Halloween: the aftermath

Man, that was gruesome. Another year, another battle against hosts of undead minions. Good thing I stocked up on garlic and halogen bulbs at the Quickie-Mart. (Oh, and Dove Promises. Those things are THE NUM. You can't fight shambling evil without goodies.)

It's weird, how disparate trick-or-treating is in varied neighborhoods. When I was a teenager, we lived on a street that ran sharply uphill, so we didn't often get visitors at Halloween. But in this neighborhood... it's like somewhere around the corner there are black-and-orange helicopters constantly dropping off Spec Ops trick-or-treaters. The last two Halloweens here, we ran out of candy before the evening was up, and we had to lock the door and turn off the lights. This year we bought about a metric ton of chocolate, so we actually have leftovers. It may qualify as a historic occasion.

I realized this evening that I didn't really have any decorations up, so I cut all sorts of autumn leaves out of fancy papers and stuck them to the front door. It looked reasonably festive.

NgAAAhhh!

Sorry, can't talk now, must fight off legions of rabid undead trick-or-treaters dressed like pretty princesses.

Sooz Makes Stuff. Film at 11.

When I was a little girl, my brothers and I used to drape ourselves in Mom's huge, deep-pink-and-maroon ripple afghan and wander around the house, making fearsome ghostly noises. The afghan was soft and cushy, big enough to cover a double bed (or me and my two brothers at once). Mom had made it slowly, a bit at a time, while she was in college, in the midst of a minor love affair with all things pink. When she brought it home, her mother liked the pattern so well that she, in turn, made several ripple afghans in various colors. I remember there was always a ripple afghan draped over the foot of the bed in the guest rooms at Grandma's house.

Right now I'm working on a rainbow ripple afghan. (The photo isn't quite color-accurate -- the dark stripe is actually a deep navy blue, not almost black as it appears.) It began as a sort of stash-buster project in an effort to diminish the slightly ludicrous amounts of yarn in my house. I've tried to space the rainbow repeats far enough apart that it isn't obvious I'm using slightly different colors in each repeat. (Of course, any crocheter can tell you what happens when you work on one of these use-it-up projects -- you run out of a yarn color you need well before the project is done, so then you need to buy "just one more skein" to finish it properly, and then another, and another... it never ends.)

Ripple afghans are relatively easy to make, which is good, because that's about my speed. Some day, perhaps, I'll tackle the mysterious vagaries of crochet lace, cables and stranded knitting, but for now I'm sticking to simpler projects. The only problem with making afghans is that, unless you're the Fastest Crochet Hook in the West, they take time. Quite a lot of time. To give you an idea, I started a lap-sized ripple afghan a day or two after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and by the time I had it finished, the bulk of the relief work for that disaster was over and done with. If I were wiser, I'd plan ahead like my sister-in-law; she always seems to be working on a baby afghan while watching a DVD, and she therefore always has one in readiness for a baby shower. (That girl's a pretty smart cookie.)

And now, in honor of Halloween, a slightly ghoulish little short story in the public domain (and a personal favorite): Sredni Vashtar, by H.H. Munro (aka Saki). Enjoy!

In which Soozcat regresses to childhood

Ah, I feel like a kindergartner again.

These are crayon rubbings of a few of the autumn leaves in our neighborhood. I'm pretty sure they are, clockwise from left to right: ornamental crabapple, maple and ginkgo. And if you're wondering: a) no, I didn't actually do that neat of a job with the rubbing; this image went through some minor cleanup in Paint Shop Pro, and b) although our fall colors are fairly amazing this year, the crabapple leaf is not color-accurate. Heh.

I am a happy -- and probably very easily pleased -- Laundry Fairy right now, because yesterday the mail brought me a huge pillowy bag full of knitting wool in various gorgeous colors. Christmas presents, here we come. (Not that I'm a particularly good knitter/crocheter, mind you, but what I lack in ability I make up for in enthusiasm.)

