Becca's Blog

Un peu obsessed, I am.

... with a pair of flipflops. Because they have an ankle strap. I like to walk fast, and open-heeled shoes slow me down. Don't talk to me about clogs--I can't stand 'em. Teva's are great, but a bit style-free. And these flip-flops have nothing of the Berkeley matron about them, which appeals to me.

After extensive Googling, I tracked them down on the Web, and finally found where to order them. They're called the Melissa Ipanema, and Zappos.com has them in just one color and a couple of sizes--neither of them mine. I had to console myself with a similar style, in Brazilian colors:

Zappo's delivered them in *a day,* at no shipping charge. Living right next door to San Francisco, where Zappo's is based, helps. But I'm getting the Ipanemas in pink from the manufacturer's web site. Now I'll be shod stylishly for the remainder of the warm-weather months. For us, that's through October.

Mmmm, Eminem.

Blasting from a car parked across the street, courtesy of a grown man older than me. Thanks, neighbor--I needed that cue that it was time to stop work.

I had no clue that Eminem had any street cred whatsoever, but gosh, now I know.

Soon I will have a new category: Kvetch, domestic.

They're not cranky pants, they're cranky coveralls.

And yes, I'm aware that I've been wearing them for perhaps too many days in a row. But I'm afraid I'm not taking them off at least until Saturday, so my apologies. Some four-legged creature peed, apparently hugely, on the spot on the dining-room rug that was still damp with yet another "this one really works" enzymatic animal-spew cleaner. Why do the fur-children have these excreting spells during the hot months of the year? Why can't they be incontinent from every orifice in, say, January?

We nearly got a divorce last July over the massive sphincter failure that happened on the bedroom carpet. Or at least we were both miserable and I was ready to take myself on a long solo trip.

One in the string of short-term therapists I've seen (it's kind of like serial monogamy) suggested attempting to "expand the options" when faced with domestic strife. To me, this has always sounded like throwing money at a problem: Can't agree on who does how much housework when? Hire a cleaning service. Parents (or in-laws) driving you crazy on a too-long family visit? Stay in a hotel. Dogs soiled the cheap-ass polyester faux-Persian carpet for the last fucking time? Drag the miserable hunk of petroleum to the curb and BURN IT. And then go out to dinner because the dining room smells nauseating.

Remind me?

Why did I say I wanted to edit for a living? Was it because I figured I could spend my days just reading? Well, that turned out to be partly true, but way back then I didn't really factor in that I would spend my days reading bad things. And that I would have to write to try to make the bad writing better. Further complicating my job is the fact that good writers are all alike; every bad writer is bad in their own way. I mean, really original. Sometimes I marvel at their ingenious badness.

OK, that's off my chest once again. Heavy sigh--I mean, deep breath--and back at it. With a machete.

What's for dinner tonight (I think).

Penne with chunks of blue cheese and Trader Joe's Mediterranean cheese-style yogurt (have you had this stuff? it must be made with FULL-fat yogurt--it's silky and melts well and is pleasantly tart--not like my own attempts at yogurt cheese). And fruit salad. Plus sauteed zucchini and pesto.

Jane doesn't like zucchini but I do, so I have to disguise it in something strong-flavored, or she makes faces while she's eating it. And I bought a big plastic box of basil and used only a few stalks the other day, so it's make pesto now, or toss $4 worth of herbs onto the compost heap. Again.

Buying a bunch of cilantro is also pretty much buying compost--I may have to break down and plant some herb pots again, so I don't have to buy huge amounts at once. After we finally put the last Italian parsley plant out of its misery, it had a root the size of my fist, and I think it had flowered about three times. Having a little lemon tree is cool, though. I highly recommend it.

I'm a genius fuckin' gift-giver.

Obviously, not only do I have no false modesty about this, I'm exceedingly proud of it. If I know you well, I know what you'd like, and I remember when gifting time comes. I'm also unstingy: I'm as happy to spend money on frivolities for you as for myself.

Why this grandiose outburst and why now, you ask? Well, my wife's birthday is this week (and she never reads my blog). And even though I will not be finishing her hat (or even restarting it), she's going to be really happy with her gifts. The latest Carl Hiassen is out in paperback (and I just realized that I got it for the same price at Target as the Amazon discounted price--hah), and she is getting posters from a couple of shows we saw at the Belly Up in the past couple of years. I blogged about one last Thanksgiving. She'll be totally surprised, and think they're totally cool, and want to put them up in her office at work. The anticipation makes me giddy--I'm hoping I can pick them up in time to get them framed, maybe in Mexican silver frames.

Addendum: I'll be giving her these posters if I can manage to raise the vendor. Grrr.

Addendum the second: Guy came through, they're cool, I'm excited through my crabbiness.

My dad's birthday is also this week, and he's getting the promise of some scrumptious pork-burgers the next time I see him. He'll be nearly as happy with that as Jane will be with the posters, and way happier than if I buy him some best-seller or a golf shirt.

Jane's dad's birthday is in a month, and he's getting a personalized crossword puzzle, created by yours truly. I need to get to work on this...

What's for dinner last night.

