Because I started Willow’s sock six weeks ago, and I documented how many rounds for the ribbing at the cuff, and how the pattern starts, where the gusset begins and ends, etc., thus increasing the likelihood of ending up with matching socks.
Notwithstanding the fact that I lost one of my DP’s either in Central Market when I nipped in [for mozzarella for the caprese, and dolmas to go alongside] or out in the parking lot afterward, I finished the ribbing last night while watching Return to Me with the new guy. He brought me four VHS movies to enjoy between now and when we see each other again. And flowers, currently having a sip in the bathroom sink.
Tola, I got your Christmas card from Old Blighty. What a lovely surprise! Thank you.
So, dinner last night was caprese, arranged like a flower on my square white plates, with two dolmas on either side, impersonating foliage. Followed by bread-cheese pudding while the soup finished cooking. And I forgot to pick up the canned cherry pie filling which I normally chill and serve alongside. Basic potato soup, un-thickened for once; essentially what I served my friend J last month when she came to dinner, minus the leeks, which are sulking somewhere in the back of the fridge.
When I made the bread-cheese pudding, I used the last five croissants from Thursday’s lunch-and-a-movie and half a loaf of potato bread that is a little too tender to toast (the crust keeps breaking off and bolting for the bottom of the toaster), the last of the open package of dried onions, my last four eggs, and most of a pint of half and half, thinned with some water. Also upended my jar of minced garlic, and maybe a tablespoon somersaulted out before I righted it and clapped on the lid again. 350°F for half an hour in a disposable 9x13 pan, and it was nearly done, so I turned the heat down to 300°F and left it in there until the elders arrived and we had finished our salads. I had had to guess how much water to throw in, to approximate whole milk and counteract the fact that I was about four eggs short of the ideal.
I just ate half of the leftovers for breakfast and at great personal sacrifice am saving the remainder to take for lunch tomorrow.
As you can see, the fireplace is humming merrily. Having reviewed the pattern for Willow’s sock, I am ready to curl up on the couch with Grumpy Old Men and put some mileage on the cuff before it’s time to get ready for church.
Oh, what’s that? You want a progress report on the new guy and me? Well, he still talks during movies. And it still makes me twitch. But thus far that’s the only red flag, and we had an interesting if brief discussion on organ donation, brought on by the movie. I told him, “Oh, by the way, I’m an organ donor.” To which he responded that his late wife had not wanted to be one, and that he had defended her right when the nice man at the hospital came to ask, twice, if they could divvy her up when she was through with her body, and that they were not to ask a third time.
I probably ought to ask him if he could as passionately and faithfully defend my right to be one, on the off-chance that he outlived me. (I have a good shot at making it to 100. I have no idea how longevity plays out for the males in his tribe, but his mother is still lively at 81.)
There are lots of ways to show respect for the temple which is one’s body. Not giving or receiving blood is one way; the Christian Scientists have that down to an art form. Not being an organ donor is another, and I recognize and respect that. Giving blood (assuming one has not had hepatitis, as I have) is another, and to my way of thinking, being an organ donor is a really cool way to spend a little more time here on this lovely earth, doing good. And if I donate my body to science, science picks up the tab for planting what’s left, and I am totally fine with that.
Just have a memorial service and then get together afterward and tell funny stories about me and eat too much chocolate, and if you can find somebody to play “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes in the general vicinity of my grave, after the dedication of my gravesite is finished, I promise not to come back and haunt you.
Yeah, probably need to discuss all of this with him.
So, progress? Nothing measurable, and I continue to be strangely fine with that. Nice hug at the beginning of the evening, another nice hug at the end. I was even OK with the fact that David Duchovny and Minnie Driver were smooching onscreen, while I was sitting in a smooch-free zone.
After church today I will go pick up Fourthborn and Fiancé and bring them over here for some Texas Skillet. We will also discuss the feasibility of my buying one of the six dolls she is putting up for sale in order to capitalize her Etsy business. She has one I’ve always liked, in a size between the dolls I already own, and it would be nice to keep her doll in the family while supporting her business goals; I would also have a another model for my own creations. I really think I am ready to put some of my designs on the market, and Secondborn has graciously offered to do the photography for both sites.
I would still honor my commitment not to buy any new resin during 2010, if that works for Fourthborn.
Life is good. I’m going to pop in a movie and go knit for awhile.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!