Twenny Tee-yun

Yes. I think I shall go with 'twenty-ten' as the verbal reference for '2010' instead of using 'thousands'. Why this seems to have sparked such critical and intensive debate is rather beyond me. Thank the Heavens for the wisdom of the National Association of Good Grammar! [I feel a slight tinge of guilt for my hypocrisy as a pedant in mocking NAGG, but then, they really ought to have organised a better acronym.]

Perhaps some people have nothing more productive to think about, for example: considering the newly joyous state of Christmas Day air travel as a result of rabid and annoyingly well-educated fundamentalist psychotics; or what is behind the soaking of beans and pulses before cooking; or perhaps why snow renders felines utterly mad; or how time is able to slow or race, depending on one's enjoyment ratio and/or dread of returning to meaningful employment.

My goal for Twenny Tee-yun is to write more regularly (as compared to the tragic state of 'twothousandnine') , instead of keeping all my eccentric thoughts and interesting stories nebulising in my brain -- which clogs up general functionality of said brain and leads to meaningless, disconnected tangents during various conversational activities. This sometimes can alarm fellow conversationalists and one should really avoid alarming people... unless they deserve it. Or are trying to set their underpants alight.

So far, I am slightly behind in my goal outlined unsuccinctly above, due to faffing with photos and getting self distracted with snow (a la feline) and knitting (also, possibly, a la feline) and tidying (definitely, a la feline).

New Year's Eve was spent uncertainly wondering if our Letter K Correspondent would brave the forces of nature and join the Norfolkians for an icy celebratory activity. Therefore, the promised birthday cake was not created until just before midnight, upon finding out that LKC would not be remaining to even break his fast on New Year's Day -- choosing instead the tantalising fun of driving 4 1/2 hours back to Wales (oddball). Additionally, my failure to venture to La Shopping before 5pm resulted in a failure to make either cream cheese ball or cherry cheese pie.

However, through a miracle of collaboration (and with some grand patience on her part), Clare and I managed to pull together a last-minute snacky, and relatively healthy(ish), buffet of delicious homemade hummous, tomato-mozarella-basil salad, semi-homemade guacamole, homemade salsa and mango salsa, fresh olive bread -- and a nip of Clare's sloe gin (scrummy!). This was entirely useful, since the Burger-Maker was ever so slightly delayed in producing edibles for nibbly persons. There were no homemade tortilla chips... again due to lack of time and planning [since our return from La Louisiane, we have become mildly obsessed with creating legitimate salsas and tortilla chips. Efforts were well received and fully consumed by E's office colleagues.]

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Sadly, New Year's Day was not well-planned for, past breakfast, by moi and our main meal lacked black-eyed peas. And ham. I am a b-a-d Southern Girl -- who doesn't keep black-eyed peas in their pantry for emergency year-change celebrations?! However, the tinternet indicated to me that lentils would perhaps cover my sin and so we had them with our cabbage and cornbread. It was passable, but there shall be more adequate preparation for Twenny 'Leven.

Additionally, after damage had been done did I become aware of our other failures (also delineated by the previously helpful tinternet article):

• to NOT do laundry. Oops. Obliterating Clothing Dirt.
• to plan for a first-footer. We went out before someone new entered the home... actually no one other than us has actually entered the home after midnight. The cat probably doesn't count, although he is tall and dark. Ah well... give up.
• to open all the doors to let out the old and let in the new. It was a tit bit chilly.
• to wear something new. That would have required shopping instead of occupying resident pajamas during shopping hours last week, so... ick.
• making loud noise. Even the kitteh was quiet and slept late on New Year's.

However, despite these glaring faux pas, I am sure it will be a lovely year. And I wish any readers remaining after my Protracted Twothousandnine Depth-of-despair-and-mental-distraction-silence all of the Love, Peace, Joy and Goodwill they can handle for their year to come!

xx

(...and now, I must go and test some more salsa.)

Sunday in Munich

Sunday is a quiet day in Munich.

