January 04, 2007
Goodbye, Austin
Posted by Steph at 05:20 PM | Comments (0)
December 02, 2006
Why I Love Austin
This is home. Beyond this sycamore sapling (which, grandparents, Chas can identify!) lies a limestone expanse covering hundreds of acres, porous with trails and itching with wildlife. I haven't begun to scratch the surface on my true feelings of place here, mostly because I have grown accustomed to actually being there either with the children or with Damon. We scramble and hike with friends and kids, but mostly we run. Almost every morning.
This morning, as we craggled our way through the round pebble creekbed, now bone dry. Frost crept upon the stands of wildflowers, long since browned by summer's hot draught. A curious carving of ice, easily mistaken for packing foam, glistened around the base of each weed. Layers upon layers of crystalline ice ribbons sheathed brown stem. I dislodged a dry column of webbed crystal. During the night, in a last defense against the harsh northern wind, each stem swelled and burst, and seeping slowly from the plant oozed all sap and life to form intricate whorls of feathery ice curls. Layer after layer melted into my red hand. Happy to prove to Damon that it wasn't frozen dog pee, I wiped my hands and kept on running.
This, among all daily surprises I encounter here, is why I don't do treadmills. And this, followed by Tacodeli's agua de melon (2 glasses) and poblano, spinach and egg tacos (with a half cup of the sour cream+fresh jalapeno hot sauce) is one very big reason why I'd rather not move. But change is in the air....
Posted by Steph at 04:21 AM | Comments (1)
October 25, 2006
Annie St.
Posted by Steph at 07:28 AM | Comments (1)
October 13, 2006
Oooh, If the Dust Ever Settles in This House...
A circuitboard made of white foam and leftover yarn that Ford's friends made during his birthday party; Chas' wild volcano painting, originally with volatile sound effects; A featherwreath adorned by Betty and Boo; Ford's rock collection: "magic rock," amethyst geode, coral from Galveston, birthday geode from CZ...
Our Fall nature table. Little Ivy Elizabeth Walker, Ford's favorite character last year from The Village, sitting on the resting rock in the middle of a little Hill Country glade; Burr oak and Post oak acorns from around town; Edwards limestone; Ball moss from everywhere around town; chickenfeathers and unknown native grass, what I pretend is a White-Tailed deer...
at Ivy's feet: "HEXAGONS!" that Chas found on our walk through the neighborhood (courtesy of a sunbleached, long-dead armadillo skeleton)...
Gretel, another storybook favorite, plays cavalier atop Big Billy Goat Gruff; and no nature table in our house is grounded without a chicken.
Posted by Steph at 05:51 AM | Comments (0)
September 19, 2006
A New Laptop Battery is Just Like Having a New Laptop
I am waiting for apple bisque paint to dry on paper and listening to three seperate snores. It's allergy season. The windows are all open and neighbors just chunked two fireworks into the sky, exploding over the oaks, hissing sparkling arcs across the driveway. I imagine a handful of boys laughing a few doors down, high-fiving over a six-pack and rummaging the garage for more things to detonate. It's a window into the Sicore boy's future, enough to make me wince (Watch those fingers, boys!) but also smile. It's FUN to blow stuff up!
Damon and I went alone together to the gym this morning. We shared machines and grins. In the middle of the bustling gym floor I wanted to pounce on him. Watching him huff and puff drove me crazy. It was like a shot of Back in College, that undivided attention between us. So as soon as I picked up Chas at childcare, I scribbled down reservations for the rest of this week and next week--pencilling in about an extra half-hour for good measure, each day. Damon did the same. It feels like I've found a missing gasket and now I've replaced it, allowing the machinery to run smoothly again. This may have been one of those elusive missing things in my life.
