tollipop

sherlock holmes and the case of the missing leg

Please don't read flippancy into my tone, dear reader.   I was nothing short of horrified this morning when I went to check on Sherlock and thought to myself: Something's off.  Something doesn't seem quite right, does it?  OH MY SAINTED AUNT, HE'S MISSING A LEG!!!

I immediately texted my husband, who happened to be out of town.  

His response: Have you contacted Peter yet?

Oh, Peter.  How you must rue the day you ever sold me those first rainbow scarabs, having since come to realize that yes, some customers actually do expect you to make house calls.  

At any rate, dear reader, your guess is as good as mine on the matter.  There are no crickets in Sherlock's living quarters save one tiny pinhead to whom I've granted amnesty.  In other words, he was not attacked.  Also, he wasn't molting and his habitat is sufficiently humid.  The girls and I are confident he was in fine form the night before, since we observed him before going to bed.  We can't find his missing leg anywhere which leads me to suspect foul play in the form of a certain Professor Moriarty...whatever that might mean.    

It's all very troubling and puzzling, though Peter assures me Sherlock is not in pain.  And I can attest to the fact he hasn't lost his appetite, since he captured and ate a cricket as if the missing leg made no difference whatsoever!

Sources on the internet imply certain mantids may regrow a limb during subsequent molts...if that actually happens, you will be the first to know.  If it doesn't, I'm happy enough as long as my little Sherlock is comfortable.  

Beyond that, I don't know what else to say.  Yes, I'm revisiting my competence as a pet owner and hoping it's okay to remain in charge of one praying mantis despite the question marks looming over my head at the moment.  He's an endless source of fascination, this tiny, detailed creature made even more mysterious by the events of the previous night.  

I hope he'll be okay.  I hope he knows I still think he's the most perfect little thing in the whole wide world.  

warming up to sherlock

"Congratulations on molting, old boy," I said the other day, whilst pouring Sherlock his morning spot of tea.  

But he only looked at me as if I'd just given him a migraine headache.

"Praise for having molted from one who never has nor never will molt, is hollow praise, indeed," he murmured, pausing to groom the tiny hooked claw of his left middle foot.  

"I sense this is one of those occasions when molt is code for something else, like having brains," I said, a trifle shrill.

He snickered mirthlessly.

"Well, I do exfoliate on occasion, so there is that!"  Forget trifle.  I was half a semitone away from channeling a fishmonger's wife!

"Indeed."

"What is this really about, Sherlock?  Why the perpetual cold shoulder, thorax, and abdomen?"

He did not reply.

"Is it because Izzy plays the violin better than you?"

"That is a matter of opinion," he sputtered, "And let the record reflect she also CANNOT MOLT!"

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, fine.  You are the only creature in this house who can break out of an exoskeleton.  Now can we be friends?"

"There's one other thing...," he said, trailing off.  He looked, for the first time, somehow different.  Did I detect a hint of vulnerability in those piercing, bulbous eyes?  

"What is it, man?  Let's get this out on the table once and for all!"

"It's...her."

"What??  Ruby?!  You're threatened by that silly little soft, fluffy, adorable, sweet, precious ball of fur??!"

"Well, when you put it that way, I don't know how I possibly could have been worried in the first place!"

"Sherlock, darling.  Ruby is Ruby.  You are you.  One is warm and cuddly, the other methodical and exacting."

"Precisely.  I should think the choice would be obvious."

"Or elementary, as they say..."

He swivelled his neck to fix me with a searching gaze, as only a mantis can. When he'd perceived the extent of my thoughts and determined them to be lacking (though sincere), he proceeded to ignore me again, as usual.  

But this time, the silence was congenial.

jokes we made up on the way home from church

Q: How do you help a lion build his self esteem?
A: Tell him what a good lion he is.

Q: How do you teach a lion to spell?
A: "i before e, except after c"

Q: What do you do when a lion loses his library card?
A: You guys, that is so fake.  A lion with a library card.  As if.  

There were others but...I think you get the gist.  I don't know if there's a comedy career on the horizon anytime soon, but one of my lion jokes DID make Sophie laugh.  She may deny it or tell you it was a pity laugh, but we both know it happened.  

