Amigurumi pour mes amis

Oui, je sais que j'ai utilisé deux langues. And most people don't understand either language.  I'll admit, I barely know the latter nowadays and my grasp of the former is limited to pleasantries and the word in the title. So why am I using it you ask?

Because who wants to say "I'm making a knitted or crocheted stuffed doll" every time they're asked when they could just as easily declare "I'm making an amigurumi" instead.

Broken down into its components,  amigurumi is made of two words. Ami meaning knit or crocheted and nuigurumi meaning stuffed doll. Often the word is used to describe cute animal representations, but anthropomorphic inanimate objects such as food are extremely popular as well.

And when popular culture is inundated with animated feature films and tv shows, the obvious leap is to convert 2D images into soft 3D companions.

Instagram is filled with creations of yarn and stuffing in the image of animated characters. I have even done them myself.

For those who have an adoration of food, how about a healthy fruit filled morning?

Like this strawberry

Or maybe a tomato?

For those who need a little more sustenance, I always love dumplings!

When it comes to animated and scifi love, there's nothing a girl can't do with some yarn, a little stuffing, black beads and a hook. After all, there's a reason why we crocheters often dub ourselves happy hookers. ;)

Any Doctors out there? Or perhaps Dr lovers? If so, you need to have Oodles more fun in your life.

Or maybe you're just a kid at heart. Maybe you just need a friend. A personal healthcare companion to watch over you.

Whatever it is, you can't go wrong with any of the choices above whether they are for your own enjoyment or the love of others.

Lonely Starbucks Lovers

I started this ages past. And finished. But debated the posting.

Why? You ask. Because every time I set pen to paper and my fingers to the keyboard of my laptop, I give a little of myself away and... I wonder. Wonder if I should. Or should not.

Some debates are better left unspoken, so here is a posting from the middle of March and a little knitty goodness.

I cast on, the forest green yarn wrapped around my index finger and thumb, reminiscent of norway spruce, the color I have chosen. It reminds me of trees, of getting lost in the wild and leaving the world behind. It carries a mountain of regret and a tangle of broken dreams.

I never thought that I would feel this way. That my knitterly pride would be broken.

But when the sweater curse makes its claim, nothing will stand in its way. And in its most dire form, the creation of a sweater need not be pursued. No. For this version, the stitches have been cast for a pair of mitts, fingerless so that the recipient may use a phone, cabled for a look most elegant.

Dashing.

Oh, he was. The tousled hair. The innocent look. The loose fitting ensemble concealing a body I'd dream of at night. He was a rake. A rake of the first degree.

In a Regency romance, I would be the debutante, a diamond of the first water, and he the consummate rake, never to be tied to a woman. Yet, by some chance, we would be thrown together, our dislike stemming from shared misconceptions. For the man, the diamond is rough hewn, simple, without substance. For the woman, the garden tool is useless, unsuited for the task.

But somehow, I fall for him. I encourage the lingering glances, the meeting of one's gaze across the room, the brush of fingers across heated skin. I conceal my smile behind a hand, my eyes cast down. I blush.

I am rendered speechless and I know not what to do.

But that is a story. A story of another time. Another place. Another century where roses and romance hold sway. Where a courtship is rife with dramas, debacles, enough for a play. Where the players are pawns in the machinations of society.

I sit in bed and knit. My back propped against a bevy of pillows. Turquoise, gold and scarlet. Oh how I feel like the scarlet woman, the one of myth, of stories told. Shunned. Unwanted by those would would have her then...

But now... now a creature of disdain.

I weep.

I weep tears for a broken heart. Tears for time.  Tears for the torment I brought upon myself. For what I offered yet did not receive in kind.

*****

It is another day.

The stitches I have cast on are slowly taking shape. Ribbed for his pleasure. For mine.

The yarn rolls in the bag, chaotic movements completely at odds with the rhythmic clicking of my needles, the circuitous loop of yarn around my index finger wrapping round, pulling through.

It is therapeutic. The movements calm the thoughts tumbling through my mind, soothe my ruffled feathers, like the cock tethered to the air conditioning unit behind the apartment.

Knit 4, Purl 1. I repeat the words in my mind, silently counting.

A cup of coffee sits on the conference table, the product of a lunchtime run between two students and the need for caffeine stemming from sleepless nights and jet lag.

We talk. We laugh. We whisper and wonder.

The afternoon passes and we go our separate ways.

Home.

Alone.

*****

The night is more than I can bear. The silence deafening. The dim lights a testament to my emotions, the storm raging within.

I tap and type. These words... these words do not flow. They are not the happy thoughts of the week, the joy of long held dreams. Nor are they the hopes I had of a future now lost.

My eyes are wet. My heart is heavy. And the lights are yellow in this room, casting a sad glow upon my face. Like the man on the moon, I can watch all that passes but feel none of the comfort, the embrace of another.