We took the kids out on the lake again tonight. Austin is absolutely lovely right now, fresh out of the shower and sprinkled with joggers and children and rowers and hummingbirds. I've been dying to bring along a camera, but too paranoid that it might get wet (which it will); the setting sun just gilts everything on its way out. Chas and Ford shared the middle seat tonight, each dragging the little wooden boats that Damon made them, holding graham crackers opposite hands. The way it should be, we just coasted in and out of cypress coves, above illicit beds of Eurasian Watermilfoil and broad mats of Hydrilla, the boys humming Sonic Youth and we, the grownups, chuckling over cold beer. We ran a Great Blue Heron off its hunt five times, tracing its hunt by accident along the convoluted, wooded banks off the lake.
The paint is now dry. I'm daydreaming of graduate studies in painting here at the university. Priorities first, though. I close that window in my browser and step back to the table, dreaming up a series of paintings for a show. 'Self-taught' is satisfactory.
Posted by Steph at 11:12 PM | Comments (0)
August 22, 2006
104 F
It's mid-August and we're roasting under happy white hot skies with evenly-spaced, cottony clouds. And it's dry. Natives hark back to the 1950s and dust storms and hectic farming, and they get giddy about gray clouds on the horizon but are too supersticious to predict rain. When the clouds pass overhead, they spit fat droplets that pat the pavement and vanish magically, evaporating before you can call it rain. And then you sigh and shrug your shoulders.
In the morning, I crawl downstairs to start a pot of coffee and let the hens out for the day. Almost immediately they run for respite in woodier shade, and I start watering the deer-picked, rabbit-picked, chicken-picked truncation of a summer garden: wrinkled and dark green, prostrate. Within minutes, the cicadas start humming a low, warm-up drone. Like dry beans shaking in a parched pod, the cicadas rattling trance intensifies as the heat sets in. I slink back inside.
Chas wants to be outside at all hours, so for him it's all a matter of being buck naked out there. I have no choice but to follow him with a tube of sunscreen in my back pocket and a narrow set of eyes, since the job mostly entails shepherding him out of direct sunlight. Which is difficult, really, because our yard is mostly sun. He glows in the sunshine, his white back reflects the entire spectrum of light as he examines a pillbug in the brown grass, something the hens must have overlooked; they're busy meanwhile under the boxwood, flinging dusty mulch onto the walking path as they burrow six inches into the landscaping. I re-pave the path with the broom as I return for cover, my feet now dusted with roasted umber dust. Chas runs in my wake, the chickens flurry from the hedge to follow him, but the door closes. From inside, Chas laughs at the unaffected triplet standing on the doorstep, wasting little time before they start scratching again and picking at the potted ferns.
Posted by Steph at 05:22 PM | Comments (2)
July 29, 2006
Roots
We've lived in this rental house for a year now, and the place is finally beginning to fit like a glove. Though a temporary rental (we begin building this year on a lot down the road), we have given it our patina. We have adopted and lost two pet fish here, but also begun raising the chicks, who have, for their part, done a tremendous job connecting us with the outdoors. In mid-July. In Texas. Which seems entirely difficult, given the heat, but by God we have learned to enjoy it and sweat it out. By the bucketsful.
Today in a tube dress, straw hat, pigskin gloves and flip flops, I cut and nailed rolls of galvanized builder's cloth to the pesto-colored poultry tractor. As I tatted away in the shade, the little chiquitas chased each other for earwigs, sometimes peeping quietly by my side, asking for a wing. Boo, the bold one (because they really do have different personalities), flit perch-by-perch to my neck, where she inquisitively pecked at my moles and freckles. The other two weaved around the timber, little Buffalo shortshanks they've become, content to scratch around my workspace, dusting themselves occasionally in a patch of dark topsoil, peeping their quick, velvety peeps of contentment.
I've gotten to know the deer, who rarely make themselves seen anymore, much less sleep with their twin baby fawns out in our front yard (they did this daily, last year) but still continue to eat the runner beans, flowerheads, morning glories, sweet potato vines and god-knows whatever gourd/pumpkin/squash seedlings I tried to grow from seed. They continue to surprise me, sometimes grazing feet from me as I jog along the trails, with their fawns stumbling close behind them and at other times, sneaking about like elves in the moonlight, grazing tiptoe across the lawn.
