Steampunkery, or the Adventures of Miss Beatrix Travers-Braithwaite

I had a lovely time meeting fellow Steampunks at the (decidedly non-veggie-friendly) Sam's Hof Brau. We discussed inspirations, plans for the future, and various ephemera. And I look forward to our next meeting!

Crafting

So I finally blocked the doily I knit something like a month and a half ago.



It's the first really frilly thing I've knitted, but I must say that I like knitting lace. We'll call it the first stop in a complete tea set, and see if that ever ends up happening.

When one has been previously spoiled . . .

. . . by always having a sewing machine, it is surprising how sore the index finger and thumb of the working hand can become bgvvvvbvgggggg

(That last bit was Vimes' contribution to the blog. Give him a hand - he's not even one, and successfully blogging!)

I'm currently shortening a pair of trousers I never wear (featuring as they do unfashionably wide legs, which would be fine, except that they are also too short for my legs, making my limbs look stumpy and amputated, neither of which are true.) into a pair of jaunty knickerbockers. Pictures to follow, of course.

Shame. If only I had a pattern and some more time, I could put together a vest from that red upholstery fabric of my brother's chair and have a cute tomboy outfit to add to my steampunk wardrobe.

Post-script: A mere three hours and they are complete! I'm afraid the pictures may take a bit longer, however, since they don't look very good just laying on the floor, and it's dashed difficult to take pictures of one's own trousers while one is wearing them! So you shall have to wait until my DBF is home to help.

So here are the pics, photography by DBF:



And I swear, my rear looks much better in person:



Just cutting, pleating, and sewing, et voilà!

Hardanger and soft contentment

My friend Mary from the East Sac Knit and Crochet/Fiber Arts group has been teaching me how to do Hardanger embroidery, a Norwegian craft related to Italian Reticella. I've had my frustrations, mostly related to my getting overexcited and cutting where I oughtn't to have cut, and the inevitable tangles and knots risked by any embroideress who allows herself more than an inch or two of thread on her needle, avoiding the need to cut and thread every few millimeters of work. But I've come to find the counted satin stitch and buttonhole that form the pattern and the needleweaving around the 'connecting bars' very relaxing.



At any rate, my first attempt is finished - I have only to wash the thing, to make the few fuzzy loose ends shrink back into the design, and decide what to do in the center, whether to use a traditional satin stitch motif, some other stitches, or some applied something-or-other.



So I am sure the reader can assume for his or herself how very pleased I am with myself.

Speaking of Steampunk . . .

. . . and, of course, my fabled (albeit embarrassing) love of internet personality quizzes, The 'What's your Steampunk Persona?' Quiz.

Your result for The Steampunk Style Test...

The Aristocrat

50% Elegant, 28% Technological, 37% Historical, 40% Adventurous and 43% Playful!

You are the Aristocrat, the embodiment of steampunk elegance and poise. For you, dressing steampunk is first and foremost about simply looking good, with accessories and details to follow. However, this does not mean that you ignore the demands of creating a “steampunk look.” Your outfits weave together a balance between technology and style, and between period accuracy and beautiful anachronism. While your fashion inspiration may come from anywhere across the Victorian social spectrum, you always find a way to make your outfit beautiful. You will probably be found in the clothes of the steam age elite simply because of the greater elegance available to them. Chances are you dress this way because you like it, and you would still dress in this manner even if steampunk was not a popular interest.

Try our other Steampunk test here.

Take The Steampunk Style Test at HelloQuizzy

Steampunkery

So, there's a Steampunk meetup here in Sacramento, and as such, it's time to see what I have that can be worn for the occasion, and require no additional purchase whatsoever. The bowler that usually lives on my wire corset-shaped sculpture is serving as the base, and my first hip scarf, some faux-pearl beads, a bunch of pins, a rhinestone decoration I got for 50¢, and some gold netting I got to stabilize the cutwork sleeves of my Italisn Ren gown served as the decorations. Here's just with the scarf:




And with all the gew-gaws:




Miniature hats and fascinators are a Steampunk trend, but I'll get by with my (almost) full-sized ones for a while.

A Hitherto Unsuspected Species of Musicality

Chap hop. It has the rhythms of hip hop, with the gentility of Edwardian parlours and smoking rooms, seersucker jackets, pipes, and banjoleles.



Suffice it to say, the P.G. Wodehouse-ian nature of the entertainment is enough to force me running toward Gin fizzes, my best (nonexistent - I must rectify this dreadful oversight!) tweeds, cigarette holders, and punting on the Isis with Oxford men.



(If the only thing that amuses you about the above videobit is the cricket equipment, and you're eager to understad more, you may wish to watch the following, though I can warn you of very unpleasant language and a 'gangsta' worldview some may find . . . also unpleasant. From N.W.A., STraight Outta Compton.)

