Green Dilly Beans

Ouch

Forget the Ides of March... 

Beware the pitfalls of falling yarn. 

I was on the phone with my sister tonight - going over my Ravelry queue and reviewing projects I have lined up, especially those I have identified for her daughter/my niece, the Onion, and my sister herself. 

As it turns out, E spotted the Just Like A Peasant Cap in my queue and said she'd love one too.  I went back to the wall o' yarn to scope out potential yarn matches.  I spotted a gorgeous fawn colored wool/silk blend from our Nanna's stash that could work well for this hat.  Inevitably, it was on the top shelf of the 9' 6" floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall.  So here I was, on the phone, standing on a chair, looking up to the top shelf and jumping up and down trying to grab said wool/silk blend.  I knocked the desired yarn off the shelf, but in doing so, clobbered myself in the nose with another massive falling cone of yarn.

I would not wish for anyone to get hit on the nose with the cardboard base of a falling yarn cone.  I was actually a little scared for the health of my rather wide-brimmed nose.  All at once, I was laughing to E and trying to justify the tirade of expletives I had just unleashed while making my way to the bathroom to see if I was bleeding from the collision's impact. 

Of course, once I had established that there was no bleeding, I had to weigh said falling yarn cone with my new digital kitchen scale.  It clocked in at 1 lb 5 7/8 oz.  I know there must be some sort of Newtonian formula to calculate the impact of yarn to nose based on weight, falling height, and resulting velocity.  However, without getting into the math, I can assure you, it hurt like hell. 

All is can say is, I really like my sister, and she better really like her Peasant Cap.

E is for Entomology

The letter E is brought to you with a request for help.  My sister, who will graduate from the University of Minnesota-Duluth this spring, is taking Entomology this semester as part of her biology degree.  Like many entomology classes, she is expected to assemble a bug collection for identification. 

She is learning the hard way that mid-winter Duluth does not provide the best conditions for bug finding and collecting.  She and her classmates are scrounging every nook and cranny looking for critters.  All her current specimens are so tiny, we had to resort to one of Onion's baby toys to photograph for this post. 

Here's our plea - if any of you readers live in warmer climes (that should be just about all of you), and you come across any members of the insect family, would you send them to my sister for this project? 

We're not sure how many specimens this post will turn up, but I've learned to never underestimate the boundless generosity of knitters and readers.   

Who knows? Perhaps someone has a moth infestation that could be a silver lining for my sister?! If you're willing to help in her quest to gather members of the insect kingdom, leave a comment and I'll follow up to send you the details.  Thanks!

D is for Duluth

I thought that a move back to the Midwest would satisfy my penchant for long winters, lakes, and easy access to the outdoors. However, frequent visits to see my sister in Duluth have made me wonder, how far north is north enough for me?  The siren songs of Portland are quelled by the knowledge that I need a severe noticeable contrast between the four seasons that the West Coast just couldn't provide.  Although Minneapolis is a great city, I sometimes feel that it just isn't cold, snowy, wintry, hilly, and forested enough for me. It is strange to think of limiting my search for a city to settle in to areas north of the 45th parallel.  Thankfully, I've got another 2 years of school to sit and think on it.   

The Big Reveal

The yarn is on the shelves!  Admittedly, it's not exactly all cataloged on Ravelry yet, but a lot of it is, and I have been able to reclaim my dining table. 

Neutral yarns were boxed up and stored in closets, anything with color is out on the upper shelves of my bookcases.  It makes for a striking display, if I do say so myself.

Thanks to all of you who gave advice and offered encouragement in this endeavor!

The End of an Era

No I'm not here to write about Favre's retirement.  I want to mark the passing of another great....  This morning I used up the last of my Spinner's Hill Licorice Twist Yarn.

Licorice Twist played a starring role in my first Hourglass sweater.  It went on to play supporting roles in Kate the Cat, BSJ #1, and now, in its final appearance, the BAWK Hot Water Bottle Cozy (Ravelry link)

Despite the presence of a down comforter, which has been counteracted by the absence of a husband, I've had a real problem keeping my feet warm at night.  Enter the BAWK, my shameless attempt at finding a substitute for B.  I know my toes will appreciate that the last bits of Licorice Twist have been put into service in the name of warm feet.   

