Tales From NaNo, the End.

What, already??

I'll admit, none of my wordiness went into this blog for the past month. And I'll further admit that it was kind of nice to take a brief hiatus while I launched pell-mell into an insane amount of creativity.

The past month has been very busy, in very many ways. I'm making my very first pot of homemade turkey stock just today. I baked a few loaves of bread. I scrambled more than a few eggs. I've also started and finished several knitting projects, helped my dad make the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving this year, and worked on not going crazy.

But NaNo was a big part of the month, obviously. 50,000 words is nothing to sniff at. And for the first time in my life I have a novel that is more than just a collection of writing exercises. It's the beginning--the seed, if you will--of an extraordinary opportunity to rewrite and mold until a novel possibly emerges. How wonderful!

Halfway through my novel, I experienced a character coup. My 20-something librarian main character told me very plainly that she wasn't going to do anything else in my story. Nothing. Standstill. It was awful. So I struck her with amnesia, had her wander off into the sunset, and took stock of my options.

In the end, I promoted my 60-year old supporting character to the spotlight. And BOY was she a heck of a lot more entertaining! I ended up naming the whole bloody novel after her! And though I have a million things to rewrite (including...all of part one?) and a million ends to tie up, at least now I know where I'm going. Because I went! And I conquered!

So here's to all of the NaNoers who embarked on such a foolhardy and fantastic mission, this month! It's been fun, and it's only the beginning.

And good news...the blog is probably officially revived, as of now. Because where else am I gonna shove all of the writing I need to do on a daily basis? ;D

Thanks for the patience. Hope a few of you are still with me!

-The GLS

The Ballad of the Kettle (A NaNo Tale).

Everyone who has done NaNo before knows that you need a few things in order to be successful. Grit, determination, and a mindless disregard for your own mental well-being are chief among them.

But another thing that is essential? Your inspiring drink of choice.

I dare not assume what that might be for other people, but for me? It's tea. Tea of all kinds. And for a very long time, the only way I could rely on a steady source of tea at all hours of the day or night was my beloved Braun electric kettle. It boiled water within moments, gave a nice CLICK when it was done, and never gave me problems or talked back. For at least three years, we were happy together.

Until a few days ago, when the poor thing started leaking from its base. Suddenly everything changed. It was no longer my loyal companion. And a quick Internet search revealed that OTHER people had experienced the same with THEIR Braun kettles.

I was crushed, but I started the search for a new kettle. I thought I had ended it last night when I bought a black Proctor Silex for a lovely $20--so inexpensive, I thought! But so necessary, right?

Umm...well...

I pulled it out of its box and it was...large. Really large. Tall, really. Tower-like. And shiny and black and so...so...PLASTIC.

I named it Darth Vader, laughed a little, and tried to settle it in on my desk. But it wouldn't settle. I didn't like it. I didn't like the looks it kept giving me. It wasn't friendly, like my Braun. It kept glancing at my laptop, like at the first opportunity it was going to fall over and douse my MacBook with boiling water. Malevolent and angry. I wondered what had been done to it in its past to make it so aggressive.

I resolved that it simply could not stay. This morning I packaged it back up. It snarled at me as I closed the lid on the box, but I was adamant. No more angry kettles in MY room.

After returning the Proctor Silex with no problems, I headed over to the wonderful Land of Target. I perused their offering of kettles, mostly unimpressed. There were some very dignified metal ones, and some happy-go-lucky white ones, and some more aggressive black plastic ones like the Proctor Silex.

And then...oh, then...that's when I saw him.



He was sitting there SO demurely, humbly, just waiting for me to notice him. His cheery red exterior and kettle-shape said, "I'm happy if you're happy!" but his all-stainless steel makeup stated, "I'm very serious about boiling water for you."

His entire appearance, automatic shut-off feature, drip-free spout, cord-free serving, and concealed heating element (plus his meager $35 pricetag) said, "You want me."

And I did. And I do.



