tollipop

watch out, world, caroline is going to school

 
Dear reader, I know I implied I would be taking a little break from Tollipop over the weekend. 

It's just that I had such lovely plans for this day.  It was a day brimming with possibilities...and suddenly I find myself back at home, waiting for the plumber to arrive.  Which, if I pause to consider the heroic deed he will bestow upon our house, makes me one of the luckiest girls in the world. 

It's just not what I had anticipated for this day, that's all.

 
This morning I went to school with the girls and volunteered in Caroline's classroom, which is always a bit of a thrill.  One little girl asked me why she hadn't lost any teeth yet, and if this blight would plague her into adulthood.  Another girl showed me the sparkly blue extensions in her hair.  Sparkly blue extensions!  After all, darling, this is Las Vegas.  A little boy, without warning, demonstrated the ability to crack his entire set of knuckles at once.  Dear me, I felt so sought after, so adored!

 
I wonder if Caroline will reward me with one of those scratch 'n sniff stickers she's been wearing lately?  When I asked her about this recent trend, she informed me they come in very handy when one happens to encounter a malodorous smell. 

Good thinking, little one.  You are going to take over this house some day.  If it hasn't already happened.
 
 
 But that is not the extent of my thoughts as I sit here, waiting and watching on this lovely Friday afternoon.  It's been more than a year or so since I last read The Catcher in the Rye.  That book.  It sort of shadows me, or perhaps it is more accurate to say I am drawn to it in certain moments.  I mean, it seems to be some sort of barometer for my state of mind...as in, if I am reading it, chances are I'm not exactly feeling gorgeous about life.

But it is also one of the very few books to make me laugh out loud.  Every time I read it. 

And it is also a book, when I see a copy in the bookstore, that leaves me with the irrational urge to purchase it again.  Sometimes I do.  Sometimes I don't.  But I almost always pick it up and flip through the pages, smooth down the jacket, just to make sure it's doing okay.

So you can imagine my reaction several years ago, while watching a movie on television, to see Mel Gibson play a paranoid cab driver with an apartment like a rat trap and a compulsion to do the very same thing.  Made me feel gorgeous.  It really did.

 
I was so taken with that story it made me want to read the rest of Salinger's works.  But that is the caveat of a great novel...one shouldn't want or expect additional writings to resonate in the same way.  I also once borrowed a copy of Salinger's biography, one that was written by his daughter.  It wasn't long before I closed the book, realizing I didn't care for the interference of reality in the way I wanted to think of this creative source.

At any rate, I marked the recent passing of J.D. Salinger with a great deal of respect.  That guy wrote one heck of a book.  He channelled that book.  And just thinking about it makes me feel like reading it again.  In a good way.  Perhaps I'll even go the bookstore and pick up a new copy to mark the occasion.

And all this because I'm still sitting here, waiting for the plumber to come sweep me off my feet...

hundred dresses #24: hesperia....and a tollipop giveaway!

 
Hesperia Blink wanted desperately to believe in miracles.  Perhaps nothing on the scale of a plague or a parting of the sea, mind you, but it was going to take a considerable force of nature to reverse the unfortunate path upon which her life was set. 

Hesperia had been spoken for, you see.  Spoken for by the most odious toad of a man ever to darken the threshold of her small, seaside town.  An overture had been made, furious haggling ensued, a handshake, the purse strings drawn, and the poor girl was essentially bought and sold like a wooly headed lamb at the market.  

And whose sweaty eyeball had rolled in its socket upon the unsuspecting Miss Blink? 

Why, none other than Blotis Smelbad, the tyrannical owner of the town's largest (and only) sardine factory.  The factory was located in a series of dark, moldy warehouses clustered like mourning widows along an otherwise deserted length of the pier.  On a windy day the stench of rotting fish, congealed blood, and rusted tin cans could permeate the nostrils of an innocent pedestrian from five counties away. 

But none of this could compare to Smelbad himself.  Bitter, foul, degenerate.  He looked like something that had been dragged from the depths of the sea: a fishy stare, clammy skin pocked with barnacle-like sores, thinning hair worn plastered against his face, and sedimentary filth beneath his fingernails which could be carbon dated back to birth.

And then there was his mouth. 

Oh, how I shrink from the task of describing his mouth! 

The lower lip was enormous.  It looked as if a giant tubeworm had been attached to Smelbad's face, drooping from his jaw in bloated folds of flesh.  Little cesspools of spittle collected in these folds, washing in and out like the tide, bearing bits of sardine gristle, rotting carrion, and murkier fare from the depths of his gut.