It was not raining (at first), and arriving in the late morning, one might have high hopes of engaging in productive activities... such as searching for new and exotic yarns to smoosh and to buy. Or things.

Munich Airport (voted Europe's Best Airport), it is the simplest and least ridonkulous airport into which I have ever, ever flown. I may endorse moving here; E should be encouraged by many close friends that German will not be impossible to learn (ahem). Already, thanks to Dawny, we know not to sing the first verse of Deutschland uber alles, so we are well on our way to assimilation.

On the train into the city, a Portuguese lady made friends with me (so that I could help her with her luggage off the train, since she had apparently purchased an entire newsagent/grocery store and packed it into her second suitcase). She has lived her for 36 years and likes it much better than her time in London. She will be going home for Christmas, and her mother collects magazines for her. She has 25 people in her family for whom to buy presents. She prefers Lufthansa to AirBerlin, and she doesn't approve of EasyJet at all.

My best decision of planning this trip (since I have failed, failed, failed to research either my yarn or beer options on my own) was to elect to not stay at the conference hotel, the Hilton Munich Park. It is in a park. My Hilton points would have increased, along with my proximity to Platinum level. But it would have been sooooo dull and 20 minutes from the centre! My 'super secret' hotel from lastminute.com is directly across the street from the Hauptbahnhof (Central Station), and it is a 5 minute walk to where the ice rink will be and where shops are open (but not on Sundays).

On Sundays, everything is closed. Except shops in the Central Station. The sushi bar there does not take credit cards. You must spend > euros5 in the quick shop or you get glared at until you manage to add enough Snicker bars and gum to make up the difference. Hauptbahnhof Starbucks is the speediest Starbucks I have ever seen.

Upon venturing up out of the subway, the first sign was at least recognisable. It is next to the Starbucks (but it does look a little older).

Despite shops being closed, there are loads of people walking in the city on a Sunday, and it seems that Germans, like the French, save Sundays for family. This is such a lovely concept that more of the 'developed' world should adopt, and it makes one not too traumatised to miss one day of manic spending. Unfortunately, there is yarn to yearn for...

It was approximately 34 minutes after leaving my hotel (for Sunday constitutional after 3.00am start to day) before the first person asked me for directions. It is slightly less comfortable when you speak nothing of the language (well, other than 3 numbers and hellos/goodbyes -- not enough time to coordinate appropriate language prior to trip), but the repetition of this phenomenon wherever I go makes me think that my attempts to follow E.M. Forster's endorsement of immersing oneself into the place one is visiting, has relatively successfully developed (I cannot locate the precise quote, which makes me cross -- so shall have to re-start reading A Room with a View and A Passage to India again.). My travel game is to figure out my bearings, navigate shortcuts, and find local shops and restaurants -- basically to see how quickly I can become (or give the illusion of) a pseudo-local. One has to think of something amusing when one is a solo traveller so much of the time.

The medieval section of the city is still delineated by gates, although they may be rebuilds since the city was pretty devastated after WWII. The 'Americans' were in charge of rebuilding Munich, and the history lecture by a tourist representative at our conference indicated that this was extremely fortunate since, unlike the other rebuilding forces, they did make efforts to recreate the city as it was. E says, in Britain's defense for its reconstruction strategies in other cities (including unfortunate Norwich), that the US was the only country to emerge from The War not fiscally devasted, so their efforts could afford to be cavalier. Either way, the result in Munich is lovely.

For example, Lisa (my New Jersey friend, who works for a London university and who crosses my path quite frequently) and I are not sure that the gates might be one of these rebuilds. The plaque looks old, but the main body of the walls looks new. This newness continues down quite a bit of the main High Street, with only a few obviously old buildings remaining -- e.g., The Rathaus (to L).

'Rathaus' means 'town hall' and is usually the prettiest building in Germanic cities. Munich's Rathaus clock tower has a ginormous glockenspiel (the green bit in the photo). It plays at 11am and noon each day, and at 5pm in the summer (it is no longer summer). Unlucky friends will be forced to watch my hand-held video of the glockenspiel during lapses in Christmas conversation.

