Adventures in the Pointless Forest

In January, it's so nice

I forgot to mention that the Christmas singing is half carols and half murder ballads. Also there were pierogies and vodka. What more can you ask for, really? We all had a blast.

Though we won't be living in the land of real winter until next year, and are instead marking our seasons by the difference between wanting a sweater before dark and not wanting it until after dark, there are some real season-oriented books in heavy rotation here. One is Chicken Soup with Rice. 

Jane loves all the Nutshell Library books, because they are tiny and fascinating, and because I sing them to the tunes from Really Rosie.

Anything that combines reading with singing is a big hit right now. This includes a little board book in which "You Are My Sunshine" is about a teddy bear (rather than the woman who left me and "shattered all my dreams," and why exactly is this a favorite song to sing to one's children, anyway?) and Tweedle Dee Dee by Charlotte Voake, which is a take on "The Green Grass Grew All Around."

The music is in the back. 

We love all of Charlotte Voake's books, especially this one, the two about a cat named Ginger, and the unfortunately out of print First Things First. Her quick and expressive pen-and-ink line reminds me of Quentin Blake's enviable looseness, without feeling like imitation Blake. Look at those birds on the cover!

The other seasonal book we have been reading a lot (Tweedle Dee Dee is not particularly about the seasons) is The Year at Maple Hill Farm, by Alice and Martin Provensen. Somehow I missed it in my own childhood, though I had seen the Provensen's illustrations in Nancy Willard's A Visit to William Blake's Inn. Steve's cousin sent it as a Christmas present for Jane, but the grown-ups have been enjoying it too.

It has so much packed into every page, but it never feels busy or cramped. For shorter attention spans, you can read the overview from the top of the page, or you can delve into the smaller details below. It is gentle but totally unsentimental, and often funny, too, and the art is of course fantastic.

You probably can't read it from here, but the picture of a cuckoo in the middle row says "This big bird is laying her egg in a little bird's nest. She must be cuckoo." Ho ho! The next picture is a sequel: "This little bird is feeding her babies. She must wonder why one baby is so big."

There is a companion book, Our Animal Friends at Maple Hill Farm, and I want it, too.

All of these make me want to get back to drawing more. I am terribly out of the habit. My quick cartoonish owl is well honed from many instances of Jane shoving a pen and notebook in my face and saying "OWL PEASE" but everything else is just piles of rust.

How are you?

"Mumbangha" means "umbrella," obviously.

Merry Christmas, if you like Christmas. Bearable Sunday to you, otherwise.

Jane is napping, my mother is napping, and Steve and I are nestled all snug on the sofa being kept warm by our portable computing devices. The earlier part of the day was an orgy of piddly plonkety plinkity plong as Jane made full and festive use of her new avant garde art music toy piano, alternating with bouts of watching as much Shaun the Sheep as her greedy little heart desired.

Later we will go to our usual Christmas night party, featuring a fine and motley buffet of more or less seasonal foods, hours of singing, and a musical saw.

Earlier in the week we went on a date, not alas to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy as we had planned--damn you, limited release dates--but a date nonetheless. As usual, we found that not fifteen minutes into our time as two adults alone doing adult things with only adults, we were mutually compelled to break out in a fugue of Janeisms.

"Nut? Nut?"

"Mook, peese."

"Cheese pie! Yeah? Yes. Yessss."

"Mook? Cake? Kiki? Yes. Cankoo."

"Mumbangha."

"Yeah-yeah? Nooo, me me it mine."

I'm glad we took advantage of this opportunity to have a really sound conversation about serious intellectual topics. No doubt the people at the next table were, too.

Shut up about your caramels.

I've forgotten how to write these. How does it work again? 

I think there were animated gifs? Here, have some animated gifs.

I believe that some amusing things have happened in the past month, but I am damned if I remember what any of them were. My memories of late November and early December are mainly a blur of not getting work done, and of realizing I needed to buy more sugar, butter, or cream.

