And so it begins: the brief days that start with an hour of picking/pitting/bagging/labeling/freezing.

These ended up in the fridge all day, mmm, tart cherry pie, but I just couldn’t do it: we had been out of frozen ones and I needed that first bag ready against the winter to come, that sense of getting the work started. One to save, first.

Up to you, he said.

Freezer it is.

Besides, a few more days out there in the sun for the rest and then we will have the perfect reason for a little celebratory baking anyway.

As I flash back to the person who shook our hands in the receiving line in Maryland and told us, Congratulations. You guys picked the hottest day for this date on record.

(Suddenly wondering if that record held….)

I told a few people part of the story. Here’s the rest.

We got front seats on the plane ride home. Nice. But whatever plane model it was, they were the tightest seats we’ve flown.

My 6’8″er likes the aisle seat and I don’t generally have a problem with the middle but after trying it, man; I moved by the window.

But I felt doubtful about having put my knitting in between us (and rightfully so–I know how much tall people need that legroom.) I moved back to the middle a moment so I could lean over and ask and be able to hear the answer: “Is this a full flight?”

The tall African-American attendant had looked even before we sat down like her day had not been going well at all and that she was trying to do her job better than she at all felt like at that particular moment. My annoying seat-taking had clearly not helped. And she was right, a 5’5″er taking two tall seats is a jerk move, even if I was planning to move not only out of the way the second anyone asked for one, but into the hated middle.

She said it was. I stayed in that center seat, resigned to my fate.

What I didn’t hear was that the other flight attendant, a white guy on the short side, had gone, Whaaaat?! It is not!

There is no under-your-feet space there and the overhead bins at the front fill fast. You are limited in what you’re allowed to have on your lap.

I had a book and a small project in a ziplock that also had hand knit finger puppets, which I handed one-by-one to Richard who handed them to the parents of the four small children who came on. Have a great flight!

The attendants saw.

As boarding continued, I was looking for a tall person carrying nothing.

It was nearly over when I spotted the guy: he was an older black man, he was walking with some difficulty, and the backpack he had was being carried on his far arm where I didn’t see it.

Something joyful that I completely didn’t expect seized the moment and I called over, Would you like a seat?!

His face lit up. How had he lucked out like this. YES! I don’t know how to describe it other than it felt like, oh, we finally get to meet each other!

I think I surprised her. The attendant who’d lied to keep me from hogging the window readily helped him with his bag while he sat down, grateful to finally be off his feet.

There was so much love radiating from this good man, whoever he was. By way of conversation he asked if this was our first flight? It was his second.

His English was very good, but the accent and the… I didn’t quite catch which country he had been evacuated from and brought here but he was so grateful for the warm welcome.

I tried to knit but there was simply no space for my arms. I barely managed to hold up my book.

We were in the air now and it was loud and I was deaf. He had a smart phone. He didn’t know how to get it to do what he wanted from mid-flight, and the buckled-in attendants held out their hands for it and we passed it down to them and they connected it and found the movie he wanted to see and again it was a moment where we all came together for him. Welcome welcome welcome. From all of us to all of us and particularly to him.

He transformed our day. He transformed us.

A certain former reporter who is a private pilot mentioned in his Substack the case of the Southwest plane (NBC link) that went into a Dutch roll a few weeks ago, and explained how that had happened. He linked to a video (YouTube) of it actually happening to another flight years ago. Yow.

Which led to a brief exchange with him, because on one of our flights a week ago our Southwest plane suddenly dipped way down to the left and then immediately after, way down to the right. We were sitting at the front (the pilot in that first link said you would feel it at front and back but not so much in the middle) and all the passengers around us were looking at each other, like, What was THAT.

And then the plane seemed to straighten out and be okay.

I asked him, Do pilots always report those incidences? Are they required to?

His answer was, typically, no, unless they thought it had damaged the plane or was a sign of damage. But there are ways of anonymously reporting them, designed to protect those who do so. It is possible our case could have been turbulence–and it was possible we would hear more about it in the coming weeks.

Turns out not even Southwest knew about that recent case right away. But when they did they took it to Boeing and said This is your problem. This piece should never have had power mid-flight.

You know, there’s a reason I routinely say a prayer for the pilots and crew members before every flight. I don’t usually feel like it’s actually needed other than for my feeling like I’ve done my very small part towards a safe journey for all.

But I guess you never know.

