orange

Same picture, different perspective

We went to the creek and each brought back our own pumpkin rocks.

October, enflamed

B is for BUTTER

Before the school year began, I finally made a decision about buying an actual phonics program rather than just using books like Dick and Jane, etc. to get Corynn reading. I wanted a real educational approach, not something half-hearted and harried (as I knew these would be things I would produce without some direction on my very first year of bonafide home educating.) Though pricey, I saved for the Veritas Press' Phonics museum for K and 1st grade, rationalizing that it is usable for all my future reading students (read: children), and enjoying the approach not only for its' reading and parental aides but for introducing Art appreciation and even simple stories based on history. While I HAVE found that it is a bit juvenile and I can (and need to) step up the work a bit, (namely: they work on one phonogram per week and Corynn already knows the phonograms, so she is way over the practice-the-letter-B-for-five-days-straight bit.) still I appreciate all that it DOES encompass. All the "perks" shall we say. We've done apple printing, made masks, practiced the art techinique of pointellism, and last week, it was suggested we make butter. BUTTER!

So we did.

Here's how:

For butter you will need:

1 pint heavy whipping cream
a pinch of salt
a clean glass jar
a marble
a bowl
a strainer
and a wooden spoon


You pour two cups/one pint of heavy whipping cream into a clean (and cold) canning jar. Plop a clean (and cold) marble in there too, and top it with a tight fitting lid. To make them cold, put them in the fridge for an hour or so- DUH!


Then, you just SHAKE. Shake. Shake Shake. Andrew liked the shaking for about... two minutes when suddenly, the jar shook itself right onto the floor-taking out his toe in the process. After that, he was a shaking snob and didn't lay a finger on the jar again until the butter had already been made.


Corynn, on the other hand, was a real trooper. She was a dedicated shaker through and through, which says a lot considering it takes about 20 minutes for anything really substantial to happen.

You put your right arm in...you take your right arm out. You do the hokie pokie and you shake yourself about.
Shake it up baby, now, shake it up BABY. Twist and SHouT, twist and shout. Come on, come on, my BABY now...come on Baby!

After that twenty minutes of intense and violent jarring (get it? Har har.) SOMETHING happens. Trust me- ANYTHING is better than nothing. You start to see thick cream pulling away from the jar. Oh-this is good.

But that doesn't give you opportunity to stop shaking, just motivation to keep on going. For another 30 minutes! Yeah. This WOULD count as a physical education point. If I had to keep track of PE at this point, that is. I burned approximately 12,385,763 calories during this exercise.


After what could seem like FOREVER (By the way: now would be a good time to suggest that you NOT do separate batches for toddlers. This is an awful lot of shakin' for one Mama to do if multiple kids tire out from shaking...instead, have them take turns doing the shakin'. Just trying to help) very spontaneously and very magically, the butter and buttermilk separate. Trust me, you begin to wonder if it is going to happen. Then, out of the blue- two or three shakes clean the sides and milk magically appears. It really happens!


Next comes the straining. Strain the butter from the buttermilk using just a glass bowl and strainer. Save the buttermilk and find something good to use it for. Buttermilk is expensive in stores...


This is what it will look like at this point.


Now, residual buttermilk is still in the butter, so rinsing it is an important next step. Submerge the butter in cold water and pour off milky white water. Repeat this step until the water remains clear. Then dump that water and move on to the NEXT step.


Next step: spread the butter around on the outside of the bowl with a wooden spoon, and in so doing, push excess buttermilk out of butter. It will squish out into the center of the bowl where you can pour it out. This is important because buttermilk left in the butter turns it sour... Corynn enjoys telling people this tidbit. I know not why.


This step is where the Panda comes in again, and with gusto he comes! Pardon me while I admire his adorable concentration aide- his tongue. Gotta love an out-hanging tongue.


Can't see it? Here. Let's go in for a closer looksie...