Have I mentioned that I've gone off the deep end and decided to make as many handmade Christmas presents as possible this year? Yes, well, I do seem to enjoy setting myself up for failure. We'll see how much mad creative output I can gin up in the coming month. Maybe this year, instead of NaNoWriMo, I'll commit to NaChrisPrezMo instead. Then instead of generating an unsellable novel, I'll make unwearable scarves and hats! Huzzah!

(Note to siblings: don't worry, I'm not going to give you anything horrifying.)

In other news, if I get one more unwanted phone call and/or mail circular related to the upcoming election, I am going to load up and head for the nearest clock tower. I've just about had it. For the last week I have had, on average, three calls and four flyers in my mailbox per day, all either urging me "Don't vote for X, he clubs baby seals and worships Cthulhu!" or "Vote for Y, she'll make the water sweeter, the trees grow taller, peace and joyous giggly rapture will rule the land, and your toots will smell of roses and ambergris!" ENOUGH. I am pleased to live in a land where I have the freedom to choose my own representatives in government, but I also believe I live in a land where I should have the freedom not to hear from them every day for the next week and a half. Holy cripes on toast, people!

Some fall color

It's supposed to rain tomorrow, so I took advantage of the good weather to wander outside and snap some pictures of the fall foliage. Both of these pictures were taken on my street.

Western Oregon is a bit odd, in that most of our native trees are evergreens. Consequently the best place to see fall colors is not on a winding country road somewhere, but in the cities where deciduous trees are planted.

The golden one on the left is a ginkgo; they're supremely beautiful in fall. Someone ought to make thin, hammered gold coins shaped like ginkgo leaves. I'm not sure what the other type of tree is -- an elm, maybe? -- but our street is lined with them.

Another example of tree whose species I don't recognize (probably a maple -- thanks, Tara). This beautiful tree is just next to my mailbox, so when goodies from the SOSF arrive, they pass beneath this tree!

On cursed sites

Have you ever noticed that some public places are cursed?

I actually have two slightly different meanings in mind when I say this. (And by "cursed" I don't mean companies which propagate evil or unfair business practices, causing others to spew profane vitriol at them -- that's "cussed," which is fodder for another discussion entirely.)

The first kind of cursed site is a phenomenon my husband and I first observed in Provo, Utah in our early years of marriage. Provo is a college town, an interesting mix of long-term locals and short-term students. Some old and well-loved businesses have thrived for decades in the same spot by catering to both kinds of residents. But there are other commercial properties not so fortunate -- such as a particular prime bit of real estate just one block south of campus. This property has housed a string of failed restaurants and other doomed businesses ever since the demise of the little family cake bakery which had operated successfully there for three generations. It's hard to say why, exactly; maybe it's poor business models, maybe it's due to the fickleness of the student population, maybe the departing family put a hex on the site, who knows -- but woe unto the business that chooses to set up shop on that property, because said business will invariably fail within six months to a year. My theory: this particular site couldn't be more cursed if the Banshee showed up and washed socks on its doorstep. If I were a betting woman (which I'm not), I could make a mint predicting the inevitable collapse of any business that chose to rent this site, or any one of several other cursed sites in the area.

The other kind of cursed site is one usually associated with abandoned places such as ghost towns or haunted houses, except the place I'm specifically thinking of is neither abandoned nor ghostly. It's the Safeway supermarket closest to my house. Even though I rather like Safeway, I never visit this supermarket because I suspect it is cursed. Whenever I've gone in, the only shoppers I ever see there are of two varieties: a) the consumptive addict about two days from the grave, or b) the career criminal freshly sprung from the clink. I know this probably sounds silly, and I am speaking with a bit of tongue in cheek, but I'm quite serious when I say I won't shop there any more. The place gives me the severe creeps even during the day. I've been there only once at night, and on that occasion I practically ran to my car because I was positive that I was in danger of being raped at any moment. Mind you, there were no dangerous-looking persons in the store or in the parking lot; it was practically empty at the time. I don't know how to explain it, other than to say that there's an evil feel to that place which assaults one's spirit. It is the polar opposite of the feeling one gets when one enters a loving home.

The odd thing is that I've only experienced this feeling inside the Safeway. There's a Bi-Mart store right next door, part of the same set of buildings, where I feel perfectly calm and safe.

