My sister Marian arrived a few hours after I did; much laughing has been enjoyed already. And when I mentioned the single bar left from Morgan, Mom told me she’s already been melting bits of dark chocolate in her own hot cocoa as of late.

Good influence. I haz it.

My brother asked me back in December what I wanted for Christmas.

A chocolate bar. Good dark chocolate. Just one, doesn’t take much to make me happy.

He bought me a case of Endangered Species Chocolate Extreme Dark 88%. And I (and Michelle when she’s been home) have ever since been gratefully breaking off just a little and melting it in our hot chocolate every morning.

I opened the box just now to grab one for my trip and found it was the last one.

“I’m going to take this with me and share it with Morgan in our hot cocoa there.”

Michelle: “Does Morgan drink hot cocoa?”

“He will when I get done with him.”

I heard–something, this morning, and went to go check.  Looking out the window, there was a California quail on my neighbor’s roof!

I have lived here for 24 years and I have never, ever seen one here before. I was gobsmacked. Gorgeous, even from a distance.

And in the gorgeous bird department, my daily visits from my Nuttall’s woodpecker dressed in vivid black and white stripes glistening like silk ended around November;  I hoped it had maybe migrated, found better food, gone somewhere hawk-free, but I missed it.

This afternoon I saw one, a vivid red spot on its head, going up and down my trees. I have a Nuttall’s again!

I have a friend who’s about to fly out here on a business trip and she emailed asking about restaurants in the area. That got a good conversation going between Michelle and me re our favorites, and I was asking her, What was the name of…?

And as I started to answer my friend, something showed up to try out our own food offerings.

I am typing this with the quail pacing outside my window, looking in at me: why is all the good suet where I can’t reach it? Is that the stuff you don’t put on the menu that only those in the know get to ask for?

Richard walked in the door just now and got to see it.

It has this little deely bopper feather on its head that does the bobble-head shimmy when it walks or bobs for seed. I am utterly charmed. It has spent a lot of time looking in the window at me, and here it comes again.

I am typing this blindly as I’m being stared at. Feed. Me.

…And now I have quietly snuck more food just outside the glass door and it is ignoring it and staring in the window just the same. It hopped up on the outer window sill to come closer, not minding the three of us talking a few feet away. It has never seen people before, perhaps? It’s simply curious and happy to hang out with us.

But then, you can do that after a good meal at a nice place.

A house cleaned, baking done, presents bought, a birthday celebrated: angel food cake! Phone calls coming in. One, unexpected–looks like things’ll be okay.

A Skype chat waving at our son and grandson, four months old today.

Clara the mother peregrine nesting on City Hall has deemed her eyases old enough and warm enough now not to need her cuddling them in under her wings anymore and has taken to standing sentry through the dark hours on the ledge above them–but tonight she is tucked down in the nestbox for the night close in with her babies. It’s a comforting image.

And while we ate spinach lasagna and Ataulfo mangoes with strawberry puree and yogurt and then that angel food cake–oh and potato chips: it was a birthday, after all–

–with us out of sight, the squirrels pushed the Pam-sprayed foil they must have just ripped off the post right up to the back door. Thanks for the slip-n-slide, we’re all done with this.

Hey!

Joanne asked what kind of sundae others were eating. I laughed. Since she’s expecting twins she ought to have two pickles with hers, right?

About three hours later I happened to head out to get the drycleaning, and since the grocery store was right there, thought I ought to pick up a gallon of milk while I was at it.

The clerk chuckled at my cart. Bananas, ice cream, and the milk I’d come for.

It didn’t occur to me till I got home.  This subliminal advertising thing–Joanne, you’re good!

(Dad, sitting with the afghan made by my South Bay Knitters group for me.)

Thank you, everybody; so far the news has been I think as good as it could be. Abby’s dad says their family has been buoyed up by all the prayers and good thoughts coming from all sides.

And another thank you, too, to all the knitters who’ve bumped us up to 140 hats. Go knitters go!

And one another thing: the rep asked me to say thank you to my mom.

Who looked last week at how terribly constricted my diet had become after all the blockages and insisted I needed to buy a Vita Mix machine. She raved about the things she did with hers and how fast and how well you could make soup and smoothies and on and on and how much better of a job it did and how perfect it would be for someone with a damaged GI tract…

…It all sounded good till I asked her how much they cost.

Okay, that’s the end of that thought. Right there. NO.  Sorry. Ain’t happening.

We put the folks on the plane Saturday and this evening Richard and I were making a quick Costco run.