I love visual gags!

http://www.modcloth.com/store/ModCloth/Apartment/Decor/Kitchen+Bath/The+Betrothed+Coffee+Cup

Clean Cats

So a few nights ago, I was witness to what split the difference between epic and adorable. It was cat washing night. Eventually the stink of Vimes was too much - he needed a better cleaning than he could give himself. DBF was masterful - luckily, Vimes is still kitten enough to not fight too hard. It was hilarious - poor mite looked like a bobblehead, fluffy face and head, then soaked from the neck down. I attended the procedure, all bikini-clad surgeon's assistant (Shampoo, stat! Can I get another billion see-sees of warm water!). We got him snuggled up into a warm, dry towel after and it came down to one-on-one with Puppy. It sounded amazing. Pup has this ability to make this mournful yowling noise that sounds like . . . i suppose what kitteh limbo must sound like. Or maybe all cats are in limbo. Hm. must write Vatican. Then, the splooshing noises. Pup put up a fight, but was not victorious. He knew what was coming, but still couldn't escape. A few scratches suffered (none on me, 'cause I didn't do much), and a very wet floor were the results. But the katzen smelled nice for a few days, and now just smell like cats, rather than disgusting litterbox lotharios, so we call it a win.

Too Hot to Trot

Burn-your-fingers-hot cookies fresh out of the oven, melting between the wires of the cooling rack under the force of their own melted butter.

No picture follows - you should go make a few for yourself. /enabler

. . . Knits up the ravelled sleeve of care

So I finally bullied (tricked) DBF into getting a staggering more than nine hours of sleep last night. Now I LOVELOVE sleeping nine to ten hours. I think its great, I think its good for you. I think he needs it. I think I did too. And now I must run off all that comfy sleepytime languor* and work out.


*Incidentally, I'm less than 2,000 words into my 50,000 word NanoNovel and I've already used the word 'languor' or its derivatives three times. Yeah.

Adventures in Faux-Meat, Parte Deux

So the Seitan didn't work out. I will try again, though. At some point. When I feel up to trying again. In the meantime, I purchased some Tempeh at our last jaunt to the Co-Op. It doesn't have the vaunted "Meat-like texture" of seitan - it's more like a really dense bready stuff, or a meatloaf where the very lean meat has been strrreeeeeeetcheeed with millet, bulgur, etc. I fried it up in some oil and soy sauce (as advised by the package) then doused it all in Soy Vay! Teriyaki sauce and served over whole wheat spaghetti.

It wasn't bad. The lots of teriyaki sauce turned my stomach (and DBF's), it being so very sweet. And I think having the tempeh just sit in the sauce adversely affected its texture. Next time, I'll do differently. However, the inherent texture was good, and it was very filling and comfortable, so tempeh may be a new thing for us.

Kittehs

Yeah, I could write about them, but generally, with cats, the pictures speak for themselves. We don't have so many pictures of Puppy, so this post is 'The Vimes Show'.






Vimes in hs very half-assed 'Count Chocula' Halloween costume.

Apartment Pics

For those of you (if there are any of you) who haven't seen the apartment yet, here's a few pics of what we've done with the place. And by 'the place', I mean 'the kitchen'.




Destined for Pesto.

All Hallows Party

We invited the usual suspects (i.e. those who would probably have been over to role-play anyway, had there been no party) and had a (very small) Halloween Bash. Mostly there was what was to be expected at a nerd party - one on the computer, two playing the Wii, others lounging, carving pumpkins, eating, or chatting.

And what pumpkins they were!



Brian, Elizabeth and I created the first flight, with DBF carving a fourth that put all ours to shame.


(From Right to left: Brian's grin of evil, Elizabeth's friendly, albeit toothless smile, and my emo pumpkin of ultimate sadness and heavy bangs.[Click to see the tear!])


(Nick's amazing Cat-from-Trigun-modeled-after-the-Bobblehead-next-to-the-printer hands-down winner of the night.)

And we decorated with gorgeous bouquets, as I am a very lucky girl whose man believes in flowers, even when it's not prom.



And after some late-night boardgaming, I went to sleep, but not before writing the first few sentences of my NanoNovel!

Typos are purposeful- I'm not allowed to fix them until December. It's rules.

Charles Donnet coughed slightly, and shook out his delicate linen napkin, a fine dust of powdered sugar and lemon peel drifting to the old tiles, laced with vein-like blue markings. the floor was old, far older than the parvenue walls and ceilin, rebuilt after the great Modernism riots, when hordes of new thinkers banded together to tear down the baroque, highly decorated vesiges of the past, covered from prying, outside eyes by the other side's war, the conflict outside their world, which caused them grief, but could never truly touch them. The floor throbbed with the centuries of coffee, wine, and tea spilled on its tiles, with the lingering echoes of a million conversations still bouncing their sounds off it's cool surface, whose beautiful, shell-like delicacy belied their strength, their eldest stamina. He adjusted his cravat, dabbed at his small, precise moustaches and blinked in a somewhat bewildered manner at the denizens of his own café, at least those of the morning shift. He had never been up before ten in his life, that he could remember, and today the light seemed impossible, both too bright and too gray at the same time, like a thick layer of impasto zinc white beside he shining purity of titanium blanc. He snifffed at his uncouth brothers in mind, and, in donning his hat, managed to doff it slightly to the room at large, without applyuing any attention or effort beyond that of placing it on his smooth, Brilliantined waves.