I am finally proud of the boy's room. Finally, because it has never felt, no matter where we have lived, to be their own-- it has always been a post between travels: en route from the bathroom, to fetch a toy before going to the living room; the halfway point between breakfast and brushing, where they can dilly dally five minutes while I clean, playing with forgotten toys. Never has their room been theirs in the sense of belonging until we added the bunk bed. That was two weeks ago.
In the time that's passed, since the purchase of the bunk bed, the room has taken shape into a sleep playground and a place to stay and play. The quilt my mother made during the 1972 summer Olympics (when she was pregnant with me) is now draped over the top bunk rail, making Chas' lower bunk the sleep fortress. Before naps I lay there and read to them as they scramble over me like lion cubs, and I, heavy with exhaustion, lay there and read. At night, I sit at the foot of the bottom bunk, reading Grimm and Anderson by the light peeking out of the closet. I'm surrounded by goose down and log pillows and quilting and childbreath and the warm pads of feet resting against my legs. Ford is content to lay in the bunk above while I read "because there are no pictures in the book" but also because he delights in his new space to sleep. The sleep king, who has to be awakened in the morning because he is so heavily renewing his energy during the night.
When I pause mid-Ugly Duckling, I ask "Ford?" and listen for an answer. Only the soft sound of a stuffed nose: slowly in, slowly out, waltzing in the summer nightmusic of the air conditioner, turning pages and other little snores here and there (I think Damon must be asleep, too, now). I reach over to rest the book under the bed. The floor beneath the bed has become a charter library: The Story of Pooh, The Story of Ping, Aeson/Grimm/Anderson classics, Baby Animals, Hedgie's Surprise, Make Way for Ducklings, Blueberries for Sal. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek makes a cameo appearance.
The place feels like home in the way I'm starting to settle in: a mixed bouquet the color of sunrise on the kitchen table; the way I can make stovetop coffee blindfolded; clothespin artwork to the back deck's lattice, and hang my jewelry to a piece of driftwood in a windowsill in the bathroom; I smile to see Damon shepherding his harware in the garage, replacing stagnant unused stuff with the stimulus of welders and grinders and routers and saws, all in singlefile attention. Some people settle in quickly to a new domicile, but I think we've grown jaded to constant change. After all, we lived for a year in a 22-ft. trailer. With a baby. We want a sense of permanence so badly against the the tech industry flux. Here, we can at least afford to stay; it's now only a matter of believing that roots are, beneath all our lingering doubt, indeed growing.
Posted by Steph at 09:11 PM | Comments (7)
June 05, 2006
Absoutely NO Metrosexuals Allowed
The pool in our neighborhood is open. It sits on the lake and adjacent the playground so it's layered with the summer sounds of ski boats, laughter and shouting. All of the children are an inch taller, more sinewy than last year and a lot louder. I'm crowded by the youngest, with open arms for Chas, who is jumping off the ledge and into the water. Ford bobs and squeals with the more experienced swimmers. He's riding atop a blue pool noodle and flashing everyone with Damon's goggles and a wide smile full of straight, sweet little preschooler teeth. Some of us parents are lining the poolside, legs submerged, beers in hand and busy catching up. Many of us haven't seen each other in months, and we're quickly retying our seasonal connections. After all, we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming months. The pool is the great common denominator during the long summer languor, and there's something for everybody here, where nobody frowns upon beer bellies and mismatched bikinis.
Posted by Steph at 04:24 AM | Comments (1)
May 24, 2006
The Child Naps A Lot
It's not fair that Chas can nap like this without me. But Ford will have none of it. He meets my exhaustion sometimes with sandpaper to my nerves, and I could just cry. So I've started taking vitamins more regularly, and with exercise and a little more sleep I've built up a better defense against the afternoon slump. Damon has introduced me to blackberry sage iced tea in mason jars. And I've taken up painting the sleeping babe.