And where there are two, there are three. This boy really needs to concentrate, I guess. Squishing buttermilk is a harder job than I originally thought.


Once the excess buttermilk has been squished out and then drained, your butter is ready to refrigerate. If you want SALTED butter, mix a pinch of salt in at this point. A butter mold would be fantastic, but we don't have any. I did, however, find a small, heart shape cupcake tin which Corynn opted for. Andrew went with a bowl from their play kitchen.


Refrigerate for an hour or so until firm and then enjoy. My parents came over the following evening, so you can imagine how excited Corynn was to put out her heart butter for the meal.

She has even been overheard teaching people how to make butter on several occasions since.

I guess they enjoyed themselves...



And THAT's what it's all a-BOUT! Cha cha cha.

Lost your chance...

Did I mention that I have been a working widower this week?

Why of course I didn't, I really would rather prefer NOT to be murdered in my bed some night; although, those who are very keen and clever might have picked up some incinuations.

Matt left me on Monday to go to Maine for work-he's becoming well traveled I'd say. While he ran off to have paid-in-full five course dinners, luxury hotel accomodations, and the party of his life~ I was left to care for his three darling children all by my lonesome.

Can I tell you a secret? I am NOT a strong person. I really kinda like having Matt around. Need him, really. Not to survive-but to be happy. When he is gone, he takes part of me with him. The better part. So I am just some weird sort of shell thingy, and not at all myself.

The morning he left.

The kids had a ball shooting through the air and flying through the clouds of fog in their hard maple muscle-powered rocketship. All I could see was that stack of suitcases, awaiting the inevitable carpool arrival.

It was a tough week last week, made more tough by the knowing that this week I would be on my own. Without my support system. The leaving part was the worst. Many a tear were shed. The Panda took quite a while to settle down after an emotional blow-up upon seeing his Papa driving away with someone else.

The pre-lunch prayertime was offered up for Papa in weepy-voice from our girl-child.

And well, I can't lie- I am a bawl baby by nature. 'Nuff said.

I write this down for all the world to know because my better half is due back in just a few hours. So if murdering me was on your agenda-consider your plans thwarted. Unless you live closeby and then, well, I guess we will all know with the silence of this blog in the coming weeks. :-)

Everyone is very excited for the return of the prodigal Papa. Thought it was pretty darn cute when I walked into the childrens' room and saw Andrew all dressed up in a tie. I was informed by the "vocal" one that Andrew was going to work on some farms in a hotel room in Maine for seven days, along with Papa. Corynn had even packed some "fancy" ties, diapers and socks in a drawstring bag. (Man, is she gonna make a good wifey or what?!? Minus, of course, the diapers...)

He looked topnotch in his little hotel room. Jealous was I, of course, because now BOTH my men are missing from my life.

But only for a few hours...

So- don't get any ideas.

Dangles

When this little girl was a little baby, I wanted in the worst way to get her ears pierced. You know, maybe slow down the "Oh-what a cute little guy" remarks that followed, especially considering she was bald until about... last year! :-)

But NO. Matt has a soft spot for unadulterated ears and said Not on your life. He also said that when she was old enough to express interest, THEN, He would allow it. That way, we didn't put a permenant hole in her ears if she wasn't going to want it later on.

So, me being the wonderfully submissive wife that I am, obliged both with a smile on my face and in my heart. (ha!)

Now she is five and wants earrings in the worst way. Matt is now backing up the train because he still can't get past protecting those earlobes from being tainted.

Corynn is fighting back though, by wearing the gaudy dress up earrings everywhere she possibly can.

Now, as much as I love her sweet little empty earlobes and would *probably* at this point prefer if she kept them pure and unblemished, I would MUCH rather see a nice tiny pair of diamond studs or gold balls than to be greeted with flashing silver dangles at every turn.

ANYTHING is better than THAT, right?!?

Grands

My sister and I carpooled today, for a very important cause.