The first cable awaits. Slip 1... 2... 3... 4...

I slip and knit my way around. Each stitch falling through my fingers, off the needles and out of my life.

How did this happen?

One day, I was still laughing. Lying in bed and loving.

The next....

I hurt.

I feel betrayed....

For, I put my trust in others and I love without restraint.

I give all of myself to those in my life and ask for naught in return.

I do not speak with the words of my lips, my tongue nor my wit. Instead, I speak with my hands and craft with them the shape and texture of what I cannot say.

I sit and I knit. The yarn is a comfort, a salve for the shards of my heart, tying knots to hold the pieces in place. The friction is a welcome rub, the fibers weaving together the rivers of my despair. The music of my needles filling the silent void in my mind.

*****

It is morning. Midweek.

And I cable. The twist in stitches confusing me further. My mind is a knot, a tangle of yarn, a skein left to the paws of a cat.

Nine rows.

One row for each month of the year leading up to our meeting. I saw him then, watching. And I looked back. But it was not to be.

We played. Feet tangled together beneath the table. Fingers locked together out of sight. And kisses stolen in the night.

A knock. And I stop, fingers stilling on my needles. There are other needs more urgent than mine.

*****

I sit. Back straight against the chair. The rooms are empty, patients gone and I sit and knit.

People pass and I smile. Nurses ask and I respond. But my heart is not involved. I speak without soul, without the feelings I possess, the animation I once threw to the wind.

Slip 1... 2... 3... 4

Another cable. Another twist in fate.

Third time lucky.

Third time doomed.

A three leaf clover of fiber, never to wilt, never to die. Always the same spring green, everlasting as the pine in winter.

 *****

The yarn... it waits.

I make dinner as the sun sets, the rays of light disappearing behind the shades. Water boils in the pot, simmering gently as pasta goes from hard to soft, the perfect tenderness... al dente. "To the tooth" Such language makes me want to bare my teeth and growl, a testament to the year of my birth.

The smell of bananas and sugar waft from the oven, telling me twenty minutes has passed. I do not pay attention to the time, the passing of seconds... of minutes... of the hours since I walked through the door.

I sit. A bottle of cider to the right of my hand. A plate of carbonara placed before me.

I eat... and I knit.

The stitches have formed a cable, a twist in the fabric of the fiber, the knots of yarn created by each loop of my finger over the needle.

Eight more rows. One for each hour I lay alone in bed that night.

1... I talked.
       2... I cried.
              3... I dried my tears and lay my head upon my arm
                     4... 5... 6... 7.... I slept, a fitful night...
                            8... I woke, wishing it were all a dream, a nightmare from which I would escape

But the tears... the tears they do not not stop. I remember and I weep. I read and I regret. I knit and I know in my heart that I will continue to love until the well of my tears runs dry.

*****

My thumb needs a place to sit. A place to call home.

The next row I count, I wrap the stitches round my hand, gauging.

Knit 14, M1R, Purl 1, M1L.

I continue to knit in pattern, the ribbing an easy task. The next row I knit, I follow the rib, adding the stitches I made. Two new stitches flanking an old. Two for the phones on which we spoke. Two for the hearts which were broken. Two for the time we may yet try again.

I increase. Another row gone. Another two stitches added.

Again and again. I add. I add stitches to the width. I add love to these loops. I add the melancholy of my heart to the mitts. And I add forever to the fingers.

Five times I increase. One increase row for each month I knew love. Each row more than the previous. Each row greater in number... greater in love... in sex and stitches.

*****

It is the end.

The end of the the week. The end of my increases.

And the beginning of the split. Knit 14 in pattern. Slip 11 to a stitch holder. Cast on 1. Continue in pattern. The words make little sense to those who do not knit. But to me, they are a beginning.

The beginning of the end.

The tears... they come only when prompted. But the pain shall remain forevermore. 11 more rows to cover the knuckles, to cover my pain and shift my desires.

I bind off.

Each stitch lying heavier than the last.
        Each stitch pulling tight on my heartstrings.
                Each stitch I cast off, I close off more of myself until the bleeding is staunched.

I pick up 4 stitches. One for each day that has passed since I last heard his voice. Since I last felt joy.

Knit 4. Purl 1.

The rhythmic chant becomes the salve of my soul, the bandage to the wound I bear. I knit and I count.

5 rows. 5 days since the first.

And I am finished.

*****

One mitt sits lone on the table, surrounded by emptiness.

And I start the other. New stitches wrap round the cable. The same number. The same pattern.

Yet different.

The cables twist wrong way round. Undoing. Undying. Another twist of fate.

Year of the Sheep

Happy Chinese New Year!!! 新年快乐 🐑

This lunar year is in honor of the Ram (or sheep, or goat, depending upon your preferred English translation). Arriving with the monkey and rooster at the Jade Emperor's palace,  he was given the eighth position of the Chinese zodiac.

