MommyCoddle

Five Green Acres :: This Is Wool

MaryJo has been a familiar blog friend and faithful reader for many years. So when she emailed me a few weeks ago about a new adventure she has begun I was so excited for the opportunity to share it with all of you. Not only because she is living out one of my own "some day" dreams, but also because she is doing it with such intention, care and respect for her animals and the process. 

With a flock of five sheep, MaryJo has gone from pasture to skein to create a First Harvest of wool that is handspun and hand-dyed. Her hands have touched every step of the process, as you'll see in her beautiful and inspiring video below. And just this month she has set up shop online.

I asked Mary Jo to share a bit about herself....

I’m Mary Jo – the Momma, Wife, Farmer, Artisan of these Acres. I make things. I pursue beauty. I am utterly fascinated by process and gain immense satisfaction from living each step of this yarn, from pasture to skein. This wool is from my small flock of sheep - only five contributed to this harvest. The plants that lent their pigments to the wool were grown by me or collected within my community. This yarn sings with life that I've given it with my own two hands.

And as someone who is entering the whole new world of breeding sheep, I asked her to share how she learned about the process...

I steeped myself in books(stacks and stacks), classes, and local connections to other sheep people. Even after this First Harvest shearing, I took my time deciding what to do with it and how. There's no rush - wool keeps indefinitely if stored properly. It's all been quite experimental, and will continue to be. Attending classes at my area's annual fiber festival was the best way for me to learn how to spin and card. There are also many local guilds for spinning and knitting. Ravelry has several boards on keeping sheep as well as in processing the fleece, but many folks utilize small mills to do a lot of the processing, which is also a great option. It's a steep learning curve, but I was comforted at the very start by the notion one farmer gave me that sheep are so easy that they're what many farmers switch to when they retire.

I also asked her to share her vision for the future of This Is Wool....

I'm currently working on some pattern designs to complement the beautiful variations in this First Harvest wool and hope to release them in the next month or so. We also just finished shearing the Second Harvest of wool, which I'll be washing and drying outside before the temps dip too low. Because of the drought this year, all of the dyeing will be done with acid dyes. Second Harvest will have a look all its own because of this, but I'm satisfied with the decision to keep the sparse dye plants for the critters that will need them over the winter. And, as much as I love the spinning process, (I really, really do) First Harvest will be the only one to offer handspun skeins, making this vintage of yarn extra special.

Take a look at this beautiful video that walks you through Mary's process from pasture to skein. I promise, you're going to want a flock of sheep of your own after watching this...

This is wool. First Harvest: Backyard from Mary Jo, FiveGreenAcres on Vimeo.

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MaryJo's First Harvest is 2.5 oz/100 yard skeins of 2-ply, handspun, plant-dyed wool in worsted weight. You can find it in a whole range of beautiful colors on her website Five Green Acres. 

I declare

I've declared this week to be the week of good things. Things that are uplifting and happy. Behind the scenes, we're hanging in there. The outpouring of encouragement from all of you has been amazing. Even yesterday, when I posted this little shot on Instagram of all of us, while hanging out in the ER waiting for our next dose of the vaccine, it was flooded with good thoughts and wishes, and "I wish I could come out there and buy you all a milkshake!" But the good news in all this is one more round to go! And to quote Elizabeth, "Then I can finally get back to a normal life!"

In the meantime, a few good things around the webby-web-web:

Probably the only time in my life that my name will appear in the same article with Brooke Shields, Gwyneth Paltrow, Tom Cruise and Alanis Morrissette....and proof that among mothers, some things know no bounds of language, race, location or income. We all need to ask for help when we need it.

Something about this post hit me in a good spot this week.

This place is always light, fresh, inspiring (and good for my french).

I'm pretty sure warm bread makes everything better, right? This week, probably this one.

I think my girls have earned some of these to stitch on their sleeves.

And tomorrow, another good thing to share with you that gets me all itchy to have the girls back home...

xo, friends. and thank you.

molly

 

 

Being brave when you're afraid

I'm probably not writing this post from the best of places. It's been a long, hard week. Parts of it, horrible. But other parts filled with those moments when you look at your children and admire their strength and bravery in the midst of things that are just plain hard.

I've questioned how much of this story to tell here. When we first moved back to Maryland and lived on my grandmother's farm, my uncle once said to me, "Life on a farm is tough." And indeed, we've learned that lesson many times over in our little family. 

