martinimade

In honor of MLK,Jr. Day, a lifestyle piece on  three African American women in the  Oneonta  area.

In other news, it looks like winter might actually start this week. Good thing I finished my shawl, which was made from the reclaimed muppet sweater yarn.

The Diva's comment when I was finishing this up was simply "Mooooo-ooom, why are you knitting with such an ugly color?" Yet, despite the color's lack of beauty, she still will curl up with it when given a chance. Ah, the fickle heart of an almost-five-yet old.

Now I can start the Nantucket, because there once was this girl from Nantucket...

Fill in your own limerick, kids. You can do it.

"In Binghamton, New York, winter meant snow, and though I was young when I left, I was able to recall great heaps of it, and use that memory as evidence that North Carolina was, at best, a third-rate institution. What little snow there was would usually melt an hour or two after hitting the ground, and there you'd be in your windbreaker and unconvincing mittens, forming a lumpy figure made mostly of mud. Snow Negroes, we called them."

-- "Let It Snow," from Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris

Oh -- and hiya to the folks who have been directed here by "Strollerderby," one of the Babble.com blogs. Have a seat. I promise to not sneeze in your face.

Unless you want me to, of course. I'm a people pleaser.

Speaking of things I keep meaning to mention and people I keep meaning to please -- I'll be  one of "Alternadad" Neal Pollack's opening acts (the other is Leigh Anne Wilson) on January 24th at the Hopleaf in Chicago as part of the Bookslut reading series. Pollack once hit me in the noggin with a roll of Smarties. I plan to return the favor. Heh.

Anyone have any recommendations of things to do and see and eat (like good Thai, perhaps?) while I'm in the Windy City? In January?

"Under the weather" has officially turned into the cold that my beloved family has been passing around for the past four weeks. I should have known I was doomed when the Boy, who I love dearly, sneezed in my face. I'm certainly not dying but keep wanting to curl up on the couch and drink enough hot tea to support several villages in Ceylon.

One thing that has kept me from doing this is Ian Rankin's audio tour of Edinburgh, which is my favorite city that has a statue devoted to a sheep. Rankin is not one of my favorite writers -- but this broadcast makes me want to give him another chance, if only because he seems like such an interesting guy. (Link stolen from Jessa, fyi.)

And, now, to the couch.

(Before I go -- confidential to Matt and Trish: blog already. Sheesh.)

Confidential to the person who found my site by googling "skinny like Kiera Knightly:" don't do it. Seriously. Bad idea.

And to encourage you to not starve yourself that skinny, some links about food.

First, Chow's recipe for Onion Soup from Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles cookbook. If Tony himself wants to stop by to cook it, that'd be swell, too, since I'm feeling a little under the weather. I can show him the local sites, which should still leave him plenty of time to make soup.

Second, my throat's scratchy and my head's goopy. And for that reason alone Harold McGee's primer on new citrus developments makes me feel that there's some sort of higher power in the world encouraging me to eat more oranges. Couple that with the recent citrus-packed Iron Chef rerun I managed to catch and I'm about to buy a case of Clementines.

Third, today's NYT food section is just chock-full of good stories, like this one about breakfast wars.

Lastly, a tenuous food link, I know, and in questionable taste but it does dovetail nicely with the search string that prompted this entry -- a quote from Seth Stevenson's current travel series on Slate about Dubai:

"I realize some Muslim women will talk about the face veil as an empowering, female-driven choice. This seems like the same kind of empowering, female-driven choice that sorority sisters make when they choose to become bulimic together."

And that is the last I shall mention Stevenson this week. Promise.

-- Newest Bookslut column is live. This one is about Germans.

-- While no one at Slate can replace Seth Stephens in my affections, Michael Lewis' story about the birth of his third child comes pretty damn close, especially if you then read the story about the birth of his second child. I did almost spit coffee all over my computer this morning because I was laughing so hard.

A quote, to whet your reading appetite:

"The ideal Berkeley birth has probably never actually happened, but if it has, it happened far from civilization, in the woods, without painkillers or doctors or any intervention whatsoever by modern medicine. Along one side of the birthing mother was a wall of doulas wailing a folk song; along the other, all the people she has ever known; at her feet, a full-length mirror, in which she watched her baby emerging; at her head, a mother wolf, licking and suckling. Incense-filled urns released meaningful, carbon-free odors. The placenta was saved and, if not grilled, recycled."

-- The Featureless Saint, in his benevolent helpfulness, hung a couple of hooks in our kitchen window, from which I intend to hang plants. Or, rather, intended to hang plants but have been stymied by trying to find something in which to put my pots. Both the big box hardware stores have let me down. All I need is a cute macrame-like contraption that is no longer than 14 inches and can hold a 10" pot. 

Oh -- and they needs to look nothing like Shelton's Macrame Plant Hangers (I don't even no how to begin describing their Baroque-ness) nor do they need to be fabric, which I'm told is the wave of the future.

