In which I am grateful that deer have reflective eyes
and that there can be competing organic food stores.
Number of deer I did not hit last night: 4
Number of organic food stores I visited on my way home: 2
This morning: 1
Number of links left on Marley scarf: 2
Supplementary minutes of sleep: 0
Number of minutes I missed the 7:07 bus by: 1
Time the next bus came: 7:57
I was looking for pectin, you see. The fabulous Mrs. Pomona's Universal Pectin, which does not require that more than half the jam be sugar. Woo! So, I went to Trader Joe's. Which is a very weird store. This was my first time, you understand. It's like a Tom Thumb for crunchy-granola types. Lots of shelf-stable food, and pre-made things, but small sections for produce. I think it would be a good place to shop for a party, and for some specific ingredients, but it didn't feel like a grocery store to me. Also, not only did they not carry pectin, the person I asked didn't know what it was. I did buy milk and irish oats, though. Mmmm, oatmeal.
So that was only a block out of my way. I continued on my merry way to Whole Foods. The Whole Foods in Bellevue is, well, huge. It's about twice the size of the one in Mac-Groveland, which is not dinky. Pretty big for natural food. This one is like organictopia. I wandered around, stunned. Eventually, I trekked past the mountains of cheese, the small inlet of seafood, and the vast dry good desert to the jungle of produce. I orbited twice, smelling the fruit. I don't even like apricots and peaches, but they smelled good. I asked a produce page where the pectin was. He wrinkled his brow, disclaimed knowledge, and led me over to a produce squire. I explained again to the produce squire, who led me over hill and dale, around jelly and through pickling salt. But he was defeated in his quest. Humbly we requested aid of the Queen of Grocery. She led us back through the vale of pickling salt, to the den of Baking Supplies, where we found the Grail of Pectin sitting discreetly next to the unflavored gelatin. I held forth to the Queen of Grocery and the Produce Squire about the miraculous powers of the Pomona, how it requires not sugar, how it can set even homemade frappacinos, how its uses are varied and amazing. They stood, making interested noises, until I sloped off to buy buttermilk. Alas, on my way to buttermilk, I was waylaid by the nefarios Miso, and its sidekick Wakame, who subourned me to buy them and infiltrate them into the Castle of Eating Like White People. I coaxed some udon to join our cause, and at last, all of us (including Princess Buttermilk-of-going-on-oats) defeated the wily card-slider and escaped.
Then, with but a quick stop to feed my borrowed charger, I returned to the Castle of Eating Like White People, and did make a porridge of oats, and shared it with my esteemed father, who was talking to some woman who reported that her units were completed, but morale was low. I wrote an inaccurate poem about alcohol.
Then I went to bed.
I had a very disturbing dream about ripping some unknown person limb from limb, and then trying to hide the body. No good.
I should get Baz a haircut this weekend. Or talk him into a buzz cut. Also this weekend: clean car post roadtrip!
No nap on the bus, but I did get almost all the way done with Marley. Good thing I have the yarn to swatch for the Pretty Bitty Bonney Bonnet. And Melusine. Which is introducing a lot of concepts very quickly. It is probably unfair to start a book if I don't have at least half an hour to get dug in. 5-minute bursts only reveal the weirdness of the world without me sinking into it.
Yarn Harlot, in a fabulous post about being a writer, says: Book writing is strange and scary. You can't tell how long you're going to have to do it, what time you're going to finish, if it's going to be alright when you do finish, or if you're going to spend 3 hours dragging 500 words out of your brain only to look at them, realize 467 of them are complete crap and hit the delete key as you sob for the 14th time because you're going to need to find a way to carve another 3 hours out of your responsibilities as a mother, probably so that you can write more complete drivel that no-one would ever like to read, knowing the whole time that your deadline is running out while you ponder that you've made an enormous mistake and really should go to work in a factory, where at least you can tell if you're getting something done and no-one tells you your punctuation is crap and it doesn't matter if you're not funny. The more I write, the more I worry. Will this work? How will it work? Are we out of orange juice? Is that a complete sentence? Am I procrastinating? Do I suck? Where's my knitting?
Which is how I feel a lot of the time.
aiobheil, look, we don't have to re-invent the wheel for African-inspired knitting.
Someone just walked by whistling. This is not that notable. What is notable is that they were whistling "A Mighty Fortress". Seriously. Would I make that up? Now I must play music, to rid my ears of the hymns, which while good, are like the kudzu of the auditory system.
I am kinda sorta thinking about formulating a goal for my 30th year. It is a scary goal, and so I am not telling y'all what it is yet. I agree, it's almost three months to my birthday, but I'll tell you that I want the new Sony Reader, hah!, and a center-pull yarn-winder. And this thing which I am being all Sekrit about, because maybe I'll get over it.
Search terms of the day:
Sony ebook
yarn winder
curly jo () Evidently, I call my angelic little girl after an unpopular fifth Stooge. How much do you think I owe the therapy jar? In my defense, I assumed vaguely that it was related to the Scottish endearment.
john anderson, my jo
sonsy See, that reminds me of my mother's desire to name me "Sonsy", which she claims means "sunny" in Italian. I would like to point out that the family heritage is Scottish, and to the scots it means, wait for it: buxom. Thank you, dad. Thank you so much!
