Author: eyeamdust

And now take the time to write, knit, weave and crochet... I eat good food, I walk the dog and I care about what people think about everything. While I have shelter and sustenance, I am calm and peaceful, but I'm not assured that the serenity I live in now will abide if I were to lose my income and lived under a bridge. I do not live under any illusions that life is fair. I have had too much heartbreak to believe in justice and so have you.

A Little Food Adventure ~ Trippin’ with Tracy and Kelly in Arizona Again 2024

Anytime I come to see Tracy and Kelly,  I’m gaurateed to eat really good and interesting foods and to visit some outstanding galleries and such. The photos in this post were taken at the Fry Bread Lounge, next door to the Native Market in Scottsdale.

Tracy and I are showing off our turquoise and silver rings. (Tracy’s has coral, too). Many, if not most, of the art in the market were made by local artisans. It was cool to see their photos and to read the bios. Not your usual tourist trap.

The Fry Bread Lounge is native owned and operated, as is the market. The drinks were so good and unusual. We’re going to try to replicate our favorite when we get to Sedona.

 

There’s me giving some love to Kelly and a couple of shots of the food. The”fry bread flight” came with different sweet and savory dips. I can’t remember the name of the plate, but it was a wonderful mix of hominy, wild rice and vegetables.

If you ever get to Scottsdale, don’t miss the opportunity to visit these outstanding businesses.

Missing from this post are photos of the first restaurant visited when I just got in from Portland. Extraordinay Chinese food at the “Big Buddha”. Not your typical American Chinese food at all. The orange chicken was not drowned in the usual flouresent orange sticky sauce, the egg foo young was … well, how can I describe it? The chop suey was indescribable, as well. Can I just say delicious and surprising? I can’t believe I didn’t take any photos of the food and of the giant Buddha. You know what they say: a picture is worth a thousand words.

Then last night, we drove to Alhambra to eat at the “El Tiburon” (The Shark). Kelly’s sister Mo joined us. This took me right back to Mexico. The building, the colors both inside and out, the dark lighting and disco club flashing lights, the two guitarists standing and singing the music of Juan Gabriel, Rocio Durcal, Marc Antonio Solis, and Pedro Infante.

The outside of the “El Tiburon” is painted turquoise and was festooned in white lights. If Tracy’s friend had not recommended this place, we would never have found it, because how would we know? We ate giant oysters with discs of pulpo (octopus), avocado and fresh salsa, fish fillet smothered in butter, fish tacos in blue corn tortillas, shrimp and octopus cocktails (in glasses the size of a child’s head)… beer, margaritas, and piña coladas.

One marked difference from restaurants in Mexico is that the restroom had toilets with seats.

Why, oh, why did I not take photos? I promise to do better.

Since temps are reaching 111° – 113° daily, here’s us in the pool.

Pittie Standoff

Madam Yum Yum

Yum Yum at her finest. She’s been staring at me, standing just two feet away, uttering small sounds for a long time. Then she finally says, “Let’s go down stairs”. I say, “All right.” I reluctantly put down my knitting, pause my podcast, stand up, and head downstairs.

When I stop to turn around to see if she’s coming, she sits down and looks at me as if to say, “What? Do you want something from me?”. She won’t budge. This look says, “Make me.”

I leave her there. Maybe in two minutes or fifteen, she follows wagging her tail and smiling triumphantly. I don’t understand the rules, but somehow, I know she has won.

We play this game every day. Why? I wonder. She won’t say.

Zydeco, White Beans, and Andouille Sausage

Cannelini beans ad andouille sausage

I don’t know why, but lately, for some reason, lots of Cajun cooking shows have been coming up while scrolling. I guess the universe knows that I love Cajun food, music, and such.

So, today, the clouds rolled in and it’s a good time to make a pot of cannellini beans with andouille sausage with lots and lots of chopped peppers and onions, celery and garlic and even some shredded cabbage.

First, I’ll saute those vegetables in some bacon fat until soft. Then in goes the andouille, to infuse the vegetables with that good smoky flavor. After, pour in the cooked beans and let it simmer until dinner time.

Along with that, to freshen things up, I’m making pickled beets and a chopped cucumber salad.