What the lower lip lacked for in control was made up in spades by the upper.  Thin, pale, and puckered, it worked independently of the other facial muscles in a rigid, sphincteral fashion, creating a sort of vaccum to prevent the lower lip from falling off his face altogether. 

When Hesperia was told of the arrangement she paled, staring at the needlework that lay in her lap.  Finally she looked up at her father as if seeing him for the first time: a mere husk of a man whose life of useless elegance had brought the family to ruin.  And her mother: pinched and powdered, a formidable lioness whose death grip on the throat of high society had driven the deal to this ultimate conclusion.

 
Hesperia stood up.

"I think," said she, "I should like to take a little stroll right about now."

"Hesperia," warned her mother, "It is 10 o'clock in the evening."

"Be that as it may, Mother dear, I intend to go outside."  With a little curtsy, Hesperia moved past her parents and swept out of the drawing room. 

There was not a moment to lose.

With a look of singular determination, Hesperia ran upstairs and groped beneath her bed for the getaway bag she had packed for just such an occasion.  One never knew when one's parents would succumb to the temptation of an advantageous marriage, even if it should entail the offering of their daughter to an absolute troll. 

Flinging a cloak about her shoulders, Hesperia rushed off into the night.  Though she had yet to formulate a plan, she instinctively made her way to the sea. 

The docks were deserted.  An eerie light glowed from a flickering lantern.  A low, ominous fog pressed itself against the girl like an unwanted suitor.   

"Going somewhere, are we?"

Hesperia gasped and spun around.  Emerging from the shadows was Smelbad himself, face pocked and contorted, masticated fishguts dribbling from his flaccid lip. 

"Stand back, sir, I warn you," she said, reaching inside her bag for a long, silver crochet hook which could, if necessary, be put to an utterly new and unexpected use. 

At that moment--the miracle!

"Ahoy, there!," cried a voice filled with energy and enthusiasm, "Charles Purcell at your service, captain of the good ship Cabot."

"Captain Purcell," called Hesperia, brandishing the crochet hook as the leering Smelbad advanced, "Sir, are you in need of crew for your journey?"

"As it so happens, I am looking for a first mate," retorted the voice in the darkness.

"That's all I needed to hear," said Miss Blink, whirling about and sprinting to the end of the dock, Smelbad in hot pursuit.  She hesitated a moment, then reached for the captain's outstretched hand, embarking on a new life of high times and adventure, yet one that also offered the girl the loveliest feeling of finally being at home.   

...................

Dear reader, hasn't this been a long time coming?  I can't remember when I last wrote a story for my Hundred Dresses Project, but even though life has been a bit full lately for the luxury of such creativity, it has often been at the back of my mind.

I honestly wonder if I will make it to one hundred...

At any rate, shall we add a little giveaway to celebrate the occasion?  A print of Hesperia to the winner and all you must to do be considered is leave a comment at the bottom of this post. 

I will return to announce the winner on Monday and may take a little break from blogging until then.

xo,

k

...................

miss caroline, the march in g, and how everything hinges upon a sniff

Dear reader, over the weekend Caroline and I made a recording of some cello pieces.  I wish we would do this more often; it almost always makes us giggle. 

This particular clip illustrates the importance of the performer signalling her start to the accompanist.  Often this is accomplished by a deeply inhaled breath.  But a heartfelt sniffle also does the trick.   

 
This girl.  This song of joy.  I can't deny she baffles me a bit.  She talks to me about "organizing things" and "making lists" and even "writing out a schedule for our meals."  Finally I had to tell her Mummy doesn't speak Greek.

{Watch--she is probably plotting a move to Greece as we speak.} 

Today she was talking away (as usual) and out of nowhere launched into some sort of mission statement about her work ethic and personal standard of achievement: 

I just can't explain it, Mom, but something inside makes me want to try my very hardest.  At school, at home, at church, with my cello...

And believe me, I see it.  We always practice together and often I am the one silently begging for the session to end.  She gets into a zone with that abacus, identifying a musical passage in need of help, going over and over the phrase, stopping to move a bead with each repeat.

Oh, sweet Wolfgang Amadeus!  Oh, Ludwig!  Oh, Franz Josef Haydn! 

 
Make the beads go away.

And I kid you not--if you were to unwittingly pass between Caroline and her piece of music at that moment, I wouldn't be surprised if your legs got lasered off by the intensity of her gaze. 

