I asked him what he thought was the most memorable moment from the church conference talks today.

“President Neilsen begging everybody to be more charitable.”

Our house guests last fall (hi, Amy!) left behind a jar of Skippy peanut butter that wouldn’t go in their carry-ons. Actually, it was labeled peanut spread: roasted peanuts, palm oil, and salt.

It had never been opened. There was a layer of oil at the top, just like the natural peanut butter it almost attained the definition of. It was time to figure out what to do with it. (And an excuse–I’d been craving a good cookie.)

I found this recipe, although it’s only partly what I did. I figured if the Washington Post was linking to it that’s a decent recommendation.

I used the peanut butter without stirring the oils in; some flowed to the bottom as I scooped, but I figured a cookie recipe with no other fat in it has to have what it can from what was there.

I started to type out all the other changes I made and thought, nah, just type the thing out.

So.

One cup old-fashioned rolled oats. In retrospect, quick-cooking would have done just fine.

1 tsp baking powder, not the specified baking soda which I really don’t care for at all

a pinch of salt that may have been as much as 1/2 tsp but probably not but definitely more than the 1/8th they said

2 large eggs, not quite straight out of the fridge but almost (such a rebel)

1 c natural peanut butter (well, it tried to be)

1 tsp vanilla. Given that the president just slapped his big tariffs even on an island inhabited only by penguins, can you imagine what replacing that bottle of the second most expensive spice in the world is going to cost? Two teaspoons for that much batter? Nah, one’s fine. It was.

Whisk eggs, add 2/3 c packed dark brown sugar from Trader Joe’s that may have been turbinado type, add peanut butter and vanilla and then the oats+baking powder.

I had a small handful of salted caramel chips and one of chocolate chips ready on a small plate and worked several of each into each cookie. Nowhere near the amount they called for, we’re old farts, we don’t need that much extra sugar.

They say refrigerate the dough so they won’t spread. Yeah, you do for normal chocolate chip cookies with flour and butter but I didn’t see the point with these, I just put them straight in at 350F for 14-15 minutes. They barely spread.

They were great. Seriously good. I have found my new go-to cookies.

I told Richard as we munched, Y’know, these are your daily oatmeal but with peanut butter and eggs and chips added. Extra protein.

So I guess the question in the morning is going to be, Crunch? Or slime?

—

(Ed. to add: they were very crunchy last night coming out of the oven. After a night of San Francisco fog and being left on the counter, they were not, they were a soft cookie. Use an airtight container if you want yours to stay crisp.)

My grandmother was a very proper woman whom I never heard speak ill of anyone.

Except once.

Her husband was a Republican Senator who kept for posterity his thank you letter from Martin Luther King Jr. for voting for the Civil Rights Act.

Strom Thurmond, on the other hand… One of my older cousins asked her how he’d done his historic 24 hour filibuster and Gram did a sharp sniff, took a deep breath, and told us kids, “Well! He had a catheter installed under his pants.” The disdain in her voice was something so unexpected coming from her that I’ve never forgotten it.

(I debated saying contempt, but Merriam-Webster says disdain means considering someone as being beneath one’s notice or dignity and that captures it perfectly. Like I say, she was a proper woman.)

Today I watched now and then and then all of the last 45 minutes of Cory Booker’s speech before Congress. Senator Booker, with enough African heritage to know what it is to be a Black man in America today, was determined  to best the record of a man who had agitated for segregation and the snatching away of rights of people who looked like him. Booker was speaking up for the rule of law, the sanctity of the courts, and the rights of all of us. For us to reclaim all that is good in us as Americans and in our government.

And he did it. He did it. And he kept going, just for good measure, long enough to get past that 24 hour 18 mark to a solid 25-plus so that his number and Thurmond’s would never be the same. Beat the old bastard once and for all. It was a declaration that the old racist fascist in the White House is going to lose out to the judgments of history, too.

Gram’s reaction was never about the catheter. It was just the closest she could come to saying how p***-poor  Thurmond’s ideas had been and what kind of a person would go to so much effort towards damaging the lives of so many others.

Cory Booker stood there, for 25 hours on his feet straight he stood up for every single one of us and I am so proud and so grateful.

And thank you, Wisconsin! 

Casting off in purl stitch from a wrong-side row to end a seed stitch border gives it such a polished finish. Love it.

Meantime.

A fun bit of amateur theater at church this evening. For me, a four year old stole the show: all dressed up as a mouse, she had a tail. A long tail. A tail she could twirl. A tail she could wrap around her waist in a hug. And again. A tail she could flip up and down, lasso or yo-yo, all the things, but she did, she had a magical tail and it would soon be all over and she was not going to miss one moment of it.