It is quite fantastic with tilting knights (with armor and on horses), dancing peasants and other little twirling figures. However, it is slightly dangerous to be a tourist doing an impression of a goose in the rain for this event when the Kristkindlmarkt (Christmas market) is being set up; the men driving the forklifts are not delicate in their attempts to get on with their work, and you know they must want to just forklift all tourists in the backs of their oblivious little knees.

It is important to point out as well that this part of Germany takes its identity from its history. They are Bavarians first, hence the reason that the Bavarian knight always wins in the glockenspeil tournament :) The region is the Bavarian Free State (a remaining privilege from falling on the correct side in earlier conflicts -- the tourist lecture said it was granted by Napoleon, but this is not what Wikipedia says).

The city of Munich was (according to the history lecture, not wiki) was ruled first by Henry the Lion, who built a bridge over the river Isar next to the Benedictine monastery. He apparently wanted tolls (Why else would you build a bridge? The French built one into Wales...). This occurred in or before 1158, as this is the first date the city was mentioned in literature. 'Munich' comes from the old Germanic word Monche (with two dots over the 'o', but I do not know how to force this into blogger's html), which means 'monks'. The symbol of the city is still a monk, and he is everywhere from drain covers to over doors (not terribly easy to see in this picture, but he has cute red shoes!). It is more likely that he is holding a Bible, but if you just glance, it might look like a stein of beer.

In order to fully appreciate the city's long religious and brewing history (and on the recommendation of CAMRA Peter), I located an Augustiner pub off the main street and had a lovely repast, after visiting the Frauenkirche (since my 3am start hadn't really inspired much hunger until the smell of lovely snaussages hit my nosey). Its name, Augustiner am Dam, refers to its proximity to the Kirche.

Due to current building height restrictions, The Cathedral of Our Blessed Lady stands out in the skyline of the city, even after 500 years. The whiteness of the interior gives it an almost sterile atmosphere, but this in no way detracts from its beautiful quietness. Bosses on the ceiling are not as intricate (nor probably as numerous) as Norwich Cathedral's, but the spans do seem much more regular -- possibly since it is 300 years younger than Norwich's.

Bratwurst and sauerkraut is nicely accompanied by eine Weissbier. An interesting fact to note is that sauerkraut is not only fabulously healthful, but also apparently as effective as Viagra in its functional benefits (from a Kings College London study). Not to be rude, but my sausages were longer and thinner than one expected, especially compared to Texas German Bratwurst, although the flavours are pretty similar. But the beer is definitely better...

The Augustiner brewery is Munich's oldest independent producer. Beers are sold in .50 l or 1.0 l. One litre is rather a lot of beer. I only ever had Weissbeir on this trip, but next time adventuresomeness will win out -- as the wiki article has made me regret not having some Helles or Dunkles.

As it is winter, darkness descends quite thoroughly by 4.45pm, and since my energy was flagging after the early start, I managed to make it through the entire book that was my 'trip' book. You just can't win -- when I bring 3 books, I don't have the energy to read more than 2.784 pages per night and have hence wasted the luggage weight comparable to a new pair of shoes. sigh

Craftiness

Admittedly, the lottery has not come in yet. This is a shame, but not terrifically shocking since I have never bought a lottery ticket in my life.

And I do seemingly have to continue my attendance at work if my paycheck is to arrive in its monthly manner. sigh

So, whilst crafting (NOT to be confused with 'arts and crap') is not yet my prime time-consuming activity, it is indulged in quite a bit -- between Gu & Fru puddings [in place of Nutella, I am now using promotional sale specials at Sainsbury's and Waitrose to justify my addiction -- kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous with coffee & ciggies... but this is much less odoriferous.].