Voila. Sauteed prawns in pastis with lemon and cherry tomatoes (on a bed of couscous). From The Basque Kitchen by Gerald Hirigoyen. In addition to all the delightful things in the recipe name, this dish also has basil, and lots of butter. And once you've got all the ingredients assembled and prepped, it's easy and quick to pull together. Basically you throw it all in a big saute pan and let it simmer.

Part of the allure of this recipe for me is the pastis: saying it, thinking about it, sipping maybe just a little. The mere word sends me into a francophilic reverie: "Bonjour, m'sieur. Je prends un pastis, et ma femme, ehm, la dame, elle veut un vin rouge...." Next year in Paris, or even better, Provence.

While I've had some mediocre experiences at Hirigoyen's Fringale restaurant in San Francisco, this cookbook is fabulous. The photographs are beautiful, and almost all the recipes are something you'd want to make and eat. (Maybe not the veal one, actually, and I'd skip the foie gras, too.) But I've also made the roasted peppers with fried garlic vinaigrette, and adapted another recipe to make chicken marinated in red wine. The book is so pretty that I haven't made notes in the margins of recipes I've cooked, which I often do with my cookbooks, to keep a diary of what I've done and how it turned out. The pages are food-spattered though, so there's definitive evidence that it's been used.

Birthday gifts, now belated.

I snapped this photo in a hurry on Saturday morning,  right before I tucked iTunes gift cards into each of them, wrapped them, and tucked a birthday card into gift bags along with. You see, I was headed for a double birthday party, and both birthday girls have iPod minis.

Then, with almost just enough time to get to the dock for the party boat, I dashed out to the car--legs shaved, hair blowdried, makeup on, dressed up. And the frigging car didn't start. Wouldn't even turn over. The car that had been to the mechanic's for service not two weeks prior. I swore and slammed the garage door, believe you me. And since Jane had the other car parked at the Oakland Airport, I was just plain shit out of luck. All dressed up and noplace to go--with birthday gifts in the front seat. That I had made myself.

So I got out of the car, dithered awhile, then walked my dressed-up self downtown and went shopping and to a movie. I couldn't stand to be in the house by myself when I should have been socializing.

The iPod mini cases are made out of Louet Sales' Euroflax.  Size 2 needles, 16sts wide. Basically, they're envelopes, knitted in one long strip, then seamed up the sides. I made what I'm calling a prototype first, because it turned out not so pretty. I knitted my long strip, then held the yarn and elastic thread together to single-crochet sides. The iPod mini is only a half-inch thick, so I figured about three single-crochet stitches would be easy to pick up and would make fine stretchy sides, as long as I put something elastic with the linen yarn. 

In practice, this makes a stiff, bulky block that pulls the whole little thing out of shape and looks like hell. (I didn't bother to photograph. The prototype is picking up lint and dust in my knitting toolbox.) So on version 2 I just widened the strip by a quarter-inch on each side and did a regular seam.  I would have liked to see how well I did on fit, but I'll have to deliver the gifts some other time. 

You want to know what's boring? 72 inches' worth of I-cord--that's what's boring. Over July 4 weekend, while Jane drove (the so-called "reliable car" as opposed to my shitball beater, which got her to the airport *just fine*) I knitted I-cord.

So now I can resume work on the furry orange thing (I have, and I now have two-thirds of two sleeves), or the springy green baby hoodie, or Jane's snowflake hat. Her birthday is in two weeks, and last week I was thinking that I'd finish that and surprise her with it.
I was bombing along, switched colors, working happily through the chart, when I realized that the stitches weren't bunching up on my 16-inch needle, meaning that the hat couldn't be much more than 16 inches around.  So after admiring how well the colors work together, I ripped out and untwisted every stitch.  When I let go of being pissed off about the whole car thing, I'll cast on again on needles two sizes up, and add a pattern repeat. (Nope, I will not make a gauge swatch. And yes, I know it's not her fault that the car broke down when she wasn't home.)

Honestly, I'm getting burned out on gift-knitting. I'd like to finish something for myself for a change.

A room of my own.

Over the weekend I made Jane help me finish moving my home office--so now my desk and files have joined my computers in the sunny, quieter back room with the big windows overlooking the back yard.
My desk only looked this clean because  it had only just been assembled. The absurdly large beach tote at the far right is my working knitting projects basket. The straw bag next to the chair also contains knitting and accoutrements. (Note how they're within easy reach...)

The opposite side of the room is decidedly less attractive--but it's not going to stay this way, I swear.
As soon as I figure out a place for all this necessary stuff, I will definitely put it away.  (That's a blocking spray bottle--it has to be ready to hand.)

And I thought my dogs were bad.

... for arrested development, that is. I have about six posts stacked up in my brain, with photos stored up in the camera, to boot--I've been trying not to goof off. But I just have to let fly with this one: I've been working with some authors for about four weeks now, and getting the materials they are supposed to provide has been a struggle. I am repeating my simple requests to them with increasing frequency and urgency as our mutual deadlines draw nearer.  Each time I repeat my simple request, I get some incremental bit of cooperation, but never completely what I need. I have to have faith that patiently repeating myself  will eventually yield the desired result, and I imagine that having a two-year-old must be like this.

Or am I really enacting that definition of insanity, where you keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result?