I'll start at the beginning and share briefly without digging into the details that I've had to rehash over and over this week. 

On Friday morning, my girls were in the kitchen baking muffins for breakfast. We always leave the doors to our mudroom open during nice weather. The dog has her bed out there and we like her to be able to come and go--she's a good watch dog and always investigates anything that seems "off" around our house. 

But this Friday morning, Ruby was inside, lounging in the kitchen, most likely taking advantage of the sloppy baking going on. When Mary heard something crying, she went to the kitchen door to discover a raccoon on the mudroom. She frantically came to find me and when I discovered it, I blasted through the door to yell at it and get it off our porch. 

The worst part of all, was that the raccoon was killing our kittens, just about 8 weeks old. When I ran after it, it dropped the one in its mouth. The girls, coming out behind me, didn't realize the kitten was dead and begn to pet it to comfort it. 

Throughout the course of the rest of the day, we'd find the mother cat, badly injured, and the rest of the kittens, dead....all except for one that we named Cora. Cora was loved on and spoiled for the rest of the weekend. Her mother nursed her some, napped with her occasionally, but was pretty badly hurt and not her mothering self. But Cora was scooped up by our family, loved on, spoiled. We brought her in to the kitchen where the girls set up a special corner for her, with food and water and a pillow to sleep on. It seemed like all the grief was poured out in love for Cora, even my own sadness and disgust for all that had happened. Loving on her made everything feel okay. We had Cora. 

In the wee hours Sunday morning, I woke up with a thought that kept me from sleeping for the rest of the night. Though the raccoon on the mudroom was fluffy and healthy, it suddenly occured to me that the girls had touched the dead kitten that was covered in the saliva from the raccoon. Though they washed their hands, who knows in those minutes between if they touched their mouths, rubbed their eyes? 

Then there was the mother cat. We eventually made the decision later in the weekend to put her down. But was she injured by the raccoon? For safety reasons, we had to assume that yes, she was, and for this reason, she'd now exposed Cora, the kitten we'd been loving on all weekend. 

So with dread, I sent my pediatrician an email Sunday night, explaining the situation to her. She wrote me back right away--the girls, especially Mary and Elizabeth, who touched the dead kitten would have to be treated for rabies. And the rest of the family, would most likely have to be treated too, because of the interaction with Cora. 

So I called her husband, who happens to be our vet. Yes, our veterinarian and our pediatrican are married. I wonder what their conversations were that night around the dinner table. The vet confirmed what I worried would be true, the whole family needed to be treated. We needed to go to the ER. 

And worst of all, we had to face what needed to be done with Cora. 

So Monday morning, I spent hours on the phone, with doctors, vets, the health department...telling my story over and over. Hearing recommendations, some that completely contradicted another. I got texts on my phone from other family vets while in the ER with more questions, more possible scenarios, more recommendations. 

But rabies is something you can't take chances with. We all got treated. Though the chances our whole family was exposed to rabies is probably miniscule, who wants to flirt with the alternatives? 

Treatment for rabies involves shots, lots of them. The first day of treatment Dan and I had 8 shots, the girls had anywhere from four down to two, for Birdy. Mary and Elizabeth especially are mortified of shots. Even that description seems like an understatement. It was horrible. 

Yesterday we went back for round two. We'll go again, two more rounds to go. 

In the meantime, I feel wiped out. I feel drained. I can't finish the story, the Cora part because my kids don't know how the story ended yet. But I think that part, hurt me the most. You know? She was that one bright spot. 

But you know, my kids are amazing. Though they may buckle at times, and we've all had our moments, they are so strong and resilient. It's remarkable. They clench their teeth, they cry and ask if it could be some other way, but then they face the reality and handle it with bravery despite their fear. 

So, thanks friends, for listening to this long story. Keep our little family in your thoughts, prayers. 

xo.

 

A Steamy Kind of Weekend

This is a post from my sister, Mary, who joins me here on the blog a few times a month!

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This past weekend was a fall favorite in our little town here in the shadow of the Allegheny Mountains. It is one of those annual events that you just don't miss. The kind that stirs up all kinds of gratitude for the sweet little all-American town that you live in. Known as the Steam and Craft show, it is in its 38th year of existence. Don't let the "steam" or the "craft" really throw you. It is mostly about tractors. Tractors and more tractors. Of all ages, types, and conditions. And the people that love them, young and old.

