Adventures in the Pointless Forest

Of the house

It's cold outside. Worse, it's cold in that sneaky December way that makes me think, "Well, maybe winter's not so totally dreadful," when ha ha ha the joke is on me because December really is just late fall or maybe prewinter, and I should just wait until January and then oh fuck February, and oh dear also March. Then even April is not spring but merely prespring. Dammit. At least the part where it is dark all the time is nearing its apogee, or nadir, depending on how you look at it. 

Afternoons and evenings can be a bit of a drag these days, with the cold and the dark that arrives well before dinnertime, and Jane wailing about how no she does not want to go for a walk or play outside, it is too dark, instead she wants to watch a video, a video please, how about some Peppa Pig please? A video a video a video pleeeeeeease. 

Hm, is there a story here? Alas, I think not. So here, have some bedtime stories instead. These are the ones Jane currently likes to be told multiple times a day, which I suppose somewhat undermines their status as bedtime stories, per se. They are 

"The Helicopter Story"

In this heartwarming tale, Mrs. Rabbit (stolen from Peppa Pig) takes Jane, Hedgehog, and Mr. Badger on a helicopter ride to Helicopter Island. Helicopter Island is very rocky, but covered in lots of springy green moss. There Hedgehog and Jane go off to climb rocks and roll on the moss, but the best part is that there is a big hill all covered in moss that you can slide down on pieces of cardboard. They slide on it and climb up and slide and climb up again and again until they are so tired they just flop at the bottom.

Then Mrs. Rabbit calls them to come over for tea, so they come and have tea from a thermos and some chocolate sandwich cookies. Then Mrs. Rabbit explains that she has finished her work (delivering mail and collecting moss samples) and it is time to go home. They do and she lands the helicopter very neatly in their back garden. They get out and stand well out of the way and say thank you, and then she leaves. The loudness and wind-makingness of the rotors is commented on. That is all.

"The Story on a Train"

a. Breakfast

It is breakfast time on the train! Mr. Badger, Hedgehog, and Jane get up out of their red velvet seats and walk to the end of their car. Jane presses a button (foosh) and the door opens. Then they step through and press the next button. The door closes behind them (foosh) and another door opens in front of them (foosh). They walk through the club car, and then enter the dining car. There a walrus dressed in a crisp white uniform greets them: "Moddom, gundlemun. May I show you to your seats?"

They choose their breakfasts from their beautiful menus. They receive their breakfasts. They eat their breakfasts. They taste one another's breakfasts and agree that they are very good, but everyone likes their own best. The walrus says "Veddy good" at appropriate intervals. At last they are done and the walrus brings the check on a little tray. On the tray also are three tiny cookies!

Jane says, "But we didn't order these! Is it a mistake?" and the walrus says, gravely, "Cumplemunts of the house, moddom." And they eat them.

b. Lunch

It is lunchtime on the train! As above in nearly every detail, though the foods, of course, are different. Jane, for example, may have a peanut butter sandwich. Hedgehog may have grilled cheese. Badger may have egg salad on rye. Some new treats appear with the check.

c. Dinner

It is dinnertime on the train! As they pass through the club car, they see Moose, who knows Badger and gives him a nod. The proceedings include selecting rolls from a cloth-lined basket with silver tongs. There is also dessert. The treats that appear with the check this time around may be little candies, or perhaps tiny macarons. 

"Cumplemunts of the house," the walrus assures her, as always, and then they walk back to their compartment (foosh, foosh) and get back into their red velvet seats, and fall asleep.

The end.

Reading this over I fear it comes uncomfortably close to the failure of entertainment and common decency that is going on and on about one's dreams (and then it turned out it was my elementary school, but the classrooms were all different somehow...) but oh well. How are you?

Oh good.

Phytohaemagglutinin may allegedly be the name of a poisonous compound found in undercooked kidney beans, but I think it is obvious to everyone that it is actually either:

a. The sound you make when you have just eaten an undercooked kidney bean, or

b. A fancy word for 'hairballs'.

Halloween, Voting Day, Falling Back

Traditionally I am a big hater of the return to Standard Time, because it is depressing when the sun sets in what becomes more and more the middle of the afternoon, but traditionally I have not had to get up in time to have a relaxing breakfast while also wrestling a small child into her clothing and getting her out the door to preschool, and... actually it is kind of magnificent how much easier it has been to wake up in the mornings this week, so I may be revising my opinion on this matter. Also, Halloween was delayed around here until Sunday on account of Hurricane Sandy, which meant that the time change put the entire window of trick-or-treating after dark, which is how it should be.

