Wrapping It Up

I’ve been ever hopeful for an early song bird or tip of a crocus to announce spring’s near arrival, but here it is the fourth day of March and the gloom of February continues to seep.

Tiring of the sun playing a solid game of peek-a-boo, I began searching computer files of downloaded pictures for something to bring a smile. Zipping through the alphabet, a folder caught my attention. Titled Cozied Covered_Art, I immediately remembered the contents and before the first click, was already smiling.

About two years ago, we were biking on a Denver trail and there it was, a tree wearing a colorful, crocheted trunk wrap. The dressing was something unexpected and exciting, and we pedaled on with a new energy. I didn’t realize what we’d come upon is an artistic movement called yarn bombing.

Yarn bombing is about bringing tactile beauty to a unique scape. With the canvas for yarn bombing undefined, the artist is only limited by imagination. What’s inherent in this discipline is the work is joyful and all who encounter it smile.

From around the world is yarn bombing:

At the forefront of this decorative movement is Carol Hummel, an artist living in Ohio. Her mission of uniting people through the act of art making is a global work in progress. A visit to her website is a travelogue of explosiveness, but in a good way. Carol says it best:

“As an artist, I think yarn bombing is a way to bring art to the people. Whether yarn bombing is done in stealth or with permission, I think it’s an extremely positive, creative, uplifting, happy experience for the people creating it as well as the people seeing it and living with it.”

Much closer to home, was this recent yarn bomb at the Denver Art Museum.

crochet-coral-reef-pattern-free-form-maggie-weldon-art-exhibit-denver-006-optwBig city living allows for such installations. I was so jealous of my Denver friends, until…

…on Main Street, in Pueblo! There was no one around, no one to share the excitement of such unexpected placement and the object of decoration, no one to exclaim over and over the disbelief and thrill and joy of experiencing yarn bombing.

But as with art, the image that impacts the most stays with us. And that nasty winter of chill-to-the-bone and soul, well, the artistry of spring will be here soon enough.

xx EllynAnne

 

 

Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss

Read Across America Day is Sunday, March 2, a date co-opted by the National Education Association to coincide with Dr. Seuss’s birthday. Beloved the world over for his books of wacky rhyming and outlandish illustrations,

Dr. Seuss port6_lg

March 2 is also a day of celebration for the tiny contingency of America’s population whose last name is Geisel, the actual last name of Dr. Seuss.

Born Theodor Seuss Geisel, it is only on his birthday that this most mispronounced surname is correctly broadcast throughout the land as Guy´sel. Such correctness is music to the ears of 1,491 Geisels in the U.S., of which my husband’s family accounts for a dozen.

A foreign name, Geisel doesn’t follow the English grammatical rule of side-by-side vowels, When two vowels go a-walking the first one does the talking.

While there’s much lamenting of late over the breakdown of adults’ correct usage of the pronouns I and me, there is no grammar lesson than can lessen the mangling of a proud family name.

In 1939, my father-in-law, Albert Geisel, was released from a German concentration camp. Securing passage to America, he was questioned upon arrival by United States immigration authorities. Albert spoke only German, and when asked his last name, he emphatically spoke each letter, determined the family name would not be phonetically reinvented by the officials.

Albert was so proud that “Geisel was not an Ellis Island name.” The phrase became a family mantra, standing for the opportunities that are available to those who work hard.

Ted Geisel was a hard worker, a trait in common with the Geisel dozen. We’re proud of him

Stamp cropped

because his imagination brings joy to children and once a year, the world gets our name right.

xx EllynAnne

 

 

 

When Pictures Do the Talking

I recently received an email from a company seeking my business. The message contained so many symbols, it appeared more a drawing upon a cave dwelling wall than modern day communication. Interpreting the symbols’ intended conveyance wasn’t difficult, as the little graphics were easily recognizable, and were this a correspondence between an adult and a child, I’d not wonder as to the suitability of rainbows or happy-face sunshines in the stead of actual words.

When my children were very young, I purchased stationery for them to write thank you notes. The phraseology of such a typical note, from greeting to salutation, was printed on the sheet. What the child did was fill in the blanks with pictures of their own drawing. The notes were adorable keepsakes to doting family from children too small to write but old enough to express gratitude.

Such hieroglyphics were once an educational tool for elementary-aged students. In each issue of Children’s Activities, a magazine published from 1934 through the Fifties, there appeared a full page, two-column story. At the top of the page, a legend was provided to acquaint the child with the characters (both people and animals). The drawings broke up a rather long bit of type and made the reading more fun for everyone.