To my beloved Braun: Thank you for your wonderful years of service. You have given me tea, soup, hot chocolate, and oatmeal. You showed me that hot water does NOT always come from a stove or a microwave. You opened my eyes, you carried me through.

Welcome, Hamilton Beach. Together we will conquer NaNo 2010...and the world!

Now. Where my tea?

-The GLS

Tales From NaNo, Part 1.

I know what you're thinking...why the HECK am I posting on my blog instead of tap-tap-tapping away at my NaNoWriMo novel?

Because, like the hare of racing legend, I am WAY ahead of my necessary wordcount and need to take a moment to breathe. Hopefully not too long a moment, otherwise the tortoise of my lazy brain will overtake me completely, and it will be too late.

Also, the NaNoWriMo servers are busy (not surprising, considering how many people are doubtless visiting it right now), so I can't comfort myself with forum-surfing and staring happily at my own displayed wordcount.

But I must say, I AM a little miffed...my dear electric tea kettle has a leak in the bottom. This makes it not only difficult to use, but an electrical hazard. So my supply of hot water at all hours of the night has been cut off. Want to know how to make me grumpy? Cut off my tea supply. That'll do it.

However, I shall prevail! I will vanquish NaNo like only the Gutsy Little Shit can! I will take it down to the ground! I will conquer!

Now, if you'll excuse me. I must plug in to my iPod, tune out of the world, and give my wordcount at least two hours of boost. See you on the other side...

-The GLS

PS: Congrats to all of you Americans who voted! Though I got my vote in a very short time before the ballot boxes closed, I am proud to say that my vote was present and accounted for. It's a hard-won right, people! Exercise it!

Spinach, Honey, and Stevie Nicks.

Work ended a bit early, today, in honor of Halloween. I think this is somewhat silly, truth be told, because I was never all that into Halloween. True enough, I enjoyed getting candy as much as the next kid, but it didn't keep me up nights dreaming and wishing the way, say, Christmas might have.

Anyway...

I got home and realized all I really wanted to do was...brace yourselves...go buy my weight in secondhand books and LPs.

So by golly, I did.

Currently, Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours" (50 cents!!) is crooning from the phonograph in the corner and I'm a happy, spoiled little gal. Four LPs and at least five or six new books. Plus I stopped at Jo-Ann's and got myself a new stitch counter (to replace the one the fairies stole) and a new circular knitting needle. Rawr, life is good!

But I got home at 8:30 and realized I hadn't eaten a thing. My, my...what to do? Experiment? Forsooth!

Sautee three diced cloves of garlic in some olive oil, add a box of Trader Joe's chicken stock (how I love it so), season with salt, black pepper, and red pepper, then once it's boiling nicely add in a lot of frozen spinach, mixed tricolor kidney beans, and a beaten egg.

Dinner of champions. Especially with a glass of sweet Riesling and some whole wheat crackers slathered with sunflower seed butter. Gosh, I'm still experiencing the joy.

For the record (ha, get it?), I'm a bit in awe of the fact that I've recognized every song so far on Rumours' A-side. This doesn't usually happen to me. I follow a pretty strict "Do not buy the record unless you know and love at least two songs on said record", and I've toed the line quite a bit on a few purchases. But this one is in no danger, on that front.

Have a great weekend, y'all. I fully intend to.

-The GLS
(NaNoWriMo starts in a few days!! AHHHHHH!!)

Impatience Is My Virtue.

I'm not tired.

I'm what you might call weary. I feel weary. Which is different than tired. Tired can be a good, satisfying feeling. Weariness just feels like a weighty version of tired.

But before I sign off to assuage my weariness with the balm of sleep, a list entitled "I Want":

1) I want to simplify.
2) I want to grow things.
3) I want to feel the seasons change at their fullest depth and know they're changing NOT because the calendar told me so but because I experience it.
4) I want to be off the grid.
5) I want to remember what it feels like to be excited by snow, but also respect it for the power it can be.
6) I want to nestle deep into the earth.
7) I want to put down roots.
8) I want to begin, continue, and complete, then begin again.
9) I want to set a feast before friends and family.
10) I want it all right now.

