journal gems

These journals were for our six nieces for Christmas. I loved giving them (probably more than they loved getting them, but hey, that's ok). I especially like the one with the girl on the cover. She reminds me of my oldest niece, Suzanne. Something about seeing the journals all together is just so, ya know, dreamy...

it's the little things

I just got these beauties at a consignment store. So great. It doesn't take much to make the small but important parts of life a little extra-special. Anyway, cheers!

Happy 2008!

I'm feeling excited about this year. I feel like making this the year of creative expression--making stuff, trying new things, taking classes, other fun stuff. Last night I finished my first-ever zippered item. It's a little bag. Cute, I think. Anyway, I ready to start a new year!

turkeys, part deux

Ok, so I won't be doing THAT again.

All day my turkey cooked in the oven, making the house smell just great. I checked the temperature a million times in the thickest part--the thigh--just as the directions said. I cooked it 45 minutes longer than needed, but the thermometer wasn't budging past 140. Then the final time I checked it, it read 180 degrees, so I took it out.

The bird rested for half an hour. The kids and I played. We took a little walk.

Back to the turkey. I start to carve it, and ahh, it's beautiful. Nice and golden. As I get more into it, I see that, dang it, it's not done yet. I don't know much about cooking meat, but I know the "juice" should run clear. This was pink.

What to do? I've already let it rest, and started carving. Can't put it back in.

As I get deeper into it, I find a little plastic bag of giblits. Nice. I fished all around that thing before I cooked it, even turning it upside down and shaking it, and I swear it wasn't in there! Neck--yes. Little bag of goodies--no.

I don't like dark meat, neither does Curt. So off go the legs. Oh my god, it's so gross. All the cracking of bones, and rending of mostly-cooked flesh. How did I miss this before? Am so priviledged as to never experienced this?

Thankfully, Miss Kitty, our mail carrier, brought the mail just as I was about to toss the whole thing in the trash (see above). I told her of my turkey woes, and she had lots of helpful advice to save the day. Wrap the meat in foil, and cook it another 30 minutes. Next time, use a roasting pan, she said.

So, it's not a total wash. We will eat the turkey for dinner, and for many other dinners this week. We'll boil the carcass (ew) and Curt'll make turkey soup. But darned if I'm cooking a whole anything for a long, long time.

turkeys

I'm going to cook a turkey today. I know, I know. It's after Thanksgiving. But I'm not tired of turkey yet, since Mom cooked our entire Thanksgiving meal. We bought one at our little grocery store for really cheap. It's a 14 pounder, a free-range bird.

How is it that at the age of 38, I've never done this before? Curt has cooked lots of turkeys. But somehow, this will be my first attempt and, I'm feeling a little intimidated by it. I know it's just a turkey, but I don't want to ruin it. You know that feeling you get when you're way into the middle of cooking something you have high hopes for, and then things start to go terribly wrong. There's no way out. You've gotten yourself into it, and you've got to figure a way out. Or throw it in the trash, which happens from time to time and is completely defeating.

So, I hope it works. Wish me luck.

p.s. I haven't posted since May. Sheesh. And then when I do, it's about cooking a turkey. I gotta get out more.

ouch!

Yesterday Luke dropped a hefty brick on his bare big toe. Ouch! His toenail turned black immediately. I asked if he could wiggle his toe, and he did, so--whew, no broken bones. "I need a Band-aid! Lots and lots of Band-aids!" he wailed. We went in and sat on the couch for the next hour until he calmed down. The rest of the evening, he was his usual perky self.

Then, at 9:30 last night, Luke woke up crying and writhing in pain. "My toe still hurts!" he cried. We sat on the couch again and watched tv, while I first called Mom (Curt's out of town), then my doctor. After a double-dose of Tylenol, he felt better. The poor guy. You just know how bad it hurts. At the height of it, I had that awful feeling of not being able to help. The last time I had that feeling, he pulled his elbow out of the socket (a big, big ouch!) and to go to the doctor. I've never smashed anything, but just the thought of it makes me weak in the knees. Being a mom kinda forces you to get over initial gross-out reactions.

All's well this morning. The toe looks pretty rough, but Luke said, "It's all better!"

Pinehurst

Yesterday we all went to Pinehurst, a golfing mecca about an hour from Raleigh. Curt had some work to do at the Carolina Inn there, and we tagged along. The boys had fun running up and down the long hallways, playing on the perfect green lawns, and generally living it up. The 4-star hotel has endless lines of chandeliers, big bowls of red apples, and jacket-required dining rooms. And as you might imagine, a very white, upper-class clientele with a not-so-white hotel staff.

The boys and I stayed up late playing "hide the shampoo" and eating junk food. (Or rather, what I thought was junk food but turned out to be sugar-free jellybeans. They were more like wax lips, without the fun juicy stuff.) The next morning we went to the dining room for breakfast. The previous night Curt said the room was 95% full of white men gaffawing, drinking and doing business. Men go there to golf and do business, something I just can't get a handle on. Curt doesn't golf, so he couldn't go golfing with the rest of the men (hanging around on the golf course is bad form). If you don't golf, you're out. It's exclusionary, and I just can't believe this is still the way "the men" do business.

Anyway--here we were having a nice breakfast at the dining room. An older African-American man named Bob gently played the piano. Luke's ears perked up. We went over several times to look. The man graciously waved, smiled, and welcomed us to come over. Luke told him he was learning to play violin.

"Suzuki?" the man asked. (That's the kind of music lessons Luke is taking.)
"Yes," we said.
"You must be very good. Some day I'd like to hear you play me a song," Bob said.
"Ok!" Luke smiled. "When you come over to my house, we can play a beautiful song together."
"I'd like that," said Bob.

We talked a bit more about Luke's violin, all while Bob played a jazzy "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." The man was so kind, and made such a connection with us in just that quick exchange.

I'm having a hard time expressing how I felt. It's a mix of enjoyment (it is a nice hotel, after all) and guilt. Guilty for what, being white? Being wealthy enough to stay there? I wanted to explain it was on the company tab, but why? I noticed myself going out of my way to say thanks to everybody who waited us. Did other people notice the dichotomy, I wondered? Or maybe it's been this way for so long here that this is the status quo.

As we walked out of the dining room Curt said he had goosebumps and I was feeling my eyes getting teary. Bob knew about a relatively obscure form of music training, obviously had been a muscian for most of his life, and was playing for an all-white crowd on an all-black staff. I got the feeling that if we really did invite him to come over, he would come. That would be so nice.