In other news, as requested, I am now going to attempt to distill my chocolate chip cookie recipe.  It is closely inspired by the King Arthur version but if you know anything about me and recipes, it's that I struggle with concepts like...recipes. 

Here we go...

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

In a bowl mix:

2 sticks of softened butter, plus a little more, like a 1/3 of another stick.  I really waver on that last 1/3.
2 cups brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
2 eggs

Then add:

2 large tsp. baking soda
generous dash of salt (shake it into your hand, dust it into the bowl)
at least 4 tsp. vanilla extract (does anyone really measure that stuff??)
at least 4 tsp. almond extract (this is the magic and I would recommend more...but 4 tsp. is a safe place to begin).

Mix again.

Then add:

4 cups of flour and here, I regret to inform you, it is better to be exact.  Use a real "dry ingredients" measuring cup (something which took me about 40 years to figure out).  Don't pack the flour in tight, and do scrape off the top with a butter knife so it's nice and smooth.  Once that task is complete, hope the twitch on the side of your face goes away sometime soon.  

Mix.

Add pretty much an entire bag of chocolate chips (this is really a matter of personal taste--go for the ratio you prefer) and mix briefly one last time.

Place the dough in balls on a cookie sheet and bake at 350 for 15 minutes.

NOW.  You may have to tinker with these guidelines to allow for the fact you probably don't live next door to me and enjoy the same balmy climate...or that your oven may be more or less aggressive than mine.  You may need just the two sticks of butter.  You may need only 14 minutes in the oven.  The only way you will know for sure is to give this thing a whirl.

That is all part of the joy of baking.

And finally, I have one piece of discouraging news.  I hurt my leg recently and it's become apparent I need to take a break from running.  It's going to be hard if I take the break, but perhaps worse if I don't.

I may need the girls to make up some more lion jokes for me.  

happy spring

Happy Spring, dear reader!  I realize it may not look very springy out in the desert these days, but that is only to the untrained eye.  That is only to the eye which is accustomed to a broader spectrum of green, the one which extends beyond olive drab.  

I see the signs of life all around me.  They are more subtle than the springtimes of my childhood, to be sure, but I have learned to appreciate the subtlety.  I tell myself it is sophisticated, and for a moment I am dazzled with thoughts of my own refinement, of sitting at tucked away cafes reading obscure collections of poetry, of wearing well made, understated clothing and giving only the faintest impressions of joy and sorrow, like the Mona Lisa.  Oh, and speaking with some lovely yet untraceable accent, as if French was my third language, taught to me by a British nanny in the West Indies, or something like that.  

You really would not believe the things you think up, when the desert is your canvas.

At the risk of making a tedious request (which you are certainly welcome to ignore), I find myself curious, as I often am, to know who reads this blog.  My daughters tell me some of their friends stop by on occasion...a thought which both mystifies and sobers me.  I see I have visitors from around the world...how did you come across Tollipop?  Do you know of my secret longing to speak every language with breathtaking command?    

Dear reader, I hope you know your presence here is deeply appreciated, though I don't always do the best job of responding to requests.  Most recently I've been asked to share my chocolate chip cookie recipe (which I am making at this very moment) and thoughts on how to effectively practice a musical instrument. Distilling the recipe should be easy enough though it is, as usual, something from off the top of my head and will certainly drive you crazy.  I asked Izzy about sharing a practice tutorial and she was very keen on the idea...now it only remains to get it accomplished. 

At any rate, thank you for visiting this place.  If you feel so inclined, would you take a moment to say hello and introduce yourself on this glorious yet understated, first day of spring?

mood rings

The other day, Caroline's grandpa took her to the swap meet where she picked out a mood ring.  

I had a hard time pretending I didn't want it.  

I don't know what it is about mood rings, but they have always fascinated me.  I don't know what they're made of and I don't want to find out.  I just want to believe they know me better than I know myself, that they get me, they can read me, and they think I'm justified for feeling the way I do:  

You are quite right to loathe the INS.  They are the last people on earth who should be allowed to wield any power.  

It's okay that you never really get the house CLEAN when you clean it, or that you always look a bit disheveled, even after you spent time getting ready.  

You are quite right to fret over the disappearance of your metabolism, or is it perhaps the fact you eat too many sweets?  Either way, you are quite right.  

Anyone would be frustrated over the amount of time it's taking to revise this novel!  Don't feel guilty about it AT ALL.  