All I need now is a Cajun man and a barn dance with music played by a Zydeco band. I’m always so jealous when I see these Louisiana folks dancing to a live Zydeco band, bodies bumpin’.

I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with eating white beans with andouille sausage and playing some music on the stereo, nice and loud.

Knitting, fruitcake, and the tree  – Yuletide 2023

This is the beautiful cable hat from the yarn that my friend Judith brought me from ireland. It took such a short time to make. I’m already wearing it. I think it is my favorite hat so far. And I love it especially today because our temperatures dropped below freezing for the first time this fall.

I won’t go into detail about it since i’ve already written a post with all the details.. Cozy things are important on days like this. Thanksgiving is over, and now to wait anxiously for Christmas and to enjoy all of these cold days that are ahead of us.

The fruit cake was made yesterday while we enjoyed leftovers and a fresh charcuterie board. For those of you who suffer from lactose intolerance, did you know that if you eat deeply aged cheese, that it won’t bother your stomach? Anyway, happily, it doesn’t bother mine.

What is Christmas without the wonderful fruity dense cake that i’ve been making for decades now. The fruit was soaked for over a week in rum. Now it’s wrapped in cheese cloth soaked in rum and wrapped in foil to wait for another month..

I’m hoping the christmas tree comes today. There are just a few things that I enjoy more or as well as a christmas tree. I’ll spend the rest of today knitting on the pair of socks that I started before I cast on the irish hat.

I wish and I hope, which doesn’t come easily to me, that there is joy and, most of all, peace in this holiday season for you and yours, while we remember that many suffer. And so it has always been.

Yuletide coziness

Random Hugs When You Need Them

Sometimes, when I feel lonesome, not just alone, but actually lonesome, something special happens. This week:

The mailman stops for a minute to chat and hugs me.

The neighbor across the street stops and chats for a minute and reaches out, and hugs me.

A woman in the pool during class says, “I love you,” and hugs me.

A man in the herb store walks up ever so slowly and hugs me and tells me, “You love me, you thank me.”

I say, yes, to each of them. “I love you, thank you.”

I needed that. Real hugs. Not a side hug. Full on body hugs.  How did they know?

When Things Were Simple

When weed came in kilos across the border from Mexico, it was simple. That’s when a kilo was $35-$60. When you most likely bought a lid in a plastic sandwich baggy for $10 from a friend.

When what you bought was smattered with stems and seeds that would pop and burn holes in your clothes or in your davenport or the seat of the car.

When a part of opening the baggy, and before smoking, was performing the ritual of carefully picking through and cleaning out the debris.

When Zig Zag papers were bought at the corner store to roll a joint. When one took pride in knowing how to roll a perfect joint or a giant “doobie,” It was an acquired skill.

We rolled joints by hand that wouldn’t fall apart, clear to the finger burning end. Or maybe someone had a pipe and sometimes a hooka.

When we all had “roach clips”. Making a nice  “roach clip,” was a work of art and creativity. Does anyone even know what a roach clip is or use one anymore?

The very last bit of a joint, or roach,  was savored by slipping it into a clip and holding it to your lips so as not to burn your fingers. How very handy they were.

PS: Those treasured relics pictured above are more than 50 years old, probably closer to 60. They were made from the bristles of the street cleaners brushes that one could find in the gutters while walking the streets of Portland.

Mid Summer

August 6th approaches.

It’s heavy and hot.

It’s midpoint summer in our hemisphere.

Ever so slowly we tip…

We tip away from the sun.

For less daylight.

As daytime heat soars,

The night air cools.

Still time to swim and eat outdoors.

My Little Scamp

Once upon a time, I had a little scamp. He was lovely. He was the palist of hue yet turned brown as a berry in the summer sun. His eyes were bright and crystal blue. His hair stood on end and was near translucent, so white it was. He was round and soft and yet full of vim and vinegar but smelled of sugar cookies.

We named him Jesse, and as soon as he could move about, he had no fear. I chased him about the house and the yard until he wore himself out. He fell asleep wherever he stood or sat. He might be standing on the couch looking out the window at the sea, and just there, his little knees would bend, and there he slept, little body pressed against the back of the couch. He might fall asleep with his face in a plate of pancakes and syrup. I might find him under a table soundly sleeping. There was no need to coax him into nap time. His little body could move no more.