Those born under this sign are said to be peace loving,  trusting,  kind and popular folk. Yet their very nature also makes them clingy and resistant to change. Perhaps this is where the phrase "stubborn as a goat" comes from. Again, another description,  "flock of sheep" comes to mind; this one far from complimentary, preying upon the characteristics which make sheep people easy targets - their kind and trusting nature. For woolen locks may hide a wolf among men.

The lunar new year is a time of celebration, of plenty, the welcoming of new beginnings,  shedding the old and starting anew. It is a time to eat, to rest and be merry. In many ways, more meaningful than the first day of the calendar year, where most individuals are sleeping in, recovering from hangovers and dreading the return to work.

And for fiber artists the world round, sheep are one of the mainstays of our creations, merino, BFL, the breeds could go on. Sheep may be seen as peace loving but what is created from their offerings seems to me the true representation of kindness, and belief in the human race.

Hats for the homeless, blankets for babies, scarves for soldiers. With every stitch we create, we bind the world together. Knitting hearts, crocheting chains and weaving together the words we cannot say with our mouths but feel with our heart.

May this year bring happiness and prosperity,  fulfilling all your dreams. 喜气羊羊!

When the Carnival Comes to Town

Bright lights. Big top tents. The sound of laughter and carnival music filling the dusky night sky.

A reminder of Sunny Worthing

These are the things I think of when I imagine the quintessential carnival of movies and books. Remember the cotton candy? The sugar disappearing on my tongue,  turning it a bright blue. Elephant ears sanded with coarse grains of sugar. Corn dogs on popsicle sticks,  enrobed with a crispy batter, golden brown.

I must say, while I have been to a seafront pop-up amusement park and the circus, there is a certain charm to carnivals. There is something ethereal, almost terrifying at times, about the affair. The idea of having your fortune told in a stuffy tent, walking blindly through a house of mirrors and gawking shamelessly at the "freaks" creates a magical world outside of time.

This is a little poem of when the seafront was filled with lights for a weekend. When I wandered in the dark and felt lost in light.

Carnival Rides

The sun has fallen

          Below the horizon

And walking along the boardwalk

          Are couples,
                        Singles,
                                   Groups of errant teenagers

It's dark; streetlamps light the way

          And strung along are Christmas lights
                        Baubles of glass and power

In the distance, something spins

          A swirl of flashing lights
                        A cacophony of screams

The carnival has come to Worthing

            Night rides fill the street
                        Lining the rocks
                                    Like colorful beach huts

In the daylight, they are amusements

But in the moonshine, they become more

            More fun
                        More exciting
                                    More of a temptation

A Valentine Worth Waiting For

Valentine's Day is touted as the love all, end all day in a relationship.  Along with birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas and New Year's,  it is a day you will rue if you forget to shower her with chocolate,  roses, and kisses from head to toe which make her melt into a puddle at your feet. And for those without Valentines or significant others, this is the day you wish you had someone to hold, someone to cuddle, someone to show you how much you mean to them. 

But forget them all, who needs a man to fulfill your dreams when you can do it yourself?  Who needs to be dragged down by the constraints of public opinion and popular culture? There's no fun in that. And chocolate after the day is over can be so much more satisfying,  for a fraction of the price. Never let it be said that I would pass up a deal on an entire bag of Snickers just because of a handful of pink hearts.

But, don't let me get carried away. Instead, here's a little retelling of how brunch turned into the best lover's day ever. Especially compared to last year. I'll spare you the horrid details. Suffice it to say, sunshine is far comparable to 2 feet of snow and friends better company than strangers. 

We started out determined to meet at 10:30 by Art's Cafe, a mom and pop diner known for their hash browns... Or as Andrea would later post, hash brownies. Maybe it was the excitement of the delicious fare, the homey old- fashioned feel of sitting at a counter...

watching breakfast being made in front of us...

Hashbrowns on the grill

or maybe... just maybe. .. something reminiscent of SF... ;) Alright, so that would never happen to either of us, for different reasons,  my own being the feeling of nausea. If you're from the Bay Area, you'll know exactly what I mean just by walking past the mission or downtown area and taking a sniff. But I'm getting ahead of myself again.

Before we even met, issues already arose. Myself,  I had the joy of believing a transit app only to have my hopes dashed when my ride was delayed thus destroying any attempts to arrive in a timely manner. On the other hand, Andrea had the joy of encountering sweet little girls with their mothers on a street corner, enticing her with boxes of Samoas... Trefoils... Thin mints. Need I go on? It's girl scout season! 

Avoiding the call of temptation, we walked across the street and waited our turn, chatting away on inane topics. Despite the diner seating only 12 patrons, the turnover time was quick and soon after placing orders for a Bi Bim Bip Omelet; spinach, onions, mushroom and spicy sausage hash brown sandwich as well as strawberry lemonades, we were rewarded with crispy potatoes, buttered toast and a brunch worthy of loving.