Substituting symbols for words wasn’t just for kiddos. Back in the day, such picture play was enjoyed by the vintage homemaker, also. Promising Hot Toast Makes the Butter Fly, this toaster cover is one of my favorite finds. I’d purchased it with the original tag stapled to the cover and always wondered if it was a kit or not. For others as domestically curiosity, I found the answer while flipping through Household’s February 1955 issue!

When we ran out of appliances to cover, there was always a child’s apron to adorn.

childs apron busy beeWhat’s old is new again, and yesterday’s hieroglyphic is today’s emoticon. While my toaster wears the cutest cozy, I’ll stick to letting entire words do the talking…that is until I’m corresponding with a grandchild; then, will my  heart rejoice and a  regular_smile be my umbrella.

xx EllynAnne

 

 

 

Vintage Valentine Luv

Valentine’s Day wasn’t always such a commercial focus. Here are samples of hearts and love that show a different side of February 14th.

This 1920s boudoir pillow covering was never completed. From the outline, you can see that it was a kit. I have many aprons, linens and laundry items where the image is dyed and only the outlines need to be embroidered. Her stitches are so tiny and immaculate – this would have been the most enchanting cover. Always I wonder why such a project was abandoned. Perhaps it was for a friend’s bridal shower, and she was a tad envious. Perhaps she put it away, intending to sew it for her own dressing room and forgot about it. Whatever the reason, her heart was not into this project.

1943, with our men at war, we wore our hearts on the home front

This poem from 1943 may seem silly, but she is sending a valentine to her husband, who is fighting in the war.

The most popular boy in his 1949 elementary school with his Valentine haul.

Cookie cutter turns a canned cranberry blob into a dinner love fest.

1950s porcelain heart plate with very risque poetry for the times!

Never, ever too old for romance!!

                         “I’m trying to recall the last time you nibbled my ear.”

 

xx EA

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listening with Pleasure

In the 15 years since I took that first step on my apron journey, I’ve received many aprons in the mail. Always, the aprons are lovingly packaged, as if to make the best first impression upon arrival.

When I spy a large envelope in the mail delivery, my heart beats a tad faster because I anticipate it holds a piece of someone’s history. Such a package arrived this week.

The apron was double wrapped, first in yellow tissue with the sender’s information handwritten on a piece of kitty stationery, and secondly in pink.

The apron is of a dressy nature, perhaps worn over a Sunday Best dress, to serve dinner after church. It was a kit, purchased or received as a gift, and sewn entirely by hand. A stain from a kitchen mishap or storage in a leaky trunk is the only blemish, which is amazing, considering its from the 1920s.

Not only did the sender provide her address, but a phone number. Upon my ringing her up, E.S. shared that she lives in Iowa and the apron belonged to her grandmother, Carrie Cameron Lathrop. Carrie was a farmer’s wife, known throughout the area as a great storyteller. E.S. loved visiting the farm and spending time with her grandmother. She always wore an apron, but when she passed, I took just this one as a remembrance.

The apron is in my care now because E.S. is herself “getting on in years,” and she’s divesting of her treasures as she wishes, while she is still able.

E.S. inherited Grandma Carrie’s storytelling talent, and I was a willing audience to her recollections, especially her telling of hitchhiking to Colorado in 1952!

E.S. was twenty-two years old when she and two girlfriends hitched rides from Iowa to Denver. Their adventure lasted a year, ending when her friends up and married. Alone and lonely for family, E.S. borrowed the money for bus fare and returned home. But oh, her memories of Aspen, Boulder, and being a “single gal” in a city filled with rugged, western males. I adored hearing her voice lighten as she remembered that time and the adventure of her life.

One of the many lessons I’ve learned over the years of this apron journey is the value of practicing the old fashioned virtue of patience, zipping my lips and letting the apron direct the memory of the storyteller. A story unfolding on its own time frame eventually revealed something new about the human experience. Patience taught me that and I am the grateful recipient of the lesson.

E.S. will be 86 in March. While I’ll send a card and a little wrapped something, I know the gift she would appreciate most is a phone call and a patient ear. If I make it to her age, and in decent form, I so hope there will be a kind somebody with a willingness to hear an old lady tell a story.

xx EA

 

 

 

 

Snowy Days Bring Ice Cream Treat

Rejoice! The swath of snow storms that is making life miserable in other parts of the country is joyfully greeted in the parched High Plains of Colorado by those whose livelihoods are dependent on spring’s verdant land.

