Hats from the heart

Courtesy of wine me up.

I've made two hats in my life and given them to two of my favorite men.

The first was crocheted for my dad when I was a teenager. I took two shades of blue acrylic yarn and double crocheted back and forth, back and forth and didn't stop because I didn't know how. The result was a tall hat, warm and weird as any Dr. Seuss get-up, and apparently strange enough to be considered hip because my dad once was stopped by another skier wanting to buy the hat off him, right there on the side of the slope.

Courtesy of Linda Conlin.

After creating such a thing, I picked up neither needle nor yarn for more than twenty years. Then, I decided to make my man a hat for the holidays. Again, I went for stripes, but this time wool in charcoal and tan. I'd been knitting it in front of Marcel the entire time and he never asked about it until Christmas Eve.

"What are you making?"

Stupidly, I didn't have a pat answer, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm making a pouch."

"A pouch?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Well it looks like a hat to me."

"No. It's a pouch."

This time around I thought I knew enough. I knew to think about gauge, how to carry the unused yarn from the inside, and how to bind off. But when Marcel put it on his head it looked like a bowl, a too big bowl. I considered frogging the whole thing and starting with smaller needles, but he refused to hand it over.

Pattern courtesy of brooklyntweed.

"It's a hat for big hair," he said.

I fuss around positioning it whenever he wears it and I notice when someone does a double-take as he walks down the street, but he assures me that he loves the pouch ... er, hat. Then he went and cut his hair.

"Does this mean you're not going to wear the hat?" I asked.

"Nah, I love the hat. It just sits a little lower on my head," Marcel said.

So there they are. My two hats -- too loose, too tall and calling too much attention to themselves -- but, nevertheless, still doing their job of hugging the head.

A cup, a crunch, a crumb

Courtesy of Anders Andermark.

1. Tea. I spent much of the day with a friend and a pot of Earl Gray.

2. Numbers. I found a place to record and track my progress when it comes to novel-growing, muscle-building and consciousness-raising.

3. A cake recipe. This chocolate mousse cake is the bomb; I made it twice this week because it is that good. Straight from the oven, you eat this with a spoon, cracking through the crunchy top and scooping up the luscious, warm insides. The next day you'll need a fork to cut through the cold, fudgy chocolate, so intense and rich, you'll also need another cup of tea.

Gateau au Chocolate by Dance in the Kitchen.

Gateau au Chocolat
Chocolate Mousse Cake

Serves 8

7 ounces bittersweet chocolate
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter
3 eggs
2 tablespoons flour
2/3 cup sugar

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter a 9x5x3 inch loaf pan. Warm a kettle of water and keep handy for a bain-marie (a water bath used to cook the cake).

In a double boiler over simmering water, melt chocolate and butter with two teaspoons of water. Remove pan of melted chocolate from double boiler and let cool briefly.

Beat eggs, flour and sugar until light and pale colored. Add melted chocolate and blend well. The mixture will be runny.

Pour batter into the buttered loaf pan and place the pan in a baking dish. Place in oven and pour warm water into the baking dish to a depth of one inch. Check cake after 30 minutes If it's browning too quickly, tent with foil for the last 10 minutes (40 minutes total). The top will be crunchy, but the inside remains very moist.

We're programmable

Courtesy of davidkjelkerud.

Overheard during a game of tag amongst my kids:

"I logged off! I logged off!"

Requested of me by one son during a bedtime story:

"Can you pause for a minute?"

***

Mentally noted after reading Ink Spell's recent post on kids and media overload.

My effort, not futile

"Sisifo" by Tiziano, courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.

I'm reading Albert Camus' "The Myth of Sisyphus" as part of my research for the novel I began late last year. I'm looking for parallels, themes, ways to shape the loosely connected stories that all begin in the desert. I think there's an existential element to these tales, an absurdity or desperateness to the lives they create in this near-dead, empty space.

Camus writes that although "The Myth of Sisyphus" poses mortal problems (suicide), it also is a "lucid invitation to live and to create in the very midst of the desert." The issue isn't the identification of what's absurd, but the response to it, the consequences of it.

"I said that the world is absurd, but I was too hasty. This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart," Camus writes.

I'm enjoying this, the meander through the dense material, the opaque writing silhouetted against my more simple stories, the hope I carry that this exercise will help me the next time I tug at the tangled tale threads balled up at the base of my neck, for I need blood to flow freely from brain to heart so I may write.