-- Finally, because I was doing some preliminary searching on a town in Cumbria called "Tebay,"  I stumbled upon one of the region's indigenous sports -- Gurning. It's amazing what really bored farmer will come up with after a few pints, innit?

-- As much as I'd dissuade anyone from trying such shenanigans, some enterprising scientifically-minded folk put postage on a bunch of stuff simply to see what would make it to its destination. What they found is something that I've suspected for a long time, which is that the US Postal Service "appears to have some collective sense of humor, and might in fact here be displaying the rudiments of organic bureaucratic intelligence."

-- If I ever meet the Amateur Gourmet, I am going to punch him in the neck for linking to this addictive little game involving tomatoes. Bastard.

-- As part of our holiday jaunt, we stopped at the traditional Segar family gawking opportunity.

The Hub has fond memories of it.

I am told that the falls are extra scenic when they freeze, which probably won't happen this winter, because it has been a completely pussy-ass winter thus far.

I looked like this during the whole trip, btw.

  - - Lastly, speaking of the Featureless Saint, my last holiday gift from him arrived over the weekend. I was going to buy myself a print of Tree Woman and Friends but my Hub picked up on the hint. It is even more gorgeous in person. Love it (and, incidentally, him, regardless of whether or not he buys me things.)

Thodora is running online contest and the winner gets a slightly used copy of GOTHIC. Sadly (I mean, I'm sad, mostly because it makes me feel so very unloved and unappreciated (but no guilt, y'all)), there have only been a few entries. Of course, the entries that are there are stunning.

This is probably yet another sign from the universe that quality counts more than quantity. (Bill O'Reilly and Mitch Ablom's place on the NYT bestseller list should remind me of this every damn day...) Still, it'd be nice if Karrie didn't win back a book she's already read.

Perhaps I should sweeten the deal with handknits. Would the winner also like a hat, crafted to her own specifications?

A quick moment of sincerity:

Just when I thought the U.S. Postal Service couldn't get any more swell, they've gone and made me wish it were holiday 2007 already. Why? Two words -- knitting stamps!

If you are the sort who finds blog posts about cute kids irritating, then don't read on. Unless you deeply enjoy the irritation, then you may do as you please.

The Dude is in a phase where every thing in the universe is beyond AWESOME. His favorite new words are "Whoa!" and "Whee!" and "Wow!" Along with the words is a whole body sort of exclamation point. You would think that all of this radical stuff was placed there just for him. And by stuff I mean, oh, spoons or rubber balls or Trout or Scott's cell phone. Coolest. stuff. ever.

We've long been convinced that the Dude's world is a simple, simple place and that he is a simple, simple boy, one who can't control his delight about the wonder of the world because such delight simply must be shared.

We are wrong. Beneath the Dude exterior, lies a mind that is frighteningly more aware than we had given it credit for. Imagine Keanu Reeves -- the Bill and Ted era one -- suddenly and cogently explaining relativity, then screaming out "Whoa!" when he spies an errant tape measure. That would be the boy.

As evidence of the Boy's increasing ability to plan, I offer the following.

While in Pittsburgh, we stayed at Trish and Jon-Erik's new house. It is fabulous -- but that isn't what you really need to know. The crucial bit of info is that it has three levels. Our extended traveling circus took over the second floor. T&J-E sleep on the third.

At 4 a.m., I heard the Boy start screaming -- not like he was in mortal peril but like he was seriously pissed off.  He has a very long fuse, the Dude does, but when it finally burns down, ATTENTION MUST BE PAID.

So I got up. Trish was on the bottom step, looking groggy. "One of yours escaped from the zoo," she said, and went back up to her room. I went in to convince the Boy to go back to sleep.

As it turned out, the Boy, with great stealth and cunning, snuck out of the den in which he was sleeping, climbed up to the third floor and began exploring. No one is overly certain how long he was at this, other than he was able to do it in complete silence. Let me say that again -- the toddler who finds carpet lint THE MOST EXCITING THING EVER didn't make a sound.

At some point, Trish became aware that he was there. She stood up to corner him and the Boy made a break for it. Still, there was no wailing, even though he was being pursued by a woman he'd just met. No, the screaming started when she put him back in the den and had the audacity to close the door.

This whole even still amuses the crap out of me. I know I should be terrified after the fact that he could have been harmed during his nighttime excursions or found a way to leave the house or something. I'm really not. There wasn't really all that much he could have done to hurt himself that wouldn't have woken someone up much sooner. But what that means is that he is learning how to plot against us, which is both good because it means that he isn't as transparent as we'd assumed and terrifying because our job just got a lot harder.

Send help.

Should your woodworking skills and interests ever progress beyond stage scenery, I'd love a rocking chair like this one, crafted to my own odd proportions. I would totally make it worth your while, if you know what I'm saying. That is all.