With some fussing at myself over having put it off, I headed out the door to run to the pharmacy.

There was a Tesla at the vacant house next door. ? Wait. Had to be… And then the driver, instead of pulling out, got out.

And with that I met the real estate agent starting the prep to sell the place. I’d needed to meet her, she’d needed to meet me, and she happened to be leaving at the same moment I was so there we were.

I told her where the neighbors behind that house had left some damage to the fence during their construction. I told her about my difficulties in finding a surveyor so we can redo the part of the fence between us where it had been rerouted for the now-gone redwood, and we’d like to have that foot or so back; she could help me with that. She knew who to call. She was on it.

Such a nice person. We have each other’s name and number now and I look forward to meeting whoever the new neighbors will eventually be.

I showed Lillian this picture of my blooming sunflower and she was puzzled.

“Where’s the black?”

I explained that it starts off with lots and lots of tiny green buds at the center that become lots and lots of tiny yellow flowers and those become the seeds and yes they’re going to be black.

Six days later, those flowers look like tiny molds for what is to come.

Called a friend this evening who’s at 13 days post-op, asked her her favorite ice cream. Yes she was up to a visit, and yes please!

Rick’s Rather Rich’s Computer Chip it was, and I am late getting back here to type.

Meantime, a hawk rescue on the main cross-town route was posted by the chief of police. Leaving me wondering, do cop cars always have thick soft blankets in the trunk? They should, the more I think about it. Good thing theirs did.

The Cat in the Hat ends with the query, Well, what would you do if your (grand)mother asked you?

I guess Lillian answered that when she looked at me funny, puzzling why haircuts would be something you’d even think of when you have the next Dr. Seuss in hand and the anticipation of a great read.

So we’ll see if Lillian thinks we’re haircut twins (and whether a not quite five year old can see past the straight hair vs the curls.)

(Didn’t manage to post this before our Uber ride to the airport. Just got off the return ride. Updates later.)

The San Jose peregrine chick (eyas) named Lucia went to hop up on the low ledge a few days ago, overshot, and hopped clean over the thing like she’d jumped on a pogo stick. She was rescued and taken up to the roof. Two days later she was rescued again, but really really really wanted to be several floors below with her three sisters on the HVAC ledge.

Today that’s where the food was when she was hungry and she made it happen. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one manage to float back down to the nest area, much less one that’s not actually flying yet, but she did it!

Yarn is spun under tension, and typically it is wound off into hanks, i.e. long donuts of wool and not the pull-fr0m-the-center balls of my childhood.

Hanking it I think means one less step for the mill to pay for but the main reason is, it’s a prettier way to show off the yarn and if it’s a multi-color you can see more of what you’re going to get.

But then it has to be wound into a ball.

Some shops will do it for you if they’re not busy right then, with a warning that that makes the purchase non-returnable.

Many knitters have swifts, ie umbrella-type thingummies for stretching the hank onto and having it twirl around while a ball is being wound, either by hand or by ball winder like the shops.

Then there are those silly purists who, even though they have a swift and a winder, think nothing beats the artistry of the perfectly hand wound ball even if it takes more time. (*cough* *cough* I don’t know ANYONE like THAT… Oh wait. I do.)

But a hank being wound without being held in tension can get snarled up, especially towards the end; I’ve been known to put two kitchen chairs back to back, drape the hanks over the both of them, and wind from there. I have also been known, if no one’s looking, to stand on one of those chairs while doing so so I don’t have to lean over so far, but don’t tell anyone, except that I’m sure the neighbors have done a what the heck? from their side of the window.

So. Tell me. How is it that having knit all these many many many years it never occurred to me before tonight that the perfect way and length for putting just enough tension to hold a hank of, say, Rios, while sitting comfortably no less–

–is to drape it from the middle of the leg to the underside of my toes while my left leg is crossing my right knee. Need to hold it a little more firmly? Stretch your foot a bit.

It was right there all along.

How did I never see this???

Citrus has seasons, just like everything else, and right now the stores around here have small seedless mandarins. Trader Joe’s for one. Seedless is the only way to go for this, preferably organic.

Take a bag of those. I bought two pounds the first time, five the second because I wanted to be able to do this again any time I might want to in the year. Put them in a pot with enough water to cover them if they would stay under, which they won’t. Boil for twenty minutes. Drain. Puree. Pour into ice cube trays, silicone molds, whatever floats your boat but I find the silicone ones very easy to pop them out of after they’re frozen.

