Make it Up

I’m making something for my sister-in-law. This is weird because, as my 4 year old put it, “she knows everything about yarn knitting!” But this isn’t yarn knitting, it’s plarn crocheting. Not that my amazing sister-in-law couldn’t manage it, she just knows I work with plarn and doesn’t have a ton of time to cut up plastic bags herself.

The pattern she sent me is for a yarn holder (yes, a yarn holder made of plarn). Instead of punching a hole in the side of a Tupperware bin and putting your yarn in there, you can crochet one. I glanced over the pattern, took the advice for a back post crochet stitch when transitioning from the base to the sides, and then just took off on my own. I’ve worked with enough patterns of this kind to just kind of make it up as I go along.

The pattern ends up being a bowl-shaped thing with a hole in the side for yarn. “But,” I thought, “What if one of the kids knocks it off the table/couch/lap where it’s sitting? The yarn will go everywhere.” There was only one solution: it needed a lid, but the pattern didn’t have one. What could I do? Well, I could leave the finished product lidless and let my sister-in-law’s yarn escape, or I could do what people did before Ravelry existed.

I could make it up myself.

All patterns are made up patterns.

I think the yarn holder is going to be pretty cute once I’m finished with it, and it’s nice to be making something with plarn that doesn’t take me months and months. Of course, it’s not using as many plastic bags as a reusable Bag the Bag is, but that’s okay. It’s going to be nice to have a finished product that doesn’t make me hate working with plarn before I’m finished with it.

Maybe when I’m done, I’ll make something similar: a basket or something. And if I can’t find a pattern for it, I’m sure I’ll be fine just making it up as I go along.

The Great Pattern Search

“Hon, come here and look at this,” my mother said as we shopped at a children’s consignment sale last weekend. “What kind of stitch is this?” I looked at the blanket she was holding. There was no way I was going to pay the price they were asking for, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t try to figure out how it had been made.

“I don’t know,” I replied, poking at the pretty swooping shell shape of the pattern. It wasn’t like any pattern I’d seen before. Usually, crocheting shells means that there are tons of holes and your blanket is more a pretty thing to look at than an object that will keep you warm. But this pattern looked like it would actually be worth snuggling under. Warm and pretty? I looked at the price tag again.

Then I shrugged, thinking, If I wanted this, I could make it myself. Then we walked away from it, agreeing that we couldn’t identify the pattern, but that it was nice.

Later on in the week, I began to think about what kind of a pattern I will eventually use to finish the tiny owl blanket, and started to kick myself. “Why didn’t we take a picture of that blanket at the sale?” I asked my mom. I asked my Yarn Genius sister-in-law if she’d ever seen anything like it, explaining the pattern poorly and again lamenting that I hadn’t captured it on film to show her, or at least to compare it to other patterns when I went looking for it on the internet.

To the internet I went. I looked at several different shell-type patterns, and hiding in the middle of those was that cute cupcake pattern. That got me to wondering whether anyone had yet invented an owl pattern, but all I found were hats and adorable amigurumi owls and flat in-the-round type owls that I’ve already been making. One pattern was for a kid’s snuggly comfort item, with an amigurumi owl attached to a little blanket made with a granny stitch, its rows alternating blue and yellow.

Since the tiny owls are granny squares, I thought the blanket was pretty cute, and tried to follow the pattern. My only problem with it was that you can’t leave a loop of one color at the beginning of a row and pick it up at the other end. In the sample I made, I carried the yarn through each row, but if I actually decide to make it this way, I think I’ll use all one color, or cut the yarn, or have two skeins of the same color to use (one per side). Unless there’s something I’m missing on this pattern.

The reason I like it is that it’s got a little bit of room to see through, but not so much that you’re going to be losing warmth, just like the tiny owls. Not that I expect that this blanket will be the primary source of heat for anyone in the future, but if it needs to be used for that, it should be able to be something other than just a pretty thing laying around.

Mist in the Morning

My husband drives the same drive every day, back and forth to work: once in the morning, and once in the evening. It’s a lovely drive, but he doesn’t see it anymore. To him, it’s just the commute. Yeah, there are lovely rolling hills and beautiful river views, but he’s become immune to their breathtakingness.

I think we all get that way, sometimes.