To go visit Oma and Opa.

We left early, came back late, spent much time in the van, and much less time visiting.

She and I both felt a draw toward their home, and a pull toward visiting with them, if only to tell them that we love them and are thinking of them, and truly concerned for them.

It was a good visit and I am very thankful for the opportunity to have had it~ especially now, as I learn that tomorrow Oma is going in for surgery to discover if a large lump in her esophogus is cancerous or not. I worry less about the cancer, however, than I do the surgery . She is a frail creature who has lived over 80 years a fighter and at some point will not be able to fight as hard.

It was good to tell her I loved her.

It was also good to give my children another opportunity not just to say it, but to realize it.

The Storyteller

My Opa, the storyteller.

In his rich, Dutch accent stories would flow from his lips like raindrops from a thundercloud. His lips spun webs of words, ensnaring us children and wrapping us in intrigue. A complex imagination, made moreso by the complexities of real life.

He was a Resistance worker in the German-occupied Netherlands during World War II.

He found solace and safety amongst the pipes of the church organ as he was sought after. For years.

He was a husband and provider in a little house in the middle of the forest.

He was a reveler in church history.

He was a towering husband to a petal of a girl, a girl who stood over his cradle as a toddler and kissed his chubby baby smile as parents smiled and "awwed".

He was his own personal librarian.

He was a scientist and contributor to the Hubble Telescope.

He was one of the true Great Debators, and found such joy in a good "discussion".

He was a grandfather who delighted the mind and heart of a lanky blonde girl who took very much after him in looks twenty-some years ago.

These things, and many more, shaped his life and the life of his stories. Stories: some true, some not. Some penned so as to be read over and over again; some spoken, gifts never again to be opened. Some published for the world, some to be enjoyed only by those near him.

This man, whose very life was made up of, encompassed by, and devoted to the written and spoken word has been victimized by the stealthily odious thief by the name of Alzheimers. But he is a good actor, even more eloquent in speech and body language, intriguing the young listener with picture thoughts and questions. But the young listener I once was, is no longer the girl I am today. Today, grown woman observing her own knobby-kneed blondies enraptured in the words of Opa, saw a man who was making stories from pictures. A man who, in his own resilience, tries not to let on that the letters that once beaded themselves into words, that strung themselves in sentences, that wove story upon story, that he spent a lifetime reading, writing, and creating no longer make any sense.

I don't believe my Opa can read any longer.

That thought stings my heart with a bitter blow.

And yet: even handicapped by his own confusion, he is able to capture the hearts and minds of little ones-just as he did with his own children, and as he did with me, one of the nearly two dozen grandchildren. Even now, his great grandchildren sit upon his knee, or lean warmly upon his side and watch. and wait. Knowing that the flow of magic will come streaming from his lips.

Maybe he doesn't know it, maybe he never did. Maybe he did know but cannot retain the memory of it any longer, but here it is.

My Opa was gifted with words.

God gave him that gift to touch the lives of people, and even as I cry for the man that I realize is being lost even more each day, I praise God that even while he may not know it himself, Opa is still pouring out that gift on his great grandchildren. His legacy.

His great grandchildren will not forget. Nor will this granddaughter.

The one my sister took for me...



and the one I took for my sister...

Heart songs

Most things that make my heart sing are unseen, intangible: a twinkling eye, a soft word, devotion and respect. If I had to choose one thing, however, that was TANGIBLE, luxurious and utterly unnecessary- it would be stained glass. It is a weakness I have, I tell you!!

I can ACTUALLY get lost in the labyrinth of glass cutwork-and enjoy every moment of it. My fingers are drawn toward the outlines of lead and I love to feel the smoothness of the melded pieces. The milky streams in the colored glass enthrall me, the textures tickle my senses. The colors, the patterns...the fact that pieces of randomness can be soldered together to create intricate detail of a much larger whole in such a masterful way.

