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Spring

Spring

Makes all Things Warm

And Happy

Stress & Relaxation

One Week ago…

Spring is quietly asserting itself in Seattle

Yesterday...

I will own up to a lack of patience, mostly with myself. Yesterday was one of those days fraught with impatience, frustration and plain old cranial over load. I explored social media, something anyone engaged in e-commerce must seriously consider. Unfortunately my lack of patience makes me jump to the middle of “the book” (yes, I peek at the end sometimes – mostly with instruction manuals). Memories of yesterday’s marathon introduction to social networking still give me a shudder but I came out on the other side and there were some serious side-benefits.

Own a bread machine? We do. I say “we” but it’s really only me that ever uses it, I believe it's the one machine Shad finds to be intimidating. (www.zojirushi.com/ourproducts/breadmakers/bbcc_x20.html).
The bread loaf that emerged from the oven yesterday was truly yummy. Putting the ingredients together also relaxed me immensely; the Internet and all the complexities I was subjecting myself to disappeared for a brief time.


1 & ½ cups of filtered water

2 Tablespoons Organic Sugar

1 Teaspoon Fine SeaSalt

1 Tablespoon Dry Rosemary

1 Tablespoon Olive Oil

¼ Cup SA CO Cultured Buttermilk
(www.sacofoods.com/culteredbuttermilkblend.html)

4 Cups Organic White Bread Flour

1 ½ Teaspoons Active Yeast (granules)

Preheat oven to 350 F w/pizza stone

(www.williams-sonoma.com/products/baking-and-pizza-stone/?pkey=x%7c4%7c1%7c%7c4%7cpizza%20stone%7c%7c0&cm_src=oldlink)

Ingredients are listed in the order they are added to the bread machine, Yeast always goes on the very top (keep it dry) into a little well in the flour. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and form into a long loaf. Slide loaf into the 350 F preheated oven and onto the pizza stone. About 29 minutes later have peanut butter standing by…

So. I managed to spin up a personal Facebook page. Check. I also promptly "lost" the Facebook business page I began populating. Check. Signed up for a Twitter account. Check. Opened and completely lost comprehension of an "aggregator" and contemplated which media sharing site I'm going to utilize. Check, check & check. But the joy of community? Well that came in the form of advice, from a Facebook friend. A really good friend.

Unplug. Do. Art.

Check.

Party Recipes & Other Gossip

It’s really early in the morning, too early to be up and awake on a weekend, but here I am with a strong desire to tuck the last few little items from our CommOps Post Holiday Party away but it would simply be too loud. It’s amazing how much noise repacking a few chafing dishes can generate. So I thought I’d sit down for a few minutes and blog.

Many of us have worked for a caterer, either during our University years as a way to pay for tuition and pizza money, to pay the monthly bills or because we have a strong desire to work in the service industry. I must admit that I never catered because of a strong love of food service. A more finely honed sense of self preservation was always somewhere around the top of the list. But I don’t want to leave the impression that catering left me cold or disinterested. Indeed, several things really appealed to me. First off, when my depression wasn’t in full swing I really enjoyed many of the people that I’ve worked with, mostly really cool women (and men) who could make ten hours on your feet just fly by, some of the folks hosting the events were just stellar (you always remember their names and hope they'll call you again), and I’ve also met more than my fair share of really cool guests. But the strongest attraction for me was always the reward of making things look appealing, tempting, even beautiful.

Beautiful? How can a Caesar Salad or a lump of raw fish look beautiful you ask? I suppose the answer to that question has been making Chefs famous for many a century. Anything can taste good, but to also make it look good is an art in itself. Add into the mix being a responsible consumer and thoughtful human being  and you’re really cookin’.(www.sushiwhore.com/sustainablesushibar.html)