Not to give you the wrong impression, by the way: nine times out of ten I believe Caroline would rather play with her sisters, type madly on her typewriter, or snitch cookie dough than sit down and practice her cello. 

But on the tenth time.  On the tenth time, dear reader.

I hope you brought your A game.  I hope you're ready for a steady stream of chatter punctuated by minuets and allemandes and gigues.  And I hope you're ready for the abacus.  For the methodical countdown of twenty wooden beads.

Because these are the moments, I'm telling you.  Sometimes slightly frayed around the edges, but these are the moments.

the rest of the weekend smelled like this:

 
Dear reader, imagine the aroma filling our house on Saturday morning!

Oh, bread...you crisp, tantalizing heap.  How you toy with me.  How I fall for it.

And imagine my chagrin upon learning not a single crumb was intended for my consumption!  Yes, that's right.  It seems a few friends who read this blog took me at my word and placed an order with my husband. 

So let me get this straight:  you tell my husband to do something, and he just goes ahead and does it...? 

{Please bear with me, dear reader, as I madly scribble down this information.}

 
I wonder what the bread is telling Caroline?  I wonder if he is using his French accent? 

After that we made a little recording, just the two of us.  Or the three of us, if you count her cello.

Then I picked her up and danced around the room.  We like doing that...except I always have to be the guy. 

Caroline's top is the one and only article of clothing I've ever made using directions.  It was one of those "patterns for dummies" deals, and it still nearly caused my brain to split the atom.

Oh, why can't we be two dimensional, dear reader?  If we were two dimensional, I could make us all the loveliest outfits!

 
Later that day, we went for a little road trip.  Nothing epic...just the joy of being confined with one's family at close quarters for an extended period of time.  And I say that with complete sincerity. 
 
 
Rounding out the weekend, Sophie made these darling hairpins. 

 
And I found some time for the studio.  Could it be new life is breathed into the Hundred Dresses Project?!

In this situation as with all else, dear reader, might I suggest the house specialty:  cautious optimism, with a healthy dose of let's wait and see...

what i did over the weekend: part one (saying *part one* is my way of assuring you that i did, indeed, survive)

 
Dear reader, I woke up on Friday feeling the excitement and energy of a girl with new school supplies.  Why?  Because over the past few days we have been hit with a deluge of rain. 

And on Friday morning it stopped.

So I picked up Caroline and waltzed around the kitchen. 

Because do you know what rain means at higher elevations?

 
Oh, sweet Ansel Adams!   

Snow!
 
Did I whip on my bike shorts and pedal out there to check things for myself?

Yes I did, dear reader.  Yes, I did.

But first I called my sister in Chicago to make sure someone knew I was climbing through the wardrobe.  And then I packed my own tin of Turkish delight.  Just in case.

 
Because if ever there was a time I expected to see Mr. Tumnus step out from behind a lamp post, it was at that moment. 

Dear reader, I can't begin to tell you how beautiful it all was.  How magical.  And how I had it utterly and completely to myself...thanks in part to a road closed sign which I interpreted to mean mainly people in cars. 

At the highest part of the elevation, it truly felt like Narnia.  Can you almost see Aslan in this picture? 

 
And everything was going fine.  Everything was going swimmingly.  Sure I was cold, but I didn't mind.  In fact, it was part of the cachet.  Because I'm convinced the time machine has already been invented and guess what?

It's a bike. 

I mean, yes, it can only take you backward in time, but isn't that possibly the loveliest place to go?  Back to the days when you didn't have the common sense to come in and stay out of the cold?  When you ran around like maniacs in your toques and breath-sweaty scarves, and half the time you didn't even have the common sense to wear those?  

I think I was about as happy as it's possible to be.

 
The only hiccup occurred on the descent, when I was too far out on the course to change my mind and ask for backsies. 

The road suddenly stopped being plowed.  On a rather blind, hairpin turn.

And I was (daydreaming and) going downhill on an already slushy surface. 

Dear reader, don't worry!  I didn't wipe out!  I didn't sail into a ditch!  I only skidded about ten years off my life, then sat there sniffling and snuffling and contemplating if it really wouldn't help matters to cry, until a beautiful lady in a glittering sleigh pulled up and asked if I would care for a treat. 

That's when I chucked my box of goodies at her and got back on my bike. 

And guess what, dear reader?  It turns out you can ride a bike through about five inches of freshly fallen snow.  As long as you don't mind hydroplaning.  As long as you don't expect to have very much control over your course.

To tell the truth, once you get the hang of it, it's amazing! 

