Thick as Fall’n Leaves in Vallombrosa

It will be Halloween in just a couple of days, which means that it will be Tuxedo Boy’s birthday in just a couple of days.  Which means that on Saturday morning, after he marches in the Homecoming Parade with his band, and plays at the pre-game festivities, he’ll be rushing home (thanks, Rachel!) to join nine of his closest friends for a costumed birthday party, followed by a party for slightly more than nine of grown up friends.

Which means that my oven, which burst into showy flames and showers of sparks last Thursday, had better be fixed in time for all the baking required. 

(Note to Fates:  thanks a lot.  Also, thanks for letting Gavin express the consequences of what the vet delicately referred to as a “dietary indiscretion” in the house, because I don’t spend enough time with a carpet cleaner ordinarily.  And I didn’t need the (full) bottle of vegetable oil that Tilly knocked over with her tail in an enthusiastic bid for another biscuit–the kids had a lot of fun sliding around on the kitchen floor.  Migraine?  Sure, why not?  Pouring rain?  Adds to the fun!)

Maybe There Are Some Things I Just Can’t Make Better At Home

These are homemade “Mello-creme pumpkins.”  They are very cute in their pumpkin-y plumpness, aren’t they?  And don’t they have a rustic, artisanal quality rarely to be found in their bland, mass-produced cousins?  These are rich in butter, sweet with best quality corn syrup and fine white sugar, boiled gently, hand-molded, and ridged with a bamboo skewer.

In fact, they surpass their counterparts in every way except one:  They are impossible to eat.  It seems that while I was trying to make a soft and chewy confection I accidentally stumbled on an alchemical formula that converts confectioners sugar to adamantium.  You could kill someone with a single cucurbit, if you had a slingshot handy.  You could probably bring down a helicopter with one, if you were Clive Owen in *Shoot ‘Em Up.”  Our household hammer makes no impression on them.

I put them in an airtight container with a slice of apple, on the principle that it works on brown sugar.  Next morning, a thin layer of orange slime had been shed on the apple, but the pumpkins were unchanged.

I finally threw them out–I was afraid to put them on the compost heap.

Goodwill, I Love You!

Two Heath Armorlite plates, three Genuine Taylor Mugs (two blue, one pink), a Heath Ceramics sugar bowl–admittedly without a lid, and a super-excellently patterned vegetable dish.  Total outlay for this dazzling array of tableware.

$4.90.

Ha ha.

It would have been $5.40, but I was too cheap to buy the other pink mug–$5 fun money has to mean something.  And then Joan went back the next day and not only picked up the lone pink mug to surprise me, but scored two yellows, as well.  There’s spousal devotion for you–$1.50 of her fun money spent just to please me.

I bet it all belonged to one person, someone whose excellent taste I share, and who would be glad to know that it’s all in a new kitchen being doted on by a new owner who will take good care of it.

Crafthope Sock Monkey, Bicultural Ann, and the Legend of Zelda Costume

Mr. Stilton, Jr.,  here is our contribution to Crafthope #4.  We had a hard time boxing him up–I’d never made a sock monkey before this project.  Curiously, while I was making the cheerfully striped Mr. Stilton, Sr., (he of the mind-bendingly long limbs), and his little friend, I discovered that everyone in my household wanted a sock monkey.  Yes, Joan ’s childhood was poisoned by lack of  a sock monkey.  Over long years, Little Sunshine has yearned in vain for a sock monkey.  Tuxedo Boy’s longing for a sock monkey is unexampled in the annals of hopeless love.

But no-one mentioned it to me.  Which is a bit odd, considering all the things I HAVE made at the drop of a hint . . .

Alas, they all want traditional sock monkeys.  Not the cutie pie ones which can be made from a $1.89 pair of gaily-striped polyester knee-highs from the spinning rack at the drugstore.  The kind painstakingly constructed from $10 + shipping and handling Rockford Red Heel Socks.

We’ll see, say I.  They aren’t that much fun to make, really, and the old-school ones give me the creeps, sort of.  I don’t know why.

Any way, my sewing hands have been full with other projects:  our friend Nisha (hi, Nish!) is getting her teaching certificate, and observing at a kindergarten reminded her of how she’d always wanted a brown-skinned Raggedy Ann doll when she was little.  Well, we did her one better:  Bicultural Ann!

Raggedy Anns are something of a tradition in my family–my great-grandmother was a great maker of the Ann and Andy pairs, and when Little Sunshine was a baby, my cousin Pat made a really sweet one for her.  I learned to sew making doll clothes, and I still love to ruffle petticoats and pinafores.  That’s the Loli-goth appeal, too–doll clothes for bigger dollies!

As Halloween approaches, though, I’m knitting like a fiend.  Tuxedo Boy has become a member of the All-City Band, where he plays trumpet.  They’ll be marching in costume in the University’s homecoming parade on Halloween, which is also his birthday, and he wanted to be Link .  But with a knitted tunic and hat, not sewn.  Because knitting is cooler, apparently.

