Berry, berry quite contrary

A representative of Lyman Orchards stopped by the office this morning to drop off a sample of its Apple and Bumbleberry pies. Also included in the package was a sample of Applesauce and Corn Relish. Ever-eager to taste test items for my readers, I sampled the Bumbleberry Pie immediately.
What is Bumbleberry Pie, I wondered, as did my son — who was more than happy to sample a generous slice of high-top apple pie.
A little research on the Web led me to discover that “bumbleberry” isn’t a berry at all, but a term for the melange of berries currently at hand for a cook about to make a pie. Whatever is in season is the best to start with, although I am certain frozen berries will suffice.
Lyman makes its pie with apples, raspberries, cherries, blackberries and blueberries.
The result is a thick, jammy crescendo of flavor balanced by Lyman’s famous browned and crackled crust.
Head over to the Apple Barrel at 32 Reeds Gap Road, Middlefield, yourself for a slice of heaven.

If you want to replicate the taste at home, I found this recipe from Good Housekeeping online:
Deep-Dish Bumbleberry Pie
Pastry
2¼ cup(s) all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon(s) salt
½ cup(s) (1 stick) butter or margarine, cold, cut into pieces
¼ cup(s) vegetable shortening
5 tablespoon(s) (more as needed) ice water
Berry Filling
¾ cup(s) sugar
¼ cup(s) cornstarch
2 large (1 pound) Golden Delicious apples, peeled, cored, and cut into ¾-inch chunks
5 cup(s) assorted berries such as blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and sliced strawberries
1 tablespoon(s) milk or cream
2 teaspoon(s) sugar
Prepare Pastry: In large bowl, combine flour and salt. With pastry blender or 2 knives used scissors-fashion, cut in butter and shortening until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.
Sprinkle in ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time, mixing lightly with fork after each addition until dough is just moist enough to hold together.
Shape dough into 2 disks, 1 slightly larger than the other. Wrap each disk in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 30 minutes or overnight. (If chilled overnight, let dough stand 30 minutes at room temperature before rolling.)
Prepare Berry Filling: In large bowl, combine sugar and cornstarch. Add apples and berries; gently toss to combine.
Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. Adjust oven rack to lowest position in bottom of oven. Line large cookie sheet with foil; place in oven while oven preheats.
On lightly floured surface, with floured rolling pin, roll larger disk of dough into 13-inch round. Ease round into 9½-inch deep-dish pie plate. Trim edge, leaving 1-inch overhang. Spoon filling into crust.
Roll remaining disk of dough into 12-inch round. With floured pastry wheel or knife, cut dough into 1-inch-wide strips. Brush edge of bottom crust with some milk. Place half of strips, about ¾inch apart, across top of pie. Place remaining strips perpendicular to first strips or use to weave a lattice. Trim ends, leaving 1-inch overhang. Press strip ends onto edge of bottom crust to seal. Turn overhang up and over ends of strips; pinch to seal and make a high fluted edge. Brush lattice with remaining milk; sprinkle with remaining 2 teaspoons sugar.
Place pie plate on hot foil-lined cookie sheet. Bake pie 20 minutes. Reset oven control to 375 degrees F. Bake pie 1 hour and 30 minutes longer or until filling bubbles and crust is deep golden brown. Cover pie loosely with foil after first hour of total baking time to prevent overbrowning. Cool pie on wire rack about 2 hours to serve warm, or cool completely to serve later.

It's never too hot for ... wool!

It's probably absurd to be thinking about wool in August, but I came upon this photo today and couldn't resist daydreaming ... and surfing the Web.
Below are a few fun facts I discovered while visiting a Web site designed to show you how you got that wool sweater.

How to Care for Wool
Wool should be hung on padded hangers.
You should always give wool 24 hours between each wearing.
Spots and stains should always be removed promptly.
You should always clean your wool products before packing them away for storage.
Wool clothing should always be brushed before and after each wearing.

How to Remove Common Stains
To remove ink you should submerge the garment in cold water.
To remove red wine, you should submerge the garment in cold water.
To remove butter or grease, you should sponge the spot with a dry cleaning solvent.
To remove blood the garment should be blotted with starch paste, and then rinsed with soapy water.
To remove lipstick, a piece of white bread should be rubbed firmly over the spot.

Other Wool Facts
Wool is comparatively stronger than steel.
Wool is fire resistant
Wool can absorb up to 30 percent of its weight in moisture

(Source: http://ag.ansc.purdue.edu/sheep/ansc442/Semprojs/wool/index.htm).

Join the Russell Knitters

The Russell Knitters have been meeting at the Russell Library at 123 Broad St., Middletown; (860) 344-2528; for more than two years. We meet the first and third Saturday of every month in the third-floor meeting room from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Knitters are of all ages and abilities. Membership lessens in the summertime, so now is the perfect time to stop by with your project.

Wonderful Wallaby

Cooler temperatures today, coupled with frigid temperatures inside the office (air-conditioning’s Arctic blast) got me thinking about sweaters — an otherwise incongruous thought in mid-August. These are, after all, referred to as “the dog days of summer.”
Into my head popped (or bounded, more aptly) the Wonderful Wallaby Sweater. I made one last year (my first sweater and ambitious project) with Farmhouse Yarns in evergreen.
The pattern, which is surprisingly simple and easily adapted to children and adults and can be made with or without a hood, can be obtained at this link: http://home.earthlink.net/~adbatiste/WW_FAQ.html#pics
I’m still working on my brown cotton shawl, and wished this afternoon I had knitted it more ambitiously so I could drape that over my shoulders here during the workday, rather than run home and get another long-sleeved garment I hadn’t made but purchased years ago from the now-defunct Tweeds catalogue.
It’s olive color got me thinking about the Wallaby.
And how I’d really like to knit another in salmon.
Looks like after work I’ll be sifting through my stash of woolen hand-dyed yarns for the eight-or-so skeins that complete the pattern.
Try it for yourself. You’ll be soon hooked.