She was adorable.

We needed a grocery stop on the way home. Richard said he’d sit in the car and read his book while I ran into Trader Joe’s; I invited him to join me, but something felt cheerfully like he had the right idea.

When I came back to the car, the first words out of his mouth were, Well that was weird.

What was weird.

A guy knocked on the window. He had a little kid, and said the younger one had fallen asleep in the car and he didn’t want to wake him up and if he gave Richard his phone number so he could call immediately if there was any problem whatsoever, could he leave Richard keeping an eye on his little one while he ran in real quick?

And you let him?! (I said as my brain jerked back decades before to a local baby who had been snatched when a parent ran in a store ‘for just a moment.’)

He, on the other hand, had had the immediate reaction that I had to think my way past my knee-jerkiness to: he remembered what it was like and how hard it was at that stage of parenthood. He had a clear line of sight to the kiddo. It was a compliment to be taken for the kind grandpa that he is and that the guy had instinctively trusted him to be. He lived up to that trust by not taking his eyes off the kid till the dad got back. Three, four minutes at most, he told me, he was fast.

I said, That WAS fast–they’re in the middle of rearranging the store right now like they occasionally do and everything’s moved out of place. It took me forever to find anything that wasn’t in the dairy case. But I bet his wife wouldn’t be thrilled if she knew, though.

Maybe.

Did he thank you when he came back out? (He was already gone by the time I did.)

Oh yes. Richard added that he’d seen it as a chance to make the world a little better place for one overwhelmed dad in this one place at this one time, to be a neighbor. And who wouldn’t want that?

Twenty rows on the bottom edging, not 13, 13 was the number of edge stitches. Darn. Of course. Fourteen done now, six to go.

Those long rows are giving me a little more time to plan the next one in my head as well as on paper.

I had had a particular yarn all set to go for the next project, but…

I finally messaged my little sister. I told her I had asked Mom her take on it and that she’d thought the same way I had, that Anne has all the pictures she could ever want in her house and with my turn to give to her next Christmas, I should knit her a monochrome afghan to play as quiet backdrop to all her gorgeous watercolors.

And I sent her a picture of the yarn that it was purportedly going to be made from, making clear that that was an offer, not a requirement.

By this time my siblings are on to me: Carolyn got her picture of her house right down to the tire swing with the scuffed grass below it, the one that started all this, Morgan got the moose and the river and forest and strawberry farm from our childhood memories.

I want one with a story! she texted back.

She wanted me to give it my all like I had with them. She was really hoping for a picture, too.

Part of me felt a near-giddy sense of having been set free. Intarsia is where my knitting soul is right now. But also–a story? Which story, out of a lifetime? How on earth do you choose?

And so my brain has been (mostly) glad to have all those long tedious seed stitch rows in order to leave it rummaging through its drawers these past two days. I poked around on Ravelry this afternoon to see if there were any already-invented wheels on some ideas.

Ooh, look at… And… I could tweak… Yeah….!

Now to make them all come out to scale to each other and to the afghan’s overall size. And how much of that green did I use up last time. Okay then. Let me just finish this last little tiny bit….

(Photos coming.) We decided to make it one last day of yarn-shop hopping for the official Crawl. We might actually pull off a Bingo on our cards that they stamped each time we walked into a new one–and we did.

I packed the snacks. Nina drove. Again. Patterns and all that.

Having wished again and again during the afghan that I hadn’t used up all of this shade or that previously, I had my eye out for the ones I’d wanted to replace.

When we called it a day after Royal Bee, our husbands met up with us on the coast for dinner. They asked us, So: did you buy any yarn? with both of them cracking up, like, oh, no, they would never do such a thing in such a place.

My answer was, it averaged out to a skein per shop. It was fun to find colors I loved in the yarn I wanted–but the point was to spend time with Nina.

She laughed as she was nodding yes to that.

We were at Barbara’s Fishtrap. Nina and I had compared memories of Ivar’s in Seattle so I had to try a small bowl of the clam chowder to see if it was as good as theirs. The answer is, I’d have to try them side by side to tell because Barbara’s was very very very good, too, enough to make it all that I’d want to order the next time. It’s a tie. Best I’ve ever had, both of them.

There were surfers in the famous Mavericks surf whom we passed coming and going, there was the point of land stretching around the cove behind us (if you click on their link and scroll down, we were by that window in the center of the building), and at the top of that hill was a bulbous–

–I said, “Looks like a baby rattle.”

