Apple Thief

Perfect fall day here in my backyard. Blue skies complete with mare's tails, light breeze, color marvels everywhere. I've come out to feed and water animals, and now I want to stay. I've finished classroom animals including the fat fishes who rush the front of the tank, behaving as if they've been fasting for weeks. I love the way they make frantic fish faces as the water vibrates with their wiggling. It is a goldfish feeding frenzy that I enjoy each day. Gus (Asparagus) the ancient guinea pig is squeal-oinking as I rustle the bag of Timothy. He too is starving and must have some romaine, a bit of orange, a carrot, and piggy pellets. All is well.

I've taken an apple outside with me to share with Hi Lily Hi Lo, otherwise known as Lily, the miniature horse.

Lil, however, is being the Lil Pill and states with a snort that she would prefer carrot tops sans carrot, and since I have not brought those to her highness, she ambles away. I scrub algae from the chicken waterers, (anything to avoid going in to write a bibliography that I must do today,) collect eggs for my breakfast, and start gathering leaves from the ground. I am thinking of bracelets I might make with leaves of Arrowhead viburnum and Smokebush. I also gather some leaves from my father's elm tree. The one that I always ran over when I was in high school... I will make some earrings from the smallest leaves.

As I sit down to eat the horse-rejected apple, the chickens descend upon me, with Swizzlestick in the lead. Notice she no longer has bare quills for a tail, having grown a fine new feathered one. Marigold pecks away at me trying to get bites. If you blink, you'll miss it, but Acorn, the Rhode Island Red speeds in and swipes the whole thing right out of my hand. Toulouse the rooster watches his girls behaving badly. 

Beautiful day. I've gathered my leaves to produce some molds. My fingers smell of apple and sap. I keep whiffing them as I sit at the computer. Keys are going to be sticky, but that's o.k.

SOME NEW WORK

BLACKBIRD FLY pendant

WIDE BARK BANDS

RISE AND SHINE ROOSTER PENDANT

WIDE BARK BANDS IN BLACK

BURLAP EARRINGS

PEACE AND MUCH LOVE FRIENDS.

You Can't Take Me Anywhere

My sixth grade art teacher told my mother, "She sure is a fly-by-night." I take issue with that. The dictionary says that a fly-by-night is someone who is unreliable or untrustworthy. Not true! I am completely trustworthy, have a conscience of steel, and you can always rely on me...to do something ditzy. I prefer scatterbrained. That is how my brain has always felt, all over the place, a 52 pick up of signals telling me, "But you need to do this, and this, and this, and you want to make this, and oh, isn't that pretty, and uh-oh you missed the turn." There are always so many things that I would love to do in each day that I require myself to keep a numbered list, prioritized, with my fun things at the bottom. Even with this crutch, however, I do many ditzy things each and every day - always have. My mother would say it's a short-term memory problem caused by a cardiac arrest when I was eight. But this does not hold water, as my daughter, Christina, is exactly like me - even worse. In fact, I should have her make a list for me because some are really funny. Just one...She did all her errands uptown one day to finally look into the rear view mirror and notice that one lens was totally missing from her dark sunglasses. She had wondered why people were looking at her funny. I, myself, am used to it. I have gone to the bank, chatted with tellers and customers, only to return home and see that I have a cherry red Crystal Lite mustache. Once at Oak Brook Mall in Chicago, I bought earrings and sat waiting for my friend on a bench outside. Numerous people walked by and looked at me, I thought with approval. I was thinking, "Oh how I fit into the city environment. They think I'm cool." They were all smiling at me and I smiled back, my confidence growing. Then my friend came out of the store, burst out laughing, and said, "What are you DOING? Look at yourself!" She whipped out a purse mirror, and there I was, wearing my sophisticated new earrings--one sporting a large, dangling price tag. (No Minnie Pearl jokes please, I've heard them all.) There are simply too many incidents to report here, such is my life. Remind me to tell about exercising at Curves, the Amish hat, Starbuck's line, and many more that I hope my friends will remind me of so that I can record them for posterity.

Last week's escapade took place at a CAbi party. In case you are not aware of these events, they are private fashion parties featuring clothing from the designer, Carol Anderson. (Carol Anderson by invitation = CAbi.)