Now there are a few of the big, ancient steam tractors, with the ear piercing whistles and their slow, steady crawl.

There are the expertly refurbished models. With a gleam and shine that indicate they will never see the field again.

And then there are the ones waiting to be refurbished. But appreciated all the same.

There are ones with faces and names.

But the "craft" portion translates into a shopping experience that can't be duplicated. As a kid, I remember saving my money to buy a baseball tshirt with a glittery Apaloosa horse decal on the front. It is a mixed bag. Pillows and purses alongside fuel filters and pitchforks. The choices of snaps and hooks was a bit overwhelming, to say the least.

Oh, and dental picks! Hemastats! At great prices!

It is a time to walk among the tractors, to study and appreciate them, to be grateful for the years of service they have given, to reminisce about the ones that used to be on the family farm. An entire weekend to talk tractor.

While the lower field is full of tractors, more activity awaits at the top of the field. Pies are being sold, apple butter is churning. The secret recipe, a local stew, is being served piping hot from a large black kettle. Homemade potato chips, kettle corn. Greasy grub off the grill being served up by the school's athletes and their families.

The culmination of the first day is the parade. It really is my favorite part. Led by the middle and high school bands and the mayor, the tractors all fire up and are driven by their owners right down Main Street. It is a chance to see them with their owners, and families. In all their glory. If the original owner is too frail to drive, they may be pulled behind on a wagon, comfortably seated on a lawn chair or even a sofa. Or if the owner is too young to drive her pink tractor, her Dad will help out, and will be manly enough to drive a pink tractor through town.

While my education and life experiences have taken me far away from my little hometown in the past, it is times like this that I am especially glad I am here. I feel like I stop and realize, just for a second, that this is my town right now. My people. And I am proud of it all.

Show Me A Story (and a giveaway!)

I'm reading the book Captains Courageous right now. I picked it for two reasons. One, I was standing in front of the bookshelf outside the bathroom (Yes, outside the bathroom. We are overrun by books in this house.) at ten o'clock at night having just finished with one book and desperate for another before-bed read. Two, my grandmother loved Rudyard Kipling. So obviously, I want to love Rudyard Kipling, too. 

If you haven't read the book, the cliff notes are that a very privileged boy who has never raised a finger in work his entire life is thrown from an ocean-liner and picked up by a boat of fisherman. In the middle of their fishing season, there is no way they'll turn around to take him back to America, where he was headed. So he is put to work on their boat, a completely foreign concept to him. The book is about this boy discovering the self-respect that comes with work and being part of something, of earning his keep and contributing to something bigger than himself.

But woven into the book is the art of storytelling. Months at sea, on a small fishing boat with a handful of other men, storytelling becomes their entertainment, their way to unwind. The men sit around in the evenings taking turns--one tells stories of the war, another of his farming life back home, another of his haunted experiences at sea. Even this boy, Harvey, weaves elaborate stories of his own, of the privileged life, of magic and money and extravagances these simple fisherman can't even fathom. 

Since being given the chance to preview Emily Neurberger's book Show Me a Story , several months ago, I've been more attuned to the art of storytelling--in these fisherman in Captains Courageous who lock into the words of a story and find themselves lost inside the storyteller's words. As a mother, whose children beg over and over for that story from my childhood about my lamb that was injured before my first show. As a witness to the stories my children escape into in the midst of play. 

Storytelling is a creative, imaginative and important part of our lives. Not only is it a way to entertain or to pass down stories from our personal history, it is a way for us and for our children to exercise our creative muscles. 

Emily Neuburger has a passion for storytelling. Not only that, she's passionate about giving children ways to spark their creative storytelling abilities. I'm sure we've all experienced it--oftentimes the hardest part of writing or telling any story is determining where to start. "But I don't know what to write about..." is a constant refrain from my children. 

But Emily's book Show Me A Story is page upon page of ways to jumpstart a child's storytelling and writing. Our copy has been floating around my house for weeks, most often in the hands of my ten year old. She's been inspired by it, by the ideas and activities on the pages. It's not rare for me to hear, "Where's the modpodge? Do we have any cardboard in the recycling bin? Can I have that canning jar? Where's the felt?" all inspired by the projects she finds on the pages of Emily's book. 