In a scary way, yes, but still amazing.

rainy day couture

 
Dear reader, forget what I said about winterspring.  We are having the type of weather that makes it easy to imagine I'm somewhere on the west coast.  Which feels very much like home...

 
Nothing like a rare bit of moisture to send Caroline scurrying to dig up coats which have not seen the light of day since she was in preschool.  The entire ensemble (you should see what she has on underneath!) boasts about five layers, a feat for which I could not be more proud.

 
Oh, how I love her little pink cheeks!  And the way she can talk nonstop about anything.  As I was taking these pictures she was in the midst of telling me what she'd like to be for Halloween: 

A bride.  Because I would looove a white dress.  A white dress would be so lovely, wouldn't it?  I've always wanted one.  Except I wouldn't like to be a dead bride.  Last year at Halloween I saw a girl who was a dead bride and I was all, um, that's kind of inappropriate.  Don't you think?  It would be so much nicer to be a live bride than a dead bride. 

Don't you think?

 
My sweet girls...this is the last year they will be in the same school together.  Isabella mentioned this on the way home from music lessons last night and Caroline started to cry.  And then I felt like crying, too.

 
As I watched them leave it struck me again how quickly time is passing.  I hope there is something in childhood that makes these moments last a little longer, wrapping them in that wonderful feeling of adventure, discovery, and love.

And now I must go downstairs to clean the kitchen, but with the steady patter of rain outside I will most likely be somewhere long ago and far away, remembering my own walks to school through similar weather and all the enchanting little discoveries that came with it.

the scary thing is how easily he could have been right

 
Phone conversation between me and my husband this morning...

Him:  Hello?

Me:  Hi, there...it's me.  Listen, I was just calling to get your voice of reason on something...

Him (emphatically):  Absolutely not.  Kirst, the answer is no!

Me:  What?!  Wait, I haven't even said anything!

Him:  I know exactly where you are and what you're doing.

Me:  Where am I and what am I doing, then?

Him:  You're standing in a pet store, thinking of buying a puppy.

..........................

Dear reader, you have no idea how glad I was not to be standing in a pet store at that moment! 

As it so happened, I was contemplating mischief of an entirely different sort.  When I explained this to my husband, the carte blanche he extended and the accompanying relief in his voice was so obvious I honestly felt a twinge of guilt.

How would it be to live each day wondering if one's wife is really so erratic she might haul off and buy a puppy at any given moment?

And yet part of me (certainly not the better part) couldn't also help but notice how very handily this angst played to my advantage, translating into gratitude for any offense that fell short of the ultimate crime: bringing home a dog.

There's a psychological term for this, right?  Some sort of syndrome which they apply to situations involving captors, hostages and the like?

Listen, I have my flaws just like anyone else, but the mental duress caused by wanting a puppy and that of detaining someone against his will can hardly be grouped in the same subset, right? 

Right?

..........................

p.s.  A little background information:  It is not especially unusual for me to indeed call my husband from the pet store...

 

it's been a lot like this around here

 
Dear reader, the house is very quiet today.   

No cries of "Attack!", no requests for sippy cups, no little boys asking for hugs, counting ladybugs, showing off his best elephant sneeze. 

How many new games has he helped us to discover?  Hours of entertainment hiding beneath our very noses!

No baby girls dismantling the kitchen, crawling into cupboards, cautiously warming up to aunties, rifling through bedrooms while cousins attend school...

Being in general a little piece of heaven.

 
I've watched my little sister with love, admiration, and awe.  What an amazing person she is.  What an amazing mom. 

When our own mother passed away two years ago, many people approached us four sisters at the funeral to make some sort of comment about how our mom's legacy lived on through us.  Our private sentiment was that it took four daughters combined to even begin to approach her phenomenal combination of talent and character. 

But now I see it quite clearly in my little sister as she navigates some rather choppy waters.  We're not Irish or anything, but I am telling you: that girl is a corker.  And I'm glad to be sailing in the same boat with her.

But for now the house is quiet again.  And I am just beginning to realize we are more than half way through January.  So many things going on in this world.  So many people and places in need of help. 

And how it seems hard times bring the inescapable and yet ultimately comforting reminder we are all in this together.

this time we got it right. very, very right.

 
Dear reader, you know how I've been on a lifelong quest for the perfect caramel?  And how the only thing standing between me and that intricate marriage of butter, sugar and cream was my innate lack of precision? 

Well, guess what happens when my little sister comes to town?  My little sister who happens to be a nurse?  Who makes a career of administering medicines down to the very cc, a measurement so infinitely detailed and exact it makes my head hurt just to think of it?