He stepped outside the café and onto the cobbled streets f the Shadow city, the Second city, his home. His lodgings were nearby, as were the homes and rooms of any of his compatriots. None of the myriad citizens of the Shadow city would dream of living too far from their café. There was such a thing as loyalty, after all. For some people, at any rate, thought Charles stiffly, though even his stilffness held within it a seed of his languor, Like a starched shirt after a long ball, beginning to soften, or a straw boater in the heat of summer. His stick clacked against the pavement, and was greeted by those who recognized the sound of his promenade, a leisurely tattoo tripping along the stones, or the instantly recognizable scent of his button hole, the gorgeous lily that was worn only by him, grown specially for him in the city, worn by none other. He shuddered again at the early-morning coffee-drinkers, their flat caps pulled down over their foreheads, shirtsleeves (where they appeared at all) rolled up over the powerful forearms of men who performed physical labour, whether to earn their livelihoods or to acheive their ideological aims. Charles didn't see the difference. Sweat, even the honest sweat on a good man's brow, was ugly and uncouth, unless extolled on a clean, slightly musty page written by some Victorian romantic poet. Nonetheless, his errand provided him a certain vigor beyondthat inspired by his usual mild exertions, and he added a slightly jaunty swing to his step, in honor of himself, a man out and about, on business, even at quarter to ten.

He brought his stick upward to cock his hat slightly toward a young Communiste with large green eyes peeking from underneath a drivers' cap bearing a red button reading "Trotskyist Students' Alliance". She responded with a nonchalance born of long aquaintance with his breed, whatever fascination awakened by his threadbae nobility neutralized by her disgust with his decadent ways and lack of social consciousness. He grinned at her lack of reaction and smoothed his well-fitted coat with his dove-gray gloves.

He took the steps down to Cab Savage's subterranean flat, carefully avoiding rubbing his coat against the flaking blue paint beginning to peel away from the old brick walls. He'd swore ina most ungentlemanlike way when he discoevered his morning coat had been ruined by these walls, and had lay his roth that never more would he return to "The Savage hole" as he had termed it, in his genteel fury. In this situation, however, it being far too earl for morning calls, Charles decided his oath cou;dn't bind him, particularly in his third-best coat. He was, nonetheless, careful to leave a sizeable gap between, as his shoes tapped down the steps lightly and quickly.

Good Morning Starshine, the Earth Says Hello

Also known as: evidence of growing hippiety*, shown by what I eat for breakfast these days. All 'granola, fruit, naturally sweetened** yoghurt' and the deep satisfaction of knowing you're getting enough fiber and other nutrients.



*Pronounced "Hip-piety", at least by me.

**With local honey, of course.

Um.

Regular readers (seeing as how I'm pretty sure I know all of you, and rather well. Hi Mom!) know that "Hey, Katia broke a glass!" is not news. However, the fact that I introduced stressors into the life of the glass, eventually leading it down a dark spiral of fear, disappointment, depression, and eventually suicide, is news. I made the glass break itself. I Hannibal Lectored it.



Apparently, taking a glass still hot from the dishwasher, then pouring fridge-cold water into it will lead to hi-jinks and a kitchen floor covered in water. DBF just shook his head and made fun of me the rest of the night.

Must dash

Mum and Dad were going to name Mason 'Dash'. He's probably faster than me, but his refusal to ever move at a rate greater than a goatee'd, argyle-clad sloth should entitle me to the title, I think. My running is still in baby-stages, as I'm trying to get very comfortable with the first step of the running program before I move on to the next. 60-90 is generally do-able, but I have to get up the guts to expand to 90-120. Six repeats instead of eight. It'll mess up my usual counting system of 'South, West, North, East, South, West, North, East' around McKinley Park. Ah well. Change is good, right?

Addendum: I did it. It turns out that 90 seconds run, 120 seconds walk is quite a it harder than 60-90. But I lived, and the nice, elderly gent who is always going counterclockwise while I go clockwise was there, so we said good morning about three times.

Challah, attempt #3 postscript

It was beautiful. Turns out, I need to watch this oven every second, or it will attempt . . . shenanigans.

The extra oil, egg glaze, and time to rise made a lovely loaf. I'm pleased to have found my ideal.

Now I need to figure a better way to burn the portion for the blessing than holding a lighter to it for ten minutes. Or stinking up the apartment by burning it to a cinder in the oven. Not to mention the waste of energy.

MacGuyver, my Man

So while I've been puttering about the internet, looking for vegetarian alternatives to chicken salad &c., my DBF has been busy unpacking books, exchanging lamps from one room to another, and fixing doors.

Yes. Fixing doors. The doors. . . dare I say it? *Close* now. The cat will be very confused when he realizes that a closed door will no longer open to the pressure exerted by his delicate gray paws.

Anyway, this repair took metallurgical prowess, a scary appreciation of pliers, and actually scraping wood out of the doorframe. Yes, the apartment fix-it-up-chappies installed doors that not only didn't have working springs, but *couldn't possibly interact with the hole in the door frame, by as much as a few centimeters!*

And now it's better, and I'm smug.

Challah, attempt #3

The first challah was measly, paltry, and tough. This is probably due to not letting the completed braid rise even *close* to enough. I also forgot the egg glaze, so it was insufficiently shiny.

The second challah was a big, brassy beauty, easily 2.5 times the size of the first- some of the braid was obscured by its swollen magnificence. The egg glaze shone golden-brown like bodybuilders on a Southern Californian beach from some '80's movie/TV show. And I burnt it. Yep. Aaron first noted the smell, and by the time I ran to retrieve it, it had definitely over-browned. Served with butter and honey (L'shanah tova!), it seemed to pass muster among a group of gamers, anyway.