If you doubt me and my tales of the Cursed Safeway, I invite you to come and visit me some time. I'll drive you over there and let you go inside and see for yourself, but I won't come in with you. I've had quite enough of the shopping heebie-jeebies, thanks.

Homemade tomato soup? It must be fall.

My little Dutch grandma would be so proud of me. (Ignore all the tomato blips and blops all over the stove... my cooking style isn't very tidy, I'm afraid.)

In our family, we call this concoction "Christmas soup" because Grandma Kest would usually make it around Christmastime. The full recipe calls for barley instead of rice, and tiny spiced meatballs cooked in the soup broth. Today, though, I was too lazy to defrost any ground beef, so I left out the meatballs and it got the basic spicing treatment plus some cooked rice, for near-instant Dutch tomatensoep goodness.

Of course, my dear hubby Captain Midnight is not entirely happy about this, even though he loves Christmas soup, because what he wants is FOOD. Perhaps you have the same issue with some of the men in your life. Hubby recognizes only one kind of semiliquid nourishment as a valid food: stew. Whether it's beef stew, chili, or some other thick and hearty meal in a bowl, he will eat it without complaint. "Soup" -- which to his mind is anything thinner than pea soup in consistency -- is not recognized as a valid meal, but as a kind of hot drink in a bowl. In order to be a full meal, it must be served along with heartier foodstuffs. The minute I said I was going to make tomato soup, he responded, "And toasted cheese sandwiches, right?" The soup then functions as a kind of dip into which the actual food -- the sandwich -- can be dunked. So at the moment he is feeling gypped. Poor Captain Midnight.

What do you think, should I make him a toasted cheese or not?

Double, double, toil and trouble...

Yes, it's time to talk about food again. You're going to get the idea that all we do around here is eat. (Sadly, it's not far from the truth. I guess we're fat & happy.)

As seen in a previous photo, we rounded up some apples and a big box of tomatoes from local growers a while ago (Tom's Orchard and Thistledown Farms, respectively). The tomatoes have been sitting a while, which is not a good idea for nice ripe tomatoes, because sooner or later they will get restless and turn to a life of crime. It ain't pretty to see a good tomato go bad. So yesterday and today I cut up a whole bunch of 'em, along with some onions and spices and a green pepper, and made a big, steamy cauldron of savory homemade tomato sauce. Every now and then I would wander over to the stove, stir it theatrically, and cackle with glee. The whole thing has now been pureed and strained, cooked down to a scrumptious thickness, and poured into big Ziploc bags to store in the freezer. With the bit I had left over, I made dinner (a one-time-only concoction of stewed pork with Italian herbs and tomato sauce, served over rice, with a side of steamed Romanesco. Mmm, Romanesco -- the fractal you can eat!). Right now an apple crisp is cooking in the oven for dessert.

I would be tempted to show you some of the things I've been busy making as of late, but now that I know my sister reads this blog, I'm afraid it would spoil some surprises. So there, neener neener.

What's your favorite music for this time of the year?

By "this time of the year" I mean specifically the weeks leading up to Halloween. What puts you into an autumnal kind of mood? I'm a curious little monkey.

ETA: Personally, I'm fond of a lot of slightly sad/morose/macabre stuff this time of year, everything from Danse Macabre to Loreena McKennitt to Oingo Boingo.

Woohoo!

Remember all the bad things I had to say about today? Forget 'em. Wipe the slate clean. Today was my lucky day.

For today, something arrived in the mail for me!

Burning with curiosity, I ripped it open to reveal...

All manner of delightful things Halloweenish! (Thank you thank you, kind fairy Tara!) I proceeded to do a joyous happy dance, greatly befuddling my husband in the process.

This tears it. Looks like I'm going to have to break down and finally get my ears pierced.

Show of hands, who's paraskavedekatriaphobic?

I'm not sure I could even pronounce it without a couple of rehearsals. But I am, slightly. (Triskaidekaphobia is fear of the number 13, which I don't have; paraskavedekatriaphobia is specifically fear of Friday the 13th. Thank you, Wikipedia. And who comes UP with these pseudo-Greek terms, I'd like to know?!)