I signed up for an encaustic painting class. A while back, I mentioned Amy Ruppel and her wonderful buttery paintings. I love this texture. It's what I'm craving, more fat. Anyway, I've been wanting to learn for years, it's just been hard to find an instructor. Lo and behold, they have one in Austin at the Laguna Gloria. So I cancelled our Vegas plans and am now sitting primly on the edge of my seat, waiting for two weeks to pass so I can start playing with oils and beeswax.
There are no more caterpillars. I keep waiting for a second generation to spill out of the trees but they haven't arrived. I jogged along the creek today. The white rocks are dry now and milk-green where water trickled down only weeks ago, runoff from uphill. The pools where the big fish swim are coated with pollen and dust and milkweed tufts. Every big patch of sunlight holds a surprise along the trail. I've learned to ignore the scattering spiny lizards and squirrels. At the last minute, before my foot falls on them, they dart into shadows, bark and leaves flying behind them. So I ford through the little forest community, knowing it will all unfold before me.
Unless it doesn't. My foot descends on a fat snake. Like the recoil of a shotgun, I yank back with so much force that I pull a muscle in my chest. But the snake is safe, motionless, and only as I bend down to study it does it slink into a rotten tree stump. Who knows what else I've narrowly missed?
Posted by Steph at 04:24 AM | Comments (1)
April 21, 2006
Over the Weather
I watched the kid's sunhats bob and spin in the Twinner this morning as I pushed them up and down the neighborhood hills. Left and right, the wildflowers! Everywhere, embroidering the landscape with color. Like butterflies, we stopped at every honeysuckle to sample the sugar; Ford wouldn't let a single vine pass unplucked. Australian cowdogs bounded to greet us, licking sunscreen off our hands, as we walked under the arching necks of blooming yuccas, a mature hedge that bordered their yard.
We spent another day at home, but mostly outdoors: pruning trees, training vines, repotting, chasing black bear caterpillars across pavement. In the middle of the day, we watched the storm pass in green darkness, spraying a horizontal rain and dropping hail between the boards of our patio the size of small grapes. Then the sky opened like a vault, and I got a wild hair to drive the kids down to the lake, where I waded into the water with a hand cultivator and a pickle jar, collecting aquatic plants.
I thought it would make the betta happy.
But we survived the last day of the flu: grimacing with every cough that blew my way; washing, washing, washing; spicy seafood soup with lemongrass and mushrooms from the Thai restaurant down the road; iced tea in mason jars with fresh spearmint; bundling up into the down comforter to watch Godzilla movies with Ford in blue twilight. His hair is thicker, no longer baby-like. I'm finding it difficult to snuggle with him, he has grown lean and long.
I laid there, in the rain, remembering cocooning like this in the Airstream. With Ford I would snuggle up in the same comforter, womblike and warm, under the air-conditioning's permafrost. We'd lay there, wrapped in down and encircled with window: we'd curl up and watch the water crash on the rugged Kennebunkport coastline, or tractors plow by, or passersby swoon at our silver bullet bling.
I ran through the neighborhood again, backtracking alone. This time, to the stopwatch. I started out pounding but eventually glided, like I was pedalling up and down the hills. I have retrained my upper body to assist, my legs to reach higher. My eyes followed the powerlines, where birds were busy preening in peace: cardinals, mourning doves, Whitewing doves, Scrub jays, cowbirds. Above them swooped chimney swifts, and the whole lot of them were in song. A four-foot cedar stump jumped out at me from the bushes, black and damp. I never noticed it this morning, but I imagine it was bone dry and pale, then. But that's the bunny in the magician's hat, why I stayed to watch the show and left my gym bag in the car, only two inches further out the driveway.
Posted by Steph at 02:05 AM
April 07, 2006
Turbulence
I am sitting on the grassy slope, keeping an eye on the kids and our bikes. Chas is lying on his back, arms wide, laughing at the twilight and the moon. Ford is networking with another stranger. They're wild and free. I'm in a funk, but Damon encouraged this bike ride. And here we are, downtown, waiting for the bats. Emotional management.