Third time may well be a charm. Upped the oil content slightly (am hoping for a slightly moister crumb), and am letting it rise now. Here's hoping.

Quiet Night

Making Scalloped Potatoes to serve with a semi-Salade Niçoise for dinner, to get ready for the Yom Kippur Fast. (We're starting a little late, but tant pis.)

May any of you who are observing have an easy fast.

Dancing

So I felt the inspiration, and between kneading my bread dough (challah yum!) and emailing and reading webcomics and playing with the cat, I got out my choli, skirt, and coin belt and danced. I hadn't for a while - my old studio is of course in Boise, and I loved Mearah - she had a good, very positive atmosphere, where I didn't feel like an orca trying to shimmy. I can't really afford it yet, but I'm starting to look around online for local studia where they teach raqs sharqui that isn't too fancy-schmantzy über-skinny tanned super-cabaret, but reasonably authentic, reasonably priced, and maybe reasonably close.

I miss dancing. luckily, I have lots of time alone in the apartment to do that, with only the cat to watch me with alternating fascination and disdain, but I miss the camaraderie of being the Wednesday night class. We even had a name . . . I can't remember. Desert Flowers? Desert Breezes? Desert Winds? Watching Oksanna's beautiful hand motions, even though she'd never come stand up front.

I never even got to perform outside. :(

Mmm.

I'm eating the same thing for 'lunch' that I did for 'dinner' last night. Pizza-bagel with cream cheese, baby carrots, and an apple. I wish I had three oreos in a plastic baggie, then this would be almost like junior high.

And lots of water and the delicious ladytea DBF* got me. Their website is down for some reason. Which is a shame- it's fun to play around in.

*Website all better! View here: http://www.yogiproducts.com/
*In case somehow you never quite got this, 'DBF' is 'Darling Boyfriend'.

Hazards of Love

How has it been this long? This album came out . . . in March. It's September. That's half a year. I got to the Crane Wife within three or four, I thought. It's funny how much you jump on things based on who you're around.
. . .
. . .
Bad choice of words. But it's true. When I was hanging around a big indie-music buff, I was learning so much about music coming out now. Well, then. When I was dating a guy really into sixties and seventies stuff, I learned about that, and while I half-kept up with the Decemberists and Of Montreal, I haven't heard or looked up anything about the Arcade Fire, the Flaming Lips, Interpol, any of the bands I was learning about then.

Anyway, Hazards of Love. This is, if anything, perhaps the ultimate Colin Meloy. The man is meaner than Joss Whedon to his lovers, (I mean the lovers who exist in his songs, for all I know he as Miss Ellis, his ladyfriend/maybe wife? and illuminatrix, have a nice life.) and his music itself has gotten heavier and heavier with each album. Most of Five Songs and Castatways and Cutouts could have been written in the 19th century, and you wouldn't know the difference, except for some strange mid-20th-century references. Maybe The Tain really let him explore those metal bands he loved when he was a nerdy adolescent, blending it with his lovely folky lyrics and reedy, nostalgia-soaked-wearing-a-flat-cap-and-suspenders voice.

Anyway, the usual star-crossed lovers, set sometime between the middle ages and the early 20th century, magic ghosts, drownings. (Colin loves to drown his characters. There have been a few stabbings, a poisoning or two, some deaths in childbirth or exposures of infants, two who presumably expire in a pitched battle inside a whale, and at least one off-screen shooting ('July! July!'- the uncle, who "was a crooked French-Canadian who was gut-shot running gin". And yes, that's a more or less direct quote. I love this band. But mostly, drownings.)

But Margaret, our ingénue, sings to the throbbing bass and some kind of guitar on track four - her light melody floating over the beat as if she didn't know it was there. 'Won't want for Love' will probably be my most-sung song for the next bit. Lyrics here.

William (her shape-shifting boreal lover)and his mum, the Forest Queen have an awesome duet as well, where we get to hear William's theme for the first time (The Wanting comes in Waves), interspersed with the gorgeously theatric 'Repaid'. William, over a slowly, tortured harpsichord(?) just sounds Colin-y, slightly, well, not atonal, but . . . anyway, a near-arpeggio of repetition as the back-story comes out. Then the drums and wall of guitar comes up, and off he goes into the stratosphere, his longing almost a palpable instrument.

Then up comes a meedly guitar thing that reminds me of (darker, more metal) the helicopter-like sounds from the beginning of 'Damned for All Time', from Jesus Christ Superstar. And in a rôle evocative of some of the great Broadway villainesses (from Rock opera, anyway), the Forest Queen spits out her rebuke, loving each caustic syllable, rolling it around in her deep, luscious tones like Tim Curry's Frankenfurter (go watch it- I'll wait. It's probably been far too long since you've seen it, anyway. Probably mostly NSFW, depending on where you work. ;) ), just relishing every word, it's so much fun to sing. I'm vamping more to this bit of this song than David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and the Stones' Beggar's Banquet (which includes the incomparable for dirty, grinding dancing 'Stray Cat Blues'.) But seriously, I dare you to not want to sing along with her, every time she draws out that "And now . . . this is how I am Repaid!"