My fear of this particular day stems from a few purely anecdotal occurrences, and I know it. Nonetheless, they were life-changing occurrences, which is probably why they stand out and give me a sense of leery discomfort about the day.

My mother was the second oldest in a family of six, all girls. I know all my aunties, except Aunt Bonnie. She was the fourth child, and widely considered to be the beauty of the family. In November 1964, a month after her seventeenth birthday, Aunt Bonnie was struck by a drunk driver a few blocks away from her home. Her lovely face and body were severely mutilated in the crash, and she lingered for some time in the hospital, broken and in pain. She died on a Friday the 13th.

Ah, my best friend in high school. He was cute, he was sensitive, he was funny and artistic, and I had the most terrible heart-rending crush on him which I tried to keep discreet, because I wasn't sure if it was requited. (In retrospect, I was probably about as discreet as a fifty-man band parading naked down Main Street at noon, playing the highest-decibel selections from the Nine Inch Nails catalog, but waddyawant, it was high school.) In September, near the beginning of our junior year, he called me up and said he had something really important to say to me, made me swear I would never tell -- you can probably see where this is going, but at the time I certainly didn't. It felt like a physical punch to the stomach, and I cried for days without being able to tell anyone why. He chose to come out to me on Friday the 13th.

There are other incidents, of course, most of them minor. They could have happened on any day of the year, I suppose, and there are plenty of other really distressing things that have happened on days with no particular lucky or unlucky significance. I don't place any particular significance on astrological signs, compatibility, or lucky/unlucky days based on horoscopes. I know it's just silly to be superstitious about a Friday the 13th, especially in October.

That said, if you need me I'll be cowering under the bed.

Late lunch, reflections on Knorr, and the Garbage Fairy

Enough with the constant text, it's about time we had some more IMAGES on this blog, ne?

All right, I admit it, sometimes I make soup from a packet. So sue me.

This was actually an interesting little adventure, since the only English words on the packet were "Knorr Extra Hot & Sour Soup" and a little slapped-on ingredients sticker that was, shall we say, very casually translated (this packet apparently contains Calcium G1uconate and Paparika 01eoresin. Hmm). But it's not that difficult to follow the visual directions -- put some water on to boil, add the contents of the packet, cook for an indeterminate period of time, swirl in a beaten egg, and serve. How hard could it be, she asked foolishly?

Well, luckily it really did turn out to be almost foolproof. The "hot" in this hot & sour is a slow burn, but the "sour" means business -- the bits of cabbage in this soup are almost sauerkraut, they're so tart. It is, like most packet soups, far too salty -- there's my entire sodium intake for the day! -- but not bad. It could be improved by a little more water, replacing some of the cooking liquid with chicken stock, and some strips of cooked pork.

Actually, I owe a debt of gratitude to the Knorr Swiss company. Technically speaking, if they hadn't existed back in the early '60s, I might not be around at all. Back then, when my dad was a young missionary who didn't even know how to make toast, he kept body and soul together by a) relying on the kindness of church members for Sunday dinner and b) mixing together Knorr soup packets, which were cheap and easy to fix. If I remember right, his favorite concoction was a combination of Knorr's Oxtail (now called Tomato Beef) and Garden Vegetable. This kept him alive long enough to finish his mission, go off to college, meet my mom, and eventually marry and have a whole lotta kids. Thus my existence was secured.

Dad never did learn how to cook very well. At the height of his culinary skill, some time in the late '70s, his full repertoire was soup from a packet, soup from a can, hamburger patties, scrambled eggs (often cooked in the hamburger grease -- ergh) and toast. He might also have been able to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but I won't swear to it. But Mom's a great cook, so most of the time we were set.

Today I noticed that we seem to have a helper fairy in the house. I put up a sign saying "Garbage Day," and by the time I get up all the garbage and recyclables have been collected and are put out on the curb for the Sanipac people to take away. So many thanks to our Garbage Fairy... wait, he seems rather too manly to be called a "fairy." Perhaps "Capt. M the Rugged Garbage Elf?"