Morning Update: Consider me converted to the cult of hot water bottles.  For the first time since October I went to bed without wearing wool socks.  My toes had a toasty, warm base at the bottom of the bed.  The bottle has some serious staying power too.  It was still warm when I woke up this morning!

C is for Cooking

Cooking is one of the things B and I do best when we are together.  Our most recent shared meal featured pan-seared venison steaks (thanks bro!), radicchio risotto, roasted brussels sprouts, and a salad of spinach, endive, blue cheese, and bacon. 

We don't get to see much of each other these days and cooking allows us to work together as a team, even if only for a short time.  My mom has offered the observation that it is always better to want to see more of someone, rather than less.  Wise words from a wise woman. 

Besides, who needs flowers when I've got a table-full of yarn to serve as the backdrop for our candlelit dinner?  Now that's romance.  Happy Valentines Day to one and all. 

B is for Books

           

School, food, and fiber.  Books are, quite literally, the story of my life these days.

I love how, in the photographed section of my cookbook shelf, the featured cuisines span the globe from Senegal and Finland to India and Betty Crocker. 

A is for Anatomy*

Yes, I have a giant medical chart of the human digestive system on my living room wall.  Purchased recently on e-bay for about $30, it measures 43" x 63", making for one big wall display.  It is one of the first things people see when they enter our apartment.  From their reactions, I would guess that people either love it or are too polite to say otherwise. 

My unquestioning decision to hang this piece so prominently, from the oral cavity right down to the rectum, represents some of the things I value about my upbringing.  I worked in a neighbor's antique store during high school and my aunt and uncle own an antique/vintage/junk (in the best sense of the word) store.  This diagram dates to 1946 and once hung, complete with the pull down roller shade, in a medical school classroom, now it sits over an antique trunk in my living room.  I love the history and stories that come with old objects, and the new life we can give them in making them our own.  On the flip side, my grandparents taught on the university biology faculty at a university and made sure to incorporate science learning into all elements of life.  Lichen growing on craggy rocks was used to dye fiber, microscopes analyzed lake water samples, and successful fishing trips provided a glimpse into the recent diet and organ systems of our catch (Most famously we found a mole in a bass' stomach.  That was one hungry fish).  This enormous anatomical chart makes me thankful to have grown up in a family that embraces both biology and the repurposement of unusual items to make a house a home.

In a more concrete sense, my choice for the letter A also represents a renewed commitment to my health.   Living alone as a grad student has taken its toll on my gym routine.  It's hard to get out of bed when it is below zero and B is not here to physically drag me out into the cold.  Maybe this public pronouncement will spur me to regularize my jaunts at the gym. 

*I joined the 2008 ABC-along in January and immediately fell behind.  I'm playing catch up this week to join the rest of the pack. 

Packer Backers

Even though I consider watching the Super Bowl to be part of my civic duty, right up there with watching the State of the Union address, I won't be watching today.  This year I'm only meeting half of my responsibilities as a citizen.  I watched GWB on Tuesday, but will miss out on Tom, Eli, and the rest today.  It's only the third week of the semester and I've already got a paper due this week.  To compensate, here's a story to cap off the football season.  I figured I should post it before the season comes to an end today.  For non-football and sports fans, have hope, there is knitting content in this story. 

Two weeks ago, I found myself at Lambeau Field for the NFC Championship game between the Green Bay Packers and the NY Giants.  B found a cheap flight to Minneapolis for the weekend and made the pilgrimage west.  Never mind that we didn't have tickets, the plan was to head to Green Bay and see what we could make happen.  The extent of our plan was as follows:  Rent a car and drive to Green Bay on Sunday morning.  Try to find tickets within our established, predetermined price point.  Bundle up with layers upon layers to resemble Randy "I can't put my arms down" Parker.  Meet up with B's hometown Wisconsin crew for tailgating.  Barring successful procurement of tickets, find a local sports bar from which to watch the game.  Even if we couldn't be at Lambeau, we were bound and determined to be among Packers fans in Packer Land. 