You might say he was a born adventurer. Once he could crawl and then walk, he was off. Since we lived on an island overlooking the Puget Sound on a 200 ft. cliff, one needed to keep a close eye on this little scamp. Did I ever lose him? Well, one time, I thought I did.

This small little scamp knew what he wanted, and though sweet as honey, he could never accept the word no. When he was still no more than two feet tall, in protest, he would cast himself backward against whatever hard surface with ear splitting and excruciating wailing. I often wondered how this beautiful boy could make such a racket and cause such chaos.

What joy and worry my little scamp caused. Once, while leaving a meeting, I walked out into the busy parking lot. People and their children were milling about. Cars were backing out to leave. I assumed that Jack had Jesse with him. I was not paying attention to my children as I was bidding others goodbye. Across the lot, I saw Jack with our daughter, but I didn’t see Jesse. He was not holding on to Jesse’s hand. Suddenly, I began to panic.

I was frantically looking for him. I called to Jack to ask where he last saw Jesse. I didn’t wait for his answer as I ran wildly around the parking lot. No one said a word as I dashed about, calling his name. I suddenly stopped, realizing that I had Jesse sitting placidly on my left hip, his big blue eyes saying, “Here I am, Mommy.” It was just like someone looking for their lost glasses that were sitting solidly on top of their head, so accustomed was I to this child in my arms.

What madness it is to have a little scamp of one’s own.

And thus began a life of tears and of stitches and broken bones.

Already worn…. out.

Shorty Socks

Han found an old skein of yarn at a garage sale in a basket labeled , “Everything, $1.00”.

When she brought it home, she asked for socks. No surprise there. “Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure it would make a pair, but I was willing to give it a shot. So I made some shorties. This yarn was obviously discontinued, and more was nowhere to be found.

The yarn is Coats and Clark, Red Heart, Knitting Worsted, 100% virgin wool. The colorway is Ancient Gold. It’s actually pretty cool, and I liked working with it, and I love the color.  There’s little black fibers running through it.

This was a nice reprieve from larger projects while my damn arthritic thumb healed from overuse or the pain at least subsided a little.

I’ve already given up needlework, weaving and spinning, and book making. Must I give up knitting, as well?

Say it isn’t so. Guess not. A year later, I’m still knitting.

#knitting
#knittedsocks
#fiberart
#handmade
#textiles
#wool

This Quilt Deserves Better

You know, this crosstitch quilt took 40 years and more hours to create than you could ever imagine. I loved every minute of those hours.

There were years when it languished in a closet, partially completed, while my life was filled with family, going to school, traveling, and other obligations. But it was always there, waiting for me to come back to it.

Now that I’m older, crafting is what I do. It’s all that I do. I do it for joy, peace, and the satisfaction of creating something beautiful. While stitching, be it crossstitch, crochet, crewel work, knitting, bookbinding, or tapestry, I forget about the troubles that face me, that face us in this incredible yet troubling world that we live in. Podcasts, audio books, documentaries, travel vlogs, and the like fill my days while I craft.

Beyond the stitching, however, there was the cost of taking the quilt to the “long arm quilter.” By the time I finished the cross stitching, I was not inclined to hand stitch a queen sized quilt. Three hundred dollars was a small price to pay.

For those of you who don’t quilt, you may not know what that is. A long arm quilter is a person who owns a very large, almost room sized machine in which they can feed a quilt of almost any size. That machine is connected to a computer on which many patterns are programmed. A pattern is chosen, and off it goes with the expertise of the long armed quilter. For those of us who quilt, it is a marvel.

At that point is when the long arm quilter saved it from more time sleeping in the trunk or closet. I had started to quilt it by hand, but after months of working on it, I realized that the task was too daunting. I just wanted it to be done. When I got the quilt back a week later, I then hand stitched the binding. It was finally ready to use.

But, by this time, this quilt is so precious that I can’t use it on my bed… Only because I have two cats and a dog that often share my bed. Claws, hair, and dirt would most likely destroy it.

So for now, it’s folded and safely sits on my ottoman with a pillow on top where Fran Ham, the cat, loves to sleep. I can only enjoy the parts of it that peek out from underneath.

Beautiful quilt. You deserve better.