The hat is done, and I’m about halfway through the tunic.  Two good movies should just about do it.  Little Sunshine is donating a pair of boots.  After that, it’ll be a mad scramble through bureau drawers and closets to fill in the blanks.  But no-one else will have one like it!

If I Post Once This Month, Can It Still Be Blogtoberfest?

This picture, of course, is from September–La Shanah Tovah, y’all–when we celebrated the new year with round challah, apples and honey, Cornish game hens, and the Rosh Hashanah Cake for which we bought the beehive-shaped bundt pan.  I know that Unclutterer frowns on having any kitchen item which serves only one purpose, but I love digging out this pan and making a honey beehive for the New Year.  So there! 

Blogtoberfest, of course, is that carnival of the blogosphere where everyone else posts every day in October, and I show up on the 10th with my good intentions in one hand and my pitiful excuses in the other.  It’s a tradition–like doing the vowels instead of the whole Encyclopedia of Me.

But see what rewards the faithful reader can garner?  An humorous vegetable,* the Peter Pepper, as grown by my sister Hoe.  She’s a green thumb all right. 

She grew this eggplant, too.  Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

*A delightful prize (to be determined) will go to commenters who identify the Terry Pratchett novel which features similarly hilarious flora!

Gothic Lolita: I Make Dresses!

I’ve been sewing a lot lately, including this Gothic Lolita frock–a variation of this one, which I made for Little Sunshine:

It’s a lot of fun, making doll dresses for the teenagers of my acquaintance–and since similar dresses are currently running $300 a pop, mine are a great deal.  Next on the list:  triple-tier crinoline petticoats all round.

Project Project Gutenberg: E and F

This bread pudding is what makes my life as a recipe blogger so difficult:  it is absolutely delicious, but there’s no way to give you the recipe.  This is what happened:  Little Sunshine was sick yesterday, and Joan has joined her on the H1N1 trolley today.   They are just sick enough to want coddling, without suffering so much that they don’t want to eat.  In my breadbox, I had the remains of a loaf of bread made out of cinnamon roll dough and baked in the brioche pan I snagged at the nursing home yardsale (along with 2 (2!) Roseville Pottery French onion soup bowls, some vintage hankies, and two linen tablecloths), and four heels from last week’s loaves of Country White from Wheatberries.  The dregs of a pint of cream, some milk, the contents of the sugar basin, two eggs, and a whole lot of freshly-grated nutmeg . . . raw sugar across the top, two hours in a water bath in the oven, and voila!  As you can see, Little Sunshine didn’t even wait to take it out of the hot water.  I ate mine with what was left of the homemade apricot jam left from my last kitchen experiment:  buns filled with a mixture of almond paste, cream cheese, and apricot jam.  Those were so good I couldn’t even get a picture of them.

I’m just not methodical enough to make a gorgeous blog with recipes like the big girls.  But I can read the hell out of copyright-free popular fiction–ho ho!

So E is for The End of Her Honeymoon (1913), by Marie Belloc Lowndes.  It begins promisingly enough, with a fluttery little woman (Nancy) clinging to her artist-husband (Jack Dampier) as they enter Paris, planning to send one night at a hotel before settling in at his studio.  He disappears in the night, though, and the hoteliers deny ever having seen him.  Poor little Bridesy can’t seem to get anyone to admit that she had a husband with her.  His belongings have disappeared, too–it seems that even on their honeymoon, they have separate, though adjoining, bedrooms.  After an exciting trip to the Police, and to the Morgue, everyone in the lovely American family that has conveniently arrived at the hotel (father, daughter, and eligible bachelor son) agrees that there is some mystery, which may never be solved.  Five years later, E. B. Son uncovers (by accident) the grisly truth: 

She did have a husband, and he died OF PLAGUE! 

Yes, somehow he contracted bubonic plague, exhibited symptoms, and died that very night.  The Paris authorities, prompt and thorough as always, chose to confiscate his belongings, force the hoteliers to lie about his existence, and generally erase all trace of his presence–but not tell his wife.  That’s what I call an efficient public health system!

I’d have to give The End of Her Honeymoon a C-.  It stank.

F, though, is for Faith Gartney’s Girlhood 1863), by Adeline Dutton Trane Whitney.  This one’s a keeper–but only if you are a lover of Sunday School novels, which I acknowledge is pretty unlikely.  Mrs. A.D.T., as she is denominated on the title pages of her thirty-odd novels, was a heavy hitter in the Boston uplift-for-girls novel world.  Louisa May Alcott is certainly the best-known of the crowd; lesser-known colleagues include the prolific and undemanding Pansy (Isabella Alden) and bitter old crank Elizabeth Prentiss. 

Faith Gartney’s Girlhood is an early work by a writer who became significantly more accomplished later in her career.  It’s still a pretty good read, though, and hits all the old reliable themes which would carry U.S. popular fiction for girls well into the middle of the 20th century:  the country is better than the city; the rat race just isn’t worth it; some plain orphan girls are destined for spiritual greatness through remaining single;  girls should never marry for money; disasters are always moral signposts.