Show Me A Story is all about helping children create the framework for a story. For inventing characters and plots and conflicts and settings for stories to take place. Her ideas are simple, frugal (chances are you already have everything you need), beautifully photographed and described. They are projects that jumpstart a child's creativity, embracing the imagination that is already there, but sometimes just needs to be awakened. 

There are a lot of books that pass by my desk, but Emily's has been one of the most accessible. It has been one that has been snatched up and inspired an immediate need to create. To me, that is a sure sign of a well-written book.

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I'm so happy that Emily and Storey Publishing have graciously given me the chance to give away a copy of Show Me a Story to my readers. Simply leave a comment on this post and you'll be entered. I'll select one random winner on Friday.

Everybody needs a witness

Several months ago, I mailed out a stack of kindness cards to brave volunteers. On each card was a random act of "guerilla goodness". I asked anyone who was willing to share their experience of following through on the ideas on the card, here on MommyCoddle. 

This email came to me a few weeks ago from my dear friend Sarah of urban.prairie.forest. 

Read and be inspired.

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Thank you Molly for sending these out! It has reminded me of this quote though meant in marriage, has inspired me in community...

"We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage (or dare I say community), you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'."

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This is what my boom boom! card said, “You know that person you see everywhere? The one you smile at and say hi to everyday on your way to work, on your run or walk, at the grocery store? Next time, introduce yourself and find out their name.” then, to revolutionize it, “each time you see them, say hi using their name.”

We live in a small mountain town outside of a small beach town in northern california. There are a couple of men I see almost every time we drive somewhere. After reading my Boom Boom card I imagined stopping and saying hello to the tall guy who rides his bicycle rain or shine sitting unusually upright. He who does his laundry at the “awesome” laundromat in town verses the “ordinary” one. Or I pictured greeting the man who looks uncannily like Albert Einstein and seems to walk every where he goes. I wondered if maybe we’d bump into him at the library again and I’d have the opportunity to say, ”hello! what is your name?” I hoped for that since it might be freaky if we pulled over on the side of the road so I can step out & ask his name just so the next time we drive by I can roll down the window and call out, “Hi Albert!” (only using his real name, of course).

I found myself in the local natural foods store which we frequent. I see the same people working every time. Usually smile and have small talk, that’s how you roll in a small town. I realized, after reading this Boom Boom card, I didn’t know anyone’s name which brings me to Boom Boom card Subject number 1. Let me describe her for you since I wasn’t A.) brave enough to ask her permission to take a photo and B.) wasn’t stealth enough to hide at the end of an aisle & secretly take one. Ali has brown hair, stick straight and down to her waist (though recently she bleached it platinum blonde). She is probably mid-twenties, likes to sit outside the back of the store on her break for a cigarette, smiles after you smile first. She has her right brow pierced and beautiful doe like eyes. She was checking out my groceries when I introduced myself and asked her name. I see her almost every visit to the grocery store. Now, I say hello and call her by name. Interesting, she smiles before I do.

 

Subject number 2.

Thursday night, after a full day in town, we were making our last stop for late night burritos after hip hop class. There before me is the “Highway 9 Hitchhiker.” We’ve never picked him up before, but our friend Dan used to when he would borrow our car. We could tell because there would be the left over smell of old cigarette smoke seeped into the seats and everytime we’d pass him on the road he would smile, turn and prepare to walk to our pulled over car only to discover our car wasn’t slowing down to give him a ride, I could see it in the rear view mirror. It wasn’t for a number of weeks after Dan moved away that Eddie would just give us the usual thumbs up and wave as we passed by. The same signal he gives everyone that keeps on going. So here he is in front of me at the taqueria so I ask him his name. I tell him that he is often seen traveling between our small towns in the valley we live. I ask him how long he has lived in this area and he tells me over twenty years. He is full of smiles, his eyes light up, he laughs because he thinks my husband and I wear matching glasses. His name is Eddie Nelson and I know that now for when our windows are down on our way through town we can call out, “hello Eddie” as we pass him! (no, I am still not going to pick up hitchhikers when alone with my children, even if I know his name...)

Subject number 3.

