“Oh, Mom, I haven’t had caramel sauce in six years!”

Not since her serious dairy allergy had surfaced. About time, then!  Okay, so this is what I did: for normal caramel sauce you mix one cup sugar with a half cup water. Stir on stove till it starts to boil; immediately stop stirring or you risk granules in your sauce.  Some will probably form on the sides of your pan; ignore them.  Watch carefully on medium or lower for, oh, five, maybe ten minutes-ish, depending on your temp and pot thickness, till the syrup starts to change color from clear to beginning to be golden.  If your stove is like mine, it’ll turn slightly on one side first, in which case, pick the pot just slightly up and swish it gently around. (No spoons in there yet!)

It will turn darker fairly quickly, again depending on the temperature, and how dark you let it get determines how intense a flavor you’ll get.  Do *not* let yourself be distracted at all during the turning, or I will have to tell you of a notable burning-pot episode that–well, maybe I won’t.

So then you turn off the stove and–wait, read this whole paragraph first!–pour in 8 oz of heavy cream, and if you use nonfat milk instead I promise not to tell but I guarantee nothing; stir fast with a long wooden spoon while angling your hand away so it’s not right above the hot steam erupting in there. Trust me on that one.

Thickens when cooled. Unless you go all non-fat on us like that.

I did two batches. One with the last of the manufacturing cream. The second, I poured in a 6-and-something-oz container of coconut cream from Whole Foods to find out if both that ingredient and the size it came in would work.

We had our friends Nina of Ann Arbor Shawl fame and her family over for dinner Friday night.   I have to tell you: more of that caramel coconut got devoured on that ice cream than the regular sauce.  It was good stuff.

The best part of it was seeing something much enjoyed but long denied now given back to my daughter. At last.  And it was so easy to do.

(Note re the picture: the sauce isn’t separated, just eaten.)

Andrea, who was also at Glenn Stewart’s talk at the eight-story-high (now there’s a good pun waiting to happen!) library in San Jose, sent me some photos she took and told me I could share; thank you, Andrea! Note that in the second one, Sophie has one foot up high, a sign of being relaxed, and that Glenn has that funky deelybopper piece over his ear here.

Meantime, I got a box I wasn’t expecting today: the return address said my daughter-in-law. Opening it up, I found this beautiful stained-glass birdfeeder “to add to my collection.” I tell you, if only Kim and Richard-the-younger could have seen the delighted surprise in my face!  Cool!  Thank you, you guys!  I’ll fill it after we decide for sure where to put it.

It’ll be interesting to see the squirrels trying to stand on the narrow bottom of this one.

I wrapped up the one scarf in a doctor’s waiting room yesterday after it got as long as it reasonably could, and, needing something to do, cast on a second to match, risking the dreaded SSS with my sock yarn: Second Scarf Syndrome.

Heh. You can change the project, but you can’t change the essential qualities of a yarn.

Lots of bird puns waiting for more over at Lene‘s Sept 21 post.  I particularly like Karin‘s–I wish I’d thought of that!

Over here, there were some not-yet-swept-up sunflower hulls mixed with a few fallen seeds scattered around the base of the wooden pole this morning. I watched a gray squirrel go through all kinds of weird contortions trying to reach around cautiously, carefully to sniff out the good ones while trying really really hard not to appear to come near that dangerous thing. Pre-seed-ents had been set, after all.

Or pre-seed-dense, in its case.  I watched it for awhile, much amused, when suddenly it completely lost its head and leaped.  All that food up there!

Instantly the door flew open–caught!

Train them in the way they should go.  It *knew*.  I didn’t have to make a sound.  It scrammed all the harder in its guilt, twitching its tail hard from the top of a tree, staring at me. Do not stop, do not pass go, do not collect 200 calories.

I’m suddenly remembering my kids growing up, when they didn’t get their way, wailing, “You’re MEAN!” And I would grin back at them, “Yup. Rean, motten and nasty too.”   How do you argue with a mom who’s chuckling and refusing to give in to pole-emics? They tried, but it was all bluster from there from them and they and I knew it.

Meantime, Michelle and I went off to Los Gatos for birdseed today (no hulls, that was a one-time hardware-store mistake), and a raptor–a large hawk or peregrine, I couldn’t quite make out–soared over us on the freeway as she drove. I wonder, do I just see them now? Did I miss out on so much for so long? I know the populations have been recovering the last few years…  Wow. It was glorious, wide wings highlighted against the sunshine, riding on the breeze.

Fill that feeder!