Superdupernatural

I took my 10-year-old to see “The X-Files 2: I Want to Believe” on Sunday night.
It was not my first choice for movies, in fact it wasn’t even on the list. I’ve been trying to get to Destinta to see “The Dark Knight” ever since I watched “Batman Begins” on DVD. I wanted to do my “homework” first. I am a huge fan of the “Spider-man” trilogy, as embarrassing as that is to admit, so I figured that while waiting for “Spider-Man 4,” I could get hooked on another over-hyped, commercially successful mega-hit.
All the planets had aligned: I had a two-hour period free, without obligation, whereby I could sneak over to the movies with X.
Then he tells me his uncle told him some harrowing scenes from the film and refused to watch it.
Despite my pleading.
So we settled on “X-Files,” which I barely knew anything about, not being a fan of the wildly successful cult hit Fox series many years ago, and its first movie, released a decade ago.
It wasn’t exactly bad — but it wasn’t good, either. And normally squirmish me had to cover my son’s eyes many times throughout and for the last fifth of the movie, because of all the potentially nightmare-inducing medically graphic scenes.
He’s in a stage where he’s nervous about everything — and afraid of everything.
B left the film still munching his overly salty, insanely expensive popcorn; satisfied with the experience — but lacking a huge plot element.
That perhaps more reflects on the film’s overly gratuitous gross-out factor than my son’s understanding of film plot.
Regardless, I left with that creepy “X-Files” trademark score in my head.
The next night I watched “Michael Clayton” at home on DVD. I couldn’t finish it that night because of successive child interruptions, so I played the last couple scenes in the morning before work.
My 5-year-old played on the couch with his cars and motorcycles patiently while I infringed upon his “Bob the Builder” TV time.
“Is that the bad guy?”
“Is that the good guy?” he kept asking, hoping to ascertain the movie plot on his terms.
Wonderfully gripping all the way until the end, the flick’s end credits ran with George Clooney taking an extended New York cab ride as he periodically looked out the window at traffic.
I gathered my knitting, my ice coffee and the DVD in the case, walking to the kitchen, drinking and reading the back of the box.
All of a sudden my glass exploded in hand, projecting ice coffee and cubes all over the floor, the table, my shirt, and most disturbingly, the shawl I’ve labored on since February.
Glass was everywhere.
Y ran into the room.
“What the heck happened, Mom?” he asked.
I couldn’t help my answer.
“I was walking by the window, drinking my coffee and a bad guy across the street but have tried to shoot me because I knew the truth of this movie we just watched!”
“The glass must have saved me!”
Y was agast.
For a second.
Then he continued the fantasy.
“I’m gonna get that bad guy with my cop car and army guy on his motorcycle!” he chirped.
We banted such nonsensical scenes as I gingerly picked up the glass shards.
It was just one more supernatural occurrence in the crazily creative mind of my 5-year-old.
And maybe mine as well.

I'm an Olympian

No, not THOSE Olympics. I'm competing in the Ravelympics (by the way if you knit and don't know about Ravelry you really should check it out - the wait to get your account set up is down to just a few days and oh so worth waiting for) in the giftknitspentathalon.

I've been slowly and steadily knitting, but now that the James is moving a mile a minute I haven't gotten nearly as far as I wanted. But a sweater vest for my grandfather is complete through the armholes and I'm patiently working on some socks.

But for the next 17 days from the opening ceremonies until the moment the torch is put out I'm in competition to get other gifts done. Here's what I'm hoping to finish:

2 kitchen towels sets consisting of at least one hanging towel and two dishclothes.
1 a-very-plain-hat
1 ninna beret http://www.arteeni.fi/neulonta/ninna-en.pdf
1 wrap-around-scarf oddly enough in that exact same yarn and colorscheme
and
anywhere between 1 and 3 pairs of Easy Mittens
http://www.mediafire.com/?1cjxhzteczx


yes, I'm overly ambitious, but pushing yourself to your limits is what the Olympics is all about.

Now I'm off to finish my final training session (winding of skeins into balls).

Ye ole swimming hole

The summer of 2008 has well worn our family of four's bathing suits.
A lifelong swimmer, my husband takes every opportunity he can to sneak over to the Higganum reservoir for a quick dip in the water.
Set back from the road, and down a dirt path in the woods at the end of a cul de sac, the water there is lightly rust-colored and has small to mid-size fish sharing the lake and you'll always see a number of swimmers, in pairs, singly or with children, if you stay there long enough. The water is very clean and oh so cool.
My 5-year-old can play happily in the shallow beginning portion or paddle around on his noodle. My 10-year-old swims for as long as we're there, and often begs for us to allow a friend or two to accompany him.
My favorite place to swim is Hammonasset Beach State Park in Madison. When I'm with the children, we visit Meigs Point, because they enjoy walking out on the pink sandstone rocks that jet out into the water quite far. There, adults and little kids go crabbing and fishing. There's also the Nature Center, which has tanks and tanks of crabs, mice, turtles, snakes, and even a touch tank in the basement which never ceases to delight the boys. Once the season officially opened June 21, there are foods offered in the pavilion and (my guys' favorite) an ice cream vendor. You can walk on the nature trails, hunt for shells, search for crabs when the tide goes out under rocks, or swim in the salty water.
There are walking trails that connect all three beaches - West, East and Meigs Point - and if you are industrious (which I am when I am alone), you can park at either of the flanking beach parking lots and walk the entire shoreline back and forth, stopping to cool off in the water when it's needed. A boardwalk even travels the length of the center beach.
My 5-year-old loves Wadsworth Falls State Park, which is a tamer place, when he can swim or make sand castles on shore. There are lifeguards there until 6 p.m. daily and it's free during the week. Both my boys love our ritual of crossing the Coginchaug's brook which winds through the area, under a covered bridge (where we say a troll lives), then running full-blast into the water. It is very much frequented by families and the water is tested by the DEP and has not yet this year been closed for bacteria, and though it's cool and refreshing water, you do have to contend with geese that waddle their way along the beach and possibly not the most desirable water cleanliness.
And you can always take a picnic to the falls portion of the park, which is about 1.15 miles up the road toward Middlefield/Durham. The kids love to throw rocks into the falls and marvel at their sound and strength.
Last year we got a pass for Crystal Lake in Middletown, $1 through the Parks and Recreation Department, and swam there a few times. If you work as I do, it's tough to get to after you leave work and gather the children from their various daycares/camps and swim before the lake closes at 6 p.m. However, the water is very pleasant, and probably somewhere in between the cleanliness of the Higganum Reservoir and Wadsworth Falls. Last year, we sighted many ducks and even a turtle out at the ropes which mark off the public swimming area.
One of the most diverse of the area's natural places to swim has to be Seven Falls State Park on Route 154 in Haddam. There, you can picnic and grill your food, walk on the monoliths and swim in the cool pools of water that cascade down the "seven falls," (we can't count that many). Even my little one loves finding flat rocks to skip out into the water and splashing around in the water fed by the falls.
There are hiking trails there too, which means you can walk and then dip your toes afterward as a way to banish any sweat you've worked up.
The state parks incur a fee (I bought a $50 yearly pass which admits your car anytime), and the reservoir and Seven Falls are both free.
Happy swimming!

Moving' On Up

I gave notice to Y's preschool today that he would be leaving at the end of August. School begins the Thursday after Labor Day this year, the latest in many years. My 10-year-old will be going to Keigwan, a sixth grade that matriculates every child in the city. So instead of eight elementary schools, kids will be bottlenecked into one school.
It's actually located very close to the new Middletown High School, which will open this September. Some are already referring to the "old" Middletown High School as the "new" Woodrow Wilson Middle School. It's all a lot to comprehend.
So this September is a turning point of sorts for me, with both my boys going onto new frontiers. With X it was easy to skate by as each new year began at Macdonough Elementary School, knowing the teachers - and the principals - as I did throughout his six-year tenure.
Y is the last to fly the coop, and it's time for me now to "adjust," let alone each of my boys.
Sounds sappy, but I'm still growing up - alongside my kids.