We leave the guesswork behind, that's what happens. 

And I dance around the kitchen, cheeks flushed, saying things like, "So that's what they mean by a cup and a half!"

The next stage of the production goes to another set of sisters.  One who is this side of miffed by the wrapping techniques of the other.

 
Thar she blows!  Whale off of starboard!  Churning the sea to a fury of froth and foam!

(Sorry, dear reader, I just can't get through this post without a reference to Moby Dick.  I think the comparison speaks for itself...)

 
But seriously, now.  These caramels. 

I'm quite certain Michelangelo had mounds of them hoisted up the scaffolds as he worked on the Sistine Chapel.  No doubt Shakespeare gobbled them like a greedy schoolboy as he penned his collection of sonnets.  And we all know about Ludwig's sweet tooth.  As if the Moonlight Sonata could have sprung from any other source!

And as for me?  What muses attended as I sat in the kitchen with my sister, feasting upon these remarkable delights?  Well, we mainly talked.  And watched our kids. 

But I'm telling you:  it was a brilliant conversation and those are some amazing kids.

...........................

p.s.  Okay, so some of you are asking for the recipe.  And I know you're being very polite for the time being, but I can sense your pretty manners will go out the window if I don't deliver the goods soon.

We used this one from My Kitchen Cafe...with a few modifications.  One, we used a cup of white sugar and a cup of brown sugar.  Why?  Because I told my sister brown sugar tastes better.  And then she insisted it wouldn't make a difference if we dumped the entire can of sweetened condensed milk in at once, rather than half first and half later, as the recipe stipulates.

It was almost as much fun as skipping school! 

Finally, we accidentally cooked the candy to 250 degrees, even though the recipe gets very shrill about anything over 248.  What can I tell you?  We were having the most scintillating conversation!  As it happened, the caramels were still perfect.  In fact, they were marvellous! 

I will caution anyone who considers removing their caramels from the heat while the thermometer reads 234 (which is what the author suggests): this yields some insanely soft caramels.  Imagine a jellyfish without any bones (just humor me).  These caramels are softer.  Delicious, yes, but I hope you don't mind getting intimate with the wax paper wrapping because that is the only way you'll get so much as a morsel!

...........................

next up: we move to nebraska and purchase 500 acres of good, arable land

 
Dear reader, you saw this coming, right?  The inevitable progression of my ultra urban husband's sudden interest in all things homegrown, healthy, and wholesome? 

And the growing indication that my childhood, one which was filled with neverending gardens, flocks of chickens, killer turkeys, a demonic ram, eggs gathered at our peril, blissful cows and their gallons of milk, canned preserves, woodburning stoves, artesian wells, and homespun, matching outfits for me and my three sisters...is about to come full circle?

 
It all begins when a box arrives on your doorstep and you open it to discover your husband has purchased a wheat grinder. 

A hand-crank wheat grinder.

And you think about all the other things which may have been inside that box.  The vast array of possibilities. 

Yet it was a wheat grinder. 

So you shrug your shoulders and decide, all things considered, this is a pretty harmless past time.

Little do you realize change is in the air.  Little do you appreciate how the advent of that wheat grinder ignites a powerful awakening in the heart of your otherwise seemingly predictable spouse.

 
Because there's no turning back once you've imbibed upon this lusty loaf, dear reader.  There's no pretending you can still embrace your life of coffeehouses, tanning beds, and expensive creams.  Say goodbye to your pretty manicures, your ironic sunglasses, your glossy magazines.  And for heaven's sake, darling, stop air kissing! 

Do you think Almanzo Wilder would air kiss?  Pshaw!

I'm not quite sure what movement is afoot in the Tollipop house.  It would appear we are getting back to some sort of basics.   

Who knows where it will take us?  Who knows to what extent my husband plans to live off the land?  Who knows if he will bring home a flock of chickens?  Who knows if he will attempt to dig a well?

Nobody knows.  I don't think even he knows.  That is the beauty of it all.

And maybe this bread phase will suffice to quench his latent, frontier loving soul.  Or maybe this time next year we will have a compound in Idaho where I will be riding a stationary bike like mad to power our toaster oven.  And our girls will be wearing matching outfits, staring sullenly at the kids who get to live on the grid. 

But I am telling you--it's serendipity like this that makes fifteen years of marriage seem like we just got started and I am sitting back, somewhat bemused, yet thoroughly enjoying this little trip down memory lane.