They did a double take at the water tower off in the distance and cracked up.

Edited to add: the note on the sign says, “If you are Grouchy, Sullen, Ornery, Moody, or Just Plain Mean, There is a $20 surcharge for having to put up with you.”

Nope, didn’t feel the quake, wouldn’t have known it had happened if I hadn’t glanced at a headline in my inbox just now. A 3.9 on the East Bay tonight is how we like them: for entertainment purposes only.

I was busy in the kitchen with fond memories of my in-laws visiting from Maryland thirty-odd years ago. I’d said to my MIL, Remember that Hot Milk Sponge Cake that you and my mom both used to make from the 1950s Betty Crocker cookbook (and that I’d found a pristine copy of at a garage sale my senior year of high school–score!)

Yeah?

Well, I substitute fresh-squeezed lemon juice for 2/3 of the milk.

Her next words were diplomatic but her face was in utter disbelief at such a use of such an expensive ingredient: Why would you do that?

I laughed and gestured: Because I have a tree!

And because it makes almost a lemon curd effect across the top by the next day, if the cake somehow lasts that long with kids in the house.

So. There’s that almond orange muffin recipe I experimented my way towards and that Nina thoroughly approved of during our yarn crawl last week. We are going again. There must be more snacks.

But my freezer is now empty of that puree and my mandarins need another month and it would be a crime to pick them too early.

The Meyer lemons, on the other hand…

But their piths are famously bitter. You boil seedless oranges for 20 minutes to make the orange puree (discard the water they’re boiled in) to get rid of any bitterness. Okay, I made it 25 min with the Meyers just to be sure. I drained them. I cut them open and spent awhile picking out every single seed.

My Cuisinart bowl being in the dishwasher, I threw them and the juice that had come out of them into the blender and let it run for awhile.

It came out the texture of the most fabulous lemon mousse you ever saw. I measured out 2/3 of a cup and then put the rest in silicone molds in the freezer for next time.

So here’s how I tweaked the recipe:

Lemon Almond muffins (gluten free, wheat free)

2 c. almond flour

1 tsp baking powder

about, ummm, that much salt, I dunno, half a teaspoon-ish?

a hair under 3/4 c sugar, which is a lot, but these are lemons we’re talking about. When I’m making this with oranges I use 1/3 to 1/2 c; my husband’s sweet tooth prefers the 1/2 c.

a generous 1/4 c melted butter, ie that’s what it was meant to be but it measured out closer to 1/3 and I’m okay with that and remind me not to grab the Costco butter that’s all one pound lumps next time

3 eggs (I know, living like kings here. Eggs!)

and the 2/3 c pureed boiled lemon into the mixer at the last.

12 muffins, 350F, 23 minutes in my oven. Will be on the pale side when the toothpick is clean. As always, almond flour muffins hold together better if you wait till they’re completely cool to eat. I use paper liners in the pan to counteract any early stick-and-crumble factor.

Definitely, definitely making these again.

Yesterday’s yarn purchases. I don’t usually buy chunky, but when you have a granddaughter whose favorite outfit is, to quote her mother, “rainbow leopard sparkle” and you find some Urth yarn like the one on the left, well there you go.

Just got back from celebrating the anniversary of old friends of ours. Their kids flew into town, we got to catch up with them all–I went to college with one of them–and I took the youngest aside and told him,

You changed everything.

I what?

I told him, I argued with that feeling that I should knit for you, going, I can’t knit for everybody who ever compliments my stuff, there’s only one of me and there would be no end of it, I mean, c’mon!

The feeling was so insistent (and he knew the end of that story. It was a vest. A Kaffe Fassett vest, with him at 15 picking out all the colors for it in disbelief as I egged him on to choose more because I knew he wanted to) and his reaction had been so intensely grateful that I’d wanted to be a part of that again. I wanted to knit for other people again. You did that, I said. I’d kept a running list for awhile of the people I had knit for after that and at 182 went, That’s not what it’s about–ditch this. And that had been about 20 years ago.

I thanked him again for changing my life.

His foster/adoptive parents were celebrating their 70th anniversary. Good folks.

I’m heading out with Nina in the morning to play first day of the Bay Area Yarn Crawl. (Had I ever been to this LYS in Morgan Hill? No. This other one in San Carlos? Never heard of it somehow. Well then we will discover them.)

But first I wound the skein of green Manos Silk Blend that she brought me back from Uruguay last month as, y’know, kind of a yarn vaccine–and because I owe it to her to have it ready to cast on. Pretty stuff.

But I promise you we will succumb to the wool fumes just the same.

