Hint: you should not read this post with a full mouth, or bladder.
Yesterday did not turn out at all like I had planned. It was, nevertheless, an excellent day.
I emptied two or three boxes before breakfast, and then we hopped in the car, with two books on serger technique which I found in the course of unpacking last week and which I wanted to hand off to Fourthborn, who has the serger I inherited from Mom. The primary reason for our trip was to make the final changes to my checking account. We added Beloved several weeks ago, but we could not change my name on the account until I had my new, temporary driver’s license with my married name. (I will note that his bank had no problem adding me to the account, with only the marriage license as proof.)
We took Lorelai, because she has a toll tag, and our next stop was to be the hospital, so that Beloved could get the chemo pump removed. And also because she is fun to drive. We were within three blocks of the bank when I realized that I might not have my new driver’s license with me. I did not. In an excess of efficiency, I had taken only my wallet and the checkbook. The driver’s license was in my pink purse at home. So we got right back on the freeway and came home, then dashed down to the hospital to get Beloved taken care of.
From there we drove back to Arlington, arriving at the bank about twenty minutes before closing. We signed off on the paperwork, then went to In N Out for lunch. I had never eaten inside. It was a madhouse: cheerfully orchestrated mayhem, and I am even more impressed with the employees than I had been.
From there we came back here, planning to pick up M the Marauder and get him his fishing pole. Grandpa was up to his ears in cancer cells this time last year, so M is the only grandchild on the Beloved side of the family without his own fishing pole. We were about an hour and a half later getting back to Garland than we had planned, and M’s family had plans with other family members, so M and Beloved will be going fishing tomorrow morning at dark-thirty using a sibling’s pole, then stopping to buy a pole for him when he’s had enough of worm-drowning. He’s four. Could be a very short fishing trip, but Beloved’s rule is that when the grandchild has had enough, fishing is done until next time.
I have been craving macaroni and cheese since about 15 minutes after being told that I am lactose and casein intolerant. So I made a big pot of it: tricolor rotini, with the last of the honeymoon ham simmered in the pot to thaw. Four to six ounces of goat cheddar, shredded, and an ounce or two of sheep cheese (more Gouda-ish than cheddar), and a real white sauce, and half a log of soft chevre when the sauce was thinner than I liked. I got really brave and put in about half a teaspoon of Tabasco, and two separate, liberal gratings of peppercorn.
It was aMAZing. Although Beloved could not detect the presence of any Tabasco. Umm, *I* could. And you know what? It was a pretty good compromise between what I think of as comfort food (smooth, bland, and rich) and what he thinks of as comfort food (melt your eyebrows from the inside out). I will definitely make it again, and next time I think I will aim for closer to a teaspoon of Tabasco, and three gratings of peppercorn.
The boy is definitely corrupting me.
I cleared out a couple more boxes before church this morning, and I think three large ones since coming home and taking a nap. I found the three skirts which need varying amounts of mending, two tops that I had put into the cut-up pile because Beloved is a wizard at getting spots out of things, a whole lot of junk yarn that I bought from Brother Stilts in order to get my hands on his stash of mohair, and a bag of good yarn that was gifted to me by one friend or another. Alison, this would include the yummy stuff you gave me when we met shortly before the wedding.
The reason for the current spate of box-opening is that I really, truly want to find my ball winder and umbrella swift. The young women at church are having a service auction later this month, to raise money for Girls Camp. I would like to have a shawlette done or mostly-done when that day rolls around, so I may avoid the embarrassment of taking the better part of a year to fulfill my commitment, as happened with the first service auction in my last ward. (To be fair to myself, I was called to be Relief Society president shortly after the auction, and that cut seriously into my knitting time, although not nearly as much as Beloved does. Not that I am complaining. As often as not, what he has in mind is every bit as much fun as knitting, and you may take that any way you like.)
I wound a ball of the new sock yarn I bought in Farmersville last weekend, entirely by hand, before church and am already working on the heel flap of this baby sock. That skein was something like 185 yards. I have no enthusiasm whatsoever for winding 440 yards of laceweight yarn to make a shawlette. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. So I am taking a little break from the bending and lifting and stowing, to give my legs and back a rest. But I’m almost ready to head back into the studio and tackle the last two boxes in that stack.
Beloved is baking banana bread as we speak. And we are having potstickers for dinner. Lunch was salmon burgers, a new and kinda weird melon, and some excellent grapes.
Cover me, y’all. I’m going back in...
Oh wait, I can’t. I forgot to tell you about the yardwork. When we got home from the errands (after my having driven 200 miles), Beloved headed out to the garden and fired up the Troy Bilt. I broke in my new leather work gloves by pulling vine maple off the back fence. He is going to cut and torch the rest of it, and we will plant trumpet vine and honeysuckle back there, to draw the birds and the bees.
Yes, I know all about the birds and the bees. I have five kids, remember? I am also nearly 60, so there is no fear of having a sixth unless we get a visit from an angel and are promptly renamed Abe and Sarah. Although I could have a lot of fun with that at church, since I am on a baby sock knitting binge at present, to get ahead of the curve for shower gifts.
Why yes, I am knitting a baby sock. I’m a newlywed. These things do happen.
*Snort* I slay myself.
- Five 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!