This morning I rode along with my husband to work. We discussed normal, everyday things: future plans, what we were planning to give our children for Christmas. Except for when I interrupted everything with remarks about how gorgeous the scenery was. Mist was clinging to the ground, refusing to be chased away by the light of the rising sun. At one point we went down a hill and under a cloud lying low in the valley of a field. It was awesome. “Is it always like this?” I asked my husband as we pushed through a bank of cloud that obliterated the trees, clouds, and river. He shrugged. “Sometimes... A lot of the time, I guess.”

I wondered how often that sort of thing happens to me. Not that I’m often oblivious to lovely scenery, but it made me think about how often I might be failing to recognize and appreciate wonderful things in my life. I’m not the type of person who overexaggerates every disappointing moment that I experience, but I do have those times when I feel like stomping off to shout, “EVERYTHING IS THE WORST.”

But someone else “riding along” with me might be able to more easily point out the wonderful things in my life: my adorable children, my supportive parents, my awesome brothers (and their families), and my hilarious, hardworking husband. When I’m annoyed or stressed or frustrated, it’s easy for me to miss noticing that not every moment, not everything in my life is annoying or stress-inducing or frustrating. When I feel that way, I need to stop, look around, and notice the wonderful things that are always there, things that I might be too distracted or too used to having that I don’t actually see them.

My life will always have its hills and valleys, its good times and bad. But I hope that I never forget the beautiful things about it: the family I have been blessed with, friends who love me, and breathtaking views of mist in the morning.

Tabletop: Say Anything

Every family has their own brand of humor. I noticed this over the Thanksgiving holiday when we got the chance to play our newly purchased table top game, Say Anything. My husband describes it as “Apples to Apples, only without a handful of useless cards that you just have to waste.”

Say Anything comes with eight whiteboards and pens, sixteen chips for bidding, and question cards that have five question options. The judge picks and asks a question, and the other players write down the answer they think the judge will choose. When everyone is finished writing, the answers are revealed and the judge locks in their vote. Then, the players place their chips on the answer(s) they think that the judge is most likely to pick. When the judge reveals what answer was chosen, the writer gets a point, and any other players who placed chips on the answer get a point as well.

I spent the entire time playing Say Anything in Colorado and New Mexico trailing behind everyone else in points. I think I tied for third place once, but that was only because second place was a three way tie. My husband’s family has their own brand of humor, and while my answers were funny, they weren’t as funny as my brother-in-law’s, at least, not to the other players.

When we got home, my parents brought along my nephew when they came over to hug my children, and my brother and sister-in-law came to pick up my nephew. And since it was dinner time, it turned into an impromptu party, so we got out Say Anything.

I won.

Since I’ve got my family’s style of humor, they were much more appreciative of my answers than my husband’s family was. We wrote a lot of the same answers, actually. For instance, my sister in law was judging the question: “What is an ostrich thinking when it sticks its head in the sand?” My husband won because his answer, “Ooh! Sand!” was the only one that was different: my mom, dad, brother and I all wrote an approximation of “No one can see me/I’m invisible.”

Say Anything is a really fun party game that you can have a good time playing even if you aren’t winning. I know from experience.

Hometown Tourist

I didn't set out yesterday to have such an eventful afternoon. I certainly didn't set out to give a guided tour of my hometown. But, when in Rome (or Lincoln, rather)...

I set out to pick up some yarn from my mom's house. But when I got there, my mom told me that there was more yarn to be had, as my aunts who are visiting from Utah were going to come into town in quest of some.

Yarn Charm

My awesome sister-in-law works at the cutest yarn shop in town. Yarn Charm is a tiny yarn lover's paradise on Superior, a few blocks west of 27th Street. They have sock yarn, chunky yarn, lace yarn, or dyed wool in case you want to spin your own. (There are even toys in the classroom to distract your kids while you jump around squealing about yarn.) The prices are higher than at the big name craft stores, but so is the quality. I don't think you'll find a 50% silk/50% alpaca blend at Hobby Lobby. If you need some gorgeously fancy yarn, Yarn Charm is the place to be. (And if you don't know how to knit or crochet but want to learn, they offer classes! Check out their website or call for details.)

The Haymarket

I simultaneously congratulate and feel sorry for anyone who has never been to The Haymarket in Lincoln before. Congratulations, you've never had to deal with the parking situation. But, dude, you're missing out on the food situation.

We miraculously found two spots near one another, and parked on 8th Street between O and P Streets, where I immediately began pointing out restaurants to my hungry tour group. "There's a sushi place across the street; coffee house, coffee house, coffee house; Buzzard Billy's is Cajun, The Oven is Indian, there's Vincenzo's (Italian), Lazlo's is down the street (that's American food), there's a local Mexican place down the block and an interesting fusion burger place called Leadbelly."

