Crafty like a Foxy Crafter

Well over ten years ago, Tante H. found a pair of 1950's Danish, teak chairs that someone had placed in the street for trash collection. The cushions and upholstery were worn, but the chairs themselves were mint. This is the kind of find one would only encounter in CT, right? With PDX hipsters' penchant for all things mid-century I have had many people ask about purchasing them, but I think they are wonderful and don't plan on parting with them.

I finally bought new foam rubber cushions and had originally planned on having them professionally re-upholstered, but I really can't afford that after paying $100+ for the cushions and because of the economy. So, I decided my only option was DIY.

I wanted to add a coral-like color to the living room and found some fabric that was at least in the orange family that was approximately what I wanted. But since the color was off, I wanted something else to make the cushions more interesting.

I then took a photograph of my living room curtains (which are in fact shower curtains from Target; am I cheap or what?) which have a toile pattern and made fabric transfers from the details. 

Since I am a terrible seamstress and didn't work from a pattern, I'm pretty pleased with the results. I even have zippers for each.

What do you think? 

Am I ready for ApartmentTherapy?

Beast? Fish? Fowl? Republican?

'A' was ill and Christo-pee decided to stay home with her. So 'L', Betsy Ross and I headed for Yuki's- a good but not great Japanese restaurant that has become one of our comfortable favorites. 

Not long after we arrived a man in a wheelchair came in from the rain.He had longish, snow-white hair, a very prominent nose and enormous eyeglasses with thick, black frames. He was wearing a bohemian beret, tuxedo pants and a pair of orthopaedic shoes of which the right had a sole at least 3 inches thicker than the left. He appeared to be an "artsy" sort, perhaps a musician or poet.

 He wasn't a regular, as he was asking the waitress basic questions about the menu. He was very frail and had been recently ill, as there was a hospital bracelet hanging from the arm of his chair and I noticed a "dot" band-aid on the back of his right hand, just like the ones nurses apply after you've received an IV. I'm telling you, this was a made-for-Lifetime-TV movie in the making. 

This vignette was killing 'L.' Though she may come across as an unsentimental, emotionally hardened bitch, this was a scene that could reduce her to a soggy heap of weeping guilt and shame. I, too, felt for this man who was alone on Thanksgiving and probably every other day of the year as well.

We told the waitress that we would like to pick up his tab. It wasn't as if we thought he couldn't  afford his dinner; we were hoping that when he discovered our plan, it might determine wether we should invite him to join us or if it would be clear he wanted to be by himself. We also told the waitress to tell him  that we would like to buy him  a drink, dessert or anything else he would like.

After he had eaten his entree, the waitress told him we had taken care of the check. He turned to us and said, "But why?." 

I replied, "Because it's Thanksgiving!"

He accepted my explanation and later ordered a dessert, thinking that he would buy it himself. When the waitress informed him that we had taken care of that too, he turned to our table and asked,

"But why would you do that?"

He wasn't offended but rather perplexed by the idea that total strangers would pay for his meal. I told him that our Thanksgiving plans didn't exactly work out the way we planned so we thought we would try to extend our 'Giving of Thanks' to more than our party of three. He seemed satisfied with that explanation, thanked us warmly, and headed out into the gloomy, rainy, Portland night.

It was only after he pivoted his motorized chair towards the exit that I saw the bumper sticker applied to the back of his chair:

'VOTE REPUBLICAN'

God DAMMIT!

Vegan Schmegan

As Thanksgiving 2008 approached, it seems I heard more than the usual discourse on the ethics of food, and in particular, meat-eating. Maybe I am just more attuned to these discussions, as lately I've been doing a lot of examination of my food consumption and have been contemplating vegetarianism and even veganism. I then start adding back in animal based products that I don't want to live without, namely fish and cheese. God knows, there is probably a name for that kind of diet! If not, I'm open to suggestions.

There were several stories aired on NPR regarding the vegetarians' dilemma during the holidays. I heard about people that were just as conflicted about what we choose to eat and how that food produced. 

