Every day we walk around our homes, do the dishes, brush our teeth, pay our bills. We see the same objects day, use them.
Every day I use the soap dispenser on the kitchen sink. Every day I touch the cheap plastic, feeling the sorta sticky part where the generic label peeled off and the goo never really came off. Every day I think, I should do something about this.
Well folks, hold on to your hats, gather the children and spit out your gum, because…. Today… is the day….
Ladies and gents, say hello to my new beautiful friend.
I have fond memories of this night. My good friend was over and we drank this tequila in our margaritas, some from this very bottle. Our husbands were out of town, we had nowhere to be the next morning, and we realized that as much as we drank margaritas at the Mexican restaurant happy hour – neither of us had ever actually made one. It feels good to remember that night before I head off to the daily grind and when I come home tired from the rush hour traffic.
Especially when it’s so easy to make. You take an empty bottle, a squishie thingie, combine and post on Pinterest. You are officially craftsy in a most amazing way!
It’s good to have these memories around us, to remind us that we are more than the person who enters numbers into a spreadsheet.
I am not a baker. Baking requires precision, dedication, and patience. I have none of these things. I am more of a let’s-throw-everything-in-the-pot-and-see-how-it-turns-out sort of cook. If I tried to bake bread that way, it would come out a smelly, gloopy mess. Blergh.
But I do love bread fresh out of the oven. So what’s a girl to do?
Enter Zingerman’s. I came across this deli during one of my sojourns to Ann Arbor, MI. I drooled over their delicious bread. And then I found out they have a website! Where you can order the bread! And get it delivered to you, frozen! Then you just stick it in the oven for 40 minutes or so. Soon, that baking bread smell will fill up your house. And you’ll take the bread out of the oven and slice it up and the steam will start wafting out. And then you put a little pat of butter on it and it melts everywhere and gets into all those little nooks and crannies.
Sometimes I don’t like Young House Love. Sometimes I think they don’t push themselves, take easier routes for blog time frames. Sometimes I think I never want to be like them; that I want to use power tools and make really nice joined furniture; that I prefer a style that isn’t so duplicable, more unique; a style that can’t be bought at Target. Sometimes, I enjoy putting my foot in my mouth.
This week I thoroughly tasted my slipper (it’s hard to wear real shoes with a swollen ankle). Mike and I had grand ideas about the laundry nook. It’s in the hallway from the living room to the restroom. The bifold doors broke from the tracks soon after we moved in. For the past seven years, we looked at this every morning.
And something we walked past any time we went into the bedroom or bathroom.
For seven years we tried fixing the doors, thinking it would be cheap and easy. Then we would dream of lined curtains, or barndoors on rails or more bifold doors and never get around to anything. Since I hurt my ankle, I have had to spend a lot of time sitting down. What better way to spend my time than making curtains? Then as I hobbled my way through Target, I saw rows and rows of already made curtains for twenty bucks. I calculated how many games of Angry Birds I could play with the time saved from not attempting to staple sew curtains.
Did you know that curtains have instructions?
Well they do, and I took their advice and purchased two panels. I slide them onto a tension curtain rod I scored for eight dollars. Forty eight dollars, an afternoon hobbling through Target on crutches, and a brand new view.
And notice – it has a similar pattern to the vase on the bookcase which matches the remote control box. Who’s matchy matchy now? Seriously though – repeating patterns is an easy to make rooms look as though they flow together even if it’s subtle.
It took seven years to get over my DIY-self enough to use store bought curtains to solve a design dilemma. Have you ever put off easy fixes while waiting for the ultimate?
I’m continuing my obsession with all things spring this week. Cherry blossoms? Check! Crawfish? Check! What could possibly be next?
Of course. An herb garden.
Mmmm. Basil.
I grow an herb garden every year. I find the process of planting things relaxing, and I find the process of eating fresh herbs delicious. Win, win! The herbs change, except for my little thyme plant, which keeps on coming back from the brink of death every spring.
We did our planting last week, and these things are starting to sprout. Basil, thyme, rosemary and mint. We’ve got the makings of a Simon & Garfunkel album, right in our backyard.
What to do with all these delicious herbs? I’ll talk about that more in the weeks to come, but here’s a quick tip — put some fresh thyme in your pasta sauce. Any jar of pasta sauce will do. Add in some thyme leaves and — poof — that Prego spaghetti sauce has a depth of flavor you didn’t know was possible. All because of this little guy:
One last thing … I planted some flowers, too, and I need to share the awesomeness of my violas. All my violas last year got covered in some kind of mold and died, which made me sad, but these are thriving, which makes me happy. Aren’t they pretty?