To Old Chicago we went (there's no Old Chicago in southern Utah), to try local beers and split a calzone. My daughter opted for a more traditional kids' macaroni and cheese and a "Princess pink lemonade," which was not on the menu but our server promised to put extra "princess" in for her anyway.

Ivanna Cone

We turned down the offer of dessert, but that's only because Ivanna Cone is a block away. Ivanna Cone is the first thing you smell when you walk up the steps and open the door of The Creamery Building. It's the smell of freshly made waffle cone. They only take cash, but don't worry, there's an ATM in the hallway. There is usually at least one standard flavor on the chalkboard at Ivanna Cone: Dutch Chocolate, or Fresh Strawberry, or Sweet Cream Vanilla. But there's always something more gastronomically adventurous, like Lavender Lemon or Watermelon Lime Chili Sorbet. My Aunt Andie and I chose the safe option, Cinnamon, after I tasted a couple (and didn't fancy the Balsamic Strawberry), and my Aunt Tarie got Cinnamon Red Hots ice cream topped with hot fudge! While we enjoyed our dessert, I gave a mini-Haymarket news update, informing my tour group about the recent changes the area has undergone: the new arena and additional buildings, especially the plans for more parking space. My daughter hopped back and forth between taking bites of my ice cream and playing with the ice cream themed toys in the corner of the shop, where a sign reads, "you may play with our toys, but please clean up when you're done!"

The Creamery Building, where Ivanna Cone and Indigo Bridge are located.
(picture by Ammodramus, via wikipedia)

Indigo Bridge

The Creamery Building has three floors of interesting shops: Paint Yourself Silly, the Abracadabra Theater, a dance studio, and a photography studio (among others). But it's hard to leave Ivanna Cone and not walk directly into Indigo Bridge Books.

Indigo Bridge has one counter for buying books and another for coffee. While Aunt Tarie procured herself a decaf Americano (with locally roasted beans from Cultiva), Aunt Andrea found something shiny. She and my daughter tried on all the bracelets and picked one as I talked myself out of buying both a copy of Hark! A Vagrant! (although my birthday is coming up) and some mustache shaped post it notes, and after paying, we went on our way.

I tried not to lose my tour group as I lead the way in navigating the many one way streets back to my parents' house, where our tour ended with adorable babies, yarn envy, and plans for tomorrow.

You don't have to leave home to be a tourist (or a tour guide)! But some parts of the world are more blessed than others. I'm lucky to live in one of them! There are plenty of interesting things to do in Lincoln Nebraska, and if you ever want to visit, I'll show you, too.

Gift -R- Done

One of the greatest things about my job as a photo booth operator is that my boss lets me make props for it. I’ve made signs, mustaches, a monocle, lips, and have even brought along a couple of things I’ve crocheted.

Yesterday, I took the booth to a nearby country club to a dinner for a charity golf tournament: the Jason Peter all fore Git -R- Done Foundation!

I spent several hours of the morning painstakingly drawing, cutting out, and taping together this sign especially for it.

It was enjoyed by quite a few people during the event, including one guy who shouted, “Git -R- Done!” the whole time his pictures were being taken.

Since there was a lot to do and a ton or people to talk to, Larry himself did not have time for the photo booth. I wasn’t offended, but to make up for it (and to make up for the fact that I got to meet him and my sister-in-law Gwen, who is a fan, didn’t), I got him to sign it.

I love making props for my job, and enjoy it even more when I can see that people like them. This time I get extra fun: giving a gift!

MEMORIAL Day

Today is a day to stop and remember all those who have gone before us. To remember their lives and how they lived them, and to thank them for the impact they had on us.

It’s also a wonderful day to rest and think about the great things you have in your life. Like family, friends, and a newly varnished dining room floor.

If you work hard every other day of the year, it’s nice to have a break once in a while to enjoy life and maybe have a nap.

Enjoy today. Go for a walk. Take a nap. And remember that there are many people who make sure that you can live the way you do, and be thankful for them.

A Fine Day for FareBall

Some people dislike major holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter... they don’t like them because it usually means that they have to go home and spend some time with their parents and siblings. Some people are judgmental and competitive and like to compare their lives to those of their extended family, and determine their own self worth by how well they are doing and how well their family members are doing.