Back in the natural food store at the check out line. A man who looks younger than I believe he is stands working with an eternal twinkle in his eye. We usually have more than a little small talk. He will tell me about his other job or ask what my girls and I were up to...not just how is your day, but more direct questions. He is very friendly, permeates a sort of peace, calm and light. It’s time to grab the bag and walk out so I quickly introduce myself & ask him his name. Off we go... A few days later I pop in to grab some ice cream for my girls. It’s become a Friday tradition with a few friends. One of the other momma’s chooses a different check out line and I joke that it’s a race. In my slightly competitive nature my energy is quick and I’m glancing over at my friend. I thanked ________* for checking us out and took the ice cream to leave. He said, “have a great day Sarah!” I stopped turned around and smiled. It felt so nice to be seen, to be remembered, to be known. That feeling is something I want to return. Though his name had slipped my mind at the time, thankfully he gave his business card to my husband so I can pull a Nancy Drew and return the kindness he showed me.

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Since arbitrarily becoming subject number three myself, I have been even more determined to return the favor of seeing others and using their name. David* who was intended to be subject number three consistently uses my name. I actually thanked him and told him about this little project. He smiled and with such gratitude thanked me back for sharing that with him. I have seen Eddie and Ali each week since (except when we were out of town) and have had ample opportunity to use their names and say hello. Just last week Eddie posed for a photo outside the taqueria where we met. I've become sweet friends with some of the families at dance and look forward to the two hours of waiting because now it's not just waiting, it's catching up. We have yet to meet upright sitting bicycle man or Albert Einstien, but are prepared for a greeting for when that time arrives.

Say hello, ask people their names, see & be seen. You might be surprised but most importantly, everybody needs a witness.

getting the girls married

The girl sheep, that is.

Wednesday night, I kind of felt like I needed to throw a bachelorette party. After a few months of searching, and through the help of a 4-H friend we finally found suitable husband material for the sheep. Being the old-fashioned girl that I am, I've been referring to this little rendevous as taking the sheep to get married. 

Thursday morning, bright and early (and with a vomitting child to boot!) one of Dan's wonderful customers and farmer-friends showed up with his trailer and helped us load up the sheep to take them off to a breeder a few counties away. 

Danielle, who owns the ram, and I have talked on the phone several times to figure out plans for this day and for her to field a lot of my questions. Do they need to bring anything with them? An overnight bag? Toiletries? Just the sheep, she assured me. 

For the next two months, the sheep will live with their new ram friend at Danielle's farm where they will ahem, get married and (fingers crossed), pregnant. Sheep have a gestation period of about 145 days, so if all goes well, there will be new little lambs in early spring. 

Meanwhile, things seems strange around here without the girls. There were some tears at bedtime last night--worries about them in their new home. How much they are already missed. Requests to visit them next week. I have to admit, I really miss them, too. I keep looking up at the clock when it strikes five and wondering if Emma has fed them yet. And should I haul over a bucket of water? And did they romp around before you let them back into their pen? 

After dinner last night I told Dan, next year, I think we should host the wedding.

my new kick: homemade magic shell

Good morning. I'm on my second cup of coffee this morning after sleeping with a sick Elizabeth last night. We played musical beds, Dan sleeping in Elizabeth's room with Mary. And me, with Elizabeth in our bed. Confusing. But sleeping with Elizabeth when she's sick means waking up with her feverish sweaty legs draped over you, covers ripped off, or waking up with her feet in your face. She tosses and turns and cries all through the night. Fun times. We've all been there, I know. Hence, cup of joe number two. 

Speaking of numbers, I've been trying to teach Birdy how to count in french. Just as she's getting it down in english I'm throwing in french. I wonder if I have her completely confused? The girls are learning French with Rosetta Stone this year (and I'm refreshing my french) so it's always in my mind. But I just can't resist a sweet little two year old counting in french. 

Speaking of sweet (apprently I'm a fan of the segue today), I'm on a new kick in the kitchen. Remember the chocolate chip meringues? Mmmmn. I'm going to have to make those again soon. Anyway, my new kick is danergously simple and dangerously good. Yummy. Excellent. Divine. 

From my study of chocolate sauces this past summer, you know that I come from a long line of ice cream-with-sauce lovers. Now while I'll never let this recipe overshadow my grandmother's chocolate chewy sauce, this recipe is so so good.

We love magic shell in this house. You know, the stuff that gets all hard and crackly on top of your ice cream? But if you've ever read the back of the bottle (don't do it!) or felt that waxy post-magic shell feeling on the roof of your mouth, you know it has its down sides. 

I'm starting to realize there are about a zillion uses for coconut oil. But this just might be my favorite-homemade magic shell. The recipe is simple:

Melt together 1 + 1/4 cups of semi sweet chocolate chips and 1/2 cup of coconut oil (in its hard state) over medium heat. Once smooth, pour over your ice cream and wait for the magic.