A colossal thunderhead looms over downtown, rolling south. It's insides churn with lightening. We pack up the kids and head back, weaving through pedestrians on the bridge. Half of them are holding camerafones to the sky. Passing them, we feel a headwind as the storm sucks up our warm air, wafting guano up from beneath the bridge: intense and murky, like cultured warm beef agarose.
Faster we pedal back, past the biggest pillowfight I've ever seen, diffusing with hoopla under police megafone. I want to be in it, to detox. I can't clip through the shadows fast enough for all the angst. Instead, I whiz through the trees wondering whether my kids will grow up as moody as me. While some parents hope their children become pro basketball players, I hope my children become rational problem-solvers. Fortunately, I am married to one. The odds are even, I guess.
Posted by Steph at 06:06 AM | Comments (8)
April 04, 2006
While My Battery Was Dead
I just got a new battery for my Powerbook. Damon stood in line for service while Ford played a video game. I stood over Chas while he stood bouncing on one of the black ball-shaped seats at the kiddie table.
Friday morning we took a hike along the creek. We chased a young bullfrog, who teased us along a stretch of cattails at the bank before disappearing into some brown muck. Ford was so eager to catch him, standing there with his little plastic red bucket. Chas only wanted to shout and jump into the water. We had to retreat into the woods to keep everyone safe. 
I stopped to inspect the mustang grapes, and Chas disappeared. I felt my heart in my thighs ten seconds later, when he reappeared uphill about thirty yards; he had found a loop and had come round to surprise us. Mind you, we were walking along a twenty-foot precipice that overlooked the creek.
Chas is a bushwhacker, both on and off the trail. We put him point blank, while Ford trailed behind, scouting for honeysuckle. He managed to find four blossoms, and gingerly dissect them for the four drops of nectar among them.
On saturday, we biked along the lake. Though the landscape is vibrant and the wildflowers are in bloom, people were the life force along the lake, running, canoeing, parading, strolling. Winding through the trees, we trailered the boys and their havoc, like a small zoo train with a cage of crackhead chimpanzees. I wore a constant smile; for one thing, I wasn't the one hauling the trailer, and for another: it really does sound cute. Despite the mayhem, I like robust, vibrant kids and my kids are anything but reserved.
Some jocks were playing kayak polo under the MoPac bridge, the ball barely clearing the beams beneath me as we rode over them. A Pug meetup and show along the waterfront, one was wearing a pink tutu. A birthday party for a resident goose. The swallows are back. Wisteria and Chinaberry blossoms made the air heady and seductive. I am in love with Austin.
Dinner with friends Saturday night at a neighborhood dig, margherita pizza under the oaks with good wine while the kids scrambled on the lawn and playground. A two-man blues band played in an alcove on the patio. Sunday morning completely disoriented me. The blazing heat, with the loss of an hour, drove me straight into summer. Jogging through our barely-rural neighborhood, grasshoppers zirred past me across the blacktop. The only thing to ground me in April was the fresh, green terrain, littered with half dollar-sized white flowers; everyone's yard looked like a driving range. Wooly bear caterpillars marched across the road, and a brown tarantula stood paralyzed as I passed it on the curb.
Posted by Steph at 06:11 AM | Comments (2)
March 31, 2006
Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won't take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.
I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it's good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.
When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn't squash it.
It's midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.
A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.
Posted by Steph at 12:28 PM | Comments (3)
March 28, 2006
The Litter on the Lawn
Posted by Steph at 05:09 AM | Comments (6)
March 19, 2006
Sunday
Onions slide around butter in the shiny, black cast iron skillet. I throw in some red peppers, steam rises. It is dark blue outside the window, behind the black silhouettes of leaves. I light a candle on the counter, beside the stove. Next to the candle, the fish glides in a tall column of water, backlit a glowing orange-pink from the lava lamp. Migas, black beans and brown rice. Habanero jack cheese. Strong, dark coffee.