I must admit I had a fantastic time this year at our annual CommOps Party. I owe that simple fact to my Husband and some wonderful helpers, Michael, Kimberly, Steve and Laurie. Bless their hearts. My Husband took the day off from work and we did all the early running around stuff together ~ what a joy it is to be able to discuss the merits of Pecorino Tartuffe versus a crumbling Gorgonzola (we chose both) a mere eight hours before an event . Our Friend Emergency Response crew simply showed up early, simple for me. Not so simple for them. Post workday traffic, last minute requests for bottle openers, ice and anything else I could imagine we might need. And they were still smiling when they arrived. They cut fruit, filled trays, stacked bamboo picks and generally just made me feel like everything was going to get done ~ before the party itself ended. I always like to think I can accomplish things alone and am humbled constantly by my actual need for assistance (okay, some people call it help). And I enjoyed our guests, my Husband’s workmates and collegues. They really couldn’t have cared less about how my hair looked or that I still haven’t fixed the hole in the wall next to our new (not so new) thermostat. Thank you to all of you for such a wonderful time. What cool people. Now I feel like it’s my turn to own up to my CommOps Party night commitments and most (actually all) of those revolve around our signature drink (and another reason to create a "signature pendant", Martini Anyone?)…

~ Chocolate Orange Martini ~

3oz of Three Olive Chocolate Vodka,

1.5oz of Crème de Cocoa &

1oz of Cointreau

Pour over crushed ice, shake

and pour into martini glass.

~ Sauce de Jacqueline, Fudge Raspberry drizzle ~

We swirled this squeeze bottle fudge

around the inside of the

Chocolate Orange Martini glasses.

(www.fudgesauce.com/order.html)

A sweet thank you to Christy who helped us top our evening off with a wonderful dessert tray filled with yummy things (I nibbled on blueberries after you all departed). Oh! And as a final call out…thanks to Steve! Thanks for taking those extra steps to the freezer to feed our French Bulldog, Aelinor, frozen green beans (healthy) instead of simply feeding her little bits of the aforementioned gorgonzola from your plate (not so healthy) and making her gaseous all night long! I'm not certain what tidbits Cleopatra, our English Bulldog, managed to cozen out of our honored guests but she too refrained from "the wind". We appreciate it more than you could ever imagine, thanks for being our guests.

Why Tempt Fate?

I want to take a moment to “poo-poo” fate. I know it seems like I am in fact tempting fate by doing this but…

Last year, in Seattle, we had a whopper of a winter. Now, we have fantastic skiing here in the state but I’m thrilled to tell you I must drive several hours to actually take advantage of those conditions (ski? Ha! An ex-boyfriend story that is another blog in and of itself). But what passes for a “whopper” here doesn’t really faze people from say, Michigan or even Minnesota. I suppose it’s all relative, we have street grades that easily pass for 15% or more downtown (try getting up those babies when there is even a dusting of snow). But in preparation for another avalanche like we had last year my dear, sweet, very prepared husband purchased a rather large snow blower from the tractor company that makes our lawn mower – this rather large purchase, he assured me, would mean that no snow would fall at our altitude in the winter of 2009/2010. And to top off the reassurances of the no-snow fate prediction our wonderful neighbour who moved from Oklahoma only to experience our hellish winter, actually traded in his beloved Corvette for a high clearance, 4-wheel drive utility vehicle with a pneumatic lift thingie to make certain that this year he would, indeed, make it up his driveway.

I believe yet another of our neighbours wordlessly described it best with the two rather puny snow men in his front yard, one was holding his branch arms in the air and the other was pointing a stick weapon at him ~ we were being held hostage by lots and lots of pretty white stuff. In fact, more white stuff than a kennel full of well watered Huskies could easily sully. I was so amused by this eloquent rendering that it inspired me to take metal clay in hand…

But back to fate. I don’t want to be the one tell my husband that it isn’t our new (and blessedly unused) snow blower or our neighbour's vehicle swapping that had granted us this reprieve from mounds and mounds of wet, white fluff. Now comes the really hard part, how do I break it to him that the reason we have gotten no snow this season is simply because I bought a gorgeous pair of gloves? Thank you Joni, thank you from the entire unknowing population of the snowless Seattle. Those gloves you so lovingly crocheted saved our collective butts!  (www.etsy.com/shop/JoniCrochetCreations?section_id=6199362)