I have purchased a lot of butter, sugar, and cream in the past couple of weeks. It is the usual thing here to madly produce vast quanities of little sweet things to give to our friends at this time of year. I tried following a new recipe for salted butter caramels this year and tried using a new thermometer at the same time. This was not a success. It took several inedibly hard-and-sticky batches, each made in a separate precious naptime, to confirm that both variables were to blame. I was displeased.

If the same thing should ever happen to you, incidentally, know that you can have a good time taking out your frustration on the failed results by whacking them into chunks with the claw end of a claw hammer, then melting these with some whole milk to make perfectly pleasant caramel sauce/spread. 

Also, I feel better now that I have redeemed myself at the eleventh hour by finding and successfully following a new recipe that I like better than any I have made in the past. It is a scaled-down version of one of the earlier formulas (the one described as "perfect consistency, tastewise 96% there") from this interesting eGullet thread about reproducing the caramels from Jacques Genin. The texture is indeed excellent. Next year I might try the much-lauded recipe from later in the thread that involves some more exotic ingredients like lethicin, but then again I might not. The 96% perfect version is pretty darn fine by me and I don't have to buy anything weird to make it.

(The noble table, pressed into service once more!)

And now all the caramels and caramel sauce and almond toffee and spiced nuts and other presents have been packaged up and parceled out and are no longer cluttering up every spare surface, and I am very relieved. Now all we have to do is fly across the country with a very lively toddler. What could possibly go wrong?

Oh! PS. I added half a teaspoon of salt to my batch of successful caramels, which were scaled down to 3/8 of the recipe as written.

Scenes from a table.

The table did come! For the two or three of you who haven't already seen it, here is the photographic evidence:

I especially like this corner.

It is a very pleasing table and I am glad to have it. And now that we have a table, it can be the setting for rewarding interactions like this one.

JANE: Muk! Muuk? Muk.

ME: More milk, please?

JANE: Yeah.

ME: Can you say "milk, please"?

JANE: Yeah.

ME: "Milk, please?"

JANE: Yeah.

ME: "Milk, please."

JANE (encouraging): Yeah!

ME (pouring milk): Well, I'm glad we had this little conversation.

fin

Detritus

A few things rendered quickly quickly, in hope that discharging them will clear the way for something a little more coherent, extended, and even amusing:

(a) Do you know what makes a great icebreaker when you are visiting a friend of a friend you have never met before? Arriving at their doorstep with a child covered in carsickness vomit. Truly! Suddenly everyone has a shared project with genuine, smalltalk-bypassing urgency but no actual danger or illness. Quick! Towels, water, an amusingly giant garment to serve as a change of clothes! By the time it's all sorted out no one is a stranger and everyone is awake, freshly scrubbed, and filled with the warm glow of modest accomplishment.

(b) Halloween came and went, and Jane was a very fine small Batman, or Batma'am if you prefer.

Please admire the authentic Adam West physique.

(c) Jane has switched to answering almost all questions with "yah!" This is just as uninformative as her previous approach, but much more gratifying in producing the illusion of happy, agreeable conversation.

(d) We finally repotted those poor trees. We also got them some food to replenish their severely depleted nutrients, which seems most likely to have been the immediate cause of their less than perfect health. (Thrilling? Yes! Tune in next week to watch them grow in real time, followed by our top-rated As the Paint Dries.)

(e) Is it possible? Could it be true that our long anticipated, long awaited dining room table—ordered at the beginning of August—will be delivered tomorrow? So we are told. I'll keep you posted.

(f) We were in danger of running out of exciting things to keep us occupied, with the imminent resolution of both the Sickly Tree Project and the Interminable Table Wait, but fortunately we all seem to be coming down with icky sticky colds, so that's all right. 

Mu shu dork.

WARNING: SO, SO NERDY.