Top: Omelet; Bottom: Hashbrown sandwich

It helped to pass the time with postcards plastered beneath a see-through tabletop. My favorite had to have been the handwritten Mastercard commercial that reminded me of a vintage holiday. 

I'm not exactly sure how we finished all that food but somehow it got squirreled away into our stomachs. And! We were going to continue on and find dessert. For once, it was still early,  affording us the leisure of wandering before something sweet. Unfortunately, our adventurous spirits were quickly doused with cold reality. 

We managed to attract unwanted attention on our way to Smitten. There we were, waiting patiently to cross at the street corner,  staying in the shade afforded by the building when we were lightly sprayed with lavender water and our birthright questioned. Bastard, the woman whispered before rambling past, mumbling incoherently. Religious fanatic? A woman on a mission? We'll never know. These little encounters find us in all parts of the city, best and worst neighborhoods. Is there a beacon? A sign that screams "accost them"? Thankfully, the rest of the way was uneventful. 

Smitten. What a name. Who can say no to handcrafted ice cream, churned before your eyes into a frozen confection with liquid nitrogen? The bowls frosted with rime, the sun beating down from above.

And the flavors. Salted caramel, Tcho chocolate, Madagascar vanilla and Earl Grey with chocolate chips. Smitten was exactly how I felt upon spooning that first taste of sea salt and caramel into my mouth. The cold dissolving into sweet cream. Delectable to say the least.

Left: Earl Grey with Chocolate Chips;  Right: Salted Caramel

What happened next may have been a consequence of dehydration,  heat exhaustion, sugar high, food coma, or a compilation of the above. But we walked past another planned excursion, across the street and would have missed Two Sisters Bar and Books if not for wandering gazes.

Sharing a love of books and the Regency era, we had long decided that this bar sounded like a literary and culinary dream, coupled with the story behind its beginning. 

Perhaps it wasn't exactly as we expected, then again... it was 1:30 in the afternoon. Choosing a table, we perused the menu. Not only was this an unplanned stop but it was also beer week. Jasmine infused tequila. Blood orange mimosa with beer. So many choices. But I needed something a bit lighter, not so sweet but still floral and fruity. Bring in the Yerba Buena,  named for part of the city, made with ginger infused gin, lemon, lime, simple syrup and topped with a light beer on tap for the week.

As we sat, couples slowly trailed in, some hand in hand, others together but apart. And because we're in SF, an electic couple had to be a part of the afternoon clientele. Few patrons sat alone nursing drinks.

A vintage afternoon

Then, there was us. Perhaps we looked a bit of a couple ourselves to outside viewers, two glasses nearly empty, cheeks blushing from the alcohol in our bloodstream, laughing together about the absurdity of my half-lidded eyes and smeared eyeliner, giggling over made-up stories of our fellow bar mates. 

Cheeks still pink, like little girls who had applied too much of their mother's blush, we went on our way, leaving the bookish bar for more fun and perhaps a bit of shopping. After all, beyond a BFF, shopping is a girl's best friend. Obtaining new clothes, ingredients for cooking, bits and bobs for crafting. The list could go on forever. Remember that post on running about without parental supervision? That happened again once we stepped into Daiso. Now... I have a skein of cream colored yarn and batting and an Ood will be born. 

Derailing. Yes,  I realize. And I'm stopping myself. On our way downstairs,  we happened upon a massive line. What could it possibly be? Did that many people need an appointment at the hair salon today? It was a mushroom cloud which caught our eyes. You may have heard of milk tea. Of boba. Of pudding and jelly. But have you imagined a cotton candy milk tea?

Neither had we.

Two straws, entwined in spun sugar

Mitsu teahouse is a San Francisco startup, nestled in Japantown, right next to Daiso. And their signature is a cloud of pink or blue cotton candy atop traditional boba milk tea, a bright straw holding the puff in place, speared through the top of the plastic lid. As with any other tea house, we had the choice between black, green or oolong tea as our base. A list of sweet flavors. The decision of how sweet we wanted our drink. And if we wanted to incorporate milk or pearls of boba.

It was a combination of childish carnival delights and familiar tastes. Blood orange green tea, lightly sweetened, hold the milk and boba. The citrus flavored syrup tinged the tea a vibrant orange red, a hint of floral aroma from the tea accentuating the fruit. And the crowning glory, a fluffy sweet cloud of blueberries. 

The drink brought out the child within us as we consumed more sugar than we needed, burying ourselves in a pillow of sticky slumber.

To end the day, a ramble past the peace tower

and a visit from a sweet monster of vague Japanese origins. 

I'm on Ravelry! 

Happy Valentine's Day!

DIY Sharpie Mugs

As promised, here's a mini tutorial on the basics of making your own personalized sharpie mugs.