Not my family. We recognize that we all have different strengths and abilities. One of my brothers can teach anyone to appreciate the mechanics of a sonata. The other can teach anyone to appreciate the mechanics of mechanics. And I’m always inflicting historical knowledge on my family members, like reasons why my dad’s ancestry DNA test came back 38% Scandinavian (VIKINGS!).

We have a good time when we get together, and it doesn’t always have to be on national holidays. We hang out, talk about stuff, make arrangements to hang out some more or watch each other’s kids when we want to go on a date with our spouses (or when we just want to chill with our siblings’ awesome kids). We also eat together (DUMPLINGS!) and partake of our parents’ wisdom.

Easter isn’t usually gorgeous and sunny, but this Easter was. While I was slaving in the kitchen to produce enjoyable food (a fusion of my mother-in-law’s culinary wizardry and the deliciousness that is my grandmother’s cooking), my brothers and husband escaped with a frisbee to the backyard. When I was finished, I looked around and found no one in the kitchen; my sister-in-law was feeding my nephew and my parents were playing with my daughters in the other room.

I went out in the backyard. “Hey!” I shouted. “Nice job leaving me to do all the work!” My husband objected with the observation that if he tries to help I shove him out and tell him he’s getting in the way anyway, which is a valid point, so I shrugged and joined in their game.

It was kickball. Sort of. It was “every man for himself” kickball. If you could get all the way around the “bases” (corners of the yard), you’d get a point for yourself, but if the guy in the middle got a point if he was able to get you “out,” either by catching the ball when you kicked it or by throwing it at you and hitting you with it. Oh, and there was no pitching, just the person who was “up” kicking the ball out of their own hand.

My nephew finished his snack and my sister-in-law brought him outside to enjoy the sunshine. My mom came out to watch the game, and sat on the bench under the tree making sure my three year old wasn’t getting into too much mischief. My dad watched from the driveway, with my one year old all bundled up in her jacket.

The rules of the game kept changing. “So if you kick it on the roof or over the fence into the driveway it’s a home run,” one of my brothers said, “and don’t chase the ball down the stairs because if you go too fast you’ll break your ankle,” the other added. “And if you kick it and someone else gets in, then you get half a point,” my husband decreed. “And if you hit a baby you’re out!” my mom shouted, as my one year old toddled across the middle of the yard.

The ball was terrible. It sat out in the yard all winter and was lopsided and half deflated and didn’t go where you wanted to when you threw it, even if you were a foot away from your fleeing husband. Kicking was problematic because of the tree branch that hangs across one side of the yard, not to mention the electrical wires that stretch from the pole on the other side of the fence to the house next door.

We had a great time. I’d kick the ball and take off as my brother or my husband went after it, and as I ran for the nearest corner of the yard that we’d designated as first base, I’d scream, whether my pursuer was nearby or not. My husband would make fun of me, making faces or taunting gestures at me. My brothers would pose dramatically before each kick, pointing off into the distance where they expected the ball to majestically arch, even though they knew it probably wouldn’t. Sometimes they’d point in two different directions. Mostly, we ran our butts off and had an awesome time.

The next day I sent my brother a text message: “HOLY CRAP I am so sore!” He texted back, “Me too, I have to keep stopping to stretch.” I responded, “We either need to never do that again or do it all the time.”

My family has a great time when we get together. Sometimes we sit and watch a movie, sometimes we hang out and talk about electric vehicles, and other times we make up a game and run around in the yard getting muddy and displaying how out of shape we are. It doesn’t matter what we do, we always enjoy hanging out with family, even on days that it’s yucky and cold out.

But it’s always more fun when it’s a fine day for FareBall.

Tocino de Cielo y Tocino de Tierra

My husband and I look for recipes based on what ingredients we have in the house. “What? No lettuce? Guess we can’t make BLTs; oh well, let’s just eat the bacon.”

Bacon is awesome.

Last week we happened to have an overabundance of egg yolks, and I made the mistake of saying that I would make him a chiffon cake. If I say words like “cake” in his presence and don’t start working on it immediately, he will often start chanting at me. “You said you’d bake us a cake. You said you’d bake us a cake. You said you’d bake us a cake!” So to distract him, I started pulling out cookbooks, and he consulted ye olde internet.

The first thing we discovered was that chiffon cake, like sponge cake and pound cake, uses as many egg whites as it does egg yolks. So I put my books away, and leaned over his shoulder. One of the best things he found was a list of recipes to use up extra egg yolks. It had links to recipes that would help you use up one egg yolk (by making homemade mayo or some cheese straws) and recipes that would get rid of a dozen egg yolks for you (Daffodil Cake does not contain any actual flowers, unless you count flours).