—a pause here while I go and vote. Boy, there sure were a lot of judges and things on the ballot, and there sure were a lot of stations to visit in that process. But at last I have my "I Voted" sticker (actually an "I [Ohio as grossly deformed heart] Voting" sticker), which is of course the real point of the whole endeavor—

Anyway, trick-or-treating was pleasantly after dark. I am of the view that Halloween should be dark and thrilling and spooky, with friendly lit houses. If it is a weekday, your parents go to work, and then they come home, and then you have dinner which is pumpkin soup or something, and by then it is good and dark out, and you go, and then you come back and sort all your loot. Or you can have the dinner in between loot sorting and jumping up to give out candy to older kids, that works too and is what we did this year. But either way, it's all about a walk in the dark, and candy. And then more sorting and trading, until eventually your parents say "It's late and it's a school night, so get it together," and you go to bed kind of costume encrusted, the end.

What you do before it gets dark, of course, is take pictures:

One day, Ratty, all this will be yours.

"I pat the bread? I love you, bread."

I was a witch, to go with. I felt that Steve should go as a broom, but I didn't feel it so much that I made him a costume to that effect. Oh well, he was a broom in my heart. Or something. What about you? Any brooms out there?

With shitty pens

I feel it's very important to leave one's child at home and go to the office so that one can spend one's time there drawing silly pictures about one's child. And Batman. Don't you?

It goes like this: 

"Nooooo, I no want that!"

"What do you want?"

"Bread and JAM."

"But that is bread and jam."

"Waaaaghghghgh!"

Then Batman comes over and says something snide, and that totally takes care of it.

All this time, and this is what I come up with?

I'm sorry, have we met? 

Since I last wrote anything, we bought a house and moved 3/4 of the way across the country and I started a new, tenure-track job. Gee whiz! And as of this weekend, we have actually unpacked every box, down to the last picture frame, which is something we didn't manage to do either of the last two times we moved.

I miss Santa Barbara, our old place, our friends there, and our routines. I also miss the avocados and my lime tree. But... the new house is large and lovely and belongs to us (!) and Jane appreciates the stairs and the clothesline. We have entertained several houseguests already and expect more, which is very pleasing. We have friends of quality here, too, and there are trains.

In the meantime, Jane's bedtime routine has become rather more elaborate, and now includes a bedtime story to be composed on the fly by yours truly. These vary in their originality (as you might imagine) and have a variety of recurring characters and structural elements. They always end with a scene in which everyone goes to sleep. On a boat, on a train, on the back of an owl -- whatever, the endgame is sleep. Usually they feature Jane herself, as well as Badger and his young ward Hedgehog. A large rotating cast of secondary characters fill in as needed.

This past week she has become VERY into one scenario, known as "The Meeting Story," that consists mainly of major cribbing from the opening chapter of The Hobbit, retrofitted to the general storyworld of her bedtimes. She has demanded it several nights in a row now. Furthermore, now that the storyline is established, instead of having Mr. Badger open the door to guest after guest, it goes about like this:

Me: So just as the kettle was full, there was another knock on the door. Knock knock knock! Mr. Badger...

Jane: [in interrupting-cow style beginning around "knock"] I GET THE DOOR I GET THE DOOR I GET THE DOOR

Me: Okay, you opened the door and there was a whole family of raccoons! And they said...

Interrupting Cow Jane: THEY WANT A TEA THEY WANT A TEA THEY WANT A TEA?

Me: 'Oh, thank you, Jane, we would like some tea! We're here for the mee...'

ICJ: I MAKE A TEA

Me: Okay, so you put the kettle on the sto...

ICJ: I PUT A KETTLE ON A STOVE!

etc.

Eventually Merlin (why not Gandalf? because Merlin had already appeared in a different story, about snakes) comes and tells them that he has called the meeting because they are all going to go on an adventure tomorrow, no, he can't tell them more because he lives backwards, don't you know, and he can never remember whether he is remembering something that never happened or making plans for something that happened last year, so it's best if he keeps it all under his hat, but it will be a fine adventure at which their presence will all be required and there will be a boat on the river to pick them all up for it first thing in the morning, so they had better get some sleep.