It is so good (have I mentioned that yet?). No waxy mouth. No yucky ingredients. And it's made with coconut oil. Doesn't that put it in the healthy category now? So if you're looking for a little something to impress your kids, or your guests or your taste buds, you must, must join me on this new kick.

(And fyi, I poured my leftover sauce into a glass jar and have reheated it in a lightly boiling hot water bath. Works perfectly.) 

from the passenger side

Hello friends,

Just popping in tonight to say hello. I shot this photo out the window of my car, driving home the other evening. (for the record I was the passenger.) I'm about to sit down to own of my new favorite mini-splurges--Alt's Online classes. If you haven't heard about them, I highly recommend you check them out. The classes cover everything from blogging to design to photography....and are so well done. 

I'll be back tomorrow with my other new favorite--my new "kick" in the kitchen. 

More soon....

She's baaaaack!

A post from Mary.....

We have two pet mice. Mice are great little pets. They don't require much. They don't cost much. They don't live very long. Abby's mouse, Stella, is a gray satin mouse with a trademark tail that is half black, half white. Her tail differentiates her from Edey's mouse, who is also gray. While Edey's mouse, Delilah, is very calm and content, Stella is a handful. So it was no huge surprise to me when Abby shouted from the living room that she had lost Stella. Simply holding her while watching tv, Stella saw her chance and Abby was distracted, and she was gone. So, for almost three weeks, yes, three weeks we would see "evidence" of her presence in our house. We had several fleeting glimpses of her, tail high in the air, in an almost rude gesture of defiance. She would dash from corner to corner, only to disapear under some piece of furniture or seemingly vanish in thin air. She took up residence in the toy basket, the blanket basket and a mudroom drawer. She consumed one entire pack of Ramen, several dog biscuits and who knows what else. Then, last weekend, we caught her. Fed up, after one recent sighting, I got boards from the barn and with many hands helping, we cornered her, thumped a plastic container over her, and plopped her back in with Delilah. Abby was thrilled. Me too, really. I mean, what mom likes to have "Catch mouse" on her list of to-do's? She nestled back in to her captive lifestyle, none worse for the wear. Then, the unbelievable.

One day later, she was gone again. This time she shimmied up the smooth plastic side of the water bottle, and chewed through the plastic lid on the cage. It was right at bed time that we noticed and I did my required search in the girls' room before turning out the light, but I was done with this game. She could be wild, or she could be terminated. No more motherly heroics this time.

The story isn't over, folks. Stella, the wild child, was discovered in the bath tub one day later. My husband blearily staggers in for a morning shower and there she is. Stuck in the tub. So, she is back. This time we gave her an exercise wheel. A bit of exercise is good for the soul. She seems more content now. Like maybe she has had her wild fling. She seems to be in remarkably good shape, more rotund then I remember to be before. I hope there wasn't more to her "fling" than we thought, otherwise our mouse population may be growing.

 

Hello! and what do you think of my shoes?

Hello! Hi! Hi! Oh, how I miss being here regularly. Every time I sit down to write there's something else to do, something that needs my attention. I think, quite possibly, I wake up everyone morning and proclaim: "today I'm going to write!" And then, you know, the day begins and next thing I know, it's bedtime. Funny how that happens. But good things are happening here, people. Things I'm excited to tell you about soon. (No. I'm not pregnant. No. I didn't strike a book deal. Pfft! I wish!) But soon. 

In the meantime, let's move on to more important things. Let's weigh in on my shoes, shall we? I have been on the hunt for fall-winter shoes since last fall-winter. I ended up wearing a pair of hand-me-down shoes from my sister last year. (Thanks, Mare.) And as much as I love Danskos, with my high arches they just aren't a perfect fit. But I love that look. They fit my every day uniform of jeans, a long-sleeved black tshirt, and scarf.

But a few days ago, when perusing the newest LLBean catalog, I decided maybe it was time to revisit an old classic. When did I wear these last? When were these cool? Maybe high school? Middle school? Didn't we do funny curly-que things with the laces? Anyway. I bought a pair. And darn if they aren't comfy like slippers after wearing them around the house for just 24 hours. And they're old school, right? Classics that never go out of style?

But, my three stylists who range in age from ten to five, had different things to say:

Emma: What kinda shoes are THOSE?!