Guess what they just happened to have? Just temporarily? (No pressure.)  “Costco Road Show.” We stopped to at least find out about the things; we owed that, at least, to my mom.

The Vita Mix rep said that when he left, come Sunday, the boxes (motioning behind him) would leave too, as he put fruit and veggie combinations in his machine that should never have gone together–I thought–until he poured out samples.

For a woman who can’t tolerate fiber, for whom a dozen cooked peas nearly sent me back to the surgeon, this was incredible. Just being able to look at your everyday fresh fruits and veggies and know I could eat them again was worth it all right there, and for Richard, wanting to take good care of me, even more so. Could I get that same effect out of my blender? No, nor would I spend twenty minutes standing over the old thing every meal to make sure it didn’t walk off the counter while it tried to, fruitlessly. (Ask me how I know.)

So yeah, we bought the thing, and I’m relieved to find that we actually did get a price break to take some of the sting out of it.

I’ll still have to be very careful about fiber content even broken down even so, but still, Mom (shown holding her late mother’s crocheted wool afghan) was right.  So, on behalf of the rep: Thank you, Mom!

Kind of a reverse gift of the magi moment:

I offered Richard some chocolate torte. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day (besides, he had just given me red roses).

He passed, not because he didn’t want some but to save me the effort of making a second batch, to make sure I had enough to bring to Purlescence tomorrow.  Maybe there will be leftovers? There are definitely leftover ingredients to work with.

XRX meets Purlescence. 12:30 Tuesday. There will be chocolate. (And, looking in the cabinets, a desperate last-minute run here for paper plates and forks.)

Meantime, Warm Heads Not Hot Heads hat count for Congress: 119. Go knitters go!

(Oh oops. I was adding the hats not committed yet to individual recipients with the number next to it, which was the overall total, not the committed total. (This reading charts thing…) So we’re up by nine to 103 today, and my apologies for the mistake.)

Phyllis and her husband Lee came by this evening, the last night that they could visit with my folks before they go home, and we celebrated with sponge cake, homemade chocolate sauce (zap dark chocolate bars with heavy cream, making sure to first dunk all the chocolate completely so all of it has touched the liquid before the heat is added so none of it seizes into unmeltable lumps) and homemade strawberry mousse (run random amounts of frozen strawberries, sugar, and cream through the Cuisinart for about ten minutes. Turn your ears off first.)

The puns were flying around in their natural echo-system. For instance. My hubby had been one of the computer scientists working on the then-new UNIX system at DEC. (Anybody remember DEC? You know, the then-second-biggest computer company? The one whose CEO proclaimed there would never be any use for a computer in the home?)

Lee asked something about was it genderified?

Me: Genderally speaking.

And a good tine was had by all.

While we wait for the blueberry cake to cool…  (The springform pan was lined with parchment. )

Meantime, here’s Parker at three weeks, ie around his due date of 1/11/11. Clearly he needs more handknit socks and hats in every colorway you could imagine.

And I’m suddenly remembering Dr. M, our family’s ENT, looking at my then-baby younger son, who, as soon as he could manage it, always took his socks off and put them on his hands instead; the good doctor noted with bemusement, “He’s going to have a hard time walking on those when he gets older.”

It’s okay, John (not shown) got to meet and hold his new nephew last Sunday and I don’t think his feet have touched the ground since.

First, the marshmallows: every holiday season, several grocery stores around here sell homemade marshmallows, great big squares in a clear box, vanilla or peppermint or chocolate, really good and with none of the feeling of inhaling stale cornstarch of the usual mass-made plastic-bagged type.

My two younger kids love the good ones and the perfection in how they melt into their morning mugs of hot cocoa. I don’t know what the skunk would have thought of them, but hey. So I sent them back to school after the break with some for however long they might last–they don’t stay fresh forever like the commercial ones do, you might as well enjoy a good thing till it’s gone on that one, hoarding and saving and cutting them into pieces to stretch them out will only disappoint.

And so Michelle’s housemate, who knows she can’t do dairy, asked her, “Tell me: *why* do you put TOFU in your hot chocolate?!”

Well now.

Okay, the knitting: I had two size 3.75mm circs tied up in a UFO, just the ribbing done on them. It was a baby hat-to-be but with no particular person in mind on that color, it sat stalled out.

And now oh, I definitely knew who, and hey, as long as I’m on a hat kick, I wanted those needles back for another one for Parker–and there you go.  Motivation.  Parker’s is halfway done now too.