Five things needed to induce sleep in a toddler

Courtesy of Elfleda.

One story
Two breasts filled with milk
Three songs: "Twinkle Star," "You Are My Sunshine" and, finally, the national anthem
Four kisses
Five drinks of water

Then, we begin a cycle that looks something like this, and continues throughout the night:

Which means there's a problem with sleep, or lack thereof, in my house. Maybe he has sleep apnea? You know, when someone stops breathing for a second or two and so wakes up a lot, I suggested to my husband. More like sleep asshole-nea, he replied.

Ursine

/ur-seen/

adjective

My first cub and her ursine hat while sledding on Mount Rose, which has become a yearly trek and measure of time passed.

1. Of or like a bear

Ten years later:

Chaja.

We stuff kids, sleds, hot cocoa, lunch and armloads of boots, jackets, hats and gloves into the car, drive for 45 minutes, trudge up the hill in knee-deep snow while listening to complaints of hunger, exhaustion, cold and the need to pee, and I think: My God, I am a fool. Here I am, another year, and I'm doing this again. Why?

I climb on the back of a sled and hold tight to my daughter. Snow sprays, I scream, a hat flies, so does a boot, and Chaja and I are at the bottom. I stare up at the empty blue sky, gasping, laughing, my heart pounding against my chest, and find my answer.

This year we left my husband and my 2-year-old's jacket at home, but brought extra layers and friends with infectious attitudes, so although the day started out cold and grumpy, it ended on a warm note.

Sam and Max.

Annie.

Shannon.

In want of

Photos by Max Levy.

I feel like the sky today. It's leaden and tired, the clouds soft and cool and heavy as a feather pillow. I want to fall into the sky and sleep for a long time.

All day I wait for the clouds to break open, and about 4:30 p.m. tears splatter the windshield as my daughter and I drive to the grocery store. Inside we buy cans of Italian tomatoes, Satsuma tangerines, chocolate, and a small lemon tart that we eat while watching shoppers dash from their cars and enter the store breathless, brushing rain off their faces. Earlier, I was my own thunderstorm, casting sharp words, papers and stuffed toys about the house, but now I am dull from spent anger and lack of sleep. My 2-year-old is waking five, six, sometimes seven times in the night. I miss my dreams.

Home again.

I pour tomatoes into a pot, add halved onions and butter. The sauce simmers, melting, breaking, collapsing into a velvety sauce, sweet with tomatoes, savory with onion. Forty-five minutes later, a salad is made, pasta cooked, and I scoop out onion and ladle the sauce over noodles. A perfect meal for an imperfect day.

Later still.

The kids watch a movie, my husband returns to his freelance work and I bake the last of the chocolate cookies spiked with peanut butter chips. I sit at our kitchen table and write, but my words sound wooden. I need to sleep uninterrupted by small hands kneading my breasts, small toes digging into my thighs, a small mouth searching, not finding, and so shatters my sleep with dark wails.

I crack the bedroom window, pull the blanket up to my neck and close my eyes. My breath is slow, soft, gray. Outside the wind blows, but there is no sound of rain.

Succor

suhk-er
noun and verb



Our world has so many needs. How will you provide succor?

Noun
1. help, relief, aid, assistance
2. a person or thing that gives relief, help etc.

Verb (used with an object)
1. to help or relieve

A palette for the palate

Two on a night walk.

I like the washed-out colors of winter. The sky's broad brushstrokes of pale blue, pink, yellow and gray, the dark silhouettes of bare trees, the muted greens and rusts. I like the way winter smells of wood fires and oranges, and how the cold air burns the insides of my nose during night walks with my daughter. I like that days lend themselves to bowls of creamy cauliflower soup drizzled with browned butter, tasting as pale as the world outside and toasty as a handmade quilt.

Ivan under his Christmas quilt.

In the bowl:


Cream of cauliflower soup
garnished with brown butter and toasted walnuts

Cream of cauliflower soup
Adapted from a recipe by Top Chef finalist Carla Hall on National Public Radio
Serves 4

1 head cauliflower
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 leeks, white part only, washed and cut into half-moons
1/4 cup white flour
1 quart, plus 1 cup chicken stock
1/2 cup cream
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
Nutmeg

Garnish: Optional but for the browned butter because it's so good.