Fairy parcels away!

Hee hee, this is so fun. *gleeful dancing ensues* I can only hope the recipient enjoys what I picked out.

In other news, I have been inspired by Craftster to put a little more DIY into my life. A few days ago I saw Kate Cusack's very cute zipper pins and thought they were quite a clever idea, but a bit steep at $70 a pop. So I picked up a red thrift-store zipper, still in its original notions sleeve, and gave it a try.

No, it's not really ready for prime time yet. Needs more petals in back. Either I need a longer zipper (this one was 16") or I'm making the outer petals too big. But I think I've got the general hang of how it comes together, and in any case it was fun to suss out the thing.

Next up: polymer clay. Fear and tremble as I proceed to fill my house with the smell of burning plasticizer!

Mmmmmm, tabbouleh.

I'm not a vegetarian by nature. Not that I have anything in particular against vegetarianism as a diet choice -- I just like the taste of meat too much to go, um, cold tofurkey. So when I choose to cook (or, in this case, prepare) a vegetarian dish, it has to be really worth my while.

Today as I was foraging in the pantry, I came across a bulk-food bag of bulgur wheat that I'd purchased about a month ago. About an hour and a half and lots of chopping time later, my honey and I had tabbouleh and hummus, both homemade, stuffed into mini-pitas as sandwiches. Oh, they were SO GOOD. And if you live in the Northern Hemisphere, now's a pretty good time to make tabbouleh since you can pick up really ripe tomatoes for a good price.

If you're curious, I used this recipe (made "Old Country Style") with a few tweaks. I didn't have fresh spearmint, so I used the 2 T. of crushed dried spearmint called for in the other variation, and I added just over 1 cup of cucumber, seeded and finely chopped. I also ran out of olive oil (horrors!), so I used a tiny bit of peanut oil along with the olive. It tasted great.

Hummus is ridiculously easy if you have a food processor. Peel a coupla good-sized cloves of garlic, whirl them in the processor until they're in little pieces, open a can of garbanzo beans (draining all but about half a cup of the liquid, which is reserved for use in a few minutes) and whirl with the garlic, add about a quarter-cup of tahini, the garbanzo liquid, some lemon juice, salt and pepper, then process while adding a thin stream of olive oil to the mix. It's done when it's a nice smooth dipping consistency. Garlicky good! Some people like to serve it with more olive oil and some sumac sprinkled on top, but I think it's good just as is. (And really good in a tabbouleh-filled pita.)

I think I need some sort of magical transport so that I could shower you all with the joys of tabbouleh. Well, not literally, of course -- most of us don't associate "shower fresh" with the scent of green onions and olive oil -- but I would wave my magic wand, and *poof* in your fridge would be a little take-out box of tabbouleh! Ah, making the world happier through random culinary surprises. (Maybe I should be the Tabbouleh Fairy? ...Nah.)

61 reasons to be glad for autumn

Scarcely two minutes away from my house, as the car flies, there is a bend in the road. If it's Friday, Saturday, Sunday or Monday, turn left at the bend and head down a U-shaped gravel driveway, past the Armstrong's garden patch and farmhouse on the left. Park diagonally on the right side of the drive. Your nose will tell you that you're in the right place the minute you get out of your car. Across the drive is an open-air shed with ten-pound boxes of apples arranged on long tables in the fresh air, and a tasting table out front offering wedge-cut samples of all the apples in season this week, plus a carafe dispensing Dixie-cup samples of what may be the most wonderful, cloudy, deep golden, sweet-tart fresh cider on planet Earth.

Tom's Orchard is a family business that specializes in growing and selling just one crop: apples, and lots of 'em. Tom and Donna Armstrong, a friendly and completely charming couple just past retirement age, have been selling apples from the shed behind their house for many years. They've continued to experiment with different varieties to see what grows well in the local climate; at the moment there are 61 different varieties of apples offered over a single season, which runs from early August to mid-November.