Now usually I dress in linens, natural cottons, comfy clothes, comfy shoes that Johnny and Timmy hate, and I generally order without trying on from J.Jill and Garnet Hill. I fill in with U.S. made pieces from The Wooden Hanger in Urbana, IL and pick up cotton tees at Target. Once in a great while I add an Elaine Fisher jacket and I feel I'm good to go. So...I wanted to attend this party because I love the woman who was hosting. She's been a dear, loyal friend to me and to Metamorphosis Montessori school. In my usual way, I was behind on laundry, washed a load of clothes, and sat down in the studio to make a bracelet. Time got away from me, and I realized in panic that my ride would be here in just a few minutes. My clothes were not dry. My closet selection was lousy, thus I kept cramming outfits on and throwing them off. After this I was sweating and my make-up would not stick to my face. My hair would not go into my usual knot and I looked like a school marm. Then the big shocker - NO clean underwear! I put on a pair of my husband's white Hanes with a big old wasteband. I had no choice. I should have worn one of the Fisher jackets, but Jim told me to go with another in black. (Tell me why I listened to a man whose idea of fashion when I met him was black fur pants, and red corduroys that zipped from waste to ankle.) Here came my ride, I threw on Ugg boots and we were off.

Arriving, I am introduced to very stylish women in little golden ballet flats, tall heeled boots, perfect make-up and very trendy clothing. I can't wait for a glass of wine. Or four. Seated, and gulping, I note that my jacket has lots of dog hair on it, then glance down at my matronly Ugg boots, and notice, right on the outside of the heel: Chicken Poop. No, I did not muck out the coop in my boots, but Swizzlestick, who thinks she is human and knows we have food in our house, keeps pecking at the front door. Obviously, she had shat, shitten, beshit, upon my front stoop, and of course, I stepped in it. (My friend will read this and Lysol every inch of her house, retracing my steps.)

Thank you Swizzlestick!

CCCbi

Cody's Chicken Coop by invitation

Here I am with my friends, pickin' up cowboys on a Saturday night. 

In short, although most of these clothes are not a good choice for me, as I play on the school playground each day, and work with children who wipe mucous on my skirt, they are indeed beautifully cut, and very flattering to the female figure. There were Ship's Ahoy blouses, and Dreamy Drapers, Palazzos and talk of pairing up and trending. But I had not thought this through. I was just going to buy a cardigan, and not try on so that the three inches of white men's waistband sticking up above my jeggings waist would not be detected. That's not how they do it at these parties. Women are whipping clothes on and off in front of each other and everyone, especially the presenter, wants to see how you look! I wish you could have seen me trying to get into these sweaters without raising my arms high enough to show Jim's jockeys!

 

I BOUGHT THE DREAMY DRAPER! Super soft and comfy. 

AND

the DOTTI CARDI because it's really cute and looks like it's inside out because it is hand-stamped. 

I do hope my friend invites me again someday, it truly was fun. And I promise to lay my clothes and shoes out days in advance, because I may be ditzy, but I am totally trustworthy.

A Good Egg

Eggs are really good for you.

Fact: Eggs are a good source of nutrients. One egg contains 6 grams of protein and some healthful unsaturated fats. Eggs are also a good source of choline, which has been linked with preserving memory, and lutein and zeaxanthin, which may protect against vision loss. (Harvard Publications)

Those sillies who started the egg scare didn't know that it's saturated fat that makes your body produce high cholesterol --not foods that are high cholesterol. And this quote is from Web MD, but I believe they are correct with their data:

One egg has only 75 calories but 7 grams of high-quality protein, 5 grams of fat, and 1.6 grams of saturated fat, along with iron, vitamins, minerals, and carotenoids.

The egg is a powerhouse of disease-fighting nutrients like lutein and zeaxanthin. These carotenoids may reduce the risk of age-related macular degeneration, the leading cause of blindness in older adults. And brain development and memory may be enhanced by the choline content of eggs.

I've always known that eggs are good for you because my Papa told me when I was a child. And he ate eggs every day as long as I knew him. He lived to be 86, had a mind like a steel trap, and proved it by quoting Cubs stats to anyone who would listen as he lay dying of pneumonia. My dad's egg dishes were created in a variety of ways - all of them containing several globs of butter. He and my mother taught me to make over-easies, sunny-side up, and, my favorite to make, basted. I loved watching pretty little skin form on top as I splished the hot butter over the yolks. But best of all, papa taught me how to scramble an egg, and this recipe was a popular hit at Cafe Cody. My dad said, "You don't add milk to an egg and pre-mix it, that's a coddled egg." He said this with a pinched face, and as a child I understood that people who coddle their eggs were not, in his judgment, quite right.

Plenty of our cafe customers commented on our scrambled eggs. One elderly woman had to come back to the kitchen and tell me that "those" eggs were just like the ones of her childhood. "You can still see the yellow, and the white, and that's how a scrambled egg's supposed to  be," she said crankily. I liked her. So here's how you scramble a proper egg...