Downtown Austin, 6th street. In the rain, a circe 70s tour bus is parked in front of an old bar. Painted a sandy brown, with a cheesy airbrushed panorama on the side panel: Moab? Hipsters crowd the sidewalks, carrying universal messenger bags and wearing standard issue neutral clothing with close-cropped, tousled hair. Retro eyewear. Shades representing the many faces of a gray day.
Posted by Steph at 07:19 PM | Comments (2)
March 06, 2006
The Brutal Curiosity of Youth
The lake today breathed a joyful sigh of peace before spring break arrives, next week, to slosh her with boat fuel, beer and music. Polly and I stood thigh-deep in the cold water, prattling about this and that, while Atticus and Ford rollicked on and off the diving platform. Chas and Tabitha teetered chest-high in the wakes from the occasional ski boats, the water slapped playfully against the banks and the youngsters, who didn't seem the least appalled. What I thought was a minnow and then maybe a tadpole turned out to be a mayfly larva, swimming like a snake an inch below the surface. As I lifted it out of the water atop my palm, it walked along walked along my hand with surprisingly deft strength against the water's surface tension. In order to take a closer look, Ford did something I cannot do anymore: he lifted the insect between his fingers and carried it away.
Most children enjoy letting slugs wander across their arms, caterpillars creep over fingers. Dad brought a jar of grasshoppers for the kids to play with last summer. Chas sat and picked them, one by one, out of the jar, letting them crawl all over himself. When I was Ford's age, I remember picking up insects in this matter-of-fact way. I had Stag beetles, tarantulas, and pet grasshoppers, large, shiny red-on-black grasshoppers that I kept in mason jars. And then one day, I picked up an earthworm. It was cool, pinkish-brown and very long. I wondered at it's sleekness, imagining that it could stretch to great lengths if it wanted to. So I pulled it gently between my fingers until it cracked in two places, exposing its tragic red insides to me. I remember dropping it, as I have seen Ford abandon his kill, only I felt sick. I still feel sick. I wonder what Ford feels, when his fingers erase another small life. Lifting him over the bank, as we were leaving, I noticed a very small gossamer wing on his arm.
(Sigh.) The mayfly?
It is midnight in early March, and I'm hearing what I can't bring myself to believe: a mockingbird serenading outside on the telephone pole.
Posted by Steph at 11:55 PM | Comments (8)
January 24, 2006
Living in Austin with Children
On a Japanese prayer wall, one anonymous child wrote:
Posted by Steph at 07:28 AM | Comments (3)
November 04, 2005
Wild Basin Wilderness
I took the boys out for loop around Wild Basin wilderness preserve after lunch. As we unloaded for our walk, we were met by a investigative swarm of yellowjackets. Ford began to freak out as I watched him eyeball three drones on his shirtless body. Not sure what to do, since my hands were tied, I urged him to just be still and watch them explore. I told him to use the opportunity to see them up close, so long as he remained perfectly, perfectly still. Which he did. And the whimpers ceased as he began to comment on their similarity to bees. I have no idea why they were attracted to us. All I can figure is that we smelled too lavendar-y with our herbal sunscreen, and that Ford might have left a little strawberry jam on his face after lunch.
At any rate, once we started on the trail, they lost interest.
The trail crests a ridge that overlooks, um, Wild Basin wilderness. It's Westlake's backyard, full of, um, wildlife. Besides the wasps, however, there wasn't much wildlife awake to greet us on the trail except one lone mockingbird. We did see something new, though. Atop a limestone outcropping laid a half dollar-diameter star-shaped fungus that could have easily been mistaken for a spider: a small sphere, on inspection, had burst to reveal a tiny hole on top; the "legs" were eight radiating, pointy black extensions. I think it was an Earth Star, a type of exploding shroom, and this lesson captivated Ford. Like, the rest of the afternoon. These days, it's all about explosives and things with bioluminescence.
I brought a heavy and clunky 35mm camera without batteries. The strap irritated my neck, but Chas, in the backpack, seemingly felt sorry enough to pat the back of my head and play with my hair. He occasionally pointed to things and shouted exclamations that we couldn't understand but agreed with. We felt so jaded on the trail, Ford and I, because it was a very large version of our yard. I guess we were hoping for a water feature or a cave or, um, more wildlife.