In between doing laundry, failing to buy the dirt we were planning to buy, and watching Downton Abbey, Steve and I have been entertaining ourselves with selected episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I didn't watch it much the first time around, but I was moved to revisit it after I fell down the delightful rabbit hole of Fashion It So. 

It is pretty enjoyable! This is particularly true if you have a high tolerance for Deanna Troi's cleavage and also have someone on hand to make sure you don't accidentally watch any of the really stupid episodes that are terribly stupid and make you say "this show was stupid and terrible and stupid." Try to avoid that, unless you like it better that way.

The big surprise for me is that Riker is my favorite. I'd thought, based on my hazy memories of the series, that he was either very boring or some kind of irritating Cyclops type.* (I am making myself really super un-nerdy with this line of discussion and this comparison in particular, right? Where are you going, beloved readers who care about Nancy Mitford novels, analytic philosophy, and/or Serge Lutens perfume? Come baaaack!) But no, he is awesomely smug and smoove. I particularly enjoy when he is just puttering around in the background and instead of doing some kind of generic background tech, he is being a background total player. Also, he plays the trombone.

Anyway, last night, the conversation turned to replicator-generated human meat, as it will do.

"As long as I was at it, I'd have the replicator make it be me meat. Because why not?"

"But what cut?"

"Yeah, I don't know that there's that much good eating on a person."

"Right, and I don't really want to eat something that is TOO obviously HI! YOU'RE EATING A CHUNK OF HUMAN. So ribs are out."

"Maybe bacon."

"Ooh! Yes. Person bacon. PERSON BACON. Very catchy. Or sausage. Maybe a pulled person sandwich?"

"I think you mean pulled dork."

"Of course! Or dork chops."

So then, just now, I was looking at this post and trying to think of how I could end it, you know, with some funny little button. But...

"This is the dorkiest thing I have ever written," I said.

"You could make a joke about William Shatner and ham," suggested Steve. But I think I won't.

 

*Updated, much more delightful link! "An Interview with X-Men's Cyclops, Who Sucks."

I could post something new, I suppose.

What, hello, hello, what?

My colleague across the hall likes to ask me if I have "anything new or interesting" to report. The answer is always, always no. No, there is nothing new and certainly nothing interesting. No.

It is becoming a sort of principle on which my entire life is predicated, this complete lack of novelty and interest. That is perhaps why I have not said anything here for two weeks, and that was a dream about tooth spiders.

But, then, who am I to presume that you would rather read about things that are interesting or new? Maybe you prefer the old and the dull. Maybe you have been thinking, "Oh, everyone is always telling me about interesting new things! That sort of stuff is so predictable and easy to find. What I would really like, and no one ever offers me, is some good, stale tedium."

If so, join me, won't you, over a nice cup of the boring detritus of my unglamorous life?

The gardener (who is employed by our landlord and usually comes and goes on his own mysterious schedule, leaving things attractive and doused in toxic chemicals) rang the bell the other day to tell me that one of my trees was dying. I do not think it is dying, I think it is manifesting its deciduous nature, about which I was warned by the nursery when I bought it.

But the gardener assures me that it is dying, and that the problem is its pot. It is currently sitting inside a nice wooden planter, not yet freed from the pot in which it was purchased. The pot in question is one of those weird paperish pots that you can supposedly pop right into a hole in the dirt and let disintegrate. The gardener tells me that the tree is dying—and surely he would know if a tree was dying? better than I would, right?—because the pot does not drain. But when I water the tree, the pot manifestly does drain. And how could a pot whose problem is (also?) probably that it is turning to dirt itself pretty quickly also be killing the tree inside it by not draining? 

In any case, this weekend I have to go find a tree-sized plastic pot that will please him. "These pots," he says, indicating the other, non-deciduous trees, are fine. "Get one like that." I don't know what he will say when the tree continues to turn yellow and drop all its leaves after I put it in a shitty plastic pot. Or we could get some dirt, which will be heavy, and plant the thing right in the planter, after which it will still die, or "die." Either way. 