Sherlock likes you.  He does.  He just has a hard time showing it.  

There now, dearie.  You're going to be all right, and everything's going to be okay.  

happy st. paddy's

Happy St. Paddy's, dear reader!  I think I discovered the end of the rainbow this morning, but a little man in green promised me a lifetime supply of chocolate if I'd keep the location a secret.

So I'm keeping it a secret.

At any rate, I do adore this holiday.  I love it because my sister loved it when we were kids and always threatened to pinch me if I didn't wear green.  I love it because I sort of love corned beef and cabbage, which we will be eating for dinner tonight.  I love it because of shamrocks and blarney stones and, of course, the legend of the leprechaun.  I love it because my husband's maternal side of the family is Irish, so now a legitimate reason!

But I don't need a legitimate reason.  I'd still love it anyway.  

Leaving you with an Irish blessing:

Wishing you always...
Walls for the wind,
A roof for the rain
And tea beside the fire.
Laughter to cheer you,
Those you love near you,
And all that your heart may desire.

lately

Hello, dear reader.  How are you doing?  

I always cringe when I write a post entitled "lately," because it tends to signify I haven't had much opportunity to write for the past little while, and now I'm coming here to submit an itinerary of what I did during that time.  

That's not really how I like to blog.  I'd rather relate a conversation I had with Sherlock or talk about cloud shapes.  When I think about trying to account for the past few weeks of my life I feel...the same feeling which kept me from getting here in the first place: overwhelmed.  

But there really were so many things I wanted to talk about.  

I wanted to tell you about Reading Week and how I was able to visit Caroline's class every day to read to those students.  I read Fantastic Mr. Fox and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and we had the most marvelous time together.  I mean, it was beyond marvelous.  

It was magical.

Do you believe in magic, dear reader?  Not sleight of hand, or smoke and mirrors, but real, true magic?

Try this: contact your local elementary school and ask if you can be a volunteer reader...then visit a class and read Fantastic Mr. Fox to them.  What will transpire during those moments is nothing short of magic.  It is completely unusual. It is electric.  Time is suspended, the room disappears, and it's as if you and those children are winging through a universe of foxes, tunnels, foul tempered farmers, and everything else in between.  

Read with love.  Read with wonder.  Read with relish.  Read with expression. Read as if you wish you could soothe every care and make the world a better place, as if you believe each kid is the brightest and most interesting person you could ever hope to meet.  

Because they are, dear reader.  

Somehow I feel convinced of all the things I could do with my time, this thing is one of the best.  This is not an attempt to back-pat or compliment-fish, but I honestly believe I can make the world a better place by reading stories to children.   

How is that not magic?

Moving along, Sherlock molted.  He's quite a character, my dear little Sherlock. For one thing, he is a voracious hunter.  For another, he's very antsy.  And finally, he does not adore me half as much as Charles Portis did.  When you stop to consider the extent of Charles Portis's affections I think you can feel very sorry for me, indeed.  

The desert darklings are back!  It makes me happy to see them tottering about the desert, doing handstands and keeping their little corners of the world in order.  

Yesterday we went to southern California to watch Sophie's team compete in a tournament.  As I get to know these girls better, I grow increasingly more fond of them.  

I am sort of shy, especially around teenagers, but I hope they know how much I admire them.  They fought like lions in the last game we watched and I was nearly moved to tears.  Afterward, I wanted to run up to each girl and express my feelings, but I know that would have been manifestly UNCOOL.  

As it was, I did run up to this girl and hugged her to pieces and made her take a picture with us.  I always come back to this feeling of wonder that my lovely, sweet, growing up girls were so recently babies.  Sophie was the dearest little thing to lug around: my blinking, brown-eyed girl.  I did not realize how quickly time would pass nor, as much as I cherished her, did I grasp how wonderful she would become and is still becoming.  

I do not say this in some some simple, naive way...I speak with my eyes open to the sorrows of this world and the struggles I have within it: wonder, beauty, magic.  I see it every day, in almost every moment of every day.  I see it in rooms full of children, hungry for a story, in every insect I've ever stopped to observe, in glorious spring days and piles of leaves which look like tattered butterfly wings, in total strangers and the people I love best.  

