georgia. Street that is. Maui Memories. What's wrong with me? People screaming. Someone help her. Disbelief. Even pavement. Very graceful?! Ultimate embarrassment.

ER, x-rays, purple elbow, injured chest wall. Very painful. Morphine.

The end.

P.S. Six days later, doing better. At last.

Please excuse my absence. Grant writing season has been extended this year like our endless winter into spring. And my personal life has been wrapped up in paperwork excitement, the good part of which includes a group purchase of a place in warmer climes. More on that when it's a done deal. 

I cleaned out a closet tonight. Not a real closet, but it gave me that cleaner closet feeling going through my Ravelry "favorites." I am not good at following that guideline "if you haven't used it in two years…." Still, after my enthusiastic cull, I have enough in that Ravelry closet to last many lifetimes.

On to the real closets. We have a retirement plan of action that includes starting mine a year ahead of C in which time I will get the house in order for selling. A year is optimistic, so four years out, to make the job easier, we are sifting through the remnants of an active family of five. A family so consumed by work and school that it seems we forgot to plan a second life for outgrown clothes, read books and loved toys. We just stuffed them under beds, in closets…

Which leads me to the stash. C rearranged the knitting/computer room last night. He emerged with a look of understanding, one I don't associated with my knitting addiction.

"Ah," he said,"I now know why they call it a stash." 

My nervous laughter, "Why is that?"

"Because it's stashed everywhere: under the bed, in the closet, every drawer, in hampers, rubbermaid containers, in baskets, some of it still it their shipping boxes."

He admitted he has no room to talk with his piles of wood, inside and out, awaiting their turn, so to speak, on the lathe. 

I do know I'm not as bad as some in my knitting group. There's one whose stash has grown so large that she's rented a storage locker. You know who you are. But the prize goes to two other sweet souls, who have rented a "studio" in an industrial part of town, primarily for stash management. 

I'd be interested to know, where do you keep yours? Any unusual strategies? The microwave? The doghouse? 

What is that look? What are those eyes saying?

And what are these eyes saying:

That's Chompers, my daughter's cat, and that glow on the floor is really from his eyes.