Mary: Are those Daddy's?!

Elizabeth: I have never seen shoes like that before! (imagine it said in complete disgust)

So talk to me, people. Am I a fashion faux pas? Are these out of style? Should I only wear them around the house, not in public? Or are they so old they're back? Or do I look like a grandma? (No offense Mom. Oh, I can imagine my mom wearing these....Oy.) The pants are a little baggy looking in this picture, most likely because of the angle.

But help me people. Weigh in, won't you? I can take it. I think. 

Market Day

A post from Mary...

I think every mom feels like they wear many different hats throughout the day. Thursdays, for me, is the day I take off my parenting hat, pass it to my wonderful husband for the day, and get to put on my farmer's hat. Farmer's market hat, that is. And no, I am not the mother strolling through the market, basket on arm, admiring the assortment of fresh produce. I get to be the farmer, marketing the goods to the "city folk".

I rise early, rolling out of bed when the clock reads 3 something, dress and grab my super-sized water bottle and pick up mi amigo for the day. Oscar is a 20 something Honduran fellow, who works for our boss, my friend. He is an incredible worker, speaking about 15% english, which means our entire day is spoken in Spanish, which tends to stretch my Spanish vocabulary to its limits. He is working in the States, and sending his earnings home to put two younger brothers through medical school. We are a good pair. Our boss is my friend, and he and his wife run an ever-evolving, cutting edge, Facebook-using fruit and vegetable farm that grows the heirloom varieties that your grandmother grew.

Oscar and I load the truck, a nice little 16000 pound, fourteen foot box truck, in the dark with multiple pallets of fresh produce, and all the necessities including table cloths. We roll into the gas station for necessary hard tack...a jumbo sized cup of joe for me, mango juice for Oscar. It is always amusing to pull into the local gas station at 4 in the morning when all the construction type workers are filling up for the day. There is always an element of surprise I enjoy when this pony-tailed momma jumps out of her truck. I've never had the door held open for me with quite the same flair as I do at that early hour.

Down the road we go, to the "city" and set up our canopies, tables and displays of fresh and good eats. The cow bell tolls and we sell, sell, sell. It is a mental exercise for me. Half my brain is recalling from memory my prices x pounds of fruit, adding up the total, counting back change, while the second half of my brain simultaneously regurgitates a wonderful italian prune plum crumble recipe. The clientele are predominantly older folks at this particular market, and for the most part are very jovial and kind, although from time to time I have to cast a winning smile someone's way to try to dissipate some brewing tension about who was in line first. Or just let them duel it out with their canes and reusable market bags. I have my regulars, too, and the day would not be complete without some small talk with Fran, a slobbery kiss on the cheek from Pete, and the latest health report from John.

After four hours of selling, we tear down and pack it all back up on the truck, grab my weekly dose of fast and greasy food and head back down the road. Back home, I drop the truck off at the farm, and jet the one mile back to my house. I arrive within minutes of the bus that brings my youngest student home, and quickly swap out my hats, again. And I will do it all over again in one week.

 

Peanut butter cereal bars

I thought I would revisit a favorite this morning. It's on my to-make list today. A long-time favorite recipe that's been in my repertoire since sixth grade home economics class. It's a simple recipe, a great first recipe to make with your kids and has tons of flexibility for whatever you have on hand. And of course, it tastes really good.

The original recipe calls for corn flakes. And while they're really good, I rarely have that kind of cereal on hand. Multi-Grain Cheerios is more likely to be in my cupboards these days. So Cheerios it is, and yum. It's still good. 

The original recipe also calls for corn syrup. But I've also subsituted honey, when I didn't have the corn syrup on hand and that was great, too. However, it doesn't keep as well with honey. 

So if you're looking for a simple afterschool snack or easy dessert for your menu this week, I highly recommend this old classic. 

Peanut Butter Cereal Bars (aka O'Henry Bars):

 1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup light corn syrup

1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons creamy peanut butter

3 scant cups of cereal

Combine sugar and corn syrup in a saucepan over medium high heat. Bring to a boil and then remove from heat. Stir in peanut butter until smooth. Pour over cereal and stir to coat. Press bars into 8 x 8 baking dish. Cool and enjoy. 

cat naps

Bring on the roast and potatoes

I know, I know, I've been gone for days! But this is too good not to share on a Friday afternoon.

Happy 100th to Julia. And bon appetit, my friends.