After some more searching and narrowing down and calling my mom, I had it down to two recipes: Momofuku’s Crack Pie and Tocino de Cielo.

Momofuku Milk Bar is a bakery in New York City; they charge $44 for one of their Crack Pies (or you can spend $5.25 per slice). This recipe made two pies (if you’re keeping score, that’s $88). It has an oatmeal cookie crust that requires you to bake the cookies beforehand and then crumble them up to make the crust. According to the article on latimes.com, the total time spent making these pies is eleven and a half hours, plus cooling and chilling times. There was no way my husband was going to wait that long.

I glanced at the Tocino de Cielo recipe, didn’t see anywhere that it would take over half a day to make, thought, “eh, I can whip that up in no time,” and my decision was made.

“No time” turned out to be about five hours, but last time I checked, five is less than fourteen.

I’m not a confectioner and I’d never attempted anything like this before, so I was a bit baffled when I looked at the first line of directions. “In a small saucepan, cook ½ cup sugar over medium-low heat and stirring regularly, until it comes to a medium amber color.” I raised my eyebrow. “What?” I thought. “Just the sugar? No... water or anything?” I felt like an idiot standing there stirring half a cup of sugar around in a saucepan, but eventually it started to clump up and get darker. Then I looked like an idiot, because I started jumping around and saying, “It’s amber, it’s amber!” I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to let it get thick or if it needed to stay sugar-consistency, so I probably took it off the heat sooner than necessary.

Next, it called for me to ration the amber sugar into four six ounce ramekins. I don’t have ramekins. I grabbed a jumbo muffin tin out of my cupboard, filled two thirds of the cups, and set it aside.

The next step was heating a cup of water and half a cup of sugar with some orange and lemon zest to two hundred twenty degrees. I don’t have a candy thermometer, so my meat thermometer was going to have to do. I learned that holding the thermometer steady while keeping it in the liquid but not on the bottom of the pan while also not scalding myself on superheated steam (ow!) was pretty difficult.

What was even more difficult was trying to figure out how I was going to get 225 degree liquid down to room temperature so that I could mix in the egg yolks and vanilla, toss it in the pan on top of the amber sugar, and bake it in the oven so that I could let that sit in the refrigerator for two hours before my husband and guests would want to eat it. Half an hour in the cool of the refrigerator did the trick, and the last few steps were completed in a hurry before my sister-in-law came over with my nephew to help start dinner.

We were talking about how we would fit two chickens into my oven when I realized the timer for the Tocino de Cielo had already gone off and I’d forgotten to take them out of the oven. My hands were covered in chicken goo and spices, so my sister-in-law carefully took the 9 by 13 pan out of the oven so that she wouldn’t slosh out any of the water that I’d had to put under the muffin tin.

By the time the chicken was eaten, everything was cleaned up, my kids were in bed, and we were all watching Downton Abbey in the living room, the dessert had been sufficiently cooled. I scraped it onto some plates and served it. “It’s good,” my husband said. “This is soooo sugary!” my brother said. “It doesn’t have any dairy in it, so I can eat it!” my sister-in-law said.

“Want me to tell you what the name means?” I asked. They nodded. “Tocino de Cielo: Bacon from Heaven.”

Mine didn't look nearly as nice as this.

Tocino de Cielo was good, but not as good as bacon. And it didn’t taste like bacon. Maybe since the name “bacon” is already taken in heaven, we’ll have to call it “bacon from earth” when we get there.

Because there’s no way that they won’t have bacon in heaven. It’s awesome.

Bag Count: 17

The following is about a project I started some weeks ago. If it looks unfamiliar to you or you’ve forgotten what’s going on, reacquiant yourself.

My bag is starting to look like a bag. Not from the top, I guess.

But when you look at it from the side, you can see that it’s gaining some height.

At the end of last week, I was almost done with the base, and before I started on the sides, I asked my crochet/knitting genius sister-in-law how I should go about making sure that the sides were side-ish instead of looking like an extension of the base. My plan had been just to keep working along the outside of it until it became a bag. She said I should work around once and then only in the front loops.

There are zillions of websites out there for teaching yourself to crochet.
If you need a teacher, my sister-in-law teaches at Yarn Charm and Joann.

This created a little ridge that makes it look like I planned to do it that way all along. You can clearly see where the base ends and the sides start.

Maybe with more work, it’ll really start to look like a bag.

Bag Count: 17

Bag the Bag

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