Where's The Love? Part 2

(Be certain to scroll down or click on Where's The Love, Part 1, for the sequential story)

That day it all occurred is sort of a blur now, but here’s how I remember it. A rare, gorgeous summer weekend in Washington. I was walking past the now dreaded balcony door when I spotted “him” through the screen door. I slowed to a crawl, time almost stood still as my stalking instincts kicked in, it seems this instinct is also deeply embedded into my genetic material. I moved very quietly toward the Tabasco Weapon located near the door. It seemed to take forever as I reached out for that sprayer but when my out stretched hand wrapped around the smooth plastic we became as one. I slowly lifted the muzzle, err, I mean sprayer, toward the screen door and at “him”. Some sixth sense made him look nervously toward the door but he didn’t bolt. However, unfortunately for him, he did turn his back on me as his nervousness increased. I aimed, I squeezed, and I just kept pumping that trigger for all I was worth.

I would say it was a Bull’s-eye, but really it was a Squirrel-Butt.
Yep.
Tabasco laced water right up the 'ole butt. I rushed the screen door, threw it back and kept pumping that noxious elixir right at him. He dashed and leapt about that little balcony for many a frantic moment until he decided his best bet was to launch himself toward the cedar and freedom, but I was not to be denied. I think I was in one of those frenzies you hear people describe. I could hear him kecking and sneezing from the cedar tree and I aimed at the sound, squeezing that lever over and over, dangling precariously from my balcony. He moved lower, out of range. Enraged and seeking redress for my consumed corms, I ran barefoot back through the apartment, whipped open the front door and was down the stairs like a shot! To this day I wonder what my neighbours must have thought I was up to – but on that fateful summer day no one interrupted. I dodged and danced at the base of that cedar tree just outside of my apartment building and drenched that hairy little sucker from below. Between the stinging butt and the watering eyes I’m certain his furry little brain wasn’t thinking clearly. He ran back up the tree, onto the balcony, through the apartment and down the stairs I had so recently transgressed to his freedom. How do I know this? Because all the way across the carpet and over the cement steps I could follow his teeny-tiny wet, orange stained foot prints right out to the parking lot.

Somewhere there lies a little squirrel on a little couch, talking to his little squirrel analyst, trying to explain away his fear of hot food; I hope his insurance doesn’t pay for the visits. He must have gossiped a bit at the squirrel gym too, because no squirrel ever set foot on my balcony again.

One ranunculus bloomed, it was pink & black and it was beautiful.

Post Script ~ I have badly butchered the very humane Jerry Baker’s natural pest-be-gone formulae. Jerry seems a kind man and in no way suggested Tabasco alone or in such strength. Please chalk it up to temporary insanity. And many thanks to Iwoowoo's Shop for the lovely amber cabochons I've so generously shared with Squirrely Nut!     (http://www.etsy.com/shop/iwoowoo)

Where's The Love? Part 1

I have one of those Uncles, a great-Uncle actually, that passed along photos of himself as a sweet boy awkwardly perched in a door way with (gasp!) a young squirrel perched on his shoulder. I heard my Uncle regale us many a time about finding that baby squirrel and raising it to adulthood. Tales of exploring empty fields, forays to the sandlot for ad hoc games of baseball and all the other various and sundry things young boys in the late 1920’s would have been up to. All with that darn squirrel in attendance. Of course this is the same man that, as an adult, nailed less than attractive imitation owls to his rooftop in an effort to keep those same said squirrels from terrorizing his well tended yard.

Doesn’t that sort of encapsulate the whole hate/love affair with squirrels?

While living in a second story apartment in Washington I made a great effort to fulfill my genetic predisposition to garden. Think about it for a minute. A garden. An apartment. Second story. Never mind that it also faced full south and was perched precariously in long containers along the length of the balcony handrails. I was going to grow something. And it was going to be beautiful. (The Interior Designer in me sings out!) After all I was lucky, so many people in Washington had to deal with voracious deer, sneaky raccoons, not to mention predatory herons.