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As may have been noticed before in previous Making-and-Doing episodes, it is particularly pleasant and focussed to craft when Clare comes out to La Village. This generally leads to a fair sense of accomplishment (unless one has not got one's spinning wheel working, and one has to find something like carding wool to look industrious). Clare is always industrious and Makes-and-Does at a remarkable rate (as evidenced by her blog and Flickr accounts and by the blur of all photos of her).

After several failed attempts at getting my own spinning started once I got my brake band rigged with a champagne cork (similar to L, but really not...), it appears that failure was due to my insistence that the wheel go in a counter-clockwise direction. [It is supposed to go clockwise... Hence breaking of all attempted fibre batts and many leader strands; and much fruitlessly vociferous berating of wheel.]

*******
His Lordship also enjoys crafting, and has his own techniques and everything. Generally his assistance involves locating, from the vastness of the couch the precise spot where my yarn ball resides, and planting himself squarely on top of the smooshiness. Occasionally, though, he just commandeers a project. (Whatchu lookin' at, Willis?)

This project, with His assistance, is now finally finished -- about 2 months later than planned (frown). The second one (in white) is well underway. It is a raglan pattern knitted from the top down; having never knitted a raglan before, the pattern was simple but everyone at knitting was intrigued at how it would be difficult since they are used to knitting raglans from the bottom up. It is a really fun pattern, and for this second rendition, a method for monitoring cables appropriately and more accurately has been devised.

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It may be possible to crochet a wee green edging on the white version cardi so as to match... the newest booties! Tiny is just sometimes too much -- squeeeee![This is why i need to craft full-time. Dang the need for money and responsible behaviour.]

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Dave the Train finally has his small tea cosy... he is reported to have worn it on his head during the final Beer Festival Planning meeting. And another one is now commissioned by Dave. Need to figure out RNLI pattern for this one, as is for Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

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And the Big Knitting has been developing, too.

First, we started with a large fabric strip ball (created with the Singer assistance of E. He is a much smoother treadler than Herself.).

Then we cast on (a little trickier and fiddlier than one would think with materials similar to ginormous crayons).

One does not recline on the sofa whilst wielding these implements. Personally, I find it easiest to stand behind sofa using pillows as props for needles ends. If one happens to be watching a musical of some derivation during creative industrious activity (such as South Pacific or The King and I or Moulin Rouge), one can also sing and dance about a little bit and alarm people who may happen to be sat in the room. This behaviour generally makes them not want to cause any problems. Although, it would be nine times cooler if the singer/dancer were wearing a Snuggie...

Because I decided not to spend my valuable crafting time hemming the edges, there is a great deal of stringiness on the edges, but at the moment, it is pretty cool (as it is not currently on a floor) and secondly, i think the strings will be vaccummable and mostly go away if it is ever put on a floor. However, the current size of the remaining ball makes me suspicious that this will either be: a decorative pillow cover or a patch in a larger patchwork rug.

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As if collecting yarn weren't enough, I have further forced my hoarding onto E in the form of corks (slightly more understandable to him). He built a frame for me last year, but there has only now accummulated enough to create the finished product!

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And, finally -- it is probably not very good to admit excessive gloating and pride over activity at a church. But I am quite elated with my waxing project of the moment at St. Clement's.

Only the choir stalls and the back two rows (both sides of the aisle) have been done so far. In the photo to R, the floor beyond the heating pipe has not been tackled yet.

In L photo, is compare and contrast -- the dull bit is the dry wax prior to buffing. One really might ought to wear ear protection as the ringing took about 30 minutes to stop on Sunday.

But now with my clever brushes, let the tackling commence... on Saturday.

A Witching Moon

Perhaps it is not honestly the moon which is making things loony. But perhaps it is.

There is postive insanity and then there is just plain vexing stupidity.

Either way, if one could just sit and look at the moon for a while, things would be calm and good in one's head. There have been so many gorgeous cinematographic-quality moons over the past week, and they cannot be simply have been ordered for All Hallows, All Saints, and All Souls. But it is tres cool that they have coincided. Even though la lune is now on the wane, the nights are still unbelievably bright.