Grabbin' some air

Sunday morning before work and my 4½-year-old son is unwrapping the cellophane from his new skateboard.
His former skateboard met a quick demise — not at his hands, or feet rather, but the neighborhood boys.
Y left his board down the street at a friend’s house overnight, forgotten. The next morning it was cleanly broken in half. My husband thought it the work of some neighborhood hooligans, I envisioned someone trying to jump the curb and it snapping on the axis point.
So Y's got a SpongeBob SquarePants board now, K-Mart’s finest.
And he’s demonstrating to me how to do a kickflip, then an ollie, an 180 and 360. Y adds in a couple of other tricks he says his dinosaur taught him (imaginary friend alert): the flower, the grass and the toe-twister. All these are of increasing difficulty, all end with a tumble over the concrete sidewalk onto our lawn, with Y subsequently scrambling up unscathed.
(He’s our little stuntman-in-the-making.)
Y’s fascination with the skateboard began when he was just under a year old and I would prop him up in my window at work, in the former Middletown Press building on Main Street (since demolished). We had quite a view from the second floor of the neighborhood skateboarders down below who often used our stairway as a jumping ground and gathering place. Every day around 2 p.m. I’d hear the crack of wood and wheels on concrete, as jump after jump was perfected.
One day at age 3, Y ran home after being at work with me and grabbed his older brother’s never-used skateboard from the cellar, then proceeded to replicate the moves he’d witnessed on our wood floors. It was so cute we let him continue.
Almost two years later, it’s not so cute — or harmless — in the living room anymore.
So, he’s been relegated to the sidewalk outside our house, where boys and teens whiz by on skateboards and waveboards, showing each other the tricks they’ve learned.
One funny scene unfolded while I was sitting on a yard chair knitting, keeping an eye on things.
A 10-year-old boy watched Y work his board, then asked, “Can you do an old-school pogo?”
“What’s that?” Y asked.
K put the board perpendicular to the ground, stepping on the lower set of wheels with both toes, then hopped vertically three or four times.
“Sure I can!” Y piped, and proceeded to replicate it exactly.
About an hour later, the boy had drifted off to other neighborhood activities.
Three boys walked down the sidewalk toward me, carrying their boards, the oldest in the lead, followed by younger and younger boys.
Y silently brought up the rear, unknown to them.
“Hey, looks like you guys have an honorary member of your skateboarding team.”
They looked back, then laughed.
Then they all stopped to hang out.
Y started doing his patented jumping-on-the-board-then-ollie move.
“Hey, Y! How the heck are you doing that?” one boy yelled.
Y proceeded to show him. No one could replicate his spritely move.
“Hey guys, look at this!” he yelled. “This is an old-school pogo!”
The kids were fascinated, then proceeded to try the trick out for themselves.
No wonder he wants to keep up with the big boys.
He admires them.
And they’re starting to return the favor.

All good things must come to an end

Back in 2002, shortly after I was named the editor of The Middletown Press I was asked to be the speaker during a lunchtime Rotary Club meeting here in the city. So despite my profound fear of public speaking, I did my duty and talked about the future of journalism, the future of this paper and took plenty of questions from the audience.

I believe the second question I was asked (the first being "when is The Press going back to an afternoon paper?") was how long I planned on being here. The paper had been through quite a rough patch when it came to editors, I believe the average lifespan had been 8 months.

One former reporter once told me that in 8 years she worked under 12 editors - and that was after I had been at the paper for a few years already.

I answered the question as honestly as I could -- I was happy to be back at my hometown paper and I had no intentions of moving on in the near future.

Now I can give a more definative answer -- I would be editor at The Press for 6 years and 2 months.

I've been offered the opportunity to work with my current publisher to launch a new publication -- an opportunity and a challenge that I'm extremely excited about. But leaving is also very bittersweet.

I grew up reading this paper - I looked for my name and the names of my friends and family in Fred Post's old column -- Keeping Posted. There are scrapbooks either at my house or my parents that have clippings from The Press sprinkled throughout -- honor rolls, sports stories, scholarship announcements.

The readers of this paper gave me support and encouragement during the time when I learned Nikki would be born with Down syndrome as well as a heart defect. They prayed for her when she had her open heart surgery and they celebrated when she came through that surgery with flying colors. The notes and cards I received during that time are still much cherished.

And the readers who so graciously welcomed my work into their home were never shy about telling me what I could do better. Sometimes the criticism was harsh, but I did learn something from each and every person who ever contacted me.

There are too many people to thank for me to list them all but to all the past and current staff at The Press, it has been a true honor putting out this paper alongside you. The process really is "a daily miracle."

I'll still be blogging here alongside Cassandra and the two of us are sure to have plenty of adventures to write about this fall as Nikki and T both head off to Kindergarten (and we both have serious pangs about our "babies" growing up).

To the readers of The Press - two final words -- Thank You.

Verena arrives stateside

My husband picked up a knitting magazine for me the other day at the supermarket. Billed as “Europe’s top knitting magazine,” Burda’s Verena Knitting has been published for years, but only this summer is available in the United States with sizes and needles for American enthusiasts.
Patterns are grouped by fashion style — direct from the runways. There are “Ahoy There!” nautical-inspired, “Back in Khaki,” safari-style, “Sorbet Coolers,” fruit-colored tanks, “In the Red Zone,” and children’s sweaters. I’m especially enamoured of the tank tops: thick-strapped lime-green and ribbon v-neck in lemon yellow.
Check it out for yourself at www.verenaknitting.com.

1, 2, 3, 4 ... 9 A Day

Remember back when the Food Pyramid urged us to consume at least five servings of fruit and vegetables a day?
When my older son was a toddler, Dole sent me a compact disc at work with catchy tunes for children promoting the government’s then 5-A-Day campaign. I can still hear the strains in my head (“One, two, three, four, Five A Day, that’s the fruit and vegetable way ... ”).
In fact, the CDC now asks Americans to shoot for nine servings a day. At www.fruitsandveggiesmatter.gov, there is a handy calculator that tells you, based on your sex, age and level of physical activity, exactly what you should aim for.
My goal should be 2 cups of fruit and 2.5 cups of vegetables every day. Not as impossible a goal as “9 A Day” sounds.
By that measurement, the pint of native blueberries I purchased this morning at the Middletown Farmers Market will fill my day’s requirement of fruit.
And do I love berries.
What a boon are the summer months to those of us who love fresh and local produce. No pesticides or waxes mar their unique beauty and taste. Tomatoes are often “ugly” by grocery store standards and the prices are a bit higher than you’d find at a supermarket, but I’m willing to pay that for something rarely found in these mass markets — flavor.
Can you remember the last time a grocery store tomato wasn’t pale and mealy tasting? How about a peach that’s succulent and intense?
Today, the farmers market opened on the South Green, across from where the old Middletown Press building stood. It runs every Tuesday and Thursday from 8 a.m. to noon until October. Gotta’s Farm of Portland and Killam & Bassette Farmstead of South Glastonbury staff were among those manning the table, offering just-picked spaghetti squash, zucchini, tomatoes, peaches, cherry peppers, green beans, corn, cucumbers, beets, lettuce, plums and blueberries. Homemade jars of jam stood in neat little lines. Linda Rumsey’s Sweet Memories of Portland offered her pies, scones, lemon bars, fruit and nut breads and pastries.
Tonight we’ll enjoy the early ears of corn with butter and sea salt. My son will love fat slices of heirloom tomatoes drizzled with olive oil. I’ll have to “steal” a sprig or two of basil from the neighbor’s garden to complete this simple appetizer.
Fuzzy peaches will ripen in a brown bag on my counter, then delight my preschooler’s unending lust for fruit.
I eyed the zucchini for purchase on Thursday for the sweet bread my husband loves made with real butter and walnuts.
Sorry guys, the blueberries might not make it home tonight. I saved those fatties for myself. I can always nab another pint in a couple days.