To own a *very* few of these glass masterpieces is one of the greatest luxuries of mine, made more luxurious because these gifts are very few and far between. To spell it out for you: we are poor and our money is better used elsewhere! :-) Because of this, call me materialistic, but seeing bits of glowing glass in my very own home gives me shivers of glee at every glance.

Two Christmases ago, I was gifted with this beauty of a lamp. I remember the shock of ripping open the paper and the tearful response to thoughtfulness, and then, the disappointment of having to pack it away in its' box.

Why? Because two years ago we were smack dab in the middle of one of the most tumultuous years of our married life. It had just been realized that the move we thought was to be permenant would not, COULD not be so, and that we would likely have to find a new place to live-and a new career to live by. It was a tough situation. Very tough.

At the time, it seemed pointless to hang such a lovely wall fixture up into a home we would likely be leaving shortly and really, something about the sourness of the situation barred us from "tainting" it's perfectness with the dust of a home that would never be ours.

Even with these things in mind, I had such a hard time packing it up that I opted to just set it out to glance at every now and again.

It didn't take long though, with a three year old and a one year old for tragedy to strike.
I don't remember how it happened, just that it did. I saw it starting to fall and caught it-but not before it hit the brick wall and cracked several perfectly meshed pieces of eggshell-marbled glass. I was sick. Like punch-in-the-gut sick.

I cried. Then I got mad. Then I cried again. Then, I did what ought to have been done from the beginning had I not been such a sentimental, materialistic gal: I put the now corrupted beauty back in its dark, dreary box- not to be opened until it could actually be HUNG, protected from clumsy, fat fingers, toes and anything that is hurled from said fingers and toes.

I actually forgot what it looked like. In truth, I forgot I even HAD it tucked away for our "someday house" until that fateful day I stumbled upon the box as I began the process of packing to move. The moment it was uncovered though, was the moment that the thing began pervading my thoughts. The itch had begun, the anticipation of getting to see it once again-and hang it in our HOME.

Yesterday Matt put it up in the only spot available~ what is becoming our office/library (once we get enough bookcases. Funny~ it hangs down to about my nose (and there are high ceilings throughout)! That doesn't matter to me though, just allows me a closer look! I plan to put our desk directly under it, to avoid "crash collision syndrome"- a fairly dangerous condition I seem to have.
Right now, though, directly under it is cardboard. But what a view from the stairwell!

Tonight, its welcoming glow stirs in me a thankfulness for my husband. For his love those many years ago, made manifest in a luxury that we really couldn't afford just because he knew it would thrill me and for his love just a few hours ago, when he gave the last fruits of time and energy to hang it for me. Just as the golden glow finds me and lingers on my skin, I'll wrap myself up in that love tonight, content to let it linger in me and it will be the warmth that sustains me on this cool, dark and lonely night.

Bun(ny)kin

Eight months...

Every now and again I am totally and utterly surprised by the vastness of the world that has been opened up to me through this blog, and I am often touched by the fingertips of friendship as I read encouraging thoughts and realize that no, I am not alone. At times, I am particularly touched when friendship extends the bounds of a screen, and tickles the moments of real life, as it did yesterday.

Morgan, a blog visitor and friend, extended of her heart by putting aside moments for me and my children for one purpose alone: to be gracious and kind. For no other reason.

Life moments, finger work, happy thoughts and cheer filled a brown box and greeted us at our door yesterday. Presents wrapped in tissue- for ALL, even the unborn! Receiving mail for me is gift alone-but tucked in paper was a beautifully sewn reversible apron with little blue butterflies sipping away the nectar of flowers, and pink gingham. (Though not colored accurately, that is me in it in the above photo...) It is spacious enough to comfortably fit even my now incredibly bulging belly (which says quite alot, really!) and most especially of all: it doesn't tie about the neck (which for some odd reason gives me headaches!) How DID you know, Morgan? The moments of cutting and sewing, creating on my behalf, and thinking of me all the while make even the loveliness of the apron pale in comparison. What a special gift!