We had decided to go out for sushi for the Thanksgiving. (As I write this, NPR is broadcasting a story about the threatened Atlantic Blue-fin Tuna, an impressive and beautiful fish that is a threatened species because of high demand for, um, sushi.) No birds were harmed in our holiday feast, however tuna, yellowtail, razor clams, shrimp and eel all suffered great carnage.

As both 'L' and I expected 'A' to be participating in our holiday plans, we both made vegan desserts. 'L' did her usual vegan pumpkin pie, which is damn good and almost indistinguishable from the kind made with animal fluids (mmmmm, fluuuuuuu-ids...). I, having only one dish to make, characteristically became very ambitious and decided to create a vegan version of one of PDX's dessert landmarks, the Pear Rosemary Tart from Pix Patisserie.

I made a pate sucree and added first a layer of almond cream. I placed sauteed pears second and topped the tart with a ganache made with Valrhona 70% chocolate infused with rosemary. I was fairly happy with it but next time want to make the ganache creamier.

I think I do not want to be a vegan, but want to be a vegan chef because of the challenge.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

He looks better than Genocidal Jackson*, don't ya think?

My garbage and recycling are collected on Friday mornings. They arrive at 6AM, so I can usually bring in the bins as I head off to work.

Last Friday in the dim, pre-daytime savings dawn, I went to the curb and noticed something in the gutter next to the garbage can. It was a soggy $20 bill, folded in half and nestled in a pile of leaves. Picking it up I found it was actually $40. I put the money in my pocket, put away the bins and headed to work.

I kept thinking about the money and who lost it. Was it the garbage collection guy? Someone collecting bottles and cans from the recycling bin for the deposit money? As an absent-minded kid and a disorganized adult, losing money was something of which I have extensive experience and felt sympathy for whoever was cursing themselves, frantically pawing through every bag, pocket, sofa cushion, book, drawer and wallet they can find hoping to find their misplaced money.

I did check Craig's list and found no notices of missing money. By the next day I wasn't feeling as concerned and broke one of the bills at Ikea. I know, I know, of all places! At least it wasn't Starbuck's.

Tonight, Monday, it was a battle getting home. The evening was very dark and very rainy. There were power outages all over the east side rendering traffic lights useless. It took forever to even get close to my neighborhood. After getting a partial ride from a coworker, I managed to catch a bus the rest of the way and arrived home- wet, tired, hungry and oh-so-thankful to be in my cozy, comfortable house. Before I even took off my coat, the doorbell rang. Arrrgh. 

At the door were two high-school aged girls collecting bottles and cans for the Portland Rescue Mission, an organization that provides food and shelter to the homeless in Portland. On this evening these smiling, wholesome teenagers were going door to door collecting 5-cents a piece containers for the most desperate and under-served members of our community. Such a contrast to me- a grumpy, middle-aged frump concerned only with what I would have for dinner that night.

I told them I had nothing and that since our garbage collection was only 2 days ago, they might not find much in our neighborhood. They thanked me "so much for explaining that!", wished me "a terrific evening!" and went to the next house.

In an irrational, superstitious moment of illogical thinking, I made a quick deal with the universe, or God, whatever you want to call it. I felt that if I gave $20 to these kids, Barack Obama would win the election. I grabbed the bill and dashed back out into the rain and caught up with the girls.

They were a little astonished and I felt too embarrassed to give the impression that I was actually so generous, so I- maybe a little too emphatically- made it clear that I had found the money.

We all make deals. Promising, wheeling and dealing, thinking we can control the outcome of some event that was set into motion a fraction of a second before it careened completely out of our control. That's when most of us start praying. 

There are a lot of prayers being said these days. You can almost hear it every time you read a newspaper, watch the news and go to work, attend church. It is being chanted by those who have lost their jobs, their homes, their money, their freedom and their country.

Anne Lamott wrote that there are just two prayers in the world: "Help me, help me, help me..." and "Thank you, thank you, thank you...".

Hopefully, after tomorrow's election, most of us will be saying the second.

*Andrew Jackson is my second least-favorite president, after you-know-who. (Millard Fillmore was such a douche bag)  Sarah Vowell brilliantly describes Jackson's brutal slaughter of the Demoratic Cherokee Nation on This American Life.