'The Rake's Song', on the other hand, seems like it might be the first laid-back thing to come along, a nice mellow(ish . . .) return from our Interlude. If you don't listen too close, it sounds somewhat upbeat, and the 'Alrights' almost fool you. (Until the freaky background-singing children come in like the chorus from some Dickens/Bosch mashup.) But this is Colin Meloy, so applying the tale of multiple, unrepentant infanticides into easily the most danceable track on the album shouldn't be too much a surprise. I mean, for heaven's sake. The lyrics are reminiscent of Voltaire's gleeful 'When You're Evil', though this is one time when someone beats Colin on theatricality. Go watch this one too. Well, listen.

And I won't tell the ending, but no doubt you've guessed. Anyway, if you like theatrical neo-folk bands, inching their way toward metal-influenced concept albums, give a listen. apparently, I love them.

Pizza Stone woes

So DBF has a pizza stone. When I first saw it, it had lots of caked-on nasty and I thought to myself that I had no interest in that thing whatsoever. But I like to bake, so yesterday I took a chisel and some time on the balcony and tried to chip much of it away. Then I opened all the windows, turned on all the fans, set the oven to 500 degrees F (as high as it goes), and baked the thing for nearly two hours. I got used to the smoke smell pretty fast, but DBF was blinking back tears when he got home from work. All the other-colored stains, etc had turned black. Some were ashy black, some greasy nasty oil-black. I let it cool anf swept off all that I could.

So I want to make bread on this thing, but had no intention of wasting the time, effort and yeast on a challah braid if the bottom was going to be awful/disgusting anyway. So I whipped up a no-yeast pizza crust, brushed it with oil, sprinkled on mixed herbs and let it bake. It looks fine. It looks rather lovely, actually. The question now is whether it tastes all right. I'm worried about a smoky, ashy flavor. I can smell the smokiness, but that may just be the stupid oven itself. So I wait for it to cool a bit, then I'll check. Here's hoping!

Knitastic

So, becoming bored of/frustrated with my Mindflayer doll, I turn my eyes (and needles) to a shorter, more instantly gratifying project. The Minisweater is a vaguely Georgian/Regency looking number, a single-buttoned sweater with short, slightly poufed sleeves which ends just below the bust. Too much Jane Austen recently? Probably yes.

Plotting and planning for Changeling, cleaning the oven and pizza stone with extreme heat, going a run (I cheated a bit today. /lame) and knitting were the prime objectives of the day. And all pretty much happened. Bread will just have to be a tomorrow thing.

And I passed my Drivers' Test, so am officially temporarily licensed in California, and will get my permanent card, complete with sleepy-looking Girl Scout picture on the front.

Frugality

So, Having cooked my delicious Pomerantzen (which are drying, dusted with sugar, at the moment), I was left with a citrus-infused sugar syrup (orange and lemon {non-plural chosen to avoid bringing that creepy nursery rhyme to mind.}). And I remembered that DBF and I were talking about how expensive maple syrup is, and Mapleine has proved hard to find here, to make my own. So I stirred in some more sugar, the juice of both lemons, and a splash of orange juice, along with a little bit of real vanilla extract, and cooked it a while longer. Then voilà, pour into an empty glass bottle. Citrus-vanilla syrup. I tested it on a sliced peach, and it was wonderful. Of course, the peach was also wonderful, but I could detect the delicate syrup flavor as well. Success!

Pomerantzen

Or candied citrus peels. I love these things. Love them, love them. So today, in the heat of the day, I'm hiding inside, watching 'Allo 'Allo, an English sitcom set in Nazi-occupied France, and candying the peels of oranges and lemons. Leftover faux-chicken soup with Quinoa and red bell peppers for lunch!

Miracle Grain

This stuff is awesome.

I'm going to make cheese-and sun dried tomato-filled fried quinoa patties with butter-herb sauce, Curry Spinach and Quinoa, and work on a quinoa-and-breadcrumb stuffing that can be baked in a casserole and served for Thanksgiving.

Maybe some No-bake Quinoa haystack cookies, with coconut and melted butterscotch chips and cornflakes, or with puffed rice cereal for Passover. Oh.

Is Quinoa Kosha for Pesach?!?!?!?!?

YES!

Not quite as good as a level, but who am I to complain?

I have obtained items:

Oven Mitts
Pot Holders
Flour and Sugar Canisters

*NEWSFLASH*

A Sacramento-area woman's recent attempt to forcibly remove the foot of her boyfriend met with little success, a steak knife proving insufficiently sharp, and wielded with insufficient force, namely, being allowed to fall from the counter. Authorities are unaware of any plans to continue these attempts, and the woman in question seems contrite. The injured man abstained from pressing charges, and is able to walk unaided.

Exercise

Exercise. Yup, I'm doing it. My third run in one week this morning, and I think it's getting easier. Hard to tell, since I was a lazy slump over the four-day weekend, using the smoke and the fact that I slept in until it was too hot to run as my horrible excuses.

But I feel good this morning, and am looking forward to swimming this afternoon. I'm turning into a gym-less monkey.

Adventures in Mock Meat: Part One, Epilogue

No. No, not at all. it had the right level of firmness, but the texture was nothing like. Maybe I bought the wrong stuff. Maybe I didn't knead it well enough, or long enough, or simmered it too low, to short a time. But I think we can call recipe one a failure, or at least this attempt.