Now we're cooking

A few months ago I switched shifts, going from 9 to 5 to more of a second shift 2 to 10. The change came about when my husband's new job caused him to change his hours. And while it's nice to be at home in the morning with the kids, it created a bit of a problem -- dinner.

The crock pot and the timed start on my oven are becoming my friends, but I've felt like I've had my family in a bit of a dinner rut. Something chicken one night, pasta another, pork a third, then quick and east options such hot dogs, macaroni and cheese and pizza rounding out the choices. And within those catergories my reportoire was a bit limited. (When I was making dinner I would often "throw" something together using what was in the cupboard so I didn't always plan out dinner).

I started looking for new recipies shortly after I changed shifts as well as looking for good ideas for make-ahead meals. I hit paydirt with Diane Phillips' "You've Got it Made: Deliciously easy meals to make now & bake later." Its 150 recipies cover everything from appetizers to desserts.

Even better it includes a list of all the ingredients that are used in the book's recipies in the first few pages, with the idea being that if you have those items on hand you can make any recipe in the book.

The big test for any cookbook is if I can actually find more than three items that I can make for my family. After all I have a 1-year-old, a nearly 5-year-old and my husband to please (oddly it's often the husband that perplexes me the most) as well as my own desire to make something that tastes good and is healthy.

There are plenty of items that should please all (and here's where I knock wood and note that I've been blessed with two not so very picky kids and two kids who don't object to spices and flavors) -- penne, sausage and meatball bake, pesto ravioli bake, arroz con pollo casserole, French toast cobblers, various enchilada and strata recipies, pot roast, stuffed pork tenderloin, oven-fried chicken, chicken cacciatore, pot pie, do-ahead mashed potatoes, eggplant rollatini, fruit crisps, and log cookies all make the short list.

Each recipe is divided into two parts -- make it now and bake it later -- and include refrigeration and freezer time limits. The instructions are easy to understand and none of the ingredients are outlandish.

Happy eating.

Pro-cras-ti-NA-tion (sung to the tune of Carly Simon’s “Anticipation”)

I finished another project last week: the Frock Camisole from Interweave Knit’s Knitting Daily (free pattern at www.knittingdaily.com/blogs/patterns/archive/2008/04/11/frock-camisole.aspx). The yarn is Red, Gold, Beige #8 Cinnabar by Louise Harding, but I knit mine in #10 Light Blue.
It took me a couple of months to complete, mostly because the stitches are on a size 7 needle.
After weaving in the ends, I tried it on my dressmaker’s model: my almost-5-year-old son. That way I can see what it looks like from all angles, and he’s happy to oblige as long as I am quick. I’m happy to say it would make a lovely little girl’s dress — all you need to do is make shorter straps.
Now I feel a little lost. I’ve picked up my long-term (read: never to be completed) shawl project in light brown cotton. But I feel antsy, restless. Without a real focus. I do have another project waiting upstairs in my knitting area: it’s an ecru sleeveless mercerized cottong sweater with a twist at the bust and cables in place of seams. It was georgous when I saw it in lavender at the Yarn Garden in Meriden (www.yarngardenllc.com), on a softly padded hanger at the rear of the store. Everything is ready in a little bag — even the pattern so graciously given to me by owner Denise Edson is already laminated. It’s all ready to go.
But I’m not.
The lazy, hazy days of summer have made me an equally lackadasical knitter. Not that I’m NOT knitting anymore, just less aggressively, less fervently. I’m wet and sweaty when I get home and it’s hard to get comfortable in my favorite spot on the couch, under the floor lamp.
Maybe tonight’s the night.
Thunderstorms are supposed to roll in and cool us off for a spell.

mmmmmm cake

My mother-in-law and niece collaborated on a small birthday cake for James during the 4th of July picnic (his actual birthday party will be a little later this month). It was very cute -- white and blue icing with sugar candy bugs dancing along the sides.


James looked a little confused at the cake and candle sitting before him while everyone sang, but the confusion ended once a slice was placed in front of him. He picked up a little piece with his fingers and tasted it. One small taste was all he needed because he dove right into it.

Face first.


And when we all laughed he did it a second, a third and even a fourth time.


It was one of those classic, classic first moments.

When he has his actual party later this month, I'm hoping for a replay and this time we'll be ready with the video camera.

All the world's a stage

It began with a simple request.
"T, can you bring this out to the garbage can?" I asked, while cooking breakfast for the family this Fourth of July.
"OK," he said, in his sing-song way, always eager to help out with a task.
But the bug had taken hold.
T brought the blue recycle bin to the curb.
Then he dragged the plastic garbage can, huffing and puffing, his chicken-bone arms straining, toward the sidewalk.
I peered out of the living room window, a voyeur, intently watching this scene unfold.
To ask, "what the heck is this kid doing," as probably every neighbor is, is a mute question. You don't wonder about what T is working on. Just like B, when he was 4, the boy's machinations are part of the mystery of the universe. We can only watch.
Next up are the concrete blocks at the back of our property, earlier broken up into fist-size pieces with a hammer.
Ever the thinker, T fills up his large truck bed with five or six of these "rocks" at a time, rolling the load toward the street. Each one is lobbed into the trash.
"You can't throw those out in the trash," I yell, half-heartedly.
T ignores me.
I'll fix it later, as I always do with so many of this kid's projects.
Oh, here come the wooden planks from the back yard, each leaving an impression in the dirt alongside the house, a giant snail's trail.
T scampers into the house, looking for more garbage bags.
He pulls two brown bags from the drawer.
"I got a lot more stuff here - gotta fill these up," he says.
I let him continue, filling the bags with cut grass, twigs, little rocks.
Finally he's done.
"I gotta rest," he says, clamoring onto the sofa.
"Mom, I need a little help over here. Can you get me a drink?"
As I fill his glass with apple juice, I marvel at what I've created. And watch his skinny, brown-from-the-sun body reach toward my proffered drink, gulp it down voraciously. One drip dribbles down his chin, then the center of his chest.
Oops, I'm needed, I think, grabbing a towel.
And wait for the next scene to begin.