My first big horticultural achievement was with cool white and scorching red geranium (www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pelargonium) and as long as I watered them every morning whilst indulging in a cup of coffee before work they vigorously displayed their love. I had risen above, I was free from the vermin I listened to Jerry Baker (http://www.jerrybaker-amg.blogspot.com/) describe with such great and successful detail how to discourage. And I was going to indulge my obvious knack for nurturing flora. Of course when the rise is not high, the fall is not far.

It all began with ranunculus corms, twenty-four of them to be specific. The printed directions and the verbal instructions from the woman behind the counter assured me they could be successfully planted in and amongst my burgeoning geranium. I spent an entire weekend sweltering on my western Washington balcony (that faced full south – lest you forget) and lovingly nestled those wrinkled little corms into my rich, black soil. Patience is a virtue.

Which I don’t possess.

I looked out over those green plastic baskets filled with life every morning just knowing that my ranunculus were going to prove to be superior, my ranunculus would burgeon with lush life long before the package indicated.   Or not.   And instead of ranunculus I soon became familiar with the grain in every piece of wood surrounding my balcony. Each crease in the fabric of my rectangular umbrella. The lovely smell of the columnar cedar that brushed up the outside of the apartment as it gently swayed in the breeze. Many people dream of such a peaceful start to their day, work or otherwise, and I was not insensible to it either. Really.

And then it happened, upon the most casual of inspection, gliding past my balcony door with a cup of coffee in hand when I spotted “it”. Except “it” was not a generous ranunculus bloom, it was a big, fat, furry squirrel. Snacking on my corm! What blasphemy was this? I had not planted a buffet! I scurried to shoo this vermin from my garden. Except he kept coming back, faithfully, almost religiously. And he hunted those corms down one by one until they were all decimated. I often imagined him sitting in his little squirrel pub, telling his little squirrel friends that he had just found the best little squirrel restaurant in town. Upon conjuring up this little scenario for the third or fourth time I decided to strike back. When I was finished he would have a different tale to tell!

I began by procuring a bottle of Tabasco sauce, carefully strained it through a sieve and poured the unclogged liquid into a newly purchased industrial strength spray bottle and filled it to the top with water (I now liken those moments to Ripley hoisting her futuristic weapon and slinging, bandolier style, all that ammo across her chest and menacingly muttering "leave her alone, you bitch!"). This was war. I surveyed my battle field. I tested my weapon. I could adjust the size of that spray faster than a veteran can field strip a gun. I was ready.

The Crimson Journey

Okay. I’ll admit to it… I am addicted to colour. My eye is drawn to colour the way a moth is drawn to flame. I would like to note that my pursuit of shaded saturation is not nearly as dire as aerial suttee, but it can be consuming, extremely consuming.

I’ve been on a journey lately; let’s call it a Crimson Journey. In order to open up my jewelry studio to students last year I decided I wanted to paint it red. RED - passion, power and creativity encompassed into one feverish package. Now, I’m not talking about painting a little trim work here and there. I’m describing rich, deep, true red, all over the walls. As a former Interior Designer I should have vividly recalled how many coats of paint it actually takes to achieve this level of colour. Fortunately, I didn’t.

Until it was too late.

As my paintbrushes dry and the paint rollers lean idle into the corner of the closet I’ve noticed colour is also playing an active role in my exploration of metal clay, silver clay in particular. Mix translucent red with silver and you get… Luscious. Mysterious. Opulent. Enamels and resins are finding their way into more and more of my metal clay art and opening up ideas that have taken me firmly by the wrist and are pulling me into new experiments, new successes and ideas to be perfected. So don’t be surprised if you check out my Etsy Shop or my website and see passionate hearts, freshly opened pomegranates and sea creatures that pulse with life. And when, as my current passion for red has been explored (for the time being), a new colour will catch my inner eye and I’ll be off and experimenting again. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve always loved chartreuse...

By the way, it took ten coats of paint.

I wanted to be certain to thank MKaaes's Gems for those wonderful little carnelian cabachons pictured at the top right of my blog. Visit MKaaes's Gems.