It was going to be a long wait. Michelle was very apologetic about having scheduled an appointment over here during my appointment with the dentist over there;  I thought, are you kidding?  How long have you been the daughter of a knitter?  No, I don’t mind, not one bit–guilt-free knitting time? Peachy-fine.

So I grabbed the shawl project du jour and threw it in my knitting bag.

But.

No. I’m not going to!

But there was that bluegreen Purl Up and Dye project from Purlescence…

Now, Kaye gave me that skein she and Nathania had dyed out of the generosity of her heart only a week or so before I had this knitting epiphany hit me of wait, I knit socks?! And that yarn, ahead of its time, emphatically wanted to be socks.

No. That’s just not what my needles do, do you hear me, yarn? I cast on this scarf instead.

Every single time I picked it up to work on it, the silly thing whined at me, But I want to be *socks*! You NEED me as socks! Rip it, c’mon, you can do it, one good frog session and you’ll have just the right colors and just enough synthetic with your merino not to wear holes in the heels and you know you’ll feel like royalty and you’ll finally have some that would go with your teal skirts and it’ll be such a big deal and and and.

For the last time, I. Do. Not. Knit. Socks! This is going to be for somebody else anyway, and you know I’m too greedy (or afraid they won’t fit) to give away socks.  I knit to give, not to keep.  Be still.

So you know how that came out; after that surprise Sock Summit package arrived, I started knitting socks after all, and that bluegreen was sitting there torn between feeling jilted and exulting in, I told you so!  So now are you going to frog me, are you are you huh huh?

Hush child.

Now, I tend to do one project till it’s done these days, a discipline I learned in knitting for my shawls book, but this scarf timed out into being the homework project with a deadline a long way off that you don’t want to work on and you have plenty of time to work on and no you’re not going to pull a 2 am-er on it at the last second, the semester doesn’t end for months and the teacher will never know you crammed, she’ll think it’s your best work and not only that she’ll tell the whole class she wishes everybody else prepared like that in advance!

Wait–that was Richard’s high school oral book report on a book he didn’t know he was supposed to have read, never mind.

I explained to the dentist’s hygienist that I was simply going to have to wait awhile after my appointment to be picked up; sure, no problem.  She sent me out into the waiting room with toothbrush and fresh floss, armed to the teeth.

The wait began. I reached for my baby alpaca–and you know what came out of that bag instead.  Hmmph.  I was knit amused.

And then it became a race: can I get this finished before Michelle shows up? So I don’t ever have to listen to its socky attitude again?

And the answer, now, is, unblocked, 44″. Stretched out, mmm, ’bout 57. So close.

Nathania took a picture of it in progress the other day so she and Kaye could recreate that colorway.  And if that doesn’t placate it, one more half hour and it’ll be cast off and that’s the ends of that.

If only I knew who this was going to be for!  After all, the best way to get kids to stop whining about something they want is to get them looking forward to something else.

Someone is going to absolutely love this colorway and the generosity by which this yarn came to me.  I know I do.

Robin sent me pictures of McCrillis Garden in Bethesda, Maryland, my hometown, sparking this post.

One time back when my children were young, my folks were visiting and we took everybody to see the Conservatory of Flowers at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. It was fascinating having Dad there: various plants would spark memories for him that I knew nothing about and get him talking.

His family had moved a few times while he was growing up, and each time, his father had declared the new place home by planting salpiglossis by the mailbox,  Dad said, pointing out what to me had to that point simply been a random flower.

His father had died when I was maybe three, and any point of reference between Grandfather and me was to be treasured forever.  Salpiglossis it is.

We walked the paths with the kids often running ahead, we admired the lake, we saw the ducks–sorry, no bread here–and we were about to head out of the park, done for the day, when we saw a small sign in front of a narrow break in a long high hedge running by the side of the road.  Hey! We can’t miss out on that!  And so we found ourselves walking into the hidden-away deep shade and quiet peace of the McClaren Rhododendron Dell.  We had it almost completely to ourselves.  It was late in the season for seeing rhododendrons, which were a family favorite–and yet a few were still putting on a good display.  And there were so many other things in full bloom.

Dad and I, talking, found ourselves a little apart from the rest of the family; this was in the days back when the Dell looked like this.  We were exclaiming over how gorgeous it all was–look at that yellow clivia, and that orange one–they’re related to amaryllises!  And that rhodo, and… Dad’s father had taught horticulture at the University of Nevada and was agriculture secretary of that state. (There’s agriculture in Nevada, wonders the East Coast-raised granddaughter? Nevermind.)