And I'm off mock meat for a moment anyway, as I marvel over the fact that I actually bought and cooked squash. And ate it. And my Darling BF did too, and they were delicious 'breakfast' burritos, as he read aloud doggerel (catterel?) aloud from T.S. Eliot. And, of course, Full Metal Alchemist. Which remains absolutely awesome.

Adventures in Mock Meat: Part One, Addendum Two

So I simmered the seitan for well over an hour last night, and it seemed to firm up well, expand as indicated, etc. It was . . . slimy, though. I soaked it a bit on paper towels before placing the 'cutlets' on aluminum foil and freezing them, and they left a thick, floury sludge behind. I'm starting to worry if what I bought from the Bulk section was not vital wheat gluten but a high-gluten flour, which would still have that starchiness in it. Hm. But neither Safeway nor the Co-op seemed to have anything marked simply "Wheat Gluten", despite the guy on Youtube insisting it's common enough to be bought at Wal-mart, of all places.

If it is straight-up Gluten, I should try again, maybe frying it this time instead, or baking it. Anyway, the taste test happens tomorrow, I imagine, as we have swimming class this afternoon/early evening, and I know I won't want to cook anything as complex as a theoretical-seitan-based-developed-from-what's-in-the-house dish.

Apartment To-Dos

I need a teakettle. Boiling water in a saucepan takes longer and is harder to pour into the teapot, let alone a cup. Having boiling water available will help with making bouillon for soup, seitan, etc. as well.

And sweet baby Moses in a basket! We need bookshelves on which to put these books. Boxes and boxes of books. Most of the West Parlor could be cleared if only the books were put away somewhere. Probably in the West Parlor, but at least it wouldn't be boxes. I am tired of boxes. Not as much as I am tired of rented trucks and car-carrying hitches, but quite a bit.

I need to obtain or make oven mitts. So far it stands Me: 1, Oven/Stove: 6. Even with me flying solo against a tag team, that's still not very good.

I also want to line the drawers and cupboards. They are clean, but I always am sure that the dishes will stick to the paint. A bit of contact paper and a few hours of swearing will greatly ease my mind on that account.

And I feel I should make myself an apron. But I have no sewing machine and no ambition to become a hand-sewing virago of awesome.

Best Apitherapy Ever

I've been warned by many natives that Sacramento is a veritable Mecca of allergens. I nod, thank them for the warning, and smile to myself, as apparently whatever stuff they have here just doesn't bother me. The palm trees, citrus groves, giant succulents of awesome don't have bothersome pollens.


But, to prevent growing allergic to my new home, I've begun a steady regimen of natural medicine, namely daily walks through the green, shady streets of midtown/east sac, taking in the gardens of the bungalows, Craftsmans (there are several Buffy houses in the immediate area), faux-Spanish homes, etc. Also, every other day or so, I get a big spoonful of histamines, cunningly neutered by the busy activity of our friends Apis mellifera.



The Co-op stocks local Wildflower honey- raw, unfiltered, and uncooked*. This stuff comes straight from Mr. Lienert's bees to me, and I eat it on toast, and one big spoonful of the stuff, to help my body get used to delicious pollen. This stuff is made of seven-times awesome. New favorite thing.

*Most commercial honeys are heated to above 140 degrees, which kills the antioxidants and and enzymes that increase immune functions, and lessens their natural anti-microbial qualities.

Adventures in Mock Meat: Part One Addendum

So the seitan is simmering away. The process of making it wasn't difficult, though I added a lot of extra gluten flour, maybe as much as 3/4 cup, just to be able to knead it without it sticking to my hands like crazy. The kneading was fun, though - a little easier than bread dough, maybe because of how little there was to knead.

So I used some Kosher pareve chicken-style bouillon powder, a bit of Italian Herb blend, and a tiny bit of cumin in the seitan itself, along with some chicken broth made of the cubey version of the same stuff, with one packet of light soy sauce. (n.b. I've decided never to buy soy sauce. Restaurants just throw it at you, and I can't think of a recipe where I need more than a few tablespoons at a time. Frugality!)

DBF is up and about, but just up enough to be playing Fable (one of my favorite video games to which to listen, because of the awful/awesome accents and fairy-tale tropes in it). So I continue with kitchen adventures. Making mashed potatoes for Vegetarian Bangers and Mash, using 'Kielbasa' and a Vegetarian Gravy recipe I found on allrecipes.

Adventures in Mock Meat: Part One

In researching that VegeUSA stuff, I've been led to believe that I may be able to make something comparable at home with stuff that cost me . . . let's see . . . maybe $3.

Apparently, seitan has been around for ages, and is meaty enough that some vegetarians think it's gross and won't eat it. Bingo! It even holds its shape well enough to be used in stews and things, provided you add it near the end. Can do! It soaks up flavors as well as tofu, and can be shaped however you like. Awesome.

So I have everything I need, though I'm using faux-meat boullion for the flavoring, rather than garlic and ginger, which is traditional, for Chinese cuisine anyway. I'm going to try two recipes, and see which suits my idea of what a meatlike stuff should be.

The first is from about.com, by Jolinda Hackett. It gets bonus points for pictures, and will be my first attempt at seitan-making.