Sigh.

That #10 is a kicker. It really is.

-The GLS

The Lotto Man Cometh.

My, my. What a world, what a life.

This has been a crazy, crazy weekend. Between the storm front outside and the hurricane INSIDE, I haven't quite known what to do with myself.

I said in my last blog post something about cleaning my room. And I made all sorts of quips about how it would be a bloody fight, and blah blah blah.

Let me make this clear: I was kidding. Joking. Making jest.

But it has been no joke, this room cleaning business.

For serious, I took almost everything out of my room, moved furniture around, pitched stuff I didn't want anymore, vacuumed the heck out of whatever was left, threw dust in the air, organized my bookshelf, found space for my great-great-grandma's rocking chair, took my desk apart, cocked my bed perpendicular to the window, took everything off of my walls, gave my record player its own surface, gave myself a nightstand for the first time ever, and finally removed every trace of my color-scheme from eight years ago (including a dark green area rug and a dark green bedskirt that had been clinging to this room for FAR too long).

And then...today...oh, today.

I bought stuff. Two new lamps, a new rug, a wicker hamper (for the end of my bed), a new bedskirt, and a new doormat. Holy cow, I'm on a roll, and my room looks brand new! Very exciting. Especially if you're me.

So I'm sitting in the newly-feng-shui'd-wreckage and surveying my castle and thinking lovely thoughts.

It's funny how a new space can give you a new feeling about, well, everything. Like I'm starting over, in some way. Feels almost like a new me. But it's not. It's the old me with a cooler room.

Oh, and did I mention I'm full of Guinness stew? Shoot, what a great way to end the weekend.

Hope everyone else is as contented as I am at this moment. Please say that you are. I care about you. All of you, whoever you are. :)

Love to you and yours,
-The GLS

Miss Clean Jeans.

Funny, isn't it? We have these ideas for how we want life to look, and it doesn't pan out the way you planned.

Actually I'm not being sweeping and profound, here. I'm talking very specifically about the appalling state my bedroom/bathroom is in.

Really, it's awful.

And I ought to know better. How old am I...22, now? Yes, 22. I really ought to have more gratitude for what I've been given, and be more inclined toward organization, and blah blah blah...

But really, I don't think my awfully messy room has anything really to do with a lack of gratitude for what I have. I think I just have WAY TOO MUCH STUFF.

So tomorrow? Oh, tomorrow. Tomorrow is Saturday. A Saturday with nothing but family plans to look forward to, later in the day. Which means...what?

It means, the battle begins tomorrow. The war, if you will. The crusade against the terrible state my room is in.

If I don't return by Monday...this means the room has won, and you will find me buried under a pile of shoes, tinwhistles, and miscellaneous papers including bank statements and artwork from four-year-old Picassos.

Gird yourself.

-The GLS

Go Do.

Oh, dear. I appear to be deep in thought, preparing for this year's NaNoWriMo novel. My notes are open, my character sketches are getting filled in, and names are tripping across my brain and out through my tongue.

Apologies.

I'll leave you with this loveliness.

...and I made homemade ginger cookies. But you can't have any.

Narf!

-The GLS

Anachronistic Love of Iron.

Oh, shoot.

Did you know...when you mix rolled oats, sugar, melted butter, honey, and vanilla all together, stick it in a jellyroll pan and bake it at 350 for 30 mins, it will become caramelized, oaty goodness?

I didn't either. But it's true. You should try it sometime.