Bring out the child in yourself

Materials
Clean mugs
Oil based sharpies, paint pens, ceramic pens (I used Elmer's Paint Painter Markers)
Stencils or Internet image (if you need some inspiration)
Oven

Instructions
First,  wash and dry all of your mugs. Try not to touch them with your bare hands much.

Now, set up your work space. Then, get creative! Draw whatever you wish, write whatever comes to mind.

Finally,  the reason for all this nonsense.  Set the mugs on a sheet pan and slide into a cool oven on the middle rack. Set the oven to 375 F. Once the oven comes up to temperature,  set the timer for 30 minutes.  Once baked, leave in oven to cool completely.

Because it's bigger on the inside

We made a number of these which turned out beautifully. However, I learned quite a bit about this seemingly innocuous project at the same time.

As I pointed out, DIY sharpie mugs are still one of the most pinned projects on Pinterest. But that hardly means it's simple. A few tips after having tried it out.

1) Buy new mugs. As much as you could save by going to the thrift shop and recycling mugs, you're better off going to Dollar Tree or a similar establishment. This is because you don't know what they were used for previously. We had an unfortunate accident with a reclaimed blue mug which not only had a hairline crack in the glaze but clearly soaked up a lot of unknown oily liquid over its lifetime.

2) Wash your mugs. And let them dry completely before drawing. The ink/paint will adhere much better without the oils from your hands to muck them up.

If you do touch an area you want to draw on or make a mistake,  an alcohol wipe works wonders. Just wipe and let dry before continuing.

3) Keep a margin of untouched ceramic for your lips. While most pens proclaim to be non-toxic, it's always better to avoid ingesting more chemicals than you need.

4) Don't preheat your oven. The likelihood of having the mugs or glasses crack is lessened by allowing the vessels to get up to temperature with the oven.

5) Different tutorials will claim you can place them into the dishwasher but I would strongly advise against it. While baking does make the paint less likely to rub off with a finger, hand washing,  no scrubbing is the best course of action to extend the shelf life of your new creations.

6) Have fun with it! Don't be scared to try something new or make a mistake. And if you don't drink coffee or tea, try some glasses. Maybe bowls. Or repurpose extra mugs to house trinkets about the house.

Make a batch and have a party!

Gifts for guys

I think I have a serious problem with alliteration.  If you look back on previous posts,  you'll notice that the titles often follow that trend. Perhaps an alphabetical post title for 26 weeks with alliteration could be fun... but how do you find a subject matter or connected ideas involving the letter X? Or Z? This is when learning multiple languages and having a predictive dictionary on your phone becomes another asset.

Oh, but I digress. Do I ever stay on topic for long...?

In any case, this is a little post on gift ideas for guys. Because girls, I know how hard it can be. Men have the default of chocolate and cute stuffed animals to fall back upon if they can't come up with something sufficiently romantic or heartfelt for this coming Saturday. But where does that leave us?

What do you get the guy who has everything? The guy you barely know but want to keep seeing? The guy you love but would never risk dating?

Gift giving can be a harrowing task but I'll try and offer a few tidbits off Pinterest,  a few crafty endeavors and some advice of ages relevant not just to the men in our lives but perhaps will give them a bit of a spur in the right direction.

The first idea is a combination of all the above. Following this link you'll find a tutorial for a folded rose made from old ties. However, if you would like your other half to make use of the newly acquired adornment,  don't glue the skinny end of the tie to the dowel, instead,  hold the end in place with one hand while you fold. It can be a bit slick but you can always rearrange the "petals" afterwards. Also, use a straight pin for tacking down the thick end of the tie when you've finished,  making sure to go through all layers to the center. The longer your tie, the bigger the rose.

I made this one from a cheap tie from Daiso on a whim; however,  don't let that deter you. Use the synthetic fabrics for permanent roses and silks as temporary gift wrapping.

The hardest person to gift is always the one who already has everything he wants. Electronic goods. Expensive hobbies. Clothes.

This is where you have to pool your resources, channel the crafter in you and make something they cannot buy, or do something you know they would love.

For those in committed relationships, has he ever expressed an interest or appreciation in your assets beyond the daily looks, or nightly romps between the sheets? Perhaps he may not want to ask, but seeing as 50 Shades premiers on Saturday,  I must bring up the book and whisper that women are not the only ones who have read the trilogy (present company excluded,  but that is a post for another day seeing as it may not evoke the same feelings of lust and love this post should bring. ..) Instead of heading to the theater,  why not stay in and indulge your senses. 

Men, will you be the Christian Grey to your lady's Anastasia? 