The moon, though, seems to be having an effect on many things, including:
* politicians (a continuing saga)
* Human Resources personnel
* the running of buses and trains
* property 'management' companies (also ongoing saga -- nothing to do with moon, but rather hair colour and grey matter)
* my hair

I am aware that there are many complaints in and about Obama-land, but reporting on them is not nearly as entertaining as the British approach. Self-deprecating humour and an eloquent debatory approach (which E refers to as Radio Argue) just make my day.

Human Resources seems to require proof that I am allowed to work in this country, despite their having a two-year-old copy of my work documentation which expires in 2012... So we have now wasted 3 more pieces of paper (because you have to have a copy of the outside cover of a passport, you know. That isn't a completely anonymous image or anything.)

As it is now Saturday morning (I started blog last evening, but was forced away from computer for evening excursion), it is my strong hope that my bus-riding does not go as last week's in which I ran for bus three times (with granny trolley and in wellies). The busses were early, I swear. Stopping a bus in the dead middle of the village (to great annoyance of other motorists, most certainly) is not recommended, but it is the sign of a kind-hearted (albeit grumpy) driver; it was amusing, and completely against Health & Safety, to leap onto bus as it is still moving. And I was grateful. And standing in heels for an hour and a half on a late and crammed train is not recommended, either.

Also as it is Saturday morning, it is noteworthy that the washing machine is going (on what is, if figures are correct, the 8th load of laundry since Tuesday evening). After 2 weeks of ineptitude, our property 'manager' managed to have a washing machine delivered (Sunday) AND finally installed (Tuesday). Jones/Strain genes really particularly useful when services are required from unintuitive creatures.

Finally, the hair. This was definitely due to the full moon. After months of waffling about bangs (aka, fringe), the scissors came out two weekends ago and approximately 1.5 tentative inches were sacrificed to the Waitrose bin liner. On Tuesday (in celebration of washer installation), a further 4 inches cavalierly bit the dust. E has been slightly suspicious throughout this manifestation of madness, but change seems to be accepted now. No photos as of yet.

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(This really is an attrociously and not a relaxed- and/or thoughtfully-written piece, but one has to get back into things somehow)

Other things that have been going on:

• 32nd Norwich Beer Festival -- E volunteered 114 hours last week. Herself volunteered only 4 evenings, 7.30-10.00. Donations from our hours going to Anthony Nolan Trust (leukaemia) -- same charity as the dragon boat races.
• Craftiness -- this really needs its own blog...
• The Great Waxing of 2009 -- this is my project of the moment at St. Clement's. Having imported (in my luggage) some Murphy's Oil Soap, washed portion of floors in Cinderella-style two Saturdays ago and applied wax the following day. Last Saturday involved complete failure to buff floors with lambswool pad on floppy drill attachment. However, (following a great philosophical debate) my new (!) drill buffing brushes arrived yesterday; and (after removing the dust which will have accumulated in mediaeval manner over the past two weeks) the waxing shall commence in approximately 1.5 hours! One thing that may shock my American readers -- should any remain -- is that Murphy Oil Soap is a) not sold in the UK and b) completely unknown. Perhaps my surprise is funny in a dense sort of way, but because those Irish ladies in an old commercial seemed to know about it. This is not the Irish ladies, since that one is not on YouTube :(
• November's First Friday Five -- on which there was knitting and commentary
  
• The Beginning of Rugby Season (i think there are about 4 rugby seasons per year)
  

Now must run (in very bad writerly style) so as to make it to bus... because we all know how that goes.

Ally Pally!

Wow.

This is shameful: more than a whole month of silence (literarily speaking, that is).