Got back from camp a few hours ago and needed to bake something. Desperately. I've been on this kick about not using pre-packaged foods wherever possible, and instead of popping open cans of pre-made high-sodium soup for a quick dinner, I try actually MAKING a quick dinner from scratch. Tonight I made (and ate) the creamiest scrambled eggs you ever tasted (farmer's market eggs, no less) with a side of Irish cornmeal griddle bread and an apple. Not fancy, but MAN it tasted good. Especially because the griddle bread was made with my cast iron skillet. Love me some cast iron. I also made some more butter with the heavy cream left in the fridge and used the buttermilk from the butter-making process in my griddle bread. I feel like I need to sew my own dresses, hitch up the wagon so I can head into town, and marry someone who will bring me some freshly killed game to cook. This is getting outlandish.

(I may or may not have been born in the wrong century. But I digress.)

I made popcorn
My breath was visible
You told me you were tired.
Tired of helping.
Tired of being.
Tired of it.
Just tired.

I wanted to tell you
In my visible voice
That we all get tired.
Please don't stop.
Kids need someone like you.
They need you.

But I handed him a bag of popcorn instead,
And replied in a poem.

Camp is a very, VERY important thing. Kids need camp. But they need the attention and love of adults they know and trust even more. If you work with kids, consider yourself deeply blessed. We all need mentors to look up to. Childhood ain't as easy as it ought to be.

I know it's a weird way to end this post. But it's on my heart tonight. So there.

-The GLS

(My poem is addressed to a youth worker whose name I don't know. So it's a mostly true story.)

Weather-Proof.

I weather-proofed my suede boots today.

It's actually a very simple process. You spray on the stuff, let it sit for an hour, then wear the boots all the time, even while you're sleeping. Or...at least that's what I do.

Funny thing is, I tend to think of weather-proofing for shoes as if there will never be any more weather, ever. Like as soon as my boots are weather-proof, their little boot-lives are suddenly going to be weather-free. No more rain! No more snow! Just happy, sunny days forever!

Gosh. That doesn't make sense.

Doesn't make sense in my life, either.

And just because I've "weather-proofed" my life with the love of Jesus and the grace of God, doesn't mean my life is never, ever going to get rained, snowed, and thundered on. Doesn't mean it's sunny days until I die.

So why do I expect that?

The rain is going to fall just the same, and I have to live with it. But being weather-proofed means just this: I don't have to get sopping wet anymore. It rolls right off, eventually.

And that's alright.

Writing from a rainy season,
-The GLS

Bless the Bread.

It's been a uniquely culinary weekend, but I think the fairies are after me.

This morning, before church, I wanted to try a rumor I had heard about shaking heavy cream in a glass jar to make butter. It worked like a charm. It seems I have butter luck.

So when I got BACK from church I decided to do some major butter-making, only this time by using the closest thing I have to a butter churn: my dear Ada, the Kitchenaid Mixer. I ended up with a nice-size lump of pale, creamy butter. I added a pinch of salt and decided that my butter luck was absolute.

With some of the leftover pasty filling from last night, I made a pot of soup and two small loaves of brown bread. I dutifully blessed the bread (by cutting the traditional slices in it before baking), but I completely forgot to let the fairies out (by pricking the middle of each loaf).

Too bad, too. Because despite the fact that the bread, butter, and soup were all delicious, the fairies must have been a bit miffed at my culinary success and at having not been referenced in my making of the loaves.

As a result, they pinched one of my favorite earrings. Can't find it anywhere. I don't blame them for taking it, it's quite a pretty thing. But I would like it back.

If you have any suggestions on how to appease fairies once they've been offended, please feel free to share your expertise.

-The GLS

Teddy Oggin.

I guess I'm never really all that happy about my blog unless I blog about food. Plus, I watched Julie & Julia again tonight and it always puts me in a bloggy mood.

Luckily, I can offer you not only food...but PHOTOS of food, which is always exciting!

So, on we go...



This, for the uninitiated, is a pasty. Pronounced not as "pay-stee", but as "pah-stee"...at least in my family.