Sexual fantasies may not be for everyone but I'm of a mind that food is the one fantasy we all love to indulge. Are your weeks filled to the brim? Feel overworked and haven't seen your man  enough? Instead of a fancy restaurant and dressing to the nines, entertain at home. Make his favorite dish, have a decadent dessert on hand and spend some time together.  Relax. Lie on the couch or in bed, legs tangled together watching a comedy and laughing.  Or peeking through each others fingers at the horror scene unfolding on the screen. Sometimes the best gifts are the little ones. :)

How's this for a steak? :P

Is he worthy of handmade crafts? Has he told you that the creative mind you possess drew him to you in the first place? This is the guy that we would call knit worthy on Rav. Find his favorite color, see what he wears most, try and incorporate likes, hobbies, or for the more nerdy inclined, movies or books.

Here, you can be both practical and impractical.  Something cute to represent yourself,  remind him of you when you're apart, or a shared joke. Is he in the northeast and needs a bit of warmth? Or is he disinclined to wear accessories?  Fear not, my DIY board on Pinterest has a multitude of ideas.

And if you are ever in doubt, ask. Sometimes,  being direct is the best answer to all problems. 

Want to be impractical and show your intellectual but fun side? Grab your hook and reel him in.

Give him your heart

Doesn't like clutter? How about this oversized but useful kitchen aid? Check out all the DIY Sharpie Mug tutorials floating on the Web or wait for my next DIY post with tips and tricks. 

Still not working? How about something warm and cozy for when you're not around to keep the chill away?

I made up the pattern for the fingerless mitts above but if you're not so inclined,  just find a pattern of your choosing.

Even if you don't have a significant other in your life at the moment,  it doesn't mean you can't use these ideas as a soundboard for future gifts. Or even for friends and family. 

Romance is not the sappy love story on tv, nor is it the comedic chick flick you plan on watching with a pint of Häagen-Dazs on Saturday night. No, it's the knowledge that when push comes to shove, you will do anything for them, you will be their anchor, the support they need when they're down and in turn, they will be your lifeline. So I hope you are able to express that somehow with some of these ideas. Take a chance. <3 nbsp="" p="">

Reminiscing

This is just the beginning of a few posts leading up to Valentine's Day. For some reason, I got it in my head that I needed to find an old picture of a cake I had cobbled together last minute for a princess themed party another friend thought would be a fun addition to the weekend.  In retrospect, it wasn't as well executed or planned of an affair;  however, it was one of the first forays into frosting and decorating I like to think didn't turn out too horrifying,  but you may judge for yourself soon enough.

Do you ever reminisce of the past? Think of what ifs and what could have been? Of long lost loves and romance? This princess party reminded me of fairy tales, of those dreams each protagonist wished for. Just the idea alone of princes and princesses conjures up the image of romance. In any case, here is something I threw together a few years past of the endeavor. Can you tell the difference in writing if there is one?

* * *

Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. What is a meal, anyway, but whatever food that serves to satisfy one's appetite at a certain time of the day? In our apartment during undergrad, the midnight snack became another meal, eaten in the dim light of a single light bulb obscured by a foggy yellow ceiling cover or consumed while perched on the edge of a roommate's bed. One week, vanilla buttercream frosted fudge cake dominated the midnight meal. Leftovers from a two layer pink and white frosted castle cake, homemade for a Prince and Princess Party hosted by a friend, the cake was both treat and torment.

Rich and dark, the cake balanced the sickeningly sweet buttercream, making it the perfect midnight treat when paired with a cup of cold milk. Homemade treats always taste better than store bought sweets, especially when the baking takes three hours and the assembly and frosting of the cake an extra two hours. I remember mixing the batter together, watching as the eggs and oil moistened the flour and cocoa mixture. As the smell of chocolate permeated the kitchen, I could already imagine eating the moist cake, still warm from the oven, but I had to resist. The frosting, on the other hand, was a different story. As I added more powdered sugar to the butter, I dipped my finger in to taste. At first, the slick oil feel of the creamed butter coated my tongue with a film of fat solids. It wasn't ready. After pouring in the rest of the box of sugar and a few dashes of vanilla, I stole another taste. One word. Costco. Licking the frosting remnants from my finger, I thought of the single layer Costco-sized buttercream frosted cake our high school Go Club bought to celebrate a tournament. So sweet that it was nauseating, the buttercream from that day matched the vestiges of vanilla and sugar sliding down my throat.

 Sugar and chocolate have been paired together since 1522 when the nuns of Oaxaca, an Aztec town, developed a new recipe for chocolate which combined cocoa, sugar, cinnamon and other spices to make the version of chocolate we know today. Chocolate arouses all our senses - smell, taste, sight, touch and sound - from the initial crackle of paper and plastic when the chocolate pieces are unwrapped to the last bite of sweet sugar and bitter cocoa melting together on our tongues. Historically, cacao beans were worth their weight in gold and used as currency. However, after Hernán Cortés introduced the bitter bean to Europe, the value of the cacao bean decreased. As Europeans - French, Spanish, Italians and Germans alike - planted the cacao tree to gain profits and obtain more of the desired cacao beans, the value of chocolate decreased. Now, most of us can buy chocolate in any grocery store for a low price and in several forms. Brownies, cake, chocolate bars and drinks. The availability of packaged fudge cake mix at Safeway persuaded me to make the castle cake chocolate flavored. Knowing that a chocolate frosting would overwhelm the cake and turn the dessert into an ordeal to finish, I decided upon a plain vanilla frosting, simplicity at its best.