Living where the average yearly moisture amounts to 13″, I tend to greet snow flakes like a visit from Elvis. The rarity of days-on-end of winter storms in these parts is also cause for personal celebration, for with the freezing temperature is the opportunity to wear my inheritance, Mama’s mink.

sunglassed ea in MMink cropped

Unlike when my snow euphoria was child-oriented with snowmen and cups of cocoa and globs of gooey marshmallows, in my sons’ adult absence, I focus on the aspects of snow that are personally pleasing: shoveling the sidewalk and eating snow ice cream.

Clearing a pathway is actually one of my favorite activities because it’s a very zen, easily obtainable goal and results in bringing pleasure to others, especially the newspaper and mail delivery folks.

The steady snowfall that requires multiple shoveling also fills a large bowl with freshly falling flakes, the main ingredient for snow ice cream. Never mind that it’s drifted through an atmosphere rife with pollutants, as long as it’s not yellow, I’m good with it. The very rarity of snow makes the treat so special.

Snow Ice Cream with bush www

A basic snow ice cream recipe is a simple stirring together of snow, sugar, vanilla extract and milk. For a creamier, richer taste, replace the sugar and milk with sweetened condensed milk. Substituting kahluah for the milk (and sugar) makes an adult version. Whatever is added to the mix, the savoring must be immediate, for this treat turns to mush in a blink.

Snow falling all around, on the trees and on the ground is poetry and purpose, with a cherry on top.

xx EA

Picture Speaks When Words Fail

The disappointment over the Super Bowl’s outcome has left many a Bronco fan speechless. Words are also failing to describe my personal annoyance for letting the smell of freshly popped popcorn lure me into forgetting that I do not like football, take a seat in front of the television, and stuff my face with all matter of snack and drink.

Words that aptly suit the game’s depressing outcome and my gluttonous bloating are likely what this homemaker is saying at the bursting of the garbage bag.

homemaker with broken garbage bag am.com

“What a mess!” perfectly describes the Bronco’s play and her kitchen floor.

xx EA

Hallelujah Challah

With the purchase of a breadmaker some years ago, I became a confident baker of Sabbath challah. With the task of kneading accomplished by the machine, my only job was to braid and bake. This arrangement worked for a good while, but with the machine’s breakdown, challah from the grocery took the place of homemade.

I thought about replacing the machine and reinstituting the tradition of Friday baking, because I missed the aroma of the bread in the oven…a signal of sorts that a change in the weekly routine was soon to begin. But something held me back from making the purchase.

When a hurt wrist and hand surgery put the stop to baking altogether, and cookie production ceased, my husband decided to put things to right and brought home a kitchen helper like I had only dreamed of

 

ka buttercup_ (Small)

I love love love love love love love love this machine.

With dough making a breeze, challah baking is again a Friday happening.

KitchenAid Challah am.com

For the record, I am not the advertising ambassador for KitchenAid. I could be, because I love (x10) this mixer. The recipe I use is adapted from the breadmaker, in case you’re thinking, oh, my! I need to do this.

Hallelujah Challah

Into 1 cup of warm water, pour contents of 2 packets of yeast and 3 T sugar. Stir to mix in. Then wait for it to become foamy.

In a measuring cup, combine 2 egg yolks, 1/3 c oil, 1 c water, 1 t salt and 1/3 sugar. Sift 7 cups flour into a bowl.

Put the dough hook in place. Into the KA bowl, alternately add flour and liquid, mixing the additions on speed 2. You’re done when the dough comes together. You may not use all the flour – the dough shouldn’t be dry, but rather a little sticky.

Oil the inside of a large bowl. Remove the dough from the KA bowl, round it, and roll it around in the bowl to get it oiled up. Cover with a cloth and let it rise. TIP: put a cup of warm water in the microwave with the covered bowl. Heat from the water will help with the rising. After an hour or so, punch the dough down. Round it, oil it and again cover to rise a half hour or so.

This recipe makes 2 large loaves.

Cut the dough mass in half. Cut each half into 3 pieces. Roll the pieces into ropes. On a parchment lined cookie sheet, lay 3 ropes side by side and braid. Tuck under both ends. Repeat with 2nd set of 3 ropes. Cover and let the loaves rise. Peeking under the tent is part of the fun, so peek away.

Brush the loaves with egg whites, adding seeds or not. Bake at 345/350 degrees for 25/30 minutes.

Have a lovely week-end!  With challah french toast on Sunday, how else can it be?

xx EllynAnne

Super Bowl Etiquette Goes Emily Post-al

The pinnacle of my sports involvement was cheerleading in 1965. Wearing an adorably short skirt and coordinating undies, I executed a perfect cartwheel at home runs, free throw wins and touchdowns. That was it, until ten years later when I married a sports nut and soon after was Mama to two boys.