Number of deer I did not hit last night: 4
Number of organic food stores I visited on my way home: 2
This morning: 1
Number of links left on Marley scarf: 2
Supplementary minutes of sleep: 0
Number of minutes I missed the 7:07 bus by: 1
Time the next bus came: 7:57
I was looking for pectin, you see. The fabulous Mrs. Pomona's Universal Pectin, which does not require that more than half the jam be sugar. Woo! So, I went to Trader Joe's. Which is a very weird store. This was my first time, you understand. It's like a Tom Thumb for crunchy-granola types. Lots of shelf-stable food, and pre-made things, but small sections for produce. I think it would be a good place to shop for a party, and for some specific ingredients, but it didn't feel like a grocery store to me. Also, not only did they not carry pectin, the person I asked didn't know what it was. I did buy milk and irish oats, though. Mmmm, oatmeal.
So that was only a block out of my way. I continued on my merry way to Whole Foods. The Whole Foods in Bellevue is, well, huge. It's about twice the size of the one in Mac-Groveland, which is not dinky. Pretty big for natural food. This one is like organictopia. I wandered around, stunned. Eventually, I trekked past the mountains of cheese, the small inlet of seafood, and the vast dry good desert to the jungle of produce. I orbited twice, smelling the fruit. I don't even like apricots and peaches, but they smelled good. I asked a produce page where the pectin was. He wrinkled his brow, disclaimed knowledge, and led me over to a produce squire. I explained again to the produce squire, who led me over hill and dale, around jelly and through pickling salt. But he was defeated in his quest. Humbly we requested aid of the Queen of Grocery. She led us back through the vale of pickling salt, to the den of Baking Supplies, where we found the Grail of Pectin sitting discreetly next to the unflavored gelatin. I held forth to the Queen of Grocery and the Produce Squire about the miraculous powers of the Pomona, how it requires not sugar, how it can set even homemade frappacinos, how its uses are varied and amazing. They stood, making interested noises, until I sloped off to buy buttermilk. Alas, on my way to buttermilk, I was waylaid by the nefarios Miso, and its sidekick Wakame, who subourned me to buy them and infiltrate them into the Castle of Eating Like White People. I coaxed some udon to join our cause, and at last, all of us (including Princess Buttermilk-of-going-on-oats) defeated the wily card-slider and escaped.
Then, with but a quick stop to feed my borrowed charger, I returned to the Castle of Eating Like White People, and did make a porridge of oats, and shared it with my esteemed father, who was talking to some woman who reported that her units were completed, but morale was low. I wrote an inaccurate poem about alcohol.
Then I went to bed.
I had a very disturbing dream about ripping some unknown person limb from limb, and then trying to hide the body. No good.
I should get Baz a haircut this weekend. Or talk him into a buzz cut. Also this weekend: clean car post roadtrip!
No nap on the bus, but I did get almost all the way done with Marley. Good thing I have the yarn to swatch for the Pretty Bitty Bonney Bonnet. And Melusine. Which is introducing a lot of concepts very quickly. It is probably unfair to start a book if I don't have at least half an hour to get dug in. 5-minute bursts only reveal the weirdness of the world without me sinking into it.
Yarn Harlot, in a fabulous post about being a writer, says: Book writing is strange and scary. You can't tell how long you're going to have to do it, what time you're going to finish, if it's going to be alright when you do finish, or if you're going to spend 3 hours dragging 500 words out of your brain only to look at them, realize 467 of them are complete crap and hit the delete key as you sob for the 14th time because you're going to need to find a way to carve another 3 hours out of your responsibilities as a mother, probably so that you can write more complete drivel that no-one would ever like to read, knowing the whole time that your deadline is running out while you ponder that you've made an enormous mistake and really should go to work in a factory, where at least you can tell if you're getting something done and no-one tells you your punctuation is crap and it doesn't matter if you're not funny. The more I write, the more I worry. Will this work? How will it work? Are we out of orange juice? Is that a complete sentence? Am I procrastinating? Do I suck? Where's my knitting?
Which is how I feel a lot of the time.
aiobheil, look, we don't have to re-invent the wheel for African-inspired knitting.
Someone just walked by whistling. This is not that notable. What is notable is that they were whistling "A Mighty Fortress". Seriously. Would I make that up? Now I must play music, to rid my ears of the hymns, which while good, are like the kudzu of the auditory system.
I am kinda sorta thinking about formulating a goal for my 30th year. It is a scary goal, and so I am not telling y'all what it is yet. I agree, it's almost three months to my birthday, but I'll tell you that I want the new Sony Reader, hah!, and a center-pull yarn-winder. And this thing which I am being all Sekrit about, because maybe I'll get over it.
Search terms of the day:
Sony ebook
yarn winder
curly jo () Evidently, I call my angelic little girl after an unpopular fifth Stooge. How much do you think I owe the therapy jar? In my defense, I assumed vaguely that it was related to the Scottish endearment.
john anderson, my jo
sonsy See, that reminds me of my mother's desire to name me "Sonsy", which she claims means "sunny" in Italian. I would like to point out that the family heritage is Scottish, and to the scots it means, wait for it: buxom. Thank you, dad. Thank you so much!