Posted by Steph at 05:24 AM | Comments (0)
October 24, 2005
He had me at "Kelp Forest," Fun in the Garden, Hold the Sprinkles
We have a wonderful wool rug in our living room. We bought it in May about three hours before our renters signed a year contract on our home in McKinney, and I somehow believe that it was because of the rug. Being inviting and cozy, it softened our concrete floors and probably made an otherwise cold and cloudy Spring day a little warmer.
There were 3 designs we were deciding among when Damon sold me on the one now own. He told me that it looked like a kelp forest, and with those two words I was sold. He literally had me at "kelp forest." And every time I catch myself staring at the rug, I get warm fuzzies thinking about happy creatures like sea lions sea otters and encrusting bryozoans. And sometimes ice cream and bubble gum. Because they're made with carageenan. Which is made of kelp. You know.
Anyway, this rug is very special to me and I decided it's time to make a napping quilt in it honor, for the cooler month or two ahead. I've been on the fence about joining the Modern Quilt-Along but I figured I could do a me-version of the Redwork pattern in turquoise and dark olive. Maybe take a little creative license and use variegated and hand-painted solids with hand-painted floss? Maybe a little trapunto?
We explored another nursery in town today: The Natural Gardener. It blew me away, I think it is an attraction on many levels. The prices are fair, they have a tremendous variety, endorse organic gardening, have an abundant and helpful staff, numerous display gardens and a few barn animals. I could and will take the kids there on a weekday and kill an hour easily. And maybe a coupla twenties. Easily.
For the kids garden I selected:
Lamb's Ear
Texas Rock Rose
Pineapple Sage
Texas Fall Aster
Purple Oxalis
some feathery-purple-flowered perennial that attracts throngs of Viceroy butterflies that I can't remember the name of and I'm too tired to go outside and look on the plant tag to find out what it's called
Round-leaf eucalyptus
and Damon's pick:
Squid Agave.
(They were out of Pony Foot and I dutifully denied myself the Smoke Plant, but I'll be back for both soon enough)
We had terrible cupcake cravings today and I didn't fight the urge to bake two dozen vanilla cupcakes with vanilla buttercream frosting. Magnolia Bakery recipe. The frosting became a pale pink and Damon insisted I forego the sprinkles (which I will never forgive him for; he believes that sprinkles ruin cupcakes but I will fight this argument to the grave--who WOULDN'T?!). The icing called for one entire bag of confectioner's sugar. That's right. Ultimately, they tasted like Krispy Kreme donuts with the same pleasurable guilt. One can only eat perhaps, well, one. So I boxed them up immediately and marked them "BARBEQUE" for tomorrow's potluck at Damon's colleague's home. Why bother taking a photograph when you can imagine what they look like, without the sprinkles.
Posted by Steph at 01:56 AM | Comments (4)
October 19, 2005
metro-retro botanicals
My brother John told me that, if I were shopping for succulents (which I am), that I should drive over to Big Red Sun in East Austin, because they have the best selection in town (which they do). Above is a wall hanging in an assortment of unique pieces termed "retro botanicals," variations on (what is probably their signature) Midcentury Modern bonzai-kitsch.
While it wasn't wise to bring the children (the place reminds me of someone's home--someone single--the way totems and art mingle in sterile grace with the contrived botanicals) it was wise to bring the camera. What I couldn't spend five seconds examining was more easily photographed so that I might instead watch the heathens, who were climbing all over everything.
Posted by Steph at 08:35 PM | Comments (0)
September 27, 2005
Today is dry and baking hot outside. We have had five consecutive months of heat. While this may sound like nearly half a year, it feels like it has been a mere two months because there is no other way (correction: no cheaper way) to endure the heat than to deny it. See? Isn't heat FUN?!
update: according to the nightly news, the temperature outside today was 108 degrees Farenheit.
Posted by Steph at 05:18 AM | Comments (0)