To Market, To Market

I always need to remind myself that if I want to enjoy a day but am uncertain what to do, I should proceed directly to the Farmer's Market.


I ate a whole pound of cherry tomatoes, dirt and all, while selecting other produce.


We made a dinner from our finds and ate it outside in this gorgeous weather.


This is the sweetest little peach I saw all day, though:

Grumps

Feeling grumpy. I love that word. It sounds just exactly like what it means. Onomatopoeia.

Think I need to get out of the house for a bit, before the sun's vicious rays singe off my top layer of skin. This weather's getting to me. A very, very inconvenient truth.

On a more adorable note:

Envy and the 8-hr Quilt

My mother's birthday was last week, and I love to hear her tell the story of when she was about 8 yrs old and she got a new bike for her birthday. She just loved that sucker. The afternoon of her birthday she was riding it around the neighborhood and one of the little kids next door was admiring her new treasure and she said to him, "Don't you wish you had a bike like this?".

To hear my mom tell it, the question was asked not in a boastful way, but simply with the intention of expressing gratitude for her enormous blessing. Unfortunately for her, her father overheard her comment, interpreted it as a completely snotty statement, and took the bike away from her for a month. This is the same man who to this day will drive his pick-up to church because he can't bear others knowing his dirty little secret, his hidden shame.... that locked up in his immaculate garage is a $50K Mercedes. What would God think??

So after receiving 2 huge boxes yesterday from my grandmother marked "fragile" and then unwrapping them to discover a staggering collection of pink depression glass, it really is all I can do not to say, "Don't you wish you had all this pink glass? Don't 'cha? Don't 'cha??".


I am willing to concede that you may not love depression glass as much as I do and therefore have no more envy than if I had suddenly come into the possession of the TV Guide collection my husband procured as a child. But if you do love it, you will understand my glee. And if you come visit me, I promise we will eat truffles and lace cookies off of it.

On another note, there are things people could say about me that would hurt my feelings. For example, if you said I have bad teeth (not true). Or if you said that I have B.O. (mostly not true). However, if you were to spread the nasty rumor that I am the World's Worst Quilter, I would have no option but to agree. I am.

I decided on Friday afternoon to piece together a quilt from my scraps, kind of borrowing from this color scheme. I'd found this really gorgeous flannel fabric a while ago and wanted something simple for the top - something to cuddle up under this winter.


I cut out all the squares and started to sew them together, and by Saturday evening the whole things was pieced and ready to be sandwiched and quilted. That's when it went south, simply because, to be blunt, I don't give a shit. I cannot seem to sew a straight line when I have about 30 lbs of fabric on my lap and scrunched up in my machine, and then I just don't care. I let the needle go where it may, bunching what it will. I told Pete it was in the quilting style of "Rustic Chic". He believed this is a legitimate genre of craft.


My friend Kerri makes quilts that will be honored as heirlooms. I make quilts that you throw in the back of your station wagon when taking the dogs to the lake.

Park It

Yesterday Pete thought it would be fun to take Andrew to Pullen Park in Raleigh for the afternoon. We'd only been once before, last year, and he was too young at that point to appreciate anything. Silly baby.

When I was a reluctant city-dweller, I secretly held the belief that only urban folk had a need for a park. Why would other children need a park, I reasoned, when they had the luxury of a back yard?? But there I was, back in a park, really loving it. The value of a park in any setting became immediately obvious to me: Basically, it's fun to be around lots of other people having fun. Duh.


This park is full of goodness, and in my mind the carousel from 1911 is worth the trip. It's so, so beautiful, and the animals are elegant and vivid and even a little scary. The horses' tails are real horse hair and it is in remarkable condition considering its 100th birthday is right around the corner. Andrew didn't know what to make of the carousel, though, and Pete ended up sitting in a chariot with him while I rode my trusty steed.





They also have a little train that you can ride around the perimeter of the park, an activity much more Andrew's speed, and just like the wee ones, I too was sad when our little ride came to an end.


Since this is NC, land of Andy Griffith and Mayberry, they have a lovely bronze statue of father and son, walking together, carrying fishing poles. My mother watched this show every single night of my life while making dinner. Here's a little Opie:


There is no admission to the park, but I would have paid one just to have overheard the follow exchange between two 7-yr-old boys while waiting in line for the concession stand:
Boy 1: (arms flailing about, legs restless) This is the longest line I've ever been in!!!
Boy 2: (with superiority) Well, then you haven't seen the Dollar Store at Christmas Time!