Then they pull all the bedding out of the airing cupboards and make up beds for everyone and everybody is so excited they think they will never be able to go to sleep but after all the excitement it turns out that they do, quite quickly, after all, the end.

Well. I missed you! Sorry I've been so delinquent. Maybe I will reform this time. How are you?

They say parenting changes you.

It turns out that it is because one now lives with a two-foot-tall mad genius set designer and wardrobe director.

Our remote control is currently lovingly wrapped in two thirds of a sheet of crumpled white paper, secured with a rubber band. The handkerchiefs are mostly in use as bulky diapers (folded and tucked by me, on demand -- "Diaper please") wrapped around the hind ends of toy cars. There is now always a full laundry basket at the foot of our bed, excellently positioned for tripping on and swearing at, because Jane is short and our bed is tall, and she understandably feels that standing on a basketful of clothing is the best solution to this problem. A tidy row of wooden trucks can often be found tucked under the edge of the quilt, where Steve would like to slide in, and the shampoo is filed on the bookshelf between Dashiell Hammett and Jack Vance.

We can all frequently be seen around town with sprightly little bows in our hair. Jane generally prefers to put the fuchsia one on Steve. It must be said that he is the member of the family who carries off the bow with the most style. It's very fetching against his dark brown pixie cut.

I have no pictures for you, of these events or otherwise, because all my photos are currently trapped on another computer, the trackpad of which is not working thanks to some strategically splashed milk, and I haven't yet dug out a mouse from the depths of wherever it might be hiding. Fortunately you've all gone off and done other things, or moved to Peru, or turned to dust, or however you most like to respond to centuries of nothingness, so you won't mind. But I've missed you and am sorry to have been so delinquent. Tomorrow night I get to fly on a red-eye to Ohio. Without trying to wrangle a toddler at the same time, yay! But in a middle seat, BOO. Will the extremity of my general state of exhaustion permit me to sleep even so? Can the magic of Benadryl conquer the horror of the middle seat? Time will tell. 

Dumplings

Things tick along as usual, trending on the better side of the norm. Jane and I do both have lingering though I think finally waning colds (she: ever-replenishing fountain of snot; me: the nightly descent of The Cough, which starts out tickly and gentle and ramps up to a croupy honking bark until it eventually gives up again) but our spirits are unbroken. Behold:

I have also finally discovered and embraced the value of Benedryl as a sleep aid. Have you heard the GOOD NEWS about Benedryl? Of course you have, obviously. Everyone has, but I bet you are not enjoying its slowly descending drowsy embrace right this minute as I am. It works like a charm and it is great and I love it forever and ever, hallelujah.

Additionally I have at last begun whittling away at my non-Jane work on a daily rather than an utterly inadequate and procrastination-filled twice-weekly schedule. This puts a spring in my step and does a lot for my ability to sleep through the night instead of waking suddenly at three in the morning with the cold hand of HORRIBLE DREAD around my heart. Steve too appreciates these advances in my sleep régime, because apparently it is not so delightful when your peaceful slumbers are rent by your beloved's thrashing limbs and pathetic mutterings of "oh dear, oh dear, I can't, I can't, oh dear."

So we are all pretty cheerful at the moment, despite the snot.

Tonight I made these ricotta gnocchi for dinner, with tomato sauce. It was a little logistically complicated to make them for the first time (I think I will be able to do it more efficiently next time--there was a lot of doing this step over here and then realizing I wanted to do the next part over there) but not the slightest bit difficult otherwise, and they were excellent.

Jane called them "dumplings" and ate them very neatly with her fork, until she had had enough, and then she fed the last two on her plate to me. Sadly she is not always so obliging in her table manners. In particular she loves to peel apart the layers of the tortilla on her breakfast quesadilla and drop the shattery outer flakes with great deliberation on the floor.

On the other hand, she also loves to hug and kiss the trees. Have I mentioned this? We will go out for a walk and as we approach a tree she will dash ahead and fling her arms around the trunk, then plant a nice fat smackaroo on the bark. "Hug," she says with satisfaction and a last little reassuring pat for the tree. On balance, I think we'll keep her.

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 Provensens' 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.