According to popular tradition, pasties come from the British Isles where miners would take them as lunches. They were filled with a stew-like mix of meat, veggies, potatoes, and a gravy, and packed into tough pastry that was rolled into turnovers. This made them easy to hold and transport, kept the hands warm, and kept the coal dust out of the food. Common tales insist that miners would discard the pastry after eating the stuff inside, mostly because it was dirty from their coal-covered hands but also as a sort of offering to the mean little sprites living underground that might lead an unsuspecting miner to danger. Apparently, mean little underground sprites like coal-dust-covered, second-hand pastry. Who knew?

My parents made a delicious pork roast the other night, swimming in onions and pepper and other such delights. With the leftover pork, my mom requested pasties. (And yes, for those playing along at home, it is NOT a REAL pasty if the ingredients are pre-cooked before going into the pastry. Thank you for pointing that out. Next time remind me not to link back to Wikipedia.)

I had never made pasties before. I made little venison pies a few weeks ago, which turned out alright but not perfect, so I was a little hesitant.

But digging in my Irish cookbooks I found a recipe for pastry dough that knocked my Connemara wool socks off (flour, butter, AND heavy cream.....what?!) and suddenly I had to try it.

Pork, peas, garlic (from the farmer's market), a gigantic fingerling potato (also farm-fresh), a carrot, some leek, canned mushrooms (we can't have everything we want, now can we?) and a whole lot of cooking sherry. My very first roux (!!) thickened it up nicely, and some dried thyme and black pepper gave it a little zip.

Granted, by the end it was not the desired consistency. I was hoping for more distinct pieces in a sort of gravy, but I added the pork meat WAY too early and it turned into carnita-like shreds by the time I was ready to stuff the pastry.

Boo and bother, it didn't matter one bit. Because they were DELICIOUS. Especially with some HP Sauce and some of my mom's famous salad.

Before:



And...after:



Notice that the HP Sauce has not moved much...but the pasty, broccoli, and tomatoes (in the salad) have all mysteriously vanished. It's uncanny, really.

In the end, I am full of goodness. Happily sipping chamomile tea while I surf the Internet for things I will probably never buy but enjoy looking at anyway.

Incidentally, this is cute.

-The GLS

How To Slaughter a Chicken.

My life is now learning how to slaughter chickens and forage for mushrooms, hang game and categorize watercress. It's like this is what I've been building toward my whole life long.

(Dramatic much?)

Tonight was a great capper to a fascinating week of yelling and general stress. I kindled new friendships, ate cream of kale soup with black pepper biscuits (delish!), played a bit of old-timey music and generally had a grand old time. This is what life (and Fridays) ought to be about.

And slaughtering chickens. Gizzards. Indeed.

-The GLS

Should I Sit In It, Or Eat It?

I am very full of cinnamon rolls.

Seriously, it's awful.

But also great.

I'm also thinking a lot of Jim Gaffigan-ish thoughts.

So here we go.

Goodnight.

-The GLS

Knit, Purl, Repeat.

Say you're knitting a scarf.

Say this scarf has a big fat cable running through it. Say this requires use of a stitch counter so you know when to cable. Say you're not entirely joyous about the product, but you're continuing just because it's something to do.

Now, say you lose your stitch counter. It mysteriously vanishes. You can't find it anywhere. Now you can no longer comfortably cable without marking your progress on a piece of paper or some other such bother.

Lesson: When your stitch counter vanishes and you can no longer easily cable, frog the darn thing (which was turning out fairly ugly anyway) and make stripes instead.

Somewhere a deep life lesson is buried in there. Something highly metaphorical. But I'm too cross-eyed from 1x1 ribbing to figure it out.

-The GLS

Don't Crowd the Pan.

Ahh, what a day. This is the sort of day that Saturdays were invented for, I think.

A quick sprucing-up of the room? Check.

A walk down to the final local farmer's market of the year? Check.

Using the ingredients from the farmer's market to make potato leek soup and beer bread? Check.

Taking said soup and bread to my sis-in-law's house for a visit? Check.

Squishing adorable baby niece? Check.

Coming home to sip wine and watch episodes of Julia Child's "The French Chef" with my mum? Check check.