There was a gardener there who was trying not to pay too obvious nor too much attention but finally just couldn’t help himself.  He stopped the two of us and told us apologetically, “I don’t usually accost people in the park,” and went on to say how thrilled he was that we appreciated the place.  He held his arms out towards the whole expanse of Monterey Cypress and flourishing undergrowth and declared, “I have the best job on the planet!”

We got to ask him questions; he got to share more of what he does, and I came away eager to come back when the rest of the rhododendrons were on full display.

After we got out of his earshot, Dad turned to me and said, with the proud smile of a father, “We just met a male Alison.”  Someone who loves what he does and loves being able to share it. To which I would say, I’d just found a counterpart to my Dad.  Enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and loves people.

Since that day, a huge storm destroyed much of the Conservatory of Flowers and took out a thousand trees. The shade was gone.  The paths became inaccessible and many of the Dell plants were damaged by too much sunlight and then by a virus.

Over the years, a little progress was made, but not much.  This spring, at last, fourteen years later, San Francisco awarded the contract for a major renovation.  There is a Facebook meet-up group of volunteers to help, too, and things are moving forward.

I can’t wait to go visit the outcome.

The new redwoods replacing the cypresses will take awhile to catch up.  My future grandchildren will love the place.  I’ll tell them to go hunt for the salpiglossis.

And now!  The talon-toed team of Perry Grin Productions brings you:

“Ben Hur: the remake,” starring

Birk N. Stawk

Spike Lead

and the villain,

Ima Heel

See the thrilling chariot scene!

(Richard says it should end with Godzilla in his Doc Martens stomping out the set. I say keep the Poppa-razzi out of it.)

Pardon another rant. I do try to keep them to a minimum. Ooh, looky, the baby alpaca stole is done! (Did that help?) Bluejay shawl pattern, three repeats plus an extra stitch each side, cast on 36.

We were sure it was coming. But still.

Remember my saying insurance companies look back through your records up to 20 years to look for something to deny you coverage over?

Our daughter aged out of ours and we’ve got her on COBRA while we can, at nearly four times the rate of private health insurance.  Same company, same coverage.

They denied her attempt to get her own policy, in part because she had a) a cataract sixteen years ago as a young child (which she fully disclosed) and because b) she had the surgery for it.

Wait–what?!

The note from the insurance agent said to try again if we keep up the COBRA the full 18 months it’s good for: by that point, the insurance might be required to take her on.

Might.  If.  If.  If healthcare reform happens. If it does, my normal, young, healthy daughter will be able to pay premiums and help support the system. If it does not, COBRA will end, we can’t cover her even with an inflated price, and she will have no coverage.  Should anything major happen to her that would keep her from working, she will have no choice but to be a burden on the taxpayers even though that’s the last thing she wants to do.

Note that our premiums didn’t go down in the slightest with three kids aged out.

Today, the surprise box was for Richard.  It looked to me at first like something maybe from the Monterey Bay Aquarium?  From Sam again, this time trying to replenish her father’s brain cell supply.  (Well, dear, see what happens when you tell your wife to blog it? Heh.)

Meantime, I reluctantly admitted to a friend who asked me that, yes, we could indeed use some help; Michelle’s on crutches and can’t stand for very long, and Richard had minor surgery two days before mine and it was botched–they accidentally punctured the wrong spot and gave him an unexpected spinal tap. That leaked.  Last Friday, he came to visit me, called his doctor five minutes later, and spent the rest of the day in the ER. We’re a cheerful if rather sorry bunch.

Said Andrea, say no more. And so AlisonF and Julia of the Julia’s Shawl fame came over today, with Michelle telling me to lie down and take it easy (while not doing so herself) and them all cleaning away on the house. I can’t tell you how much better it feels–thank you!

I wanted to go pick them tomatoes as a thank you. I started towards the sliding door–and–most of them were gone. They were there yesterday, nice and big and bright and red and ripe.  But… But!!!

That does it. I am not knitting those raccoons any sweaters. So there.

Alison is too out of it to post tonight. As one of the children said, “Another part bit the dust” I just left her side and she is pretty beat up. Believe it or not but she is frowning while she drifting in and out of it. The anesthesia knocked out her already bad hearing, but that seems to be improving slowly. They are trying to get her pain under control. She does not remember much of the day. They were happy with how it went. Maybe in a few days she will be, but not right now. Don’t expect much for a few days as she needs to recover. I will show her comments tomorrow if she is up to it.