I took photos of two dye lot numbers to see if I can match them–you know how doubtful that is, but it has happened before and hey, you never know.

As I sit here remembering back in the days of random phone calls from investor types dialing into our area code and not having the least clue that it was in a time zone three hours off from theirs. …The email I’d sent off to a LYS, including my number. To make it easier for them? To make the inquiry feel more legitimate a reason for them to spend their time looking at all those little yarn tags? I can only guess now.

And my husband waking groggily up at dark o’clock, shoving the phone across that I had not in my sleep heard ringing, and going, “It’s your boiler-room yarn pushers in New York City. They want you to know they don’t have your dye lot.”

It’s been a running joke here ever since.

They were calling before opening the store in order to catch me before I might head off to work. It was very kind of them. They could simply have ignored me, but they were trying to be as helpful as they could as fast as they could and get that info to me so I would know to keep trying.

So let me see what I can do tomorrow.

If I don’t find it, maybe they have more of that Rios in New York City.

Plant a tree, bake a pie. (Some time may need to elapse in between.) English Morello tart cherry.

Happy Birthday to my youngest!

Me, walking almost in the door from Trader Joe’s: I found it!!

Him, meeting me at the door to open it for me (but that’s not where I was heading yet.) You found it!

Last Monday I did some grocery shopping. Wednesday something in the car seemed…off. I remembered a news story some years back of someone who bought a new car, had some raw chicken roll under a seat, didn’t use the car for two weeks and when they found it their insurance company paid for all kinds of remedies before giving up and totaling out the car. Brand new. Replaced. For a chicken.

Thursday I opened the hood and cleared out all kinds of stray leaves, trying to find just where this stupid dead mouse or whatever it was was. Friday I searched the inside of the car yet again. Saturday I gave my friend who’s blind in one eye–oh wait, I thought I wrote about that here, guess I didn’t–a ride home but first apologized that the car had this, uh, problem, and we’d been trying, and I was so sorry.

Well if you don’t find it come back to me and I’ll find it for you guys! he promised.

Sunday parking the car at church we hoped nobody could smell it from outside the car.

Monday we didn’t go anywhere probably because we really didn’t want to. We promised ourselves we would finally find it once the sun got low enough for me to help in the search again. We forgot. And then you don’t go looking for decaying squishy things in the dark, I mean…

He never was sure it smelled mousy, though. I wasn’t either but it was definitely dead.

The next thing I said to him this evening at that doorway was, Remember that bag of greens in cream and garlic sauce that fell out of the freezer in the garage and didn’t get found for two days?

Yeah?

I bought another to replace it so we could finally try that stuff once, at least. I only discovered where it landed because I had a bag break just now and the trajectories led me to this–where I know I looked again and again and again. But there it was. I found it!

Clearly we are not meant to touch that dish, he said as I held it at arm’s length heading towards the garbage bin past the gate, exit, stage right.

He didn’t have to add, So please don’t ever buy it again.

…I went to go title this “At least it didn’t explode” and suddenly…

I told Richard, “As far as I know”…

And put on a jacket, was glad to see it’s not raining yet, and opened the car just to be sure.

It is much, much, much, much better.

It was on their back patio right by the sliding door, protected by the awning, but still: relegated to outside and out of the way because they just were not using it any more at all. That’s when I knew it really was okay to accept it from them.

Ruth traded me that treadmill for a chocolate torte. Which I baked and then froze before we made the roughly two hour drive to her house near UC Davis so that it would be safe on arrival. She fed us lunch, we had a great visit, her puppy was cute, and then we used a wheelchair ramp to roll the treadmill into our minivan and drove it home.

I used it pretty much every single day for eleven years.

Then the belt jammed. Richard tested it recently and said the motor was slow now, too.

I was used to my walking time and I was going to get my walking time and since I can’t be in the sun I started simply pacing around the house for it–and doubled my time because now I wasn’t afraid of falling off that thing (once was enough.)

Maybe we could get a new belt.

Belts cost $99 for that old model, and quite possibly it still wouldn’t work.

Our city has twice a year Clean Up Days, where the usual one-tiny-can garbage restriction is lifted and you can put up to so much of things of this size, this size, this type and/or that.

Tomorrow is that day. We had talked about this for awhile, reluctantly.

But it took up so much space.

We both have temperamental backs and neither of us wanted to have to deal with it.

Yeah but I also had determination, so it started with me trying and failing and then him helping and then me wheeling it down the walkway once he got it past that doorway rise thingamagummy down there.