A SHORT LIST OF THINGS JANE HAS BEEN SAYING ALL THE TIME, WITH THE MANIFEST, AND MANIFESTLY MISTAKEN, IMPRESSION THAT THEY WILL BE UNDERSTOOD

• Ducky (nb: whatever this means, it is definitely not "ducky")
• My key (nb: whatever this means, it is definitely not "my key" or "Mikey")
• Babetz

"Babetz" is actually the least mysterious of these, oddly enough, because she always says it at the table, and has recently occasionally been pronouncing it a little more like "mawetz." Ah. Babetz = more water. Of course. That should help with the ducky and the keys.

She also answers all questions "no." Whether they are phrased in a yes/no format is immaterial. It is a sort of gentle, chiding "no," a touch condescending. "Noooooo," you silly person, no.

Q. Do you want more beans?
A. [reaching for more] Noooo.

Q. What do you mean when you say "ducky"? Ducky?
A. No, no. Ducky! Ducky! Ducky ducky ducky.

Q. What do you think of that toast, Jane?
A. Noooo. No.

In conclusion, obviously very advanced. 

Choppers

Last night I dreamed that I went to a new dentist. She was kind of gothy, and her office was not so brightly lit, and decorated with purple drapey things. But that was okay.

Then she told me that she had a giant spider who was going to scrape the plaque off my teeth. 

"A giant spider?" I said.

"Yes, but it will feel kind of like a bunny," she said.

Trees.

My mother came to visit and it was swell. Not only is she wildly entertaining company (at least when she is not keeling over from jetlag induced sudden exhaustion), she also claimed that visiting us was "like staying at a lovely spa."

This is (a) perhaps the thing a houseguest could say that is most perfectly designed to delight and flatter me, and of course (b) utter bollocks. I am not familar with any lovely spas that feature toddlers who scream like they are being tortured when you try to put them to bed ten minutes before they are ready and steal your iPhone between times, or staff who explain to you just how HARD it is to walk as SLOWLY as you do, with your dodgy knees, as they force you to walk all the way across town for the third time that day. 

But maybe you know one like that. Is it the best ever? It is probably the best ever.

In addition to putting up with our nonsense and calling it restorative, my mother also performed a grandparental babysitting feat more wonderful than I could have imagined. Wrestling a screaming child into bed so that we could go see Contagion and eat artfully prepared food was excellent, without a doubt, but the mindblowingly brilliant bit was the mornings.

Being an early riser ordinarily and on east coast time to boot, she was awake bright and early every day. And so, when Jane woke with her habitual aggreived creaky door noises and requests for cheese (chizsh! chizsh! chizsh! chizsh! chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizsh!) my wonderful, glorious, sainted mother would receive her happily and then CLOSE OUR BEDROOM DOOR so that we could roll over and go back to sleep. 

Also she accompanied me to a local nursery and engaged in what anyone else would certainly find mindnumbingly extended stints of lively conversation about my adorable new little trees: which to get, where to put them (here? no, how about two feet to the left? forward a bit? where the other one is? back over here?), how charming they were, how pleasing their containers, what other things would accompany them to best advantage et cetera et cetera oh trees.

Trees! They are rather fetching, aren't they?

Not having any decisive point to close on, I leave you with two views of Jane, the dignified:

and the somewhat less dignified:

Onion? Onion.

What was that I said about posting more often? Was it something like "I certainly don't think I should post particularly often"? Or "What's a good title for a post that rhymes with 'often'?" 

Maybe it was something about posting tricky arrangements of question marks and quotation marks more often. I don't know. Something like that. 

In any case, you might enjoy these pictures of Jane and an onion. The last one is particularly fashion forward.

My mother is in town for the week, and I expect we will get up to a lot of things that entertain us, at least. Maybe some of them will even translate into something that might conceivably be amusing to others. I'll try to keep track.