The gifts for the children were incredibly special and it would be the understatement of the century to say "it made their day." Even little Bunnykin awaits our Bunkin, protecting his/her bed until the moment when our wee one arrives.

Thank you so much for your kindness.

I have been mourning lately the fact that I have not had time to complete all the wonderful projects and preparations I had planned in anticipation of Bunkin's arrival. Only a few more weeks to go-and it seems it will take those weeks to get the house 'just so' before s/he arrives so I don't anticipate even getting them completed in time (and in some cases, even started!).

Even worse, though, it seems that my head and heart have been so full and busy with the simple day-to-day tasks, that even opportunity to enjoy and focus on my bellybaby has been nonexistent. I find myself lying in bed at the end of the day, laughing at the squirms and kicks of my little one, and realizing this is the first time this day that I have really spent cherishing him/her.

What a shame it is, that I have devoted so little time to this wee one! I want to eagerly anticipate Bunkin's arrival in more than just a thoughtful way-but in a REAL way! Bring on the baby clothes! Take a gander at the receiving blankets! I want to look at BABY things, smell the clothes my "once babies" wore! I want to be utterly astonished at how small the diapers need to be in order to fit! I want to imagine how small these little fingers and toes are going to be-and how they will feel as my fingertips feel their warmth! I want to think about the loveliness of the shallow breaths of a newlyborn resting on my chest.

And: I want to prepare a place for this dearling in our lives. Not next month. Not next week. NOW!

I found all the cradle pieces and washed away the dust of its idleness. With each stroke I painted of warm water, I remembered the hours that I sat in the garage, nearly six years ago, watching Mattie working, sanding, creating, and celebrating life. He wanted to create me an heirloom, something that all of our children could be rocked in (and even grandchildren!), something that made evidence his joy in their creation and his thankfulness in the gift of them.

I tucked in the mattress I made out of foam and plastic tablecloth, chuckling at the memory of Matt's old boss' wife ( a retired nurse) coming and inspecting the thing to be sure it was 'safe' after I told her I made it. Her raised eyebrows upon hearing of a "homemade" mattress make me laugh even today, and her shock and surprise at how "professional looking" it was still makes my day.

I found the cradle veil, with cracked holder and tousled tulle. Even in it's sorry state, it is beautiful. I notice a small hole in the tulle and it makes me smile. That small hole! The veil was an afterthought; an impulse, when we returned from the hospital with our delicious little girl. We had a party planned for just a week or so afterward and I was determined to have it finished by then. How vain I was! My vanity led to many tears and hurried stitching-even until the night before the party when I swore it would be FINISHED. Eventually, the darkness of night forced me to bed with a few stitches to go. But the next morning, when I awoke, I realized my haste had stitched the tulle in a spot that ought not have been stitched-and my pulling on it created a rip. That rip and the frustration of it all caused me so many tears! Yet now, three children later, I laugh and smile as I fondly recall how silly I really was.

I unpacked random pieces of the bedding that I worked on tirelessly so long ago, right up until the days Corynn was born. The pieces didn't get packed away together, so I am pleasantly surprised to find a piece of bumperpad covering, or a quiltlet as I unpack other, unrelated boxes. A few pieces are still missing in action-but the discovered ones are folded nicely in the cradle, awaiting the day they can be freshly washed and put on to wrap our baby in his/her Mama's love.

It is good to recall these days-good for my soul. It is also good to remember that when Bunkin comes, even now, our baby will be wrapped in the love of his/her Mama and Papa. Each stitch was stitched with love. Each piece of wood, shaped with admiration. Each moment of it's creation was filled with Thanksgiving for the greatness of God to bestow His gifts upon us, however many they are. Each one is a blessing. Each one is a vision, and each one holds a piece of us.

It is very good to think on these things.