The Pacific Northwest is known for its apple production. If you go to the supermarket -- or even to other farmers' markets in the area -- you're likely to find at least ten different apple varieties available at any given time, though about half will be imports from New Zealand. Tom's, by comparison, has fifteen to twenty varieties on hand, all fresh-picked on the premises -- and unlike other markets, all of Tom's apples, from the prosaic to the exotic, are priced at a flat 85 cents per pound. (Per-pound prices get even more reasonable if you buy apples by the box.)

Sure, you can get your garden-variety Granny Smiths and Red Delicious here (was there ever a more misleading variety name? Red it may be, but Delicious it ain't), but why? The tasting table is your friend; Tom and Donna have helpfully arranged the ripe varieties in a staggered array from sweet to tart, and you can taste them all in season: orange-and-red Spitzenbergs; huge, green, water-cored Kings; pink-and-white fleshed Pink Pearls; Northern Spys (good for pies); full-flavored Gravensteins; and petite, blushing, bright yellow earthen-tart Pristines that only last a week or so in late summer. For my money, though, the best eating apple the Armstrongs grow is the Honeycrisp -- bright green with reddish-orange stripes, firm-fleshed, juicy, sweet but not cloying, and beautifully crisp. If you're lucky enough to find Honeycrisp apples at the supermarket, they will cost you around $3 per pound. Or you can just go to Tom's Orchard and get them for 85 cents.

The Armstrongs are about the nicest people you'd ever hope to meet. Most days, Tom wanders around the place in his denim overalls, putting out new boxes of apples, and Donna operates the cash register and replenishes the tasting table. They're gently outgoing folks, and it's easy to start up a conversation. They're also good neighbors -- one day, when I had no cash and had forgotten my checkbook, Donna graciously let me write an IOU for the apples and quart of cider I'd picked up. "Just bring the money the next time you come by," she smiled, waving away my apologies. (I did, later that day.)

It's not all Eden in this apple orchard. I've had a chance to talk to the Armstrongs more than once, so I know this wonderful little business won't last forever. As mentioned, both Tom and Donna Armstrong are past retirement age. They're healthy, and they still enjoy what they do, but they spend long hours of hard work in growing and picking apples and making cider, and they're starting to feel it. Every season they consider closing down the business for good. None of the Armstrong children have indicated a desire to take over from their parents, so when Tom and Donna decide they've sold their final bushel of apples, that'll be it. Every August I wonder whether the handmade sign pointing the way to Tom's Orchard will appear, and every August so far I've breathed a sigh of relief when it's placed by the roadside. I know that some day, much like the realms of Faerie in the old stories, Tom's Orchard will simply disappear into the thick morning fog of the Willamette Valley, never to be seen again by mortal men.

Selfishly, I hope I won't see that day come any time soon.

Kingdom of the Mollusks

It's that time of year again... that magical time when, in the cold and misty night after a good rain, every snail in creation shows up on the driveway in front of our house. I'm not kidding. I think there's some sort of invisible snail sign on our garage door that proclaims, "HOT DATE NIGHT EVERY TUESDAY, come gitcha some sweet mollusk lovin' right 'chere!" or something similar, because they all congregate and start doing the snail equivalent of "hey baby, what's your sign?" all over the pavement.

Just out of curiosity, I went out my front door and picked up as many snails as were on the first two squares of walkway, putting them into the makeshift Snail Counting Bucket. I stopped counting at seventeen or so, then set them free to work their wiles.

Anyway, if any of you faeries need snails for anything at all, from transportation to escargot, I've got lots and they're going cheap! Please, take them off my hands (or at least my pavement; I dread backing the car out over them).

Silence, or its near cousin

It's 1 a.m. here (I'm a hopeless night owl). Just wandered out to get the mail -- I've let it go for the last few days -- and the neighborhood is so still that you can hear the wind soughing through the cottonwoods behind our house. Even though we live a stone's throw away from the boondocks out here, I don't often get the chance to savor the rich near-silence of an early morning. Absolute silence outdoors makes it seem as though the world was newly-made and still waiting for living things.

The Seven Sisters are up in the eastern sky.