I get a little nervous when I write such things in case it conveys the impression I never feel like breaking an emergency swear vial or hiding away in a closet.  

I do, but none of that changes the rest of what I just said.

mystery bugs

Dear reader, what would you do if a package bearing mystery bugs arrived on your doorstep?

Faint dead away?  Put your house up for sale?  Tear open your bodice on the grounds you can't breathe?  

Unfortunately, those reactions only occurred to me after the fact.  

When it actually happened, Caroline and I were quite excited.  Well, I was also a bit nervous, mind you, but I didn't tell her that.  It never pays to show one's daughter signs of fear.  

We set to work unpacking the contents, with me secretly wondering if our faces were about to get eaten off.  

I kept that to myself, too.

Such melodrama!  Such frivolous concerns!  As if a tiny green mantis and pair of blue death feigning beetles would lay a finger against a lady!

The blue death feigning beetles are simply marvelous.  

For one thing, they're the color of blueberries.  For another, the fact they feign death is so charmingly sophisticated!  They could fake or pretend it, but no. This isn't child's play, dear reader.  The blue feigning death beetle is no prankster, no cheap buffoon.

When you watch them assume a state of demise, you realize you've never seen true acting until that moment.  

It's nothing short of humbling...even depressing, if you're not careful.  For awhile I labored beneath the realization I can't do anything as well as those beetles can feign death, and it made me ask myself some pretty searching questions.  But then I got over it, remembering it is better to fill oneself with admiration when in the presence of greatness.  

So that is what I do.  Stop and admire.
  

As for this one...oh, the stories I could tell!  

I call him Sherlock.  He acts like it pains him to acknowledge my presence.  

No matter, I have affection enough for two!  I'm almost positive he's ignoring me in a British accent, so it only follows I speak the Queen's English when serving him a spot of tea.

And by spot, I really do mean spot. 

a few things

I'm up to my old tricks again, dear reader.  It's my favorite time of the year, Reading Week, wherein you get to visit your local elementary school and read stories to the children.  

As usual, I chose Fantastic Mr. Fox. 

Typically I'm not someone who seeks out the spotlight.  In fact, I have a weird paranoia about it which manifested itself during my recent stint as a church choir director when people not only had to look at me, they did so while I was waving my arms around and looking like a complete twit.

But when people are watching me because I'm reading to them...?  

Well.

That I could do all day long. 

A few other items of interest:

Do you remember the mystery bugs promised me (whether I wanted them or not) by the owner of Bugs In Cyberspace?  Well, they arrived and they're fantastic!  I'll tell you more about them (whether you want to hear it or not) soon.  

I'm still floundering about with the revision of my novel.  But Caroline assures me it is everything she ever hoped for in a story.  So I guess I will make at least one person very, very happy.

And finally, M.F. McDowell, who married a childhood friend of mine, has taken his thrilling and suspenseful television project La Fontaine, to Kickstarter to raise funds for the filming of the series.  The pilot won Best Drama at the Banff Media Festival Pilot Competition and has been nominated for various other awards.    It's an amazing grass roots effort, filmed in the valley where I grew up, and I wish him the very best with this venture.  

young artists concert

Yesterday was like a dream.  Izzy performed as a soloist, along with five other young musicians, in a concert with the Henderson Symphony Orchestra.  

I really do believe it was a dream come true for Isabella, but even for the rest of us the day passed by in magical, joyous moments--happy to be together with family and friends, touched by the beauty of music, filled with love for this dear girl and the journey of watching her come to this point.

It is hard to know what to say when you are in the midst of raising children, trying to help them find their way, trying to help them discover and develop what they love.  I have no idea if we are truly "meant" to become one particular thing or another in this life...I can't really think that is true when I look out over the world and see so many people who have been robbed of the opportunity to indulge such pursuits.  

But I am quite certain we are meant to be happy.  Not happy as in some perpetual high, some fabulous joyride, but a happiness that is deepened over time and made more poignant by a greater range of experience.

I have many thoughts on the matter.  But this much I will say: it is that last part which challenges and appeals to me as a mother, to hope I am raising my children to know how to find happiness through it all, to find it and hold onto it no matter what else may happen.

I see music will be a part of that discovery for Isabella and I cannot tell you how grateful it makes me, seeing such a beautiful piece of the puzzle fall into its place.