As baking fiascos go, my first palmiers rank with 1970s baked rum balls and pumpkin pie sans sugar. What looks easy-peasy as YouTube pastry chefs deftly handle the puff pastry sheets, adroitly fold, evenly cut, and perfectly place each sugared confection which then blooms into a delicate crunch resembling a heart or elephant ears (depending on your perspective) my batch resembled fireplace kindling twigs. As they came out of the oven, I blamed the results on the gluten-free product but after a more careful review, the problems were operator-error. Since I bought pastry dough instead of puff pastry sheets, I had cinnamon sugared crusts reminiscent of the pie remnants at my Grandma K.’s. Not to be deterred, I am off to the store for the correct ingredient.
PS – The picture perfect palmiers are courtesy of food photographer Elise Bauer. My mistake definitely did not resemble these dessert treats.
During my library career a favorite activity was introducing new library boards to their responsibilities. And, not just those duties required by Minnesota statutes, but those responsibilities entrusted to them as caretakers of a community jewel. While there are certainly those individuals who seek such an appointment (especially these days) with a goal of controlling the collection or banning certain books, over all the years, I found most people were interested in doing good within their community. People who believed in the importance of reading, the importance of a safe place, the importance of lifelong learning. They rarely recognized it, but library trustees are individuals of hope. After all, who but a person with hopes for the future builds a library, or a school, or a church? Who but a person hoping for positive change spends time and money supporting something that they might use only for a brief time but builds beyond themselves?
Acts of hopeful resistance take many forms:
When Richard and I submitted our Breaking Ground pledge form so that we can do just that this spring – break ground at Eliza Place.
When the offertory plate is passed and the funds we collect go out the church door to be shared with our social justice partners.
When we don our gold scarves and SideWithLove t-shirts, whether on a sunny summer day or a frigid afternoon.
When we work side-by-side, shout out the injustice and work for change.
As this hectic month begins and I wonder how I will accomplish all the tasks – which cookies to bake, how to decorate the new house – last weekend’s snowfall served as a reminder to slow down and take a breath. To remember in these days of Advent that we are waiting for the gentle lights of Hanukkah, and Solstice, and Christmas. In these challenging days, I take solace from the poetic prayers of Rev. Victoria Safford, who reminds us we are at:
The gates of hope … The place of resistance and defiance. The piece of ground from which you see the world Both as it is and as it could be As it will be; The place from which you glimpse not only struggle, But the joy of the struggle.
From spring through fall at our First Street house, Richard, ever the car guy, would carefully coordinate the shade on the driveway and car washing to avoid direct sunshine and water spots. Later in the year, on those less frigid winter days, having collected quarters for months, he would use them at the self-service car wash thus keeping winter salt and slush to a minimum. These days, Med City Detail keeps our vehicles shiny and up to his standards. Since we no longer need this cash reserve sitting on the dresser, we decided a better use would be as an extra contribution to the Building Our Future-Beyond Ourselves churchbuilding fund.
As I lined up the coins from the Mason jar on the new kitchen island, I wondered if they might total 264 – just for kicks. While I only reached $61, they did trigger a conversation about our 1989 western vacation, which mostly followed that historic highway and included touristy adventures such as dinner at the Big Texan in Amarillo, hiking the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest national parks, and spending the night at the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, as well as a day at the Bob Bondurant School of Performance Driving. Definitely a chance to get your kicks on Route 66!
Just in time for holiday gift giving, over 200 indie designers are hosting Gift-A-Long 2025. Launched last evening at 5:00pm US EST, this knit-a-long / crochet-a-long (KAL/CAL) will run through December 31 at 11:59pm US EST.
Unlike other KALs in which I have participated when there has been one pattern shared by one designer, the gift possibilities of this KAL are endless – from caps to cowls, from scarves to sweaters, and even stuffies. While all patterns by the participating designers are eligible to be knit or crocheted, only projects made from purchased patterns will be eligible to win prizes. This unique marketing technique had me scanning patterns and checking my in-house yarn inventory last evening. And, this morning, with pattern and stashed yarn selected, I cast on a lacy scarf in this vibrant beetroot colored New Zealand merino tweed.
We kept waiting to be sad. For that tsunami of nostalgia to overwhelm. After-all, we were leaving our first house, our abode of 40 years, where we had celebrated the births of nieces and nephews and mourned the death of beloved family and friends; undertook remodeling and renovation projects, planted and transplanted blueberry bushes and rhubarb, prepared countless meals (the menus for which ran the gamut from a quick bowl of popcorn to gourmet auction prep).
One person suggested that our move was not just a move but a life choice and that distinction felt accurate. This was a decision arrived at over time, necessitated by health challenges and softened by the hundreds of details that comprised our construction project which also served as salve to lighten the mental soreness of loss. While we missed the opportunity of a topping off ceremony on Solstice Place, we carefully monitored construction progress – from the hole in the ground to the final walk-through. Each visit rooted us in the “rightness” of this change.
We spent a comfortable first night in the new house on September 25. We placed the bed slats on floor, having first put down an old flannel sheet to protect the new LVF (luxury vinyl flooring), followed by the twin springs and the king comfort mattress. The result – a tad lower than sleeping on the couch but higher than a futon. This odd predicament, of being bed-less (that is without a frame) was due to our decision to have the two antique metal bedstead that were once in my Grandma’s house, stripped via glass bead blasting and then dipped to powder coat them a rich forest-green. During their 100+ years, the color has gone from chocolate brown (the color in my childhood, as well as Momma’s memories of her early years in the 4th street house) to yellow, to creamy peach, and now to forest-green. Momma estimates these may have been her parents’ first purchase after arriving in the U.S.A. from Switzerland in July 1922, as by October Grandma was giving birth to Billie and most certainly had a bed for this home delivery.