Mad for tweed

Nancy J. Thomas, creative director of Tahki Stacy Charles yarns, has written a new book devoted to history of this flecked woolen fiber.
The patterns in “Tweed: More than 20 Contemporary Designs to Knit” ($27.50, Potter Craft) are arranged by difficulty, for beginner (“Walking on the Moors”) to advanced (“Sailing the North Sea”) knitters. The first three chapters explore the Origins of Tweed Yarns in Fabric, the process of making tweed yarn and stitch patterns that best highlight this distinctive yarn.
Each design calls for Tahki wool and not a single one is ordinary.
I am coveting the Galway Tie-Front Cardigan with ribbed sleeves, generous front pockets and three fat pairs of I-cord ties. The arms are knit in a rose multi, which is more on the purple end of the color scheme; while the body of the sweater is a red mix, which leans toward rust. It is an advanced beginner (“Hiking the Scottish Uplands”) — exactly my skill level.
And the Northern Ireland Peplum Sweater is quite simply a work of art. Made in pink, with flecks of ecru that lend it a stonewashed effect, a crisscrossed tie V-neck and frilly lace-detailed border knit after the sweater is complete, this garment most certainly is the Mona Lisa — mysterious and enthralling. It’s one of those patterns that invades the mind, spurring you on to better and finer skills, awaiting you like the proverbial mirage in the desert.
If sweltering New England summers are no deterrent to your choice of fiber, this book is most certainly for you, the most devoted of wool-gatherers.

Stylish knits

In “One Ball Knits Accessories: 20 Stylish Designs Made With a Single Ball, Skein, Hank, or Spool,” (Watson-Guptill Publications, $16.95) authors, designers and sisters Fatema, Khadija and Hajera Habibur-Rahman have really distinguished themselves in the one-skein project field.
Patterns reminiscent of Turkey, China, Victorian England, the Old West, India lend a worldly flair to the book, while dusty rose, rich royal red, robin’s egg blue, blood red, deep crimson, emerald green and cornflower evoke the colors of an Indian bazaar.
The first 27 pages are devoted to “one-ball basics,” which even a fairly experienced knitter will find invaluable — all the information you need, all in one place. There’s a metric and U.S. size chart, how to read schematics, templates and charts, finishing information and large, visual illustrations on how to knit cables, string beads, whipstitch, do the kitchener and whip stitches and so much more. After knitting for many years, I finally was able to understand the concept of cables and the kitchener stitch in logical terms.
Particularly stunning are the Moebius Shawl in watercolor tones of sand, eggplant and seafoam and the Scarlet Handbag in a twisted stitch that looks like a half-cable or almost a paisley design. I have never seen such a high-quality handmade purse. It looks like a Coach bag.
There are patterns for a Panja (hand jewelry) and Crystal Bead Necklace and Earrings and Flower Pin felted brooch, which incorporates felting and beading techniques.
This is a divine book for a beginning knitter with an eye for fashion to dip her toes into the craft. And she isn’t relegated to learning by making a scarf or potholder, but rather exquisite little works of art.

Where does the time go?

Exactly one year ago we were on baby watch -- that time in the pregnancy where the doctors start making comments about induction if you don't go into labor soon. It's hard to believe, but next Tuesday James will celebrate his first birthday.

The first year of a child's life is wonderous -- it is amazing how they grow from itty bitty things that can do nearly nothing to little beings in 12 months time.

James is at the "little being" stage. He's walking, talking, signing, fighting with his sister (OK so usually she's snatching toys out of his hands) and chasing her around the living room. He's often a serious little bugger -- my aunt calls him the little professor, but when he smiles he lights up and there is nothing quite like the sound of his giggle when you blow a raspberry in just the right spot on his belly.

He gets excited when the Elmo's World theme song begins to play on Sesame Street. When he wants to nurse, he'll go find his Boppy pillow (often hidden somewhere by Nikki) and carry it over to me -- and everytime I settle him in my lap there's the sweetest little contented sigh.

He's a bit of a momma's boy, but lately when my husband gets home from work, James has decided he's had enough of me and is all too happy to perch in Daddy's lap and have books read to him or play "ball" with Nikki. So he's growing and stretching beyond me.

And that growing and stretching will continue for years. Old boundries will be tested and new ones made. There will be fights over rules and curfews, but for now I'm going to enjoy feeling that comes when two little arms wrap around my neck as his small head snuggles into the spot on my shoulder made just for that purpose.

Bliss is being the mother of a child who's one.

Tween Boys 101

I had lofty plans for my vacation recently.
Nothing too ambitious, for I gave up scheduling the days about a decade ago.
I am a mother. I know my lot.
The idea was to take my freed-from-elementary-school 10-year-old to the beach as many days as possible.
My personal goal? Read as many magazines as possible and knit up a storm.
B. was cooperative on the Hammonasset front — if he could bring a friend.
Forgot for a second there I was intolerable company for a little boy.
Sure, I said.
Five minutes on the road and, despite just eating breakfast, B. is hungry. So is friend.
Breakfast sandwiches all around.
Thirty-five minute drive is too long, proclaim the boys, madly fingering their PSPs and Nintendos. Yelling things to each other in hand-held game parlance. B. tells me to stop talking when I try to make conversation.
Reduced to thinking while driving and blocking out inane tween back and forth.
I park and start to unload the car. The two guys actually begin walking toward the beach, with no intention of carrying a darn thing.
Situation swiftly corrected.
First thing the boys do is walk the stone breakwater at Meigs Point. Have to remind them about sunscreen. Have to apply said sunscreen if want them screened from sun — times two. Seems not only can they not reach their backs, but the backs (and fronts) of their legs, faces, necks, arms and torsos.
Next up on their agenda? Finding crabs. I offer to show them where they are likely found, under half-wet rocks during low tide, past the observation deck.
Seems my role is crab hunter, theirs is crab-hunter watcher.
Oh, and crab picker-upper. These snakes-and-snails-and-puppy-dog-tails are squeamish.
I’m discovering so many things about my son this week.
Other observations: B. loves to swim in the ocean — but only if Mom goes in too.
He won’t drink slightly warm ice tea, eat grapes, cherries, mint jelly, any drink that says “100-percent juice,” thinks a hamburger with mustard and ketchup is a complete meal, believes you can never eat enough ice cream for one day, thinks there’s nothing wrong with playing Runescape on the computer for eight hours straight, will wear his sneakers to bed if he’s too tired to take them off, doesn’t know how to put the shower on in the house we’ve lived in for four years, would stay seated at the kitchen computer until dying of starvation rather than making a sandwich for himself, and thinks sandles for boys, plaid shorts, leaf-green and mango-colored shirts are “for girls.”
I may not have gotten in my “beach reads” or finished the Frock Camisole I’ve been knitting for two months, but I’ve learned much about the psychology of the American boy pre-teen.

Gone fishin'

I am on vacation until June 23. The inspiration was my son's fifth-grade graduation ceremony on Monday and the lure of a subsequent week at the beach. Barring rain, I'll be that lady in the red one-piece on the beach catching up on her reading.