Faith’s family has lost money–probably in the Panic of 1857, one of the more serious economic crises in 19th-century U.S. history–and needs to retrench.  She suggests leaving the social whirl of Boston for the village of Kinnicutt, where her father owns a house.  The family moves, she gets engaged to the rich son of a millowner back in Boston, she falls in love with the new minister, saves a mill from burning, and then marries the minister.  Meanwhile, Glory McWhirk, the orphaned daughter of an Irish Catholic immigrant work, becomes a servant for Faith’s aunt, falls in love with the same minister, gives up all hope of marriage and family, and is rewarded by inheriting Aunt Faith’s farm and enough money to run it as a small orphanage.  So everyone lives happily ever after, which is nice.

I recommend Faith Gartney’s Girlhood to those who just can’t get enough leisurely-paced, spiritually-minded, high-Victorian domestic novels–but in good conscience, I have to say that it is not Whitney’s best work (if you’re dying to know, I liked A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite’s Life, and We Girls better.)

Mince Pie! Mince Pie!

I’m addicted to “The Hope Chest,” a blog showcasing “Bad news from the Past.”  One of the reasons I love it is that Mr. Parallel, curator of The Hope Chest, is a serious scholar of the mince pie, its connotations and denotations.  If you don’t believe me, follow the tag Hot Mince Pie.

I have an historic mincemeat recipe, one for which my great-grandmother was famous.  In homage to Mr. Parallel, and his unparalleled blog, I give you Ruth Walter Amos’s Mincemeat, which will be just the kind of thing you like if you like this kind of thing. 

Mincemeat

Boil 3 pounds of venison neck roast until well-done.  Pick over the meat, discarding the bones, and mix in a large bowl with:

1 pound apples, peeled, cored, and chopped
1 pound raisins, seeded (this element of the recipe dates it to before wide availability of the seedless raisin–maybe 1885 or so)
1 pound currants
1/2 pound candied citron
2 quarts sweet cider (as opposed to hard cider, which my great-grandmother, a Temperance woman to her bones, would never have permitted in her home)
7 cups sugar
1 tablespoon black pepper
3 tablespoons salt
1 1/2 tablespoons ground cloves
3 tablespoons cinnamon
1/2 cup cider vinegar
1/2 pound suet, chopped

Simmer mixture for 2 hours in a large kettle.  Pack in sterilized quart jars and process in hot water bath for 15-20 minutes.
Make up into pies using your favorite pie crust recipe. Eat while warm. Be prepared for indigestion, nightmares, and possible crime to follow.

Project Project Gutenberg: The Devil’s Paw

Mr. Stilton, relaxing in the hammock, is one reason I’ve gotten behind in my reading schedule.  I’ve committed to some sock monkeys for CraftHope, and Mr. Stilton (named by Little Sunshine) is my trial run.  I’ve never made a sock monkey, and although it’s not difficult to do, I’m bemused by how Mr. Stilton turned out.  I’ll keep you posted.

Also, nearly everyone Joan knows is pregnant.  I’ve been making booties, booties, and more booties, and I’m in the middle of an Elizabeth Zimmerman Best Baby Sweater. 

But nevertheless, I found time to read our D novel:  The Devil’s Paw (1920), by E. Phillips Oppenheim.

This is a great novel.  Faithful reader Kicking-K, you would love this one.  It’s a World War I spy novel.  Julian Orden, our hero, is the youngest son of a peer.  Formerly a barrister, he’s been invalided out of the army and now fills his time as a journalist.  Miss Catherine Abbeway, daughter of a Russian woman and an Englishman, is a well-known (and beautiful) Labour activist and peace advocate.  She may also be a German spy.  She is certainly guilty of fomenting a criminal–perhaps treasonous–conspiracy of trades unionists who threaten a general strike if England will not negotiate with Germany for peace.  When Julian and Catherine fall in love, their lives become quite complicated–and so does the plot.

Things I loved about The Devil’s Paw:  the trades unionists are not the bad guys; Catherine doesn’t give up her Labour principles for love, and Julian loves her for it; his secret is easy to guess, but still gratifying; there are tons of excellent minor characters; the pace is swift and appealing.  Workmanlike prose, eminently hateable villains, and a hopeful ending.   It’s reminiscent of Bulldog Drummond, another of my favorites, but with the advantage of not outraging my socialist sensibilities. 

Hurrah for The Devil’s Paw, an excellent way to pass a summer afternoon.

And we’ll press onward to E:  The End of Her Honeymoon (1913), by Marie Belloc Lowndes.  It looks like a thriller, with pretty girl stranded in Paris when her brand-new artist husband disappears from their hotel.

Baby Steps

Aren’t these adorable?  I whipped them up while waiting for the world to cool off enough that I could go to bed.  Thanks to the incomparable Saartje de Bruijn’s pattern (free!), they couldn’t be easier.  I’m going to make a bunch of them and have them stashed away for unexpected baby gifts–which seem to come up more often than you’d think.

Thanks, Saartje, for sharing these marvelous booties!