When I told E that a blog was imminent, his response (which received an extremely raised eye-brow, resulting in effusive reiterations that 'it was only a joke!') was 'Oh! So I get a break, then, eh?' [and that was yesterday, so I figured it best to get off the proverbial backside and attempt to amuse even in the smallest way about at least one recent excursionary activity... the backside here is proverbial, because it's not like herself has just been sitting around. She has far surpassed the 95,000 miles-in-air mark, and she is busy, busy, busy!]
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Our activity on Friday (mine and Clare's) was to excurse with some others from the Norfolk Yarns shop and some WI (Women's Institute) ladies to Alexandra Palace in London for the Knitting and Stitching Show. The coach, pictured in middle below, left Castle Meadow at 8am (sharp) and made it home around 9pm. ...of course Bear went... What a silly question, Auntie!

Oh my Lord, one would never imagine that it could be so giddily & completely joyously fatiguing to hunt, smoosh, pet and drool over yarn, silk, buttons, beads, and envy creative people, etc., etc., etc. To put it in perspective: this was not a little car boot sale of Arts&Crap and about 10 times as large as the Ark-la-tex Gun Show ('Sure as shootin', I'll probably see you there!'). There was an awful lot of 'sqeeeee' noise-making, as this is how Clare and I communicate a lot of the time [this is something akin to a squeal mixed with a squeak; generally, a sign of happiness.].

It seems more tasteful not to bore with descriptions of every hoarding decision that we made (and safer, too. The Holy Bible says that we should not make our brother (or sister) stumble, and I certainly wouldn't want to cause any readers to sin -- either through jealously or judgementalism over my silk purchases. Or my yarn. Or the alpaca fleece.)

Ahem... anyhoo, it has come to my sociological attention (totally should have taken Soc101 with Dr. Fisch a year earlier), that although knitters are by and large a friendly and welcoming segment of the population, stitchers of other persuasions (a lot of them; NOT all. I know some lovely needlepointers) are rude, self-absorbed shrews. It is inconceivable that cute little old biddies (and large ones with frizzy hair, who aren't so cute) can charge right in front of one, knocking arm out of aim for what one was reaching; shove frequently past one in an aisle with a shrewdly placed shoulder; ram backwards into one, glare, and refuse to apologise. Shocking behaviour! [and one dares to wonder why rudeness has become de rigeur... if the aged do it.]

Also on the sociological note: there were an awful lot of Americans there selling wares... this seems to be a productive route into the UK. A couple from Texas were selling Buffalo Gold (admittedly their graphics are not so great on the site, and the yarn kind of looks like buffalo chips -- titter -- but the yarn is amazingly soft and smooshy). I do declare; The Colonists seem to be bringing the 'coolness' of knitting to the Motherland! [It even made the Daily Wail -- I mean 'Mail' -- this week.]

However, there was more than enough inspiration to make Clare and myself wonder why the hecks we haven't been able to figure out a way to turn our obsession into sustenance [this is a knitted 3-D 'painting']. We may have figured out a method, though -- there was a definite dearth in spinning accoutrements (other than fleece, which we happily hoarded). No, we mean bobbins, lazy kates, wheels, spindles, and those crazy pointy Disney princess hats [well, perhaaaaaps the last item wouldn't sell so well, but as one might ask 'What good is a dinghy if you haven't got a paddle?', likewise 'What good is a truckload of fleeces if you haven't got a pair of carders?']. So... think, think, think.


As at events of this kind (or just generally similar to my many previous whims), something caught my eye. Extreme Knitting. This is knitting on a LARGE scale. Large doormat-size rugs start at £200 (those are the ones with silk in the mix). Then there are the ones with strips of fabric (a fabric ball costs between £7-12). Many fabric balls in a willow basket is an unusual and alluring sight. Oh, there is just so much to knit! I am hooked (pun probably intended).

M. Townsend had posted this fascinating link on my Facebook wall last week, actually; but, my defeatist thoughts had merely turned to self-pity over not having gone to art school and/or dyed my hair purple or blue and/or been Dutch and/or clever and minimalist. But then, on Friday there was a 'Squeeee!' and magically I have developed a slight blue tinge and a smoke-stack on my head: 'I think I can; I think I can!'