And so I'm a slacker

You know it has to be bad when one friends calls and asks if you are OK because you haven't updated your part of the blog in recent memory. Or when your husband tells you that you really need to update your blog.

Forgive me, I fell down on the job here for a bit.

Truth is James started walking about 6 weeks ago (these days it's more like running) and I've been exhausted ever since. Thankfully we never took down the gates in the living room so they are sort of penned in (I say sort of because Nikki can pull one of the gates open).

But I find myself doing more refereeing than I thought would be neccesary with children four years apart in age. At least three times a day I hear myself say "Nicola, that is James' toy and he's allowed to play with it. Please give it back." I'm not sure why I bother as she never seems to give it back until either my husband or I make her.

Although Nikki might want to start being a bit more careful about "roughing up" her brother. He weighs a wee bit more than half of what she does so it's not out of the realm of possibility that he might be equal in size in another couple of years and well you know what they say about payback.

Help! I'm suffering from obsolescence

When I was a kid, I had to walk 400 miles to school.
OK, it was 2 miles each way — snowstorm, torrential rain, heat of summer — my sister and I walked. The only way to cut a few minutes off was to cut across the golf course nearby, and risk being reported to the school and/or targeted by peeved golfers.
These days, I’m often met with opposition when I expect my son to walk to school — .34 miles. “Can’t you drive me?” he’ll ask. “My feet hurt.”
I remember when I was a senior in high school, walking to school in the morning in sandals — in April. A freak storm hit so my sister and I walked home mid-day in an inch of snow and slush. I couldn’t feel my feet for quite some time afterward.
During winter in junior high, I’d typically arrive to homeroom with the front of my thighs numb and my pant legs frozen solid. Sure it was miserable, but I didn’t complain. There wasn’t anyone to ask for a ride.
Yipes, I feel like my mom.
Can you imagine my 10-year-old faced with the telephone I grew up with — with the rotary dial? How about watching television without a remote control? We had a tiny TV with rabbit ears covered in tin foil that you moved around to get the best reception.
The other day, both boys were watching TV and T went up to it with a magnet, swirling it around the screen. Portions turned purple and fuschia. I fiddled with the brightness, color and contrast a little too fervently, then thought of something. I turned the color completely off.
“That’s how the TV was like when I was growing up,” I told them. They couldn’t believe it. “Leave it like that!” they yelled. “It’s cool!”
That lasted about 3 minutes, before the 4-year-old yelled, “Mommy! Put it back!”
How about computers? Both my boys could use one before they turned 3. Pretty pathetic when you think about it, but how about this fact: they don’t teach typing in schools. Hunting and pecking, once frowned upon, is now the norm for many people.
I feel old.
I can pinpoint when it happened. When the oldies station started playing music from the 1980s. “Hey!” I wanted to call in. “I’m not dead yet!”
Remember those spiral-bound typing books that taught you how to hold your fingers, which fingers to use on which keys, and those silly, repetitive sentences? Update: It’s called “keyboarding” now. I learned on a manual typewriter, and boy did your fingers ache afterward. When I got my first office job at 19, I had an electric typewriter, so I didn’t need to use that manual return anymore.
These were replaced by the short-lived word processor and then swiftly by the computer. With green letters.
Ah, I’m dating myself.
And I sound grumpy.
I can’t imagine what’s coming down the pike.
My kids probably already know.

I’m a ‘One-Skeiner’

“101 Designer One-Skein Wonders,” edited by Judith Durant (Storey Publishing, $18.95), is one of those books knitters ooh and aah over as others would the storefront of a Godiva store.
The photos are up-front and as colorful as a Pantone wheel in this incarnation of the growing “One-Skein” franchise. Hats, purses, ties, scarves, shawls and baby items are arranged by yarn weight, so you can ogle the selection in full, then plug in those yarns that make up your stash — or go shopping for a new skein.
Delicate fingering-weight projects begin the book: a linen Christening Shawl with a generous knitted silk border; a coffee-toned Wave stitch-patterned infant’s Jumper that will make you want to shrink down to fit in one yourself; moving on to sport weight: a flowery Ring Bearer Pillow with finely beaded fringe; mohair yarn: Chicly Chevroned “Broadway” Hat in graduated yellow, orange, purple, blue; and bulky weight: a fluted Fuchsia Felted Bowl and Two-Hour handled Handbag in eggplant with a chunky button accent.
You can even post a photo of your completed work from patterns in the book at www.oneskeinwonders.com.
Each project’s designer is profiled at the back, complete with contact information. East Haddam’s Carol Martin of Farmhouse Yarn created a beret with her Lumpy Bumpy yarn in a spring garden bouquet of lapis, white, olive green, fuchsia, pink and lime.
Top of my list? Not-Your-Average Washcloths, each in mango and avocado Rowan Cotton, designed by Elizabeth Prusiewicz of Portland, Ore. She who learned to knit at age 5 from her mother in her native Poland, runs Knit Knot Studio (www.knitknotstudio.com — “home of the fastest knitter in Northwest”).
Do I need washcloths? Would I use hand-knit washcloths on body or dishes? Blasphemy! Mine will be grace my kitchen walls as tiny self-portraits — The “Me” series (Rowan Cotton Handknit, Sugar, Tangerine Dream, Slippery, Nectar, 7-inch).