As cheerleader to a Testosterone Trio, I gave it a good go until intolerably bored, I could no longer. My heart was in shoe sales, not sporting events.

For the decades I endured their sports’ interests, I inexplicably read the Denver Post‘s sports page, gleaning wisps of knowledge on Colorado’s teams, the Rockies and Broncos. Truth be told, that I cared not a whit for baseball, I never turned down the invitation to drive to Arizona for Rockies’ spring training, and the opportunity to tan my legs in March.

Given my sports ennui, it’s ironic that one of my favorite television shows is Real Sports. The vignettes are well prepared by a stable of talented reporters and always intrigue and always entertain. But for Bryant Gumbel, the supercilious host, the show is perfect.

Bryant’s hauteur was in especially high gear during last Sunday’s final commentary, a time slot reserved for his exclusive pontificating. With barely controlled eye-rolling, he admonished fans headed to his ‘hood for the Super Bowl to spend as little time as possible in Manhattan, leave their colorful team clothing home, and to not wear out a welcome thin as ice. I, who have never watched a Bronco game, was instantly incensed at his snark. How dare he be offended by a tsunami of bright orange and blue. His attempt to instruct Colorado folk on the etiquette of visiting New York City has me going Emily Post-al.

For a short space of time, yes, the thousands expected will inconvenient, overcrowding sidewalks, transportation and eateries. But while in your city, Bryant, they and their fat wallets will be having fun, immeasurably enjoying a well-earned rivalry by two stellar sports teams, and for just a smidge, forgetful of health care woes, foreign circumstances, the daily grind.

Let me apologize in advance for all Bronco fans, and especially those at the big game, for what is certain to be a lapse of their good manners. Because celebrating a Super Bowl win is no time to mind one’s Ps and Qs.

Downton Abbey Mixes It Up

 

I am no stranger to lusting after a kitchen utility, most recently and especially, a KitchenAid stand mixer. My desire for this mother of all mixers was kept in check because financing such an extreme upgrade just wasn’t possible. Surgery on my right hand changed that.

With a weakened wrist and damaged dumb joint curtailing all baking production, my husband, for whom a home without cookies is somebody else’s house, bought me a helpmate:

ka buttercup_ (Medium)

It’s weird to be in love with an appliance, but head over heels am I for “Daffodil,” my very own KA artisan. Had I understood how life changing this mixer can be to even a modest cook, I’d have ruined my hand years ago.

For last Sunday’s premiere of the new season of Downton Abbey, Daffy turned out a scrumptious crust that served as the base for a salmon quiche, which we ate while watching the show. The crust was delectable, so delicious it merited mewing, and we’re dog people.

As I was scraping minuets of crust to the fork’s tines so as not to leave a crumb on the plate, Daisy of Downton was unboxing an electrical hand mixer.  Her excitement for a convenience that would make her life as a kitchen apprentice easier and more enjoyable was adorably portrayed, although not shared by her mentor, who would be just fine, thank-you-very-much, with her trusty rotary hand beater.

Having labored with the old way of mixing a batter or whipping cream, Daisy was intrigued by the electric gadgetry. Reading the instruction manual, she immediately applied the new technology to the evening’s dessert – a whipped confection that was ready in minutes, not hours.

Raised with every conceivable household convenience, modern women watching the show would have a hard time imagining the effect electrical kitchen utilities had on women of earlier times. Having just experienced a personal domestic hallelujah, I totally felt Daisy’s spirits lift at the wonder of a single invention.

Curious as to what other kitchen inventions were changing the landscape of the 1920s’ cook, I looked through my cache of old magazines.

From early editions of Woman’s World and Modern Priscilla, we were giddy for

kitchen utilities 1920s am.com

a metal slanted grater, waffle iron cleaner, date pitter, combination measuring and sifting cup, extending casserole holder, jar opener, can opener, crank food grater, rolling pin cover and a drip coffee maker.

kitchen utilities 11920s 2 am.com

And what a surprise to turn the pages of an early 1920s issue of American Cookery and find an advertisement for the mixer that so enthralled Daisy:

Elec Mixer 1920s ad

And to turn the page again, to the mixer that ninety years later, so enthralled me!

mixer_KA 1920s ad am.com

The price of the KitchenAid isn’t revealed in the ad, but it figures it was in line with an electric vacuum cleaner costing $39.00, which in today’s dollars is $415.00.

A four hundred dollar investment in a kitchen utility is significant by any standard, but Daisy and I both know the cost of our domestic happiness is priceless.