Heat a small saute pan over medium heat. (My dad did not call them saute pans, they were "frying" pans.) Plop in a Tablespoon of butter and let it sizzle down--do not let it brown. As soon as it's done melting add your eggs. (2 from free range chickens) Now you might say, "I'll get eggshell in my eggs." Not so if you crack correctly, not on the side of something like the pan or counter, but crack on a flat surface. Let your eggs sit there a few seconds as the albumen begins turning white. Not too long, just long enough. Add plenty of salt and freshly cracked pepper.  Then take a wooden spoon and gently fold the eggs about, wait a few seconds, do it again, and a couple more times without turning them into a homogenized lump of jaundiced "fowlness" that would be an insult to poultry everywhere. They should be slightly shiny, with streaks of white and plenty of sunny yellow. At the cafe, a #1 was egg and homemade bread toast, #2 was eggs, bacon or ham, and homemade toast, #3 was eggs, toast, and our mashed potato pancakes, and #4 was a combo of 2 and 3.

My dad would throw anything into a scrambled egg...salami, bologna, fried potatoes, onion... That's probably why I started making "scramlettes." We served a variety of these at the cafe with ingredients like: Sauteed red pepper, onion, mushrooms, spinach, goat cheese and other cheeses, fried potatoes, chorizo, on and on. Just scramble 2 or three eggs and when they are almost done, throw what you like right in. This has always been one of my favorite dinners, and I relish the fact that I can step outside, get eggs from my girls, and in summer, gather good greens, tomatoes and whatever from my garden, and make a complete, healthy meal.

Are you wondering about those eggs pictured up top? In order from left to right they were laid by:
Swizzlestick, Marigold, Etta, Carmella, Etta, Bijoux,
Hattie, Imogene, Hattie, Etta, Acorn, and Florence

Swizzlestick, Carmella, Bijoux, Florence and Imogene came from a breeding program. I truthfully have no idea what these guys are thinking when trying to outdo other programs with egg size. When these girls arrived, they were all laying "nuclear eggs." I've never seen eggs so big. One measured 8 inches in circumference longways! Are they creating "Frankenchickens?" Poor things, I don't know how they pass the eggs. Gradually I am seeing their egg size decrease a little, but not so with poor Carmella, who laid the big blue egg. I wish my dad could see these girls running about the back yard, while marveling at their eggs as he scrambled some - the right way!

p.s. I'm following this blog that I like very much. Check it out!  TILLY'S NEST

Tribute to a Chicken

Dear Liza passed away in the night. I am relieved that her suffering is over, and I will miss our daily conversations. Liza always got in the last word. Always.

Little Liza Update

Who knew that chickens can actually puke? I would expect a chicken to maybe cough something up occasionally, but really vomit? Like a person? I now know that they can and do, because I was just thrown up on by a chicken when I was spraying her poopy chicken butt and scrubbing her botto with Dawn dish soap...as seen on TV- you know sea life covered with oil slick. Well the long and short of it is that although my vet said that this chicken would probably not make it through last night, she did, so I really pumped up the nutrient dense cat food the vet gave me, and probably gave her too much water as well. In retrospect, I think it might not have been a good idea to plop her into the sink right after she ate. I actually acted this out for Jim because what happened was she set herself up to upchuck just like a person does, (except with no hands to hold her belly,)  gagged a couple of times with her little chicken tongue out, and then absolutely ejected her dinner across my sweatshirt and on to the kitchen counter. (This little charade made Jim shake like Jello - a good one on the Jim laugh-o-meter.) As I stood there with one hand frozen on her dreadful fanny and the other arm outstretched to examine the considerable amount of vomit, the smell hit. And that is what amazed me the most. I'm a science lover, and even as I stood there with chicken feces in my right hand and puke on my left, I marveled that this chicken had just produced the same awful vomit smell that humans make. How can this be? She is a bird. Who would expect this at all? The smell brought back memories of cleaning up after my own sick children when they were little, but mostly you know where this smell takes me? To grade school with the weary janitor coming down the hall with his sullied grey string mop and disinfectant to clean up the kid puke that some other kid just slipped in as they innocently walked down the waxed brown tile. Then of course that kid heaved too.

O.K. so Liza is up, down, all around and I don't know if she will live, but I've given it my best shot. And right now she is lying on a clean white towel, she's Dawn fresh, while I have puky laundry, and my entire downstairs smells like the fourth grader who couldn't handle the corned beef hash. Gosh I hope no one drops in this evening. I don't think even Febreze Pet Odor Eliminator can handle chicken. Where's the janitor when you need him?

Why Do I?