And there you have a strong orange flavor bomb to throw in anything. The freezing helps kill off any residual bitterness, just in case.

So:

2 c almond flour

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

about a half cup sugar, about a spoonful less for me and more sugar than I usually use for muffins

Mix in

three eggs

1/3 c butter, melted, 1/4 works okay too

1/2 tsp almond extract (optional)

1/2 to 2/3 cup thawed orange bombs (takes about a minute in the microwave), get it up to just about but not more than the 3/4 c mark with a little plain Greek yogurt or make it all orange, up to you, but so far this is how I’ve done it.

Beat.

Twelve muffin cups, 350F, 23-24 minutes or till a toothpick comes out clean.

SO good.

I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen and thinking it was too big a day to squeeze into this little box in front of me.

Okay, let me try. Church renewed the soul, as it should; a dinner potluck with friends did, too. That ended early because there was this lecture that some people wanted to go to and it sounded interesting so we went, and… Yeah don’t have to do that one again. But whatever.

The one thing that saved it was that we ran into my second cousin (who had looked as ready for this to be over with as I had been) and her face lit up when I came over afterwards. Lisa told me she had seen my mom yesterday at her dad’s 95th birthday and how great my mom had looked. It clearly made her day to be able to tell me that, while I said, Happy Birthday to your dad!

He and my mom are the only two surviving grandchildren of their generation, their famous grandfather having been born in 1856. My grandmother had raised Lisa’s dad/Gram’s nephew for awhile after her sister/his mother had died from childbirth–penicillin was known but not widely enough available yet–and the two cousins are close.

I’m glad they got to see each other. I’m glad I got to see his daughter!

Lisa asked for more pictures. The house–note the window box with the extra line of purl stitches.

I originally had purl stitches across the very top of the house to continue the point at the top but didn’t like the effect and ended up dropping down eight rows to change those few.

Daisy stitch for the low hedges by the sides of the house, then the taller sunflowers (or you could call one of them a Narnia lamp.)

The whole thing was a doodle. Very soft and machine washable for the first-time mom, who will have a blanket for her baby that will be a one of a kind.

And then, while still feeling like moping that I didn’t have anything like that to work on, I surprised myself by finishing a cowl carry-around project. Hey. I do, I like that, too!

I immediately cast on a hat. Can’t let the momentum let up.

Our youngest grand is four going on five. She decided she wanted to try out having shorter hair, and so her long hair that was nearly always pulled out of her face in a ponytail now has a sweet curl under her chin.

You know those little white stickers that say Best By (date) on stuff at the grocery store? They’re designed not to come off easily. Matter of fact, if long hair brushes against one that was only half attached, well, soap and cold water doesn’t get them out.

Hot water didn’t get them off. Last-resort alcohol wipes that typical remove adhesives didn’t really touch the stuff (those were followed by much rinsing).

It wasn’t till the brilliant thought of, well, how about oil, then?

Should have done that first. But by then the last half inch of that lock of hair looked like dreadlocks. Trying to tease out individual strands at a time rescued only a few. At least I’d managed to work the papery clump down that far, and I’d been planning on a trim soon anyway–

–and with that I snipped it off because I was dying to fall into bed and call it a day and be done with it all.

And so today I made that appointment and went in for that trim because it felt like I no longer really had a choice.

This much.

The stylist spritzed and combed, then held scissors and strands out for me to see, a little unsure: this much?

Me on impulse, wanting every tiny residual bit of that glue gone for good in case there was any left: how about another half inch?

Then there’s always that evening things out. Then she blowed dried it.

Which leaves me with a question mark. I won’t know till I let it curl itself up as it dries naturally just how short it’s going to look. It hasn’t been this short in twenty years. It’s what I had them do but it wasn’t what I’d planned. It feels very strange.

But I do know I get to go tell Lillian that I copied her pretty haircut. And you know she’s going to love that.

Back when I planted a tomato seedling in a pot and a sunflower popped up next to it, I wanted them both so I left it that way and thought of it as a science experiment.

I’m so glad I did. I love looking out the window and seeing that sun-of-the-earth.

The sunflower is going to be done and gone long before the cherry tomato, which will take off from there.

Meantime, I just ran the ends in on the blanket. It came out of the blocking not only remarkably soft, as Rios is, but the gray shows how a good worsted-spun merino, where the fibers are combed to all run in the same direction, can have such a beautiful sheen to it.