Initially, brewed into a bitter drink, chocolate offered restorative powers due to the caffeine and energy stored in the beans. In today's society, fads come and go. Chocolate switches constantly between being good and bad on the basis of fat content and antioxidant factors. However, I paid no attention to any of the arguments for or against chocolate when deciding to bake a chocolate cake. The desire for chocolate, a sweet I saw as decadent and rich, motivated me instead. Chocolate producers argue for the health benefits of dark chocolate and the antioxidant effects of cocoa powder when unpaired with sugar, trying to rationalize the consumption of chocolate. Why deceive yourself? I thought. Even if the chocolate offers fitness advantages, the amount of fat from the oil, eggs and frosting negate the positive effects. As I stated before, a meal offers sustenance regardless of the composition and the time at which it is eaten. For me, chocolate cake offered comfort, energy in the form of sugar (the brain subsists upon sugar as a first energy source), and an overall feeling of happiness. J.K Rowling conceived the right notion of chocolate being a heal-all product in her books - chocolate solves depression as well as broken arms and empty stomachs.

Hunger makes even the simplest meal taste like a feast. In the middle of the night, when my stomach growled, I turned towards the leftover cake sitting on the kitchen table, pondering whether I should cut a slice or resist and go to sleep. It was inevitable. I sat down, stared at the white monstrosity and stabbed it, cutting a two inch slice of cake and sliding it onto a plate. Pink florets lay along the lower edge of the white buttercream, contrasting sharply with the dark brown of the chocolate fudge. Picking up a fork, I thought of the three sticks of butter and box and a half of powdered sugar I had mixed together for the frosting. I shrugged my shoulders and placed the cake in my mouth. The cake was still moist, crumbling apart as I chewed. Licking my lips, I tasted the overwhelming flavor of vanilla. A little stiff from standing on the cake uncovered except for a thin sheet of plastic wrap, the buttercream melted into a fluid mixture when it entered my mouth.

Knowing the ingredients of the buttercream did not stop me from finishing the slice of cake. In fact, resisting the urge to cut another slice was the hard part. The buttercream frosting was unhealthy, but good. As I ate, I made sure each bite of cake had frosting. Overly sweet, the buttercream coated my tongue with a film of melting butter and sugar. I anticipated each mouthful yet cringed slightly with the next intake of sugar. It was impossible to stop; I had to continue eating. Unlike chocolate, vanilla buttercream has nothing to redeem itself with - no possibility of possessing healthy antioxidants. Instead, saturated fats top the list of unhealthy aspects. Society today obsesses over the health benefits and negative effects of food to the degree that consuming baked goods such as cakes and pastries seems almost offensive.

In contrast, in our apartment, the lack of baked goods brought criticism. Where are the cookies? Why aren't you baking? Only two of the common questions that float around when no desserts are in sight. 

A week. A week had passed and cake still sat on the makeshift platter but now it resided on the countertop as opposed to the table. Only a 3 by 5 inch piece of cake was left but no one moved to eat the remnants of the castle. While my roommates and I did not consider the fat content of the frosted cake a deterrent, the amount of cake proves a challenge. The cake no longer holds the same fascination and temptation as the day it was baked. A week ago, the raw batter served as the forbidden fruit; I could not taste the results of my work until the party. A week later, the frosted cake held no more pleasure.

The cake has become dry except for where the frosting meets cake, holding in moisture. I cut off the next to last piece, hoping that it will disappear from my plate, but it does not happen. The taste of chocolate exists as a subtle companion to the cake, no longer the highlight but the accompaniment to the frosting. The buttercream requires milk to wash away syrupy sweet film coating my mouth. Even after swallowing, the taste of liquid sugar remains. Regardless of how good the initial bite was, after a week of cake, nothing tastes the same. When I initially wrote this, I had been in the process of trying to swallow the last bite on my plate. I couldn't help but cringe and think "Why? Why did I inflict this pain on myself?" Swallowing required effort.  I drank the last of my milk, but I could still taste sugar at the back of my throat. The cake satisfied my appetite, my need for food, but from the first midnight snack to this last meal, the marginal utility (i.e. the amount of pleasure attributed to the cake) decreased significantly. The first time, it was a pleasure. This last bite a chore. I had to force myself to chew and swallow.