Every good knitter needs a good UFO stash. They finish up so much faster.

(Okay, this is so crying out for a joke about the new yarns made from sugarcane, but it’s 11:30. Anyone? Maybe a sugar-rayon hat with a red-and-white-spiraling candy-cane motif?)

To celebrate Michelle’s last evening home of winter break, we took the kids out for dinner at a place she suggested. I don’t usually go near Japanese restaurants because sushi is just not an option anymore, but she raved about their bento boxes and promised there would be plenty I could choose from.

And so there was.

The server was pleasant but, oh honey, clueless. You don’t put a meal in front of one person while the others admire it hungrily for a long half hour. But the food was good and the prices probably the best bargain in town and I could see why university students loved the place.

And they had mackerel. I had not seen mackerel on a menu since we moved to California in ’87.

I was 11 the summer my folks drove north with a camping trailer and six kids in tow and stayed on Prince Edward Island off the coast of Canada for two weeks. I’ve blogged before about my mom later packing up house after 45 years in Maryland, coming across some yarn in a box and wondering where on earth she’d bought that and when.

I knew. It was from that mill on PEI we’d visited. (See? She taught us right: travel a bajillion miles and look for the nearest yarn store!) I’d made a granny square hat and scarf out of it in junior high and those were the leftover skeins and I don’t remember what she made out of it.

I still have mine. Wool lasts.

One of the things we did while we were there was to go deep-sea fishing for mackeral. Get on a small boat and go way out on a big ocean.

That fisherman had it all figured out: you get the tourists to pay to board. You give them fishing rods that were simply four short boards nailed together in a square with a string hanging from the contraption, with a big collection of hooks (you show the folks how to tie them on) because you’re going to lose a bunch of those each trip out.

You show the 11-year-old girl your new toy when she asks: the radar that helps you find schools of fish. She wonders how you’re so sure they’re all going to be mackeral; you assure her you are and they are as you ease the boat over and above them.

Seemed rather unfair to me not to take your chances the way Nature intended, but then I didn’t have rent to pay.

And so we caught mackeral after mackeral that afternoon, the numbers roughly corresponding to our ages, everybody keeping count of their score, the littlest (my younger brother turned seven that summer) sometimes needing a little help. Memory says I caught two and a half–my little sister and I both saw a rod jerk that we’d walked away from, bored, and both of us being sure that that one was ours, grabbed it together and landed the thing and then both counting it because you know, you don’t concede to your sibling when you have a perfectly good half-claim on the thing.

One fellow had a brand new and very fancy rod and reel he was eager to try out and to show off with.  It was maybe a little too efficient: he caught a shark. I assure you the rest of us hustled away quickly from where that fairly-big thing was flailing around on the floor after he hauled it in.

There was a big wooden holding tank in the center of the boat, us beginning fishers adding in our mackeral as we caught them. I wanted to keep my catch separate–I wanted Mom to fry up mine for dinner for everybody, I might not be getting many but they were mine–but the boat owner just laughed, saying no, they all go together in there and you all take as much as you think you can eat when you’re all done.

But don’t take what you can’t, though, because fishing is for eating. You don’t waste the life of the fish.

To the guy with the shark, he said, Those are tasty but we don’t have room for it; it’ll just sit there in the tank and eat all the mackeral, throw it back.

The guy threw it back. (I’m trying to remember now just exactly how. The thing wouldn’t have been lightweight, wouldn’t have been happy, and it could definitely have put some teeth into its argument.)  A few minutes later, he caught it again. Same one.

How’s that for a workout routine?

That’s when I decided sharks were kinda stupid. Don’t tell that to the hockey team in San Jose, though, okay? Just between you and me.

As we came back towards land at the end of our ride, the boat owner explained that the fish we didn’t take with us he would be taking to that fish processor over there, where it would go into cans so all of it would go to good use.

Dude got free labor, a chance to meet new people and to tell fish stories every day should he feel like it to a new (and definitely captive) audience each time. If he teaches children to respect what Nature lets us take while he makes a little extra money to pay off his boat or his house, hey. I’d love a chance to tell him thank you for earning a living that way.

Broiled mackeral. But wouldn’t it have a ton of bones? I didn’t care. (There were five, all easily dealt with.) Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia across the water, wooden squares and ropes and my little brother landing a really big one with I think it was the boat owner’s, but I remember someone’s big arms suddenly wrapping around from behind him, helping him not let go of that thing while talking him through it as if that little boy were really the only one doing any of it or deserving that moment of glory. It was the best and last fish any of us kids caught.