Now, a month after closing, we have most (not quite all) of the boxes unpacked and flattened. Finding a place for everything has required expanding our decluttering skills yet again and each time we cannot find space we admit that we simply have too much stuff.
Still to be done – placing our eclectic collection of prints, paintings, and objets d’art. Once that is complete Solstice Place will be open for visits.
The realization, last November, that we needed to move from our multi-story, 100-year-old home to a one-level house triggered rigorous study in the current phenomenon of decluttering.
We found new users for Richard’s heavy tools – the table saw with an assortment of blades purchased over decades, a planer, grinder, belt sander, and more. I lost count of the trips to the waste-to-energy site delivering remnants of 40-years of projects that we kept “just in case.” There were also hazardous liquids (turpentine and motor oil) as well as a Maxwell coffee can of 16-ounce lead ingots left over from Dad’s reloading days. But, even after months of work and knowing that all of the sorting and pitching was in preparation for a move, the result of these tasks simply made our First Street house feel more spacious. There was more room in the closets, and the cupboards no longer harbored expired spices. It was not until I took the art off the bedroom walls that the upcoming move felt real.
Having met Richard at an art gallery in June 1981 and with a favorite pastime of visiting galleries, museums, and street fairs, we have a lot of artwork. From lithographs to pastels, from blown glass to hand thrown pottery, our collection is eclectic. While these pieces will never garner millions at Sotheby’s, each offers a story. Our wedding present to ourselves purchased at the Junction City art fair in October 1983; a Murano glass plate – the only souvenir we purchased while on a family trip to Switzerland in September 1991; artwork by friends and Richard’s own creations. With the help of a friend, we will move our collection not chancing any of these beauties to the packers and movers who will pack up our lives in just 10 days.
As I remove these treasures and carefully bubble wrap each one, I remember, with joy, how each piece came to grace our space, making a house a home.
It was the best of summer times – with plentiful potatoes and just the right sized zucchini, it was the worst of summer times – with chipmunks stealing succulent blueberries and cucumbers that overwhelmed. Almost making me regret planting this last garden on First Street all the while exploring options for next summer’s raised beds on Solstice Place. While carrots were not part of my planting plan, Leah Naomi Green’s poem is fitting for this month’s Gathering of Poetry.
Carrot
Take all summer, your ember
from the sun, its walking meditation.
Store it in small vaults of light to keep the rest of us
when winter seals around each day.
We'll flicker to the table.
We'll gather to your orange flame.
Please excuse my blatant plagiarism of the hallowed Dickens Tale and for being a tad bit late in joining Bonnie and Kat for this Gathering of Poetry.
I took up my knitting needles for the first time in 32 years when President-Elect Obama asked Americans to volunteer on inauguration weekend 2009. All of those first projects supported a new caring ministry at church, and I was very select in my yarn purchases: three skeins of Lion Brand Homespun for a prayer shawl or a colorful yet purposeful selection of Cotton-Ease for dishcloths. Eventually, I graduated to better quality fibers, but they were always chosen for a specific pattern. At the time, I was a “monogamous knitter” and that was also how I made my fiber purchases, one at a time. It would be five years before I ventured to that slippery slope of purchasing yarn without having already planned a project.
I have distinct memories of that 2014 purchase. For weeks, before the start of each sampler afghan knitting class, I gravitated to the bin of Frabjous Fibers fingering and admired the soft, springy texture. But the weight gave me pause. I had been working with thicker strands (worsted, Aran, chunky) and the fingering selections felt fragile by comparison.
But as brown was Dad’s favorite color and he would have appreciated the dark chocolate hue, I eventually purchased a skein in the Hedgehog colorway without any idea of what it might become. That was my first step into stash creation. Then there were yarn crawls hosted by local yarn stores – each an opportunity to purchase potential. And yarn clubs with boxes of squishy mail arriving monthly from Idaho and quarterly from Germany (although not in the same year.) Each purchase was photographed and inventoried, but organization was slightly haphazard with yarn tucked in six locations around our small house.
In preparation for our move to Solstice Place, that mishmash has been corrected. Each skein (all 115) has been sorted by weight and yardage, the location has been verified in the Ravelry database, and those skeins are stored in new plastic tubs that Two Men & a Truck will move in 39 days.
There are those individuals who just naturally like beets – like Richard and Momma. Then, there are those for whom beets are an acquired taste – and that would be me. For years, I avoided this nutritious root vegetable complaining it “tasted like dirt.” It was not until a local farmer shared a salad recipe with red wine vinaigrette, capers, and feta cheese that I decided to give this vegetable another try. (It was the red wine that really convinced me!)
Since that long ago Saturday at the farmers’ market, I have evolved from buying 1-2 bunches a summer to growing beets in our small, raised bed garden. While we have already enjoyed several side dishes fresh from the ground, this morning was harvesting day for this year’s crop. These have been boiled until just barely tender enough to easily remove the rough peeling. Once frozen, I can pull them out for year-round culinary enjoyment, whether roasted or dressed in herbal marinade.
Knit+ Librarian 