The second is from the Vegetarian Resource Group, by Jill Nussinow.

Either way, I'm being vewwy, vewwy quiet, as poor, sick DBF is sleeping on the rocking loveseat my grandmother gave me, which made the long trek south. I have Django Reinhardt on the iPod, and intend to start making faux-chicken this instant, as soon as I wash the cat off my hands.

Incidentally, I'm pleasantly surprised that my allergies have been reasonably mellow, considering that I'm living with a cat who is definitely not short-hair. I only pop the antihistamines twice a day or so, less if I'm not in the apartment much. Hooray!

Hail Seitan!


(If you don't get this, check this out.)

NPC for you and me

So, I've managed to populate Greendale. The Freehold consists of just under thirty changelings, and the surrounding town's named, designed inhabitants is floating around twenty, with more to come once I figure out some geneology. I know perfectly well that my players will help inspire me to come up with more, and their machinations will requite a whole host of people to deal with them, and to be acted upon. But this is a good start.

Apartment: The Greening

. . . yeah. I read too much World of Darkness stuff, and am a huge geek to boot. (Please don't boot the geek! I'm really rather nice!) So the Noun: the Gerunding form is familiar, and promises hours upon hours of fun, either running or playing a game, simply reading the book, and in the case of some lines, mocking it mercilessly (Promethean: the Mocking).

So as you drive into California, there is a place where you have to stop and inform the nice gentlemen that you are not, in fact, a desperado verde, smuggling foreign plants, soil, insects, parasites, and diseases into the Golden State. "Yes, we have no bananas", you sing in your head, so as not to annoy the poor man, who is, after all, just doing his job, with something he no doubt gets all the time, to the point where it's in no way funny anymore. As such, I will not be bringing my houseplants with me, and since there is no native vegetation already in existence in the apartment, I'll have to step up and remedy the fact. Enter the Greening.



Preliminary research indicates that I may be capable of keeping orchids, and definately have the skills (and hopefully, the patience) for herbal topiary, forming lavender and rosemary into miniature orangeries, rocking the Versailles look.



No, not that one. This one. (Though I dig the quill pen accessory. Very Bas Bleu Barbie of la Princesse de Lamballe, I think.)



Though now I come to think of it, what's the point of living in California if one can't grow one's own Meyer lemons? Or limes?



I think the phrase "Whoa, there!" may be appropriate. Before I turn the place into a jungle. The cat would like it, as would the other beast, but humankind was not meant to live in a knee-high rainforest. It would be like a Lilliputian Amazon, dense undergrowth at the feet, then mostly clear until the canopy hits your lower thigh. Hm. Yes. Best to not.

Oh, yeah.

Bacon Salt is kosher. Watch out, soups.

T minus

So it's getting to be that time - countdown. Most of the "real" packing is done, and now it just comes down to picking up the truck and filling it, then driving away. So now it's all those last-minute things - the pastry cutter. Throwing out most of my old cosmetics and nail polishes. Taking things off the walls and ceiling (paintings, prints, and lamp, respectively). Picking up prescription refills. Doing all the last-minute laundry. Trying to calm down enough to sit still at work.

Lapsang Souchong

I'll admit it. I don't 'get' lapsang souchong. It's a wood-fired black tea, sometimes known as the "Tea of Mystery". Because it's smoky, like the eyeshadow of femmes fatales, like the bars and offices in Noir movies, like Billie Holliday's voice. Problem is, as far as I'm concerned, it tasted oddly like steeped beef jerky. Now I loved beef jerky, but the lack of any kosher stuff has made me not have any for the last few years, but that doesn't mean I want to drink a hot cup of it.

But I found the most amazing idea - brewing up a really strong few cups and pouring it into baked beans, chili, autumnal soups . . . someplace where that liquid smoke actually makes sense - someplace where it belongs. So, anon, when I'm hungry and cold (it'll be a while) and feel like making baked beans, I won't bother with trying to go buy 'liquid smoke'. I'll make my pot of smoky-sweet, slightly peppery beans with lapsang souchong and some bacon salt, and serve them up with cornbread or biscuits. And the apartment will smell like a campfire the rest of the night.

Veggie Research

No, this isn't exactly turning into a cooking blog. It's not much of a blog at all at this point. But it is what I'm thinking recently, when not preparing horrors beyond the ken of man for the Changeling campaigns I'll be running and cackling with glee over how clever some of the things I wrote in high school were (you find lots of stuff, cleaning out your closet for a big move).

I am so excited about a near-daily Farmers Market in Sacramento. In Boise, there's Saturday morning. Which *is* Shabbat, and even if I wasn't exactly in attendance for Shabbat services, going and buying stuff is a little bit out of my comfort zone, unless I'm travelling (which is, incidentally, another no-no, but what's to be done?), and then everything just sort of flies out the window. But this thing? Happens every day. Well, almost. But still! I am looking forward with great virulence (vigilance? violence? vigor?)to being able to go buy organic, locally grown stuff like figs, squash, herbs, fruits . . . Mmmm.

So I'll need to find/make recipes featuring fresh veggies, herbs I've never used before, interesting local cheeses, etc. And still be able to afford it, rather than bankrupt myself on the delightful sybian shores of Epicurianism.