My friend Wendy stopped by today, surprising me with roses to make next week come easier.  She was my daughters’ girls’ camp director back in the day (and I was always grateful she did the volunteering for that so I didn’t have to.  Brave soul.)  Thank you, Wendy!

Then the mail came.  Two boxes.  One from Germany. The other–Rookies HQ Games and Cards? What IS this?

You ordered it, Mom!

I did not!

Open it!

It was from Sam.  The tag proclaims, “1,000,000+ x actual size!” A teddy-bear leukocyte: a snuggleable white blood cell, complete with bug eyes and a stitched-in smile to make me laugh.

I gave it a monocle from the other box to help it squint better at those pathology slides.

I had a favorite pair of Holz and Stein knitting needles that disappeared in Santa Rosa last year, the 5.5mm ones I’d used to knit every shawl in my book that was done in that size needle.  Lisa Souza recently sent me this Ruby baby alpaca laceweight, and a large part of me wanted to again have dedicated Holz and Steins just for it and then to use forever after for size 3.5mm projects.  (This particular wood was a special edition that didn’t come in the larger size.) I’ve spent several weeks in anticipation of being able to put the two together and to work, while my needles were being custom made and shipped, and now I can!

But in the meantime, in the occasional contest for most unusual use of a knitting needle, I’d say using the cable part as a monocle for a stuffed leukocyte…yeah, that’s getting up there, wouldn’t you say?

Having bragged on my grandmother yesterday, I’m going to add a bit about my grandfather.  I think his eulogy was one all politicians should aspire to.

Grampa died at 95.  The man who had been his chief of staff back in the day spoke at the funeral, and one of the things he said was this:

As a young man working for Grampa, he’d been approached by the frustrated staffer of another congressman, who told him, “You don’t know how lucky you are.”  The guy said that when a vote came up on the floor, “You always know how your guy is going to vote.  He always votes his conscience.”

The man he worked for, on the other hand, he said, would hide back in the coat closet to watch how the vote was going and then add his voice in only when he knew which side was going to be the winning one.

That congressman never got that Grampa’s way of living his life triumphed over any momentary appearance of success.

I was talking to someone tonight, and she wrote me that she’d laughed at my “Oh honey. You betcha,” telling me my roots were showing–that nobody native to the West Coast talks like that.

Oh honey. You betcha I’m from Maryland.

I mentioned to her the story of a few years back of some uptight Yankee twit who’d charged the sweet old black lady in the U.S. Senate’s lunchroom with sexual harassment: she was always saying, Thank you, honey, or, See you later, sugar.  He thought she was coming on to him.

As if.

What I didn’t mention was the reason that news story had stuck in my craw so, aside from the obvious cultural disconnect and self-centeredness of the man. It was a little more personal than that.

And so after puttering around with the strawberries in the kitchen for awhile, I thought I’d come back to the computer and explain exactly why that was so.  I want the grandkids, whom I grew up with, of the man I’m about to write about, and then their future grandkids to know what he did. I imagine it’s a story they haven’t heard.

My grandmother was the wife of a US Senator who served for 24 years.  When she arrived in DC, as she later wrote in her autobiography, “Here we were told in no uncertain terms what was required of all wives of new members of Congress.  Calling requirements had been modified, it was true; but we were expected, once a year, to leave cards at the White House, and at the homes of the Vice President, The Speaker of the House, members of the Cabinet and Supreme Court, the chairmen of our husband’s committees, and all members of our state delegations whose husbands outranked our husbands. Still quite a list!” as compared to the days when new House wives had to visit every ranking House member’s home.  There were still strict requirements as to how many cards to leave vs. how many women were in the household, how and under what circumstances to carefully fold the edge of the card down properly…  Arriving by horse and buggy was no longer required, at least, but it was a near thing.

Living in a place where segregation was the law of the land and casually expected was a shock to my western-born grandmother.

As Grampa grew in seniority and rank over the years (and defied ranking members of his party and voted for the Civil Rights Voting Act–hard to believe now how fiercely he was blasted for it, but he was very proud of that vote), Gram eventually became president of the Congressional Wives Club.

And then came the day this story is about.  There was a big to-do held in the Senate lunchroom honoring various people, and when it was over, Gram (protocol, shmotocol) went back into the kitchen to thank the chef for pulling out all the stops.  The food, the presentation–everything had been just exquisite.

While they were chatting, somehow Gram happened to mention that J. Willard Marriott had been there.  The founder of the chain that bears his last name.