Why do I do these things? Over two weeks ago I heard a chicken cacophony from the back yard, and it wasn't the usual scuffle over a bug, or heady announcement, "I'M GOING TO LAY AN EGG!" or "I AM LAYING AN EGG!" or "I JUST LAYED AN EGG!" No it was frightful noise, and I could see hens flying in every direction, and the rooster, Toulouse, trying to corral the girls. My adrenaline kicked in and I ran outside, couldn't see what the matter was, but then I heard. One does not usually hear a red-tail hawk lift off, but I heard arduous flapping - and I knew - he had a hen. I didn't know at the time, but he was behind a tall fence working at killing our oldest and dearest Light Brahma hen Liza Jane. This is crazy because she is huge and heavy. Anyway when I heard this obvious sound of air resistance to his wings I yelled as loudly as I could, "Hey!" Then he dropped her - hard - to the sidewalk, and flew away. I love red-tails, but not when they are killing my girls! I found her, unconscious with a drizzle of blood running from her beak, scooped her up and revived her. Over the next few days, although disoriented, she seemed to be recovering. She took small pecks of food, and drank a little water. (And here's a note for anyone who thinks chickens are not sentient beings. I found her sister, Turnipseed, the first night, nestled over her in the nest box - and my hens never share nest boxes. To me that is love.) But over the last 10 days she has been declining - almost as if she has forgotten how to eat and drink and walk. So I thought, "Just let nature take it's course." Today, however, I just couldn't take watching her starve to death anymore, so I called my vet. (They are used to me, it's O.K.) They do not do chickens but they told me to come on in. Gordon took one look at her and said, "You know she is 3/4 dead." I told him I knew that and if he thought we should euthanize her, O.K. But then he lifted her emaciated body and she flapped her wings. He said, "I wondered if she could do that." Then he rolled his eyes at me and said, "I'm not promising you anything." He then picked her up and took her to the back and administered IV fluids and gave her a shot of steroids. When he brought her back in he had too vet techs with him. They were carrying a can of nutrient dense cat food. They admitted they had fed her a few bites by force-feeding. They said that they'd be amazed if she is alive tomorrow, but if so, bring her back in for more fluids. They gave me the food and an eyedropper with which to feed her, and instructed me to feed her often. They are big softies just like me. They charged me twenty dollars, and I know what vet visits usually cost...

         

Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane

     

The Hopelessly Devoted Turnipseed

So here I am, feeding a half-dead chicken in my studio that already smells like a barnyard. The boston terrier, Jasper, is adding to the ambience with his steady stream of gaseous output. If Liza Jane lives she will not be able to free range anymore. That hawk was back today, circling beautifully in a clear sky, looking for sustenance.

The Best Costume For The Day

 From Grey Gardens - Little Edie Bouvier

The best costume is, I have decided, not having to even think about what one is going to do tomorrow. I've rarely actually done this. My family will tell you they are in the habit of asking me to "light." I'm trying to learn to just be with them and it's hard for me. If I'm not involved in something for the Montessori school, I'm doing housework or making jewelry or doing something. I do, and I do and I do till I drop at night. And when I go to bed I'm always planning the next day. But this year has been different in that I've made a conscious effort not to worry about the mess, or other things to catch up on. This has been my favorite part about this particular holiday. It was scary at first, but it's starting to feel pretty good.

My daughters and grandsons came over. We ate like there would be no tomorrow, we played games, we talked. The next day my youngest daughter Tess and I watched: "Crocosaurus vs. Mega Shark." What a spectacularly terrible film - I adore it now. Usually I'm a Mothra fan, but this film is so fabulous. Steve Erkel stars, all the science is wrong as if written by fourth grade boys. My favorite line: "Well then, you'd better bring those hydrosonic balls of yours." Excellent. We also watched "Love Actually" - light, romantic, funny, delightful. Then we made jewelry and left the house a mess. (Leaving the mess would have been unthinkable for me in the past.)

Today my friends Timmy and John dropped in - usually I would have been uncomfortable because of the messy house - but instead there was more eating and laughing and merry-making. And, thanks to these two sillies I now have a leopard coat from the props department of an old theater. I wore it out to do chicken work and Timmy photographed me with his new I Phone. It's not a mink, but I like to think I look like Little Edie Bouvier in it. I do need a turban though... So that's it, I think. Not thinking so much about what one HAS to do is the best outfit for the day. And tossing on a leopard coat is a perfect finish to happily relaxing...the cat's pajamas.

Not Just Jewelry You Know?

Blank Notecards with Envelopes on Etsy

Choose from my collections or design your own collections. Choose any photos you want from my fine art photo section of my shop (on left), then convo me your choices. Make a great gift for someone!

Not Much Jewelry-Making Going On Around Here...

I wanted to have tons of new work completed by mid-summer. Instead, I broke my hand, and am behind on everything. So--take it in stride--shoot some new photos, and make notecards.

More time too to hang with my peeps. I mean that. Really.