Finding out that my Irish Fairy-Soupmother has three other cookbooks and feeling the overwhelming need to buy them? Check check check.

Lesson learned. Saturdays rule.

-The GLS

Fancy Dance, Cranky Pants.

Ahh, Moby.

Tonight's dinner provided by QFC, and I feel very fancy and continental just saying it: a juicy Fuji apple, a half of a mini-baguette, and a small wedge of delightfully buttery brie. I feel French or something. C'est bon!

To be honest, today didn't start out good.

Wait, I'll rephrase: This WEEK didn't start out good.

I started it in a funk. A restless, unhappy funk. I felt all squirmy, like one of my daycare kids during naptime when they have to lie still for two hours in the dark. And I was grumpy. And I did a lot of yelling, mainly at work, though a lot of the loudest yelling was actually in my own head.

But today? Today I knew I had a choice to make. I had squirmed and wiggled and made a general crank of myself for two full days, and it was time to make a decision: is this the way I'm going to freeze myself to be for the rest of the week, or am I going to get over it and stop being a jerk to myself and everyone else?

Welcome back home, Forced Attitude Adjustment. I missed you.

Where is it written that life has to pan out exactly the way I want it to? Who ever said things would be easy? Who died and made me empress of the known world?

No, things are still not the way I want them to be. No, my life isn't picture-perfect. No, I'm not Miss Ever-Happy-Ever-Smiling-Ever-Bright, and I'm not even on the list to be empress of the known world.

But my life is pretty damn good. And my attitude need not reflect the few icky things that have decided to rear their ugly heads. I'm better than that, and I know it.

Now I just gotta show it.

Sheepishly yours,
-The GLS

Meow!

I love it when Colin Mochrie has to finish the Irish Drinking Song all by himself because everyone else is cracking up from his last verse.

It happens surprisingly often.

Classic.

In other news...

What do you do when you have ground venison in the freezer* and some time to kill?

Make experimental wee pasty-pies in your antique graniteware muffin tin, of course! Onions, fresh rosemary, peas, brown rice, and a pie crust made almost exclusively of butter. Side of ketchup, we're in business.

Could I get any more hobbity?

(I'll post pics and possibly the recipe soonwise.)

-The GLS

*Thanks for the venison, Papa Park! Good shootin'!

Glowing Battle-Axes.

Apologies for my absence. I spent the weekend in the arms of my crazy and wonderful family, 2 hours south of home, celebrating my aunt and uncle's 50th wedding anniversary. Which is, you know, an extremely big deal. 50 years is a wonderfully long time.

Movies were quoted, wine was consumed, and graniteware was purchased. It was an epic gathering of black dresses and spray-painted shoes. Except on the guys. My uncle wore a gold caftan, though. (Okay, so I bought the graniteware on the way home...but still, it happened. And so did the caftan.)

They're a smart bunch, my crazy family. Passionate and educated and hilarious to boot. And I love them for all their craziness, and I'm proud to discover that I'm becoming a bit like them all.

With one notable exception, which is that I have to my name only a 2-year transfer degree from community college.

Which doesn't necessarily mean anything bad. I like my silly little degree. I'm fairly proud that I even got it. I'm happy to have a diploma.

But there's a yearning. A stirring. A part of me that still wants to transfer and get a BA, even though money is a major issue.

Thanks to my aunt and uncle--who were both college professors for years--and my cousins--who are very persuasive--I've made a promise to go back to school and finish.

Shoot.

Promises are tough. Because even if they don't hold me to it, I HAVE to do it, because I promised, and it's more important to me to keep a promise than be lazy and comfortable.

*gulp*

Yeah, money is still an issue. And yeah, this will mean a lot of shifting and moving. And yeah, I was kinda happy not being in school this year. But I think I've decided that having a passion and moving toward it is more important than all of that. Money will come. Nothing is insurmountable. I'll get there.

I think.

-The GLS

Do You Have A Dollar?

I can't help it.

I need to go do my laundry, now.

-The GLS