Grimly Soldiering On

Not to state too obvious a point, but DIY moving really sucks.

Thank God for the carrying capacity of a minivan, though.

Tomorrow we load A.'s trailer with the beds and a bookcase and the rugs and some other miscellaneous stuff that won't fit in the van, and off we go to the north country. Where we will unload it all with three children scurrying around. And then I have to unpack and find places for it all.

I'd better make sure the ibuprofen is in a very accessible spot. And the gin may ride shotgun with me tomorrow, just to make sure I don't lose it in all the chaos, you see. I think I'm gonna need it.

An Embarrassment of Riches

The floor covering of choice at Blackrock is Oriental rugs. Partially this is because the house pre-dates wall-to-wall carpeting by about a century, and partially because A.'s family lived in Saudi Arabia for a few years and accumulated a good stock of rugs there. In any case, every single room in the house has Oriental rugs covering the wood floors. I even contributed a couple several years ago.

Even the kids' rooms have Oriental rugs, because there are so many rugs in the house and some have been here for so long that they're in pretty bad condition. Which of course makes them perfect for kids' rooms, because you pretty much want anything in contact with small children to be disposable in some way.

Anyway.

Our new house has no Oriental rugs. But it does have laminate wood flooring everywhere. This makes for an unfortunate echo effect that makes me want to pull my hair out. Three screaming children in an echo-y house is no good. The first thing I determined to get into that house were rugs to absorb sound, and lots of 'em.

I knew there were a few rugs at Blackrock (like the aforementioned worn-out ones in the kids' rooms) that could be borrowed without affecting the overall collection at Blackrock. I was pretty sure there were some extras in the attic in Addy's room. So today I crawled into the very back of that attic and started pulling out Oriental rugs.

Do you know how heavy those sumbitches are? They're thick, woven 100% wool. They are heavy. I dragged out four before my back gave out. There are still at least four more in there. That's eight total Oriental rugs just shoved out of sight in the back of an attic. I think if I were to walk through the house and count them all up, there would be around 36 Oriental rugs of varying sizes.

Thirty-six. That's insane. Useful, though.

And Back We Come

Okay! The first whirlwind trip to the new house has been accomplished, with only minor meltdowns from Charlie in the car on the way there and back. (It's always, ALWAYS Charlie when it comes to meltdowns in the car.)

The landlady told A. she was relieved to have such a nice family in the house. Score one for the collared shirts! I'll do my best to keep our nice family from wrecking the joint in the next year, but . . . well, we may have to fix a few things before we leave. Hopefully nothing too involved or expensive.

The new house has a really not-good steep staircase connecting the main living area with the downstairs where the kids are going to be sleeping, which is not ideal in the case of our intrepid small toddler. That particular small toddler is also going to be sleeping in the utility room, so he seems to have gotten the short end of the stick in this particular house.

The high porch, however, is pretty great for early-morning blueberry breakfasts from a measuring cup.

Incidentally, measuring cups are excellent receptacles for a small child's snack, what with that handle and all. Still learning six years and three kids into this parenting gig.

Cubby and Charlie enjoyed finding their own red raspberries and blackberries in the ubiquitous wild bushes that line the perimeter of the mowed areas of the property.

This is the view from the aforementioned porch and those teeeeny little dots in the bushes just to the left of center are Cubby and Jack grazing on raspberries. 

The kids seem quite excited about their new home. A. is similarly enthusiastic, particularly after seeing sign for fishers, mink, deer, and plenty of other exciting animals that can be hunted, trapped, fished, and otherwise harvested in a satisfyingly mountain man fashion.

We're back at Blackrock this week to see some visiting family, and then we'll return north on Saturday. Our internet service isn't supposed to be installed until the following Friday, but I'll try to update here when I can. Because I'm sure your lives are all barren and sad without the randomness that I specialize in here on this unknown site.

Sure.

Catch you later, my lovelies.

Off We Go

In just a couple of hours, the Family Blackrock will be in the minivan and off to a place that is not Blackrock, but will be our new home.

It's about a five-hour drive. I'm not looking forward to the long drive for obvious reasons that I can spell out for you if want me to: Cubby, Charlie, and Jack.

Earplugs might be a good idea.

Anyway.

We're meeting our landlady at our furnished rental house so she can give us the keys, show me around, and make sure we're not a pack of feral animals that's going to destroy her home and its furnishings. A. is the only one of the family she's met so far. It's going to be my job, apparently, to reassure her that only three-fifths of us are feral, and that I have control over those rogue elements of the family that might, say, kick a hole in the wall above the bed (Charlie).

Obviously, any impression of control I might give is illusory, but I'm still dressing the kids in collared shirts and khakis, because I can at least make an effort to make a good first impression.

Honestly, though, I'll be happy if they're not shrieking hysterically when we all pile out of the van after the long drive.

Catch you on the other side, my lovelies.

Living the Cliche

I have a particular dislike for cliched phrases in food writing. One that immediately comes to mind is "brown bits on the bottom of the pan." I realize this is accurately descriptive, but I see it so frequently that it has become an irritant. Another is the instruction to serve certain foods with "a good crusty loaf for mopping up the juices."

I know. This is an irrational dislike. I can't help it.

I was thinking about it this morning, though, as I was transferring some random roasted vegetables from a sheet pan to a storage container to await dinner*. There was still a bit of olive oil on the pan, along with those tasty brown bits.

Cliche number one!

I thought it would be a shame to just give that pan to Mia to lick for me. Such a waste of deliciously flavored olive oil. Luckily for me, the MiL bakes artisan sourdough bread every week or so**, meaning we always have a good crusty loaf on hand.

Cliche number two!

So I wiped up the oil and brown bits with a slice of my good crusty loaf. Cliches never tasted so good.

 * It's really hot here and I had the oven on anyway to bake something this morning in an attempt to use up some failing bananas, so I decided to roast the vegetables in the morning so it wouldn't be too hot in the un-air-conditioned kitchen