Even made petri dish cupcakes from the extra batter and frosting

Crafting Unsupervised

I realize that I have not posted regularly in quite some time prior to the last month. Truly, there isn't a very good excuse for not posting; however, in my defense, it was difficult to think beyond moving every month, doing rotations, studying for exams and finding places to live. It becomes a way of life, ignoring all the fun things. That isn't to say I didn't do an inordinate amount of cooking, less of the baking I'm afraid but fear not, even if my own adaptations don't make it up in a timely manner, I shall endeavor to regale you with recipes to try which I can attest to. As always, there's my Pinterest account which is just as good a source as I am for what goes on in my kitchen, whether it be in a shared flat in the UK, in a two-story house nestled in the suburbs of Long Island or down in the humid expanse of Miami.

This is a little post about why I shouldn't be allowed to craft unsupervised.

Top 10 Reasons Why Jenn Should Not Be Allowed to Craft Unsupervised

#1 I spend too much time procrastinating on Pinterest

            Seriously. WAY too much time. It's amazing that I get anything done when I'm constantly pinning recipes I want to try out. But it's such a good fount of information and ideas, there's just no resisting. Between recipes and DIY projects that catch my eye, I not only need a fully stocked kitchen with appliances but a complete craft room.

#2 Ravelry

            There's no counting how many patterns I have stashed on both Rav and my computer. This isn't even counting the random pamphlets, books and postcards of patterns which are scattered throughout my notebooks and desk. Now that I can crochet, it's like my fingers itch to make amigurumi whenever I see something cute. Like this strawberry that reminded me of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2.

            Or I volunteer my time for test knits… which is absurd since I have other projects which need finishing. Why am I starting another… with a deadline? 

#3 Random amigurumi

            So this is mildly tied into reason #2 but I think it deserves its own category as well. I mean, my sperm was a combination of Giantmicrobes.com, the health fair and Rav. Turned out quite cute if I say so myself. If anyone hasn't seen the Fung Bros on Youtube, they have the perfect reasoning behind my fascination with amigurumi. Clearly it's an Asian girl like.

#4 I revert back to a child

            Seriously, half of the crafts I look at involve children. Whether it's a DIY costume or a hooded towel, I want it in an adult size. All those Disney and Pixar movies I continue to follow don't help the situation either. And then living with a 3 year old and 1 year old didn't help the matter either. It just gave me a good excuse to be a child.

#5 I have too much jewelry

            Alright, so perhaps one can argue that a girl can never have too much jewelry. But when every finger on your right hand but one supports a ring, something is wrong. (And occasionally the left gets adorned as well…) Never you mind the fact that I could potentially wear a new set of earrings every day for a month without doubling up a single day. That may just be a sign that I need to cut down on the accessories I make.

#6 There's just no room

            When your stash overflows the 50 gallon plastic tub hidden in the closet, you will know that the stash is too big. And yet what do I do? I buy more yarn, more fiber, make more clothes and accessories then… hide it in any and all recesses of my room that I can find. Look! A 2 inch hole, yay! It'll fit the heart I just crocheted.

#7 I have the urge to shop at Daiso, Dollar Tree and other thrifty stores

            Not only is this terrible for the crafter in me but why am I spending so much money at places that are essentially dollar stores? How can I possibly spend that much on crafting supplies? Actually, don't ask because I am not sure I can answer for that ball of yarn… or the card stock… shush… that wasn't 150 grams of pink beads.

#8 I end up cutting up old clothes

            Yes, perhaps I should also stop clicking on links from Facebook. But is it really my fault when I see a grown man cutting up a plain black swimsuit on a model and turning it into a piece of art? That is to say, I would never be able to wear such a thing; however, doesn't mean I don't want to try my hand at it.

            Some projects become like CakeWrecks or Pinterest fails, but this one turned out surprisingly well.

#9 My closet nerd comes out

            Silly scifi quotes. Check. Plain mugs. Check. Successful hunt for paint pens. Check. Truly, my love of reading has spawned something greater over the years. It all began with small classroom libraries which morphed into a library card where I could browse the shelves of public institutions for hours on end, filling my bag with science fiction, fantasy, paranormal adventures. Then, once computers and high speed internet became the norm (Yes… I realize I'm mildly dating myself), it was easier to indulge my interests, the hobbies and delights which helped occupy my free time and keep me from boredom.

            So perhaps it's a bit extreme to fill my life with quotes and accessories relative to TV shows and books but no more so than carting a WIP around for 6 months

#10 I put together random packages for friends

            So this isn't necessarily a bad thing, at least not for those on the receiving end. But between USPS cutting delivery days and the exorbitant fees UPS and FedEx charge for a simple package, if it doesn't fit in a flat rate, you will probably never receive it. Unless you are truly that special… and some people are. J

            However, I do believe the strongest deciding factor in whether or not gifts are received circle around the act of getting to the post office itself. Now, this is the true reason why hats have outgrown infants and tunics must be knit at larger gauge.