And the one tonight that caught memories and held onto them without letting go was very very good.

Today was Fast Sunday. And so, after church was over, food eaten, the fast broken, Michelle went off with cocoa and various dark chocolates and almond paste in hand to go play with an old friend also in town on break.  (I’ll link to her blog and pictures (scroll down) when she posts them.) Celebrate with dessert!

And so they had fun making chocolate cupcakes with a chocolate-coated marzipan mouse and cheese on top of each; Michelle came home with a container with two layers’ worth in a rubbermaid. On the top layer, there was one mouse that had a triangle to nibble, the one I got handed was facing a whole wheel of almondy Brie with a tiny bite’s worth taken out, and there was one with a red slice. Totally charming.

She mentioned that they couldn’t use white chocolate to draw with because she hadn’t ever found any that didn’t have dairy in it. I told her that’s okay; if they hadn’t been done in dark chocolate (and dark chocolate is always a good thing), they would have been three blond mice.

I was just pulling dinner for three out of the oven when the door opened. (I wasn’t expecting her back for awhile.)  “Mom? Can we have my friend for dinner too?”

“Sure! Here, help me adlib here.” (Opening the fridge and looking for what we could stretch it with.) “Hummus a few bars and we’ll fake it.”

So three became five and the master chef and her friend took over. Sounds of laughing and chop chop chopping came from the kitchen while I knitted happily with my feet up at her invitation, and a superb stir-fry got added to the meal.

I so love having my children around while I can!

First: there’s a local couple, Tuck and Patti–our family sat under the trees listening to them giving a free concert in front of City Hall once back when our kids were younger, their way, they said, of giving thanks to the community that had believed in them before they were successful.

There is nobody who plays guitar like Tuck. And Patti’s voice!

Being a dedicated Birkenstock wearer, I always got a kick out of her High Heeled Shoes blues song. And this, courtesy of my husband, is what made me think of it. Comfy looking, huh? Something to heel all that ails a body.

The other thing today:

I went to Purlescence to knit among friends, having missed them last night and being in terrible withdrawal. Not to mention, I couldn’t wait to make a delivery. Richard had helped put me up to it. (“I think they’re down that aisle, dear.” –Thanks!)

I walked in the door and handed a certain someone a wrapped present (oh good, she IS here).

She did this furtive quick glance to the sides, because clearly I was just handing one present only and only to her. She whispered, “Should I open it?”

“Yes, sure, go ahead.” (Thinking, don’t you dare not, I’ve been in too giddy an anticipation for you not to.)

The tag read: Because sometimes, that’s just the way the cooking crumbles.

Huh?  She held it down out of sight of the others, carefully working at the paper,  trying to peer through the growing crack at the seam as she gently tugged, the wrapping finally coming off for her to see–and she screamed! Threw her chair back, leaping up, just screaming with laughter, holding it up and showing it to the others and exclaiming, “This is the. BEST. EVER!!!”

Last week, she’d told us all of going out to dinner with her husband and being given a dish with so much more food than she could eat and that was just totally inundated with bacon. Ooh, bacon! And there was so much!  She took the leftovers home.

She woke up in the morning looking forward to that bacon (you know? I never did hear what the rest of the dish was. I don’t think it mattered.) She got up in just so much anticipation of walking into that kitchen downstairs for the rest of it, but her husband, who had had to leave for work earlier than her, had eaten it.

All of it.  Gone.

She told us this last week with an I-know-this-is-silly look and tone of, this was almost grounds… (for pouting, yeah, that’s it. Pouting!)

The wrapping paper fell away.  And she saw: a giant Costco package of cooked crumbled bacon.

I told her as I was walking out the shop door later and she reached to give me another hug before I left, “Best. Response. EVER!!”

Let’s see, can’t find ground pecans, we’ll try this almond meal at Trader Joe’s; long as we’re here, let’s use their vanilla butter wafers to pulverize with it, a little fresh almond paste from Milk Pail, got the grade B maple syrup, and what? No organic oranges? Skip that then.

(I did a mashup between the kringle and the strudel.)

Okay, no way am I going to roll out the butter/flour layers a bajillion times. Just make a sweet roll recipe, that’ll do.

So I did that and rolled it pie-crust thin on parchment paper twice, put the filling on one layer, topped it with the second layer, pinched the edges tight, and got–

–dang. Much glorified, but.  A giant Poptart!

I think it’s time to go knit.