For the past week, I have been crutching my way around the worldand one thing quickly became painfully obvious. The world is not meant for people on crutches. Between the small aisles at stores, the general public wandering around in a tweeting induced haze and a general inability (on my part) to open doors with one hand while gliding through and avoid getting smacked in the rear, I am over it. On my most frustrating evening, an attempt to simply do laundry almost turned me into one of those shrieking banshees after a crutch caught the pad of a misbehaving swifter and sent me and my damaged hoof flying into the thankfully closed bathroom door.
For the less than mobile, my house is a death trap.
When you’re working on one good foot and two slightly demented metal ones, small things become insanely difficult. Little tiny things like: picking a leash off the floor, walking up and down stairs that don’t have a railing, getting anything out of the tiny fridge become giant tasks that involve a huge amount of effort. And this is before your account for the cables and towels that try to wind their way around your crutch while walking. It’s like living in Jumanji – one minute you’re a regular person and the next minute you’re trapped in the floor.
So this is what we’re focusing on. Not the prettiest or most fun stuff in the world, but the most functional. Easy to clean, easy to reach, cutting back the vines from a seated position (hopefully with a beer in my hand).
I leave for work after my sexy man, so every morning I have to take the dogs out. This shouldn’t be hard, but Charlie is afraid of crutches, has to be leashed and doesn’t know what come means. This is made even more difficult when I have to spend twenty freaking minutes picking up a leash from the floor. You now, because I can’t drop a crutch or make a noise or put weight on my right foot, or worse twist the ankle at all, because Charlie is afraid of crutches. If any of these things happen, either the crutch or I will make a loud noise and Charlie won’t come anywhere near me no matter how many treats I am holding.
It doesn’t look like much, but the groceries, leash and cat are a trap.
Right now, the easiest & cheapest solutions are the best solutions.
The shelf was $7.50 after a coupon), and we had the mirror on the floor in the entry way for a while. The shelf was painted a navy blue to hopefully make it less country looking, but whatever. I can reach the dog leash and not die. For that, I am happy.
We also have a pile of umbrellas hanging out by the front door, for rain and stuff. For months we have been wandering around hoping for some sort of miracle device that could keep my from knocking them over or tripping on them every morning.
Finally I uncovered this mythical device:
A bucket!
I know, I know, the room still looks sad. Looking at the photos (sorry, it’s a crazy dark room and it’s rainy) I can tell that the wainscoting needs to go all the way through the entryway and on both sides of the stairs. This is the never – ending project.
Boys and girls, it’s spring, and that means many things — flowers in bloom, farmer’s markets starting up, end of the semester (hooray for that last one).
It also means that crawfish are in season. Now, having been raised in the crawfish-free north, I didn’t get a taste of these little buggers until a few years ago. And they are delicious.
YUM!
Here in DC, one of our fine drinking establishments holds a crawfish boil every two weeks. They fly up the little buggers from somewhere in the South, stick them in a giant vat filled with mushrooms, potatoes, corn, and spices, then boil the hell out of them until they are mighty tasty. Then they pour out all this goodness onto a table and we cram around it, like savages, stuffing food into our mouths. It’s glorious.
Don’t know how to eat these tiny, lobster-like creatures? Basically, you tear them open and suck them dry. Like so. I’ve never felt so powerful.
So this is the first of many springtime treats for me. More to come next week …
I thought an adventure race would be a great way to blow off steam after finals and propel us on our projects. Unfortunately it put a damper on the projects, an appreciation for the handrail that has not been installed yet, and makes taking a dog outside (especially one that is uncertain about the crutch) an adventure of its own. My gimpy ankle is no one’s fault. I was jumping from one obstacle to the next and just didn’t make it. The ankle rolled on landing and then I landed on it. It was very dramatic at the time. I didn’t finish the race. I didn’t show up on any of the race stats or get a mailbox full of greeting cards. I also didn’t cry. I’m not giving up.
My fall was not anyone’s fault but my own. You see, I’m afraid of heights. When you’re afraid of heights, a doable jump becomes really long. A height of six feet looks really high. To me, that fall was the same as jumping over the Grand Canyon. And I jumped with that fear in my heart. I hesitated and didn’t quite make it.
I hurt my ankle because I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust myself to make the jump. I didn’t trust myself to listen to the fear and walk around. No matter how I slice it, I didn’t trust myself.