1/2 cup walnuts, toasted
parsley, chopped
4 tablespoons butter
12 tiny cauliflower florets

Wash and core the cauliflower. Reserve about 12 tiny florets and roast them in the oven at 400 degrees until tender. Roughly chop the remaining cauliflower and set aside. In a pot, heat the butter over medium heat. Add the leeks and cook until soft, but not taking on any color. Sprinkle the flour over the leeks and stir to combine. Gradually whisk in the stock. Bring to a simmer. Add the chopped cauliflower and return to a slow simmer. Season with salt and pepper. Simmer, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon to keep the bottom from sticking or burning until the cauliflower is fork-tender.

Remove the pot from the heat and puree the soup in a blender until silky smooth. Once processed, pour back into the pot. Place the pot over medium heat. Add 1/4 cup of heavy cream and bring to a simmer. If the consistency is too thick, add milk. Adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper. Add in a few sprinkles of nutmeg.

In a small skillet or pot, melt the 4 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Keep the butter on heat until it turns a nutty brown. Remove from heat and set aside.

Mix the tiny cauliflower florets and the toasted walnuts in a small bowl. Portion the soup into four bowls and top with the garnish. Drizzle with the brown butter, then chopped parsley.

Women hold up half the sky

Courtesy of Łukasz Strachanowski.

I'm rusty. Two weeks away and the keyboard clicks oddly, the seat feels strange and my brain(!) ... well, the gears need oiling. So I'll just chat a little and share some half-formed thoughts surrounding the title to this post and Chinese saying Women hold up half the sky.

What does it mean? That we're strong. Important. No, more than important -- critical.

I first saw the quote in the New York Times Magazine's August 23, 2009 issue, which devoted itself to the argument that women -- and our liberation -- are the key to solving many of the world's problems. Authors Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn write convincingly that it's no accident that where girls are uneducated and women marginalized the countries are disproportionately plagued by poverty and torn by fundamentalism. There's growing recognition that focusing on women and girls is the most effective way to fight global poverty and extremism.

The New York Times cites studies that have found that investing in women, rather than men -- allowing women to hold assets and gain income -- results in more family money spent on nutrition, medicine and housing, and children are healthier. And when women are more involved in society and the economy it appears to undermine extremism and terrorism.

"Now it is emerging that male domination of society is also a risk factor [for turbulence and violence]; the reasons aren't fully understood, but it may be that when women are marginalized the nation takes on the testosterone-laden culture of a military camp or a high-school boys' locker room," Kristof and WuDunn wrote.

It's an excellent issue and I urge you to read it. But it's left me restless. I feel a responsibility to do more: to educate my children, to make microloans to financially liberate women here in Nevada and across the world, to support my friends' as they step onto unstable ground following separation and divorce.

In order for me to better hold up half of my own sky -- the roof over my head, the beautiful blue outside -- I must get stronger. Physically stronger, healthier, and happier with how I look right now with my thickening waist and heavy breasts. Did you catch Glamour's celebration of women's bodies in the September 2009 issue? Again, another good read.

The picture that prompted the magazine discussion.

What's my plan for loving and strengthening my body? Well, there will be a number of sit-ups, push-ups and miles logged with my 24-pound boy on my back. There will be moderate amounts of healthy food and chocolate, of course, there must be chocolate. And there will be no squeezing myself into a size or style that just won't work with my body, so I've gone ahead and (temporarily) charged $500 to the credit card so I can try on three different dresses in size 12 and pick the one that makes me feel prettiest for my littlest sister's wedding in May.

But strength of body is nothing without strength of mind, so today I pick up my half-finished novel set aside for the holidays. There is much to be done on it, much of it still unclear to me, so the research begins, as does a new, more achievable habit to write one thousand words a day.

I'd like to count and calculate all of this and make it public in some way. Accountability will force me to continue when the chrome has worn off these commitments. I'm going to take a few days to figure out how to best document my novel-growing, muscle-building and consciousness-raising, and then I'll report back to you because I want you to keep me accountable for holding up my half the sky.

It's good to be back.

Popped

Ma, Ivan and New Year's Eve bubbles.

January one.

Drank champagne in the afternoon.
Finished a Gothic tale by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.
Ate black-eyed peas and brownies.

Ignored all my new year resolutions.

Oh, well. That's what January seconds are for.