Laughs I’ve Enjoyed at the Hands of Stephanie Pearl-McPhee

In my knitting group, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee is like the Keith Urban of the textile world. People make pilgrimmages to Webbs in Massachusetts, planning months in advance of her speaking engagements. They speak excitedly about her upcoming books. They quote her one-liners, laugh over her humorous anecdotes.
Her latest is “Things I Learned from Knitting ... Whether I Wanted to or Not” (Storey Publishing, $10.95). A tiny, slim volume, the book details 45 “things” or bits of wisdom. Chapters like “Knitting Teaches Generosity,” “Haste Makes Waste” and “Goodness Has its Own Reward” give no indication of the witticism, hilarity, intelligence and apt insight contained therein.
Even non-knitters will delight in her seemingly banal aphorisms which yield knee-slapping anecdotes.
You read one of her sentences and think, “I’ve thought that!” or, more daringly, “I could have written that!” But, before you get too far making those wings, Daedalus, check that pride.
Only Pearl-McPhee could spin such brilliant yarns.
From “A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed”: “I have learned, from watching the thousands of kindnesses enacted by knitters around the world, that there is little a knitter will not do for her fellow human in wooly need. ... Except at a yarn sale, when the gracious and generous knitter who just went thruogh her stash and volunteered the needed skein of purple merino to a desperate fellow knitter now body-checks you into the sock-yarn display because that hand-painted laceweight she like is 50 percent off and it looked like you might get there before her.”
From “It’s Funny Because It’s True”: “Knitters entirely understand the non-knitter’s confusion about why on earth, if you need a sweater so badly, you don’t just walk into the store, pull one in your size off the rack, and be bloody done with it. ... We’re not just making clothes. Three is a reason the hobby is called ‘knitting’ and not ‘sweater-making.’ If it was just about getting a sweater, we would totally do it the way everybody else does. ... What we know and try to explain is that when you knit a pair of socks, you don’t just get clothes. You get satisfaction. You get art. ... Best of all, you get to have something to do while all those non-knitter stand around in their standard-issue store sweaters and talk about how silly knitting is.”
From “It Takes a Great Deal of Pressure to Make a Diamond”: “A few years back, in a misplaced gesture of fondness for my sister, I decided to knit a pair of kilt hose for her rather unworthy, bagpiping boyfriend. ... Fortunately for bagpipers, but unfortunately for the knitter, most babpipers have two feet, so a knitter must complete this feat of derring-do twice in order to get a pair.”
Most amusing — with laugh-out-loud certainty — is her chart: “5 things worrying non-knitters have warned me about.” It relays the absurd misunderstanding of our craft — in a style worthy of “Waiting for Godot.”
“1. Knitting needles are very pointy. I could put out my eye at any moment.
2. If I were knitting in a car and there happened to be an accident, I could be impaled or even killed by my own knitting.
3. If I’m not very, very careful, I or someone else could become entangled in my yard and be unable to elude or escape danger.
4. If I am a victim of a crime or terrorism, my knitting needles could be grabbed and turned against me as a weapon.
5. If I’m sitting and knitting in the presence of children, one of them could run into my knitting while playing and be impaled, have an eye put out, become entangled, or, heaven forbid, all of the above.”
Pearl-McPhee is those rarest of birds of the writing variety, brilliantly plumed and infinately talented — the 100-percent cashmere, 400-yard skein in the bottom of the sale bin.

Slim pickins

I used to look forward to grocery shopping — a chance to spend money, check out and sample the latest food offerings, maybe even pick up a treat or two for myself. I’m pretty good at budgeting, so spending was never a problem, and as most Americans know, we are blessed with a bounty of choices at the supermarket.
The cost of food, so long affordable for many of us, has increased very rapidly recently, especially for staples — bread, eggs, milk, butter (and my kids would add ICE CREAM! PIZZA!) — so we all feel the pinch at the check-out counter.
Still, a plague of sorts has descended upon my tiny house. No matter how many and how quickly I move grocery bags into the front door, heading to the car for more, they’re just as swiftly eaten by the two not-so-little, growing buggers-in-residence.
Where else would a jar of peanut butter last nary a week? A loaf a bread a mere four days? A gallon of milk five?
It seems you can tell a great deal about the psychology of family members, not from what they consume so much as what they won’t. It’s food for thought as I peruse the grocery store aisles, picking up macaroni-and-cheese boxes (“with the ORANGE cheese, Mom!”), fruit and vegetables (“don’t forget raisins and celery, ‘cause I love ants on a log!”), lunch meat (pepperoni is a food group for my 10-year-old), cheese (“get that orange Monster cheese”) and jam (no marmalade, mint or no-sugar will be tolerated!).
So it’s a constant dice roll whether they’ll eat the organic macaroni, turkey pepperoni, all-natural jelly, corn on the cob I try to come home with. All-fruit bars are eaten reluctantly and with much griping, after mom has been chastised to “bring home ice cream this time!”
And where else do two boys consume an entire half a watermelon in two hours? Most assuredly not raised by wolves, my sister, brother and I grew up with a sense of fairness. When items came into the household, we didn’t descend upon them like locusts, we asked if we could have some; if so, it was divided up by the number of family members who were interested in eating some. If Joey didn’t want to eat his two ice cream sandwiches for 17 weeks, gosh darnit, they were STILL his to have when he got the hankering. If dad said the pineapple juice was his for the morning, it wasn’t touched by a soul other than himself. Mom’s diet butter (generously termed) was hers. Unsalted soybeans? Hers. Pasteurized processed cheese food slices? Ours for the taking (those are still sitting there, 30 years and counting).
Perhaps the gollywhomper of them all took place late this winter. I came home from work, threw some healthy snacks toward the gaping mouths of my two offspring, and set about preparing dinner. Turkey hot dogs, corn niblets and snap peas, macaroni and cheese. Garlic bread for those interested. Dad was home just after the two boys were at the table, bickering and picking, eating and griping in between gulps of Ovaltine and milk.
I left the room for some reason or another, returning to find the dinner mostly gone. The guys had devoured their fill, had seconds already, and left mom .... dirty dishes to clean up.
“Where’s my dinner?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I thought you ate already, honey,” said dad.
Sure, in between washing and folding laundry, sweeping and mopping the floor, I’d had my repast. Where did they think I ate? Is there a parallel place of peace I have the option of eating in?
“That’s OK,” I said. “I’ll just have grilled cheese.”
That is, if anyone left me a piece or two of Provolone, a few drips of olive oil and two slices — even the end ones — of bread.

Making the grade

Last week, I had a day that I thought was a pretty darn good one, as far as work days go. I was gathering up my 10-year-old’s sundries so we could drive across town to pick up his younger brother at preschool.
“Oh, Mom,” he said while hen-pecking the computer keys. “I got a 58 on my Civil War project.”
He delivered it like he would, “We learned about pimples in health class today.”
I tried to contain my swirling fury (anger).
I had spent the last six weeks helping him with said report, gathering research materials for him to read, record and finding a cool Web site with actual photos from the Civil War, then constructing a big board with them labeled and ordered. “Are you sure?” I asked, thinking he must be mistaken (denial). How could he do so badly?
Maybe I can think of a way to broach the idea of a second chance to his teacher, I thought. A way to boost B’s grade, because we must not have understood her requirements (bargaining).
I got on the phone. Called the principal. Too late, B’s teacher had left for the day. “Have her call me tomorrow,” I asked.
That night was tough. I grilled B. “What did she say when you got the grade? Did she give you a reason? Is there something big we overlooked? How did the other kids do?”
(“I don’t remember,” “No. “I don’t think so” and “I don’t know.”)
Our U.S. military special ops would have better luck extracting “intelligence” from bin Laden.
The next school day, the teacher didn’t return my call. My son said she had conferences on and off during the day.
With a day and a half to ruminate, I began to worry myself sick. “He’s not going to graduate fifth grade!” (depression)
Finally, the next morning arrived. “Get your book bag, B. We’re going to go in to school early and talk to Mrs. M.”
“If you did lousy, at least I want to know why” (acceptance).
B. was less than happy with the idea, noisily shuffling up the staircase to the fourth- and fifth-grade floor, and lingering outside the door.
His teacher looked up from a book she was reading at her desk, hair glowing golden, recently lightened. She looked exceptionally pretty-eyed, tanned face smiling at me — curious.
“B. told me he got a 58 on his term paper and I’m astounded. I wonder what he did wrong,” I said. “We worked so hard on it for the last month and a half.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know where he got that impression. I haven’t graded anybody yet. We’re still presenting them to the class.
“I have a rubrick that I use to make sure all the components are met. I won’t even sit down with that until over the weekend.”
I slunk out of the room, mortified.
Yesterday, just as surreptitiously, I learned B’s grade. Found the sheet in his book bag while cleaning it out.
In red pen, cursive: “100 percent.”
Chicken Little has left the room.