Emerald City Confidential

Apparently Lucas Arts brought out a game in which the player is a hardboiled Private Eye in Emerald City, and takes a case from a strange dame, name of Dee Gale. I've never been that big a fan of Oz, but I love Noir, and especially Noir parodies (I watched Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid again the other day - genius. And Lucas Arts' Adventure games, especially the point-and-click kinds, are my most favorite thing ever (Grim Fandango, Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis, Curse of Monkey Island), at least on computers.

Recipes for a Kosher Chick and Veggie Guy

I've been living more-or-less vegetarian for a while. Milchig and pareve, anyway. I decided a while ago to skip non-kosher meat from now on, knowing well that that pretty much rules out meat on most occasions, it being some expensive stuff to get in the wilds of Boise, idaho. Now I'm moving to California, where there are . . . more Jews than Idaho, I've been led to understand. There are even a few kosher options (apart from Hebrew nationals!) at Trader Joe's. It's still spendy, though.

And I'm moving in with a gorgeous vegetarian, so nix the idea of buying any of this kosher meat, because what's the fun of cooking for yourself? I've been looking up veggie recipes and writing down family classics that could be easily altered. But now, glory hallelujah: www.vegeusa.com.

First found out about this at Mai Thai, where we ate Smoked Duck that had never seen a feather, and chicken curry that had never been an contentious jerkface of a semidomesticated jungle pheasant. I'm looking into how much this stuff costs- because then, all of a sudden, so many more options open up.

Chicken with Weeds
Turkey on Toast
Shepherds' Pie
Fish Pie
Meatballs and Gravy
Pot Roast
Cholent
Maybe some sort of Chicken-alfredo Flammekuche

Hmmmmmmm.

Making a move

I like to make things. I like to sew fabric into tubes that go around my body, I like to make yarn into appendage-cozies, dice-cozies, neck-cozies . . . I like to make water and dried leaves into a delicious beverage, milled wheat into delicious cakes and muffins, dried legumes into delicious curries, and an unmade bed into a made bed. I like making my muscles harder/better/faster/stronger. I like making numbers on paper and some oddly-shaped dice into a whole fictional person. I like to make myself into different people with clothes and makeup. Occasionally, I even like making a sinkful of foodstained crockery into clean dishes.

Making a move, though? Oy. Maybe it's the nature of packing. Making all the things I've made and will make into . . . boxes of stuff. That's a devolution, I'd say, since, if anything, I want to make boxes of stuff into all the accoutrements of my fabulous life. I want to decorate, fill, feed, entertain, create, write, MAKE. Seeing my fabulous life in those boxes is disappointing. Not that I forget who I am with my things not immediately visible. Pas de tout! I just . . . kind of want to paint the boxes.

Eshet Chayil, or "A Woman of Valor", is the last bit of the Book of Proverbs, which is written by Solomon himself, so his legend tells. Though apparently the Aggadic Midrashim say it's Abraham's eulogy about Sarah Imeinu. Either way, it's become the thing for a husband to recite this to his wife at the end of the week, to thank her for all the thankless schlepping she's done all week. Which is nice.

Now I'm definitely not saying I'm the poster girl for this thing. I'd rather not rise in the middle of the night to begin my work, I'm rather partial to the bread of idleness, (with some cinnamon and sugar over a cup of tea, or with obscure cheese and red wine, yum!) and I'm not the perfect beam of womanly labour described. I imagine Sarah Imeinu could pack up the open-on-four-sides tent of Abraham, move it, wash and wax the camels (now I'm picturing a camel lying on a table in a spa, with the poor aesthetician looking at it in terror, holding the wax strips- Ha!), set it all back up, have cholent on the fire, bread coming out of the oven, homebrewed beer poured, and guests received without a kvetch. Then again, as the mother of the Jewish people, I expect more of her, and no doubt she managed a few pointed remarks (or at least pointed looks) to Abraham, Eliezer, and Hagar about the division of labor, even if she knew it would never be done as well if they did it. (Love you, Virgo Mom!)

But I seek wool and flax (though I'd say my weakness for yarn stores is not quite what was meant by that), make my arms strong (like ox!), and I smile at the future. I smile a lot. I guess it's worth the packing, my own failings, and seeing those boxes, and the mess surrounding them as more boxes are spawned from the wreckage, knowing that I'm going to be off, heading to a new fabulous life, and I can decorate Sacramento, or at least my corner of it, when I get there.

Teaching Hilarity

Then Jesus took his disciples up the mountain and, gathering them around him, he taught them, saying:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven
Blessed are the meek
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are the merciful
Blessed are they that thirst for justice
Blessed are you when persecuted
Blessed are you when you suffer
Be glad and rejoice for your reward is great in heaven

Then Simon Peter said, "Are we supposed to know this?"
And Andrew said, "Do we have to write this down?"
And James said, "Are we going to have a test on this?"
And Philip said, "I don't have a pencil!"
And Bartholomew said, "What came after poor?"
And John said, "The other disciples didn't have to learn this!"
And Mark said, "I don't get it."
And Judas asked to go to the bathroom.

And a Pharisee who was then present asked to see Jesus' lesson plan and inquired of Jesus, "Where are your anticipatory set and your objectives in the cognitive domain?"

And Jesus wept.