The chef was upset.  “Why didn’t anybody tell me J. Willard was here!?” she exclaimed indignantly.  “These congressmen. They all think they’re such hotshots.  J. Willard!  If only I’d known!  I would REALLY have put on a show!”

Then she proceeded to tell my grandmother that as a young woman she’d been suddenly deserted by her husband, left with a small child and no income and no skills and basically thrown out on the street.  (How literally, I’m not sure.)  J. Willard Marriott had randomly encountered her one day and hadn’t cared what color or accent she came with; moved by her plight, he offered her both a job and the training for it.   He had personally taken great care of her, just a random woman out there on a random day, and had helped her back on her feet and had gotten her established in her new career–and look where she was now!

“Oh, Mrs. Bennett, if only I’d known!”

And if only he’d known it was her, he would have been back there too, throwing his arms around her and rejoicing in her hard work and success.

A quick note first: I got a call from Don today from the emergency room; he’d broken three bones in his foot.  Ouch!  I’m wishing healing his way.

After I posted yesterday, a new bird showed up. Bonus points to anybody who whistles the song the post title comes from (sorry about the earworming).  I was stunned–in 22 years in California, I have never once seen a chickadee. Anywhere.  Ever.  I assumed they simply didn’t live here.

But there one was, right there on my feeder, testifying to the fact that in life if you want something to happen, sometimes you have to create the opportunities by which it can.

Speaking of which.  Last night my husband was still at work due to deadlines and international time zone issues, while Michelle, who’d planned to take his car, was off having dinner with friends.  Marian and I were about to head out to San Jose City Hall for her to get to see the falcons and meet the folks I’d be giving Margo Lynn’s fingerless gloves to when it suddenly dawned on us that, oh, wait.  What’s wrong with this picture.

And we cracked up at the same moment.  No car!  (Duh…)

While I was typing this, a female ladderback woodpecker looking like this one showed up on my olive tree. It wasn’t interested in the feeder; I guess it simply felt welcomed by the presence of the seven finches and titmice on the feeder.  It was gorgeous and big and I hadn’t seen one of those since we’d had to cut down the ash trees.  Wow.  All I had to do was welcome its neighbors and it felt right at home too.  I wonder what will show up next!

Before Marian’s flight this afternoon, we did get down to San Jose after all, but there were no falcons soaring in sight at that time of day.  We toured the textile museum–and if you can, GO! The Jack’s Falling Water Quilt is worth the trip all by itself.  For anybody who’s ever been to Watkins Glen in upstate New York, picture a rocky waterfall like that one transfigured into a watercolored quilt with cascades of blue dropletted silk falling around the picture, dappled leaves above the falls, the movement of the water in the pool below and a deep green strip that you almost don’t see at first but then notice as it gives depth and life and summer to the water .

I so wish I could create something like that.  And this Friday admission is free. Go!

Meantime, Don, get better! Your homebirds are waiting for you.

A pair of house finches discovered my birdfeeder last week. And now, at last, the birdword is out.  It’s a grand party, with five often on the feeder at a time and one on the branch impatiently waiting its turn.  Squirrels have been on the ground (they seem to have realized that trying to land on the feeder directly is a kamikaze experience) busily playing mop-up crew, taking turns with the jays and the occasional graceful mourning dove that walks in delicate steps among the spilled seeds.

News flash (an hour after typing the above):  I just got my mail, and there was a surprise package.

Marian and I had already decided that for her last evening here tonight, we had to take her to go see the peregrines flying around City Hall in San Jose.

It turns out my friend Margo Lynn had listened to my wishing out loud that I had something other than lace scarves to hand out to the group of falcon watchers–maybe something to keep their hands warm in the cool brisk evening air, something the men too could enjoy.  I was thinking for Eric, who takes and shares so many of his photos, (there are some new ones up) and Craig, who writes up beautiful reports and lately has even showed up at 4:30 am to observe the falcons’ dawn risings.  For Glenn, the biologist at UCSC who has been caring for these birds for thirty years and has played an integral part in bringing them back from near-extinction.

Margo Lynn knitted four pairs of fingerless gloves for me to go share.  (Those three will know better than I who most deserves the fourth pair.)  It was a total surprise. They’re gorgeous. Three pairs are Noro Kureyon or Kureyo Patora, one is a Berocco superfine merino: they’ll all be nice and warm, without getting in the way of one’s fingers nor one’s dexterity while holding a camera. Perfect.

I dearly hope they will be as gobsmacked as I am.  Wow.  Thank you, Margo Lynn!

Making reservations online, stopping a moment to go, what’s today’s date–oh, wait, *duh*…