Showing the only moments of self control all day, no needles came home with me (the crochet hooks were £12.95); but I happen to know the most wonderful Enabler (who also cooks, as evidenced in photo background).

E made these this afternoon in less than 2 hours. AND had the added skill and patience to throw a crochet hook into the creative mix as well! [I planted some pansies.]

Clare will be so pleased when she gets back from hols in Edinburgh!

Now, I have the legitimised capacity to start hoarding fabric. Well, no. My plan is to actually knit a rug for the study to cover that hideous carpet. And then, who knows -- £200 doormats by commission...? An added incentive is, no doubt, toning of triceps -- everyone wins. Hoorah!

Now, I had best get back to my hoard...
(if one is giddy on yarn spastickisity, this little ensemble looks like a little face with a hat. If you squint a bit, there is a mouth and moustache. Actually, now that I look at it again, he looked better when there was less knitting done.)


Will report on auction (Sat) next. Another incredible outing!

The Repercussions of Yarn Bombing

Alert readers (or simply those with excellent memories-- since that is what you need to 'follow' my blog lately) will recall that as an indulgence in Worldwide KiP (Knit In Public) Day, several of us tootled around Norwich knitting. Most of us are imports, you see, so we do try to fit in with Normal for Norfolk as much as possible.

On this tootle, we further indulged in very mild Yarn Vandalism (if one were unimaginative and mean-spirited and Uriah-Heepish enough to throw such an epithet at amusing and harmless activities). Said Yarn Vandalism involved leaving three balls of wool (with accompanying needles) in two locations. These have been tittered about occasionally since, but none of us had the presence of mind to check back or the idea that anything would have happened to any of them.

However, following a Norwich Beer Festival planning meeting this past week, Herself received first-hand intelligence regarding the current situation of the ball of wool planted surreptitiously in a drawer in a table at The White Lion.

So, she had to go and verify this for herself (Clare being away from home and unable to accompany as witness, she was forced to take photographic evidence).

One can here see the setting of the Yarn Vandalism:

And for the knitters amongst readership, a close-up here demonstrates an impressive range of knitting skills which have followed Wonderland-style instruction.

According to one barman (not Ralph), it is reported that one of the knitters was a 19-year-old lad with a mohawk and tattoos. There are very few dropped stitches, and by and large I am impressed.

It is time to replenish the yarn supply methinks :) (and someone needs to check The Playhouse!)

Tagine!

Even though some people are woefully behind in thank-you notes (b-a-d), lamb chops seemed a strong reason to bring out the tagine and give it a go! Friday was the Time to Do This.

As with all things culinary, E (Himself) had a Plan. And it was Good!

The beginning involved preparation of Le Fire. (3/4 of a bag of charcoal seemed a bit gregarious, but...)

The Second Step was the preparation of (utilising handy garden table located in bargain section of IKEA -- see, I don't only think of myself when indulging in Swedish-style-organisational-mania):

• mushrooms
• onions
• garlic
• ginger
• bell pepper
• tomatoes
• sliced potatoes
• zucchini/courgettes
• garden herbs (mint, dill, basil, parsley)
• spices

Thirdly, the monitoring.

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Herself assisted by talking telephonically to entire matriarchal section of family in preparation of non-surprise-pour-Le-Oma on Tuesday (this apparent laziness was mostly due to Chef's dubious judgement regarding her knife-handling abilities, despite 33 years of successful chopping, deboning, and formative part of childhood as a sous-Butcher and Deer Meat Processor). His Lordship assisted by mewing pitifully around feet of chef at various moments of crucial cooking activity in attempt to trip person, causing trip to A&E (American translation: 'emergency room' or 'ER' -- smirk. When I first moved here I kept wondering what Arts&Entertainment television had to do with unfortunate incidents and why people always said they had to 'go' to A&E... were the high quality films, or perhaps Actors Studio, going to help the pain in some way?), thereby leaving lamb sustenance for himself.