It took me a long time to trust myself to work on my house. I spent a lot of time fretting over breaking drill bits (there’s a reason they are sold in packs) or wondering if I was doing it right, or if it would be okay. If I started to get stuck, I would panic. Silly, right? There is no such thing as the house police. No one is going to come to you home and point out where your corners aren’t exact, or your plumbing doesn’t look as pretty as it should. If they do, find new friends.
Trust yourself. You are smart, you are beautiful and you can rock a sander. You can do this. And if your project doesn’t turn out how you dreamed, you can try it again. After all, if the third time’s the charm, why would we expect DIY to be any different?
I am getting off the soapbox. I am out of commission until my ankle heals, so it’s time to share your DIY projects.
Northern Georgia has three seasons: winter, pollen and hot. Even though everything outside (and inside) is covered with a layer of yellow pollen, it’s not hot. And that is cause for bring outside despite twitchy allergy eye. Last year, we painted the porch swing on the patio bright colors. While the bench beckoned to hang out with a margarita, the patio itself was ringed with sad concrete blocks. It was time to fix that.
Home Depot had concrete paver squares for $.99. I have a milk crate in the garage filled with tubes of liquid nails and silicon adhesive.
Put them together:
Try to keep the corners even. Let dry 24 hours….
And…
Presto!!!!
An insanely heavy concrete planter for four bucks and some liquid nails.
They form a nice wall along the patio.
Remember the swing from this post? We still need more planters to line the walkway and replace all the concrete blocks, and dirt and plants. But first I need some Tylenol. These suckers are heavy and made it obvious that I need to hit the gym.
How are you spending your dog days of summer? Moving heavy stuff? Creating secret gardens?
Good Lord. This has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. Apologies for the late post, but I was glued to the television yesterday, to the images of my home state under lockdown, and fervently hoping that everything would turn out OK for the friends and family who live there.
I think we all need a break from awful things, no?
How about this: Spring Is Here! And as proof, I have photos of cherry blossoms from around D.C.
Look! More blossoms! These things were falling all around our heads, and they were soooo pretty.
Spring also means great food options, with lots of fresh veggies and fruits making their appearance at your local farmer’s market. I’ll post some good recipes for these fresh foods next week.
But for now, let’s all just spend some time thinking happy thoughts. I will be imagining myself laying under this cherry tree, with the branches hovering over me, full of tiny, fragile flowers.
For as long as I can remember, I always associate summer with Hampton Beach, my grandmother and my Great -Aunt Mae.
Hampton Beach is a beach like every other. It has a shell for outdoor performers, fireworks every Wednesday night, and a boardwalk that has bars, McDonalds, an arcade, and a concrete walkway that always smells a little like pee. Until I moved to Georgia, I spent every moment in the summer at the beach. My Grandmother always had a rental house, the same house she went to when my mother was a girl. My Great aunt Mae always stayed nearby; sometimes she was renting an apartment in a big house, or in the house behind my Nana’s beach house. Once, I remember she rented a hotel room for the summer. It seemed so luxurious, to rent a hotel room. It wasn’t a fancy room, but it has a pool and to a ten year old kid, having the ability to swim in a pool that was feet from the beach was the most glamorous thing that my undeveloped brain could imagine.
Even though Mae had her own house, I always remember her at my Grandmother’s house. My grandmother had a nice long wooden porch that she filled with the Cracker Barrel type of rocking chairs. Each chair was a different color. The paint was worn from the salt air. I remember Mae on the porch gossiping with Nana and watching the people as they went by. She didn’t like the girls who would walk on the sidewalk with bare feet. Their black soles somehow caused pretty girls to suddenly be less pretty.
Mae was convinced that the salt water was the solution to my Psoriasis. That soaking in the water was better than any tonic sold by the best snake oil salesman. Cold, flu, ongoing chronic illness. It didn’t matter. The water would cure you.
The water tried, but it couldn’t cure everything. I still have psoriasis, and Mae recently died from cancer. I wish I could say it was an easy death, but it was not. I know I am supposed to mourn and cry, but I cannot. Mae was sick for a long time. She didn’t deserve to be in so much pain. Towards the end, she even lost her voice.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Mae physically couldn’t talk. But she never lost her voice. Before Mae left our world, she rented the beach house behind Nana’s house. She knew she wouldn’t be able to use it, but she wanted the cousins to take up the torch. This would be the third and fourth generation of family who retreat to Hampton Beach. Mae is no longer with us but we know where she is, getting her cottage ready for the summer. She is planning on having a lot of overnight guests, and we won’t disappoint.
It’s sprained.