This American Life

In yet another hefty leap onto a bandwagon that nearly passed me by, I have to tell you that I cannot listen to enough episodes of This American Life. I love them all. I love Ira Glass. I love listening to any of the tales: from the inside of Chicago's Golden Apple Diner to those family legends that, retold to generation after generation, morphed into an all together fabulous story. Most of all I love that it is on the radio (even though, ironically, I listen to it on the internet). I know, I know, rumor has it you can find it on Showtime, but I just want to listen. What's the frequency, Ira?

I listened to the "Special Ed"-themed show today while performing a minor overhaul of my studio space. This was not an Extreme Makeover. It was more of a Slap-a-Little-Lipstick-On Makeover. A few weeks ago I found out that our local Pier 1 Outlet was going out of business and not only was clearing out everything on the shelves, they were clearing out the shelves themselves! So for $30 I got 2 pretty incredible display cabinets to stack my stuhf in. You know, my fabric stuhf, my notion stuhf, my crafty stuhf. And of course, the amount of stuff you have automatically and obligingly expands in direct proportion to the space you've allotted to store it. Even though I don't feel like I have alot more room now, I do think things are more organized and accessible. In the deepest, most obscure recesses of my being I lust for a type of neurotic organization, although precious few examples of my secret desire can be identified in my life.


p.s. I have been crocheting little cakes like some kind of crazy crafter-baker on crack, and I will post them soon. Norma Lynn wrote me the sweetest little note after my last post. Gotta love her.

Lucky Ducks

This weekend we were offered the vacation home of some friends of my parents in Wilmington, NC, right off the coast of Wrightsville Beach. It was a beautiful house in an even more beautiful development, full of multi-million dollar homes on huge manicured lots, each one deserving of a spread in Traditional Home or Architectural Digest. The Stepford-ness of it all prompted Pete to comment, "This does not look like the kind of neighborhood where people put their garbage for pick-up on the curb. In fact, this does not look like the kind of neighborhood where people even make garbage!". We did quite a bit of eating out, and stumbled upon this little gem, an Asian restaurant whose back patio made me covet.


It was a fabulous opportunity to spend some quality time with just my boys, and a wonderful place to celebrate Pete's 2nd Father's Day. Nothing that Pete does in terms of generosity of spirit surprises me, but I am continually amazed by his commitment to our marriage and to our son. I cannot imagine anything he could do to be a better father to Andrew, and my heart bursts when I am reminded of the obvious, that he is not just my husband and father to our son, but Andrew's dad. Our child is an incredibly fortunate little man.


Last week we were crawling into bed and out of nowhere Pete says to me, "Every night when I go to bed I have that great feeling like I used to have on Christmas Eve, knowing I get to wake up to Andrew in the morning."

I know the feeling.

From Pete after reading 237 Curious George books to Andrew

I think when I read Andrew's book to him I am going to say, "This is George. He is a good monkey and always very bi-curious...".

Don't Feel Like Dancing

Although my friend Bo and I joke about it, I'm beginning to be a little concerned that all Andrew will listen to in the car is the Scissor Sister's Ta-Dah! CD. It absolutely never fails that 3 minutes into any drive he will start to scream, Song!! Song, Please!!!. If I do not immediately switch off whatever I am listening to and put in the Sisters, screaming commences.

It really is my fault, since after receiving the album in November I played it ad nauseam, but now the kid is the one that can't let go. I always suffer a pang of guilt when I'm around mothers who discuss their child's love affair with Raffi or the Wiggles. Inevitably they inquire about Andrew's musical preferences and I admit that no, G-rated albums simply don't stimulate him enough - he needs disco/glam-rock and yes, I listen to it with one finger on the fast-forward button to skip over the cursing and nasty sexual innuendos. Typically, this is the end of the discussion.

I'm not so much worried about the music itself, since it really is very catchy and fun and his comprehension is quite limited, but more concerned that he refuses to listen to anything else. It's driving me mad. Pete got me the new Tori Amos CD for mother's day (wonderful) and we tried to listen to it in the car, Andrew protesting the entire time. Finally Pete said, "Andrew - this is the new Scissor Sisters!!!". No deal. My sister sent me this link though, and I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself.

So we have kind of agreed to ride it out, although every time I put it on my eyes start to cross a little. However, the other day we were driving to church and Pete and I both looked in the backseat at our little guy. There he sat in his carseat, completely blissed-out, Scissor Sisters blaring, chewing on my sister's makeup brush.

It doesn't bode well.