Gone. (Wait, I probably shouldn’t say that till the morning’s truck leaves.)

A little icing of the back, a bit of time doing stretches, and a whole lot of hope that tomorrow we’ll be fine, but man, it feels good to see that space empty. I expect the garbage folks will lift it with the truck’s mechanical arm, and wouldn’t the two year old next door have fun watching that?

It was a great gift and greatly appreciated and always will be and was much used. But it was its time. It is good to see its metals and plastics sent back into the recycle stream.

It’s not anywhere near as hard as when the childhood home in Maryland was sold.

Mom and Dad were visiting Salt Lake, where Mom grew up, when an old and dear friend told them they had to come see this unit in her building that was on the market. They had no intention of moving after 40 years, but to make her happy they said okay–and walked out of there going, Heyyy. Never shovel snow again. (Where’s that ambulance story around here.) The light rail line a block away to get to the grocery store without driving, free concerts every week just down the hill, grandkids an hour away, a master suite at each end so live-in help when we get really old could have their privacy and space…

No furniture. The previous owner’s kitchen wallpaper that Mom and Dad were always going to get rid of is finally gone. (Yay!) So different. Wiped of any sign of memories and ready for new ones.

The walkway between the kitchen to the back door is set up for a small laundry area, but each floor has its own laundry room so the folks took theirs out and put in a freezer instead. Not sure what the agent was thinking when they snapped a picture of that freezer in that narrow space and labeled it the kitchen! But anyway.

Mom’s place went on the market today. All those closets are a knitter’s stash’s dream.

There was a grandchild on the way at the time and I went to Cottage Yarns to get some Malabrigo Rios for a baby blanket.

What leaped out at me was a bag of the thicker Mecha in their Anniversario colorway. It demanded to be bought, it demanded to be knit, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it because it wasn’t what I was planning on at all. Meantime, the Rios got bought and the baby blanket happened–but this did, too.

It was really too heavy for a future toddler to drag around as their blankie, and the thick loosely spun yarn wasn’t really made for what a baby would do to it anyway.

So it went into a ziplock bag and waited its turn. Every now and then I pulled it out and tried to get it to tell me who it was for. I wondered/expected that the day would probably come suddenly all at once.

That it did.

As I wrote to my sister’s son and daughter-in-law: Malabrigo began when Antonio, whom I’ve met a number of times at Stitches, had a flock of very fine-haired sheep but felt, Can’t anyone make something pretty out of my wool?

So he started dyeing it himself. He grew a business that was just starting to really take off–and then his mill burned down.

I told them, my local LYS was upset with them because suddenly their orders were unfilled and there was no response to their emails. They had no idea.

Antonio and his sister and brother-in-law, good, good people, not only rebuilt the mill, they went solar, and they’ve done so well that they’ve revived the sheepherding industry in their part of the world. For awhile there it cost more to pay the shearer than what the farmers could get for their wool; Malabrigo’s promise was, sell us the good stuff and you’ll get a good price for it. Not by the pound (coarser hairs weigh more) but by the micron count.

SO soft.

At their tenth anniversary they celebrated by throwing all the colors at once into a new colorway: Anniversario.

I told them, my son-in-law drove us up a mountain above Anchorage a few years ago in hopes of showing us the northern lights. We didn’t get to see them–but I knitted this to make my own version.

And at last I know why it needed to come to be.

This is the niece and nephew whose house in Pacific Palisades burned to the ground, her childhood home and entire neighborhood gone, my nephew and sister and her husband visiting to fix up the place barely escaping with their lives.

I grieved their loss. I wanted them to have a hug from me always.

Wool has a natural tendency to extinguish flames.

The forecast had said an inch and a half, then suddenly jumped that by an inch last night as it was starting to come down.

We got 3.22″ of rain. It was a good day for not going anywhere out there.

So.

My ear molds no longer fit (changing the size of your ear canals is the weirdest part of changing weight), I’m going in next week to get new ones made, but meantime it makes every bit of wax a problem and sound isn’t getting through well enough anyway.

I forgot I was holding one hearing aid in my hands to clean it when I heard…

What on earth was that? I listened intently. Screech. Another skunk vs raccoon fight? A little early in the season for that, isn’t it? Although, I guess, food, anytime, though I didn’t know what the source might be. Neighbors talking loud enough to hear across the yard and through the glass? I mean, no, but, what?

I finally got up and walked in the kitchen, asking, Do you hear that?

Hear what?

Just then I looked at the screen behind him and instantly remembered what was in my hands and not in my ear.

‘Pink Floyd: Wish You Were Here.’

Well, I was now!