Knitting Nirvana

“One-Skein Wonders: 101 Yarn-Shop Favorites,” edited by Judith Durant and Gwen Steege (Storey Publishing, $18.95), is one of those books every knitter should have on hand. In fact, every knitter should carry it with her, as I have for the past week, in the knitting bag she lugs around on her daily rounds.
It is in turn inspiring, fascinating and delightfully laid out — with patterns grouped by yarn type. It’ll make you want to catalogue your yarn stash, if only for an excuse to visit your favorite little yarn shop for material to create what catches your fancy. Which is exactly what I did after leafing through it.
The center spread contains 24 pages of full-color photos against vibrant backgrounds — there are hats and socks, but oh, what delightful patterns they are.
The day after opening “One-Skein,” I trudged up to my craft area and sifted through my plastic totes filled to the brim with yarns stuffed willy-nilly.
All the better to knit you (forth)with, my dear, I mouthed to my yarns. This wool would be perfect for the crimson One-Car-Ride Coaster Set with artfully placed strokes of contrasting wool needle-felted onto the finished squares. The end result looks less like a place to rest your sweaty glass and more like a largish petit four embellished with a pastry chef’s touches.
There’s the crimson Fabulous Filigree Scarf, shown on a sleeveless denim bust, delicately warming invisible shoulders in machine-washable wool employing short rows. A drapey plummy Floral Mesh Shawl, airily knit in multicolored silk “as lightweight as it is luscious.”
Oooh, the Twisted Spiral Neckscarf in rainbow Noro wool, corkscrewing this way and that — much like Kyra Sedgwick’s lovely blond ringlets cascading over her shoulders. The ends are even tied off like twin pigtails. In the illustration, the scarf curves around the neck, colors blending seamlessly from rose red to pale yellow to mud brown to green, eggplant to robin’s egg blue to minty then yellow green.
And from our own state, New Haven’s Yarn LLC has submitted Shrug This in pale blush lamb’s wool and mohair, a delicate wisp of garment that is quickly knit on 10.5 (three stitches per inch) needles from the neck down. It would be equally as fetching in cotton.
Marji’s Yarncrafts in Granby has a pattern for a Super Simple Triangle Shawl in a salmony-wool-crepe finished off with a crochet edge.
The best thing of all about this book, as my editor says, who received this book as a Christmas present, is that you can experience some of the more expensive yarns because, as the title says, you only need one skein.
It seems the jam I’m in now is not what to knit from “One-Skein Wonders,” but what not to knit.
Sorry to say, but it is likely you’ll have the same experience.
See www.storey.com or call (800) 441-5700 or bookstores nationwide to purchase.

Mother’s little helper

Ever since B began fifth grade, his bedtime has crept later and later.
I’d want him in bed by 9 p.m., but he’d not fall asleep until 10:30 p.m. on a school night.
Short of taping his eyelids down, this isn’t much a parent can do, when it comes down to it, to physically demand a child fall asleep — “NOW!”
So I asked my son’s friend’s mother for advice.
To my surprise, she had been going through the same rigamarole — the yelling, stomping of the feet, ect.
Her friend had recommended melatonin for her son.
He would take a 1 milligram pill at 8 p.m. and be in bed by 9 p.m., where previously he’d stay up until 11 p.m., midnight or later. Then, like my son, be unable to wake up in the morning despite repeated urging by his mother. He’d be late for school, she’d be late for work, and they both were screamed out and exhausted.
A mirror image of my life.
I checked on the Web, surfing for information on Google, “melatonin and children.”
What I found didn’t make me feel confident enough to self-prescribe it for B.
So I bought a homeopathic sleep aid — Hyland’s Insomnia, which says the child dose is half that for an adult.
I gave B a pill that night at 8 p.m. “Blech!” he screamed. “This is disgusting!” And promptly spit it out.
So much for “stimulating your body’s natural healing response to relieve symptoms without sedative hangover.”
B fell asleep at 10:30 p.m. that night. Was late to school for the 23rd time that next morning.
It was time to bring in the big guns.
I called the pediatrician, who recommended the same 1 mg dose for B.
This won’t work, I thought. It will taste gross, or B won’t be able to swallow it (visions of clamping dogs’ jaws shut to facilitate canine vitamin swallowing of the past danced in my head, followed by said child throwing up miracle melatonin), or some other unforseen act is sure to result.
I gave B half a 3 mg pill. “It’s too big!” he said about the pill the size of half a pencil eraser.
I cut it in half again. “Now you have two to swallow.”
Hoping it would work, I said, “Drink a little water, make sure your mouth is wet. Put the pill on your tongue and take a small gulp of water, then put your head back and swallow the whole thing like it’s a piece of pizza.”
It worked.
“Now do it for the second one.”
Again, success.
Now the waiting. I set a bedtime that wouldn’t be too protested. “9:30 p.m., B., I want you under the covers asleep at 9:30.”
No protest. I went into the other room to watch TV.
9:25 p.m. I hear the TV shut off in the other room and B begin to shuffle toward his bed, blanket around his shoulders.
“Good night,” I said, waiting for yelps of refusal.
“’Nite, Mom,” B said, and fell immediately asleep.
The next morning, he woke up at 7 a.m.
That was three nights ago, and every evening has progressed the exact same. B is fast asleep by 9:30 p.m.
Dare I say it? I kid hurtle crossed, 999,999 to go.

On a wing and a prayer

When B was 4, I was still picking out his clothes in the morning and getting him dressed, until one day he came into the living room, his little pull-up khakis on backward and his short-sleeved polo already over his head. He carefully poked one chicken arm through his right sleeve hole, then the left.
“See, Mom?” he said. “I never don’t need you!” Clearly he was delighted with himself.
I shared a laugh with his grandmother and dad later that day, repeating the adorable story.
Now T is nearly 5 and he just celebrated his own Independence Day.
There were no fireworks or cannon shots, just the hum of rubber tires gliding along the blacktop.
Yes, T is fully mobile.
It took him all of a week to master his bicycle with training wheels, every chance he got outside cruising up and down the street, lopsidedly — since those tiny wheels on each side of the rear bike tire never truly support it straight.
A couple days later, T was at his grandma’s and happened upon a little bike that had been rescued from the dump the year before from his uncle. It was pink, but T didn’t seem to care. Soon, he was pedaling over the grass at the back of the house, and coasting down the hills.
I came home from work that night and my husband said T had something to show me.
T got on the bike sans training wheels and pedaled off down the street.
Naturally, I was a nervous wreck then — and now.
T and I talked about it later that night while he was lying in bed.
“Why do you like riding your bike so much,” I asked.
“’Cause it’s cool,” he said, simply.
Somehow I knew exactly what he meant.