After considering the uncertainty of our plans and the certainty of 20 below wind chills, I concluded, "No matter what happens, I'm sure we'll have a story to tell at the end of the day."  A story indeed....

We drove into Green Bay late Sunday morning.  B found a StubHub kiosk, which he used to look up tickets on Craigslist, much to the dismay of the StubHub employees.  With luck, he found a guy who had posted tickets just that morning that fell within our budget.  We met him at a nearby restaurant and made the purchase.  Everything seemed legit, we made copious ATM withdrawals, and the tickets were ours.  We were in.

Of course, once we had the tickets, doubt set in.  What if our tickets were fake?  B stopped two guys walking down the road and asked them to compare our tickets to theirs.  They checked out our tickets and assured us they were real; they displayed the telltale watermark on the back to prevent fraudulent tickets.  Feeling better, we went to park and pile on the layers of winter clothes.  Our luck continued as we found a great free parking space in a neighborhood adjacent to the stadium.  As we were getting out of the car, B decided to check just one more time about our tickets.  He approached another group of fans walking by and asked to see their tickets.  This group actually got out their tickets to compare.  There was no doubt this time, our tickets were fake.

 

 

Real or Fake.  Can you tell the difference?

The friendly fans suggested that we report immediately to the police.  Maybe something could be done.  It was little consolation when they tried to reassure us that at least our tickets were "really good fakes."  We quickly found a police office who said that they had just brought in a suspect that matched our description.  I hadn't had much contact with the scalper, so B headed off with the officer to check out the lineup.  He soon returned to the car, our guy hadn't been among the suspects in the station lineup.  Even better, B reported that he had set up a sting operation with the police.  With all the layers we brought to bundle up, B selected new clothes to wear and avoid recognition by the scalper.  B called the guy from a police cell phone, pretending to be a new prospective buyer, and set up a rendez-vous point to make the purchase.  B and 4 cops approached the guy, who was found with fake tickets on him, and he was arrested. 

In appreciation for his help and cooperation, the police reserved two game tickets available for us at the will call box office.  We paid face value for them, unheard of for tickets to such a momentous playoff game.  After a roller coaster day, and with less then 30 minutes before the opening kick-off, we had bona fide tickets to the game. 

And what was I doing while B was off living out a real life episode of Cops?  I was knitting of course!

Someone (i.e. me) had to stay with the car because it was parked in a reserved section for luxury box ticket holders.  I happily obliged and set out to continue work on my third Clapotis.  Unfortunately, I had had to go to the bathroom since we first went to park the car and things were reaching the point of desperation.  I couldn't leave the car to go off in search of a porta-potty and there was no secluded spot nearby for me to go outside among the tailgating revelry.  I started to imagine the spectacle of me getting brought into the police station on public urination charges while B was at the same station playing the hero and bringing thieving suspects to justice.  Instead, I tried to focus on my knitting and ignore my increasingly vocal bladder.  Just as things were getting desperate, B came back the triumphant hero, and we made a beeline for the bathroom.  All's well that end's well, at least if you ignore the game's final score.

I won't dwell too much on the game's outcome.  It's enough to say that even two weeks later B keeps calling it a heart breaker.  After all we went through, it seemed only fair that the Pack should win.  If only things worked that way. 

Instead, I'll leave you with a visual to illustrate just how cold it was.  With every sip (or maybe glug) or beer, a film of liquid froze to the side of the glass.  It quickly built up into a layer of icy beer rimming the sides of every glass.  It was a race to the finish. 

The fashion statements were also a sight to see.  My top layers numbered 7 items of wool, fleece and down, plus the obligatory Packers jersey somewhere in between.  While I've never been a proponent of wearing fur coats, you have to love a team whose fans top off floor length furs with a cheesehead hat!

Crappers*

I've been on a roll tonight weighing, identifying and photographing my new stash.  Unfortunately tonight is also the night that Ravelry's Flickr linkage has decided to conk out on me.  All attempts to add pictures have led to the same error message.  At least progress is being made, even if for now it can't be public progress.

*Ravelry's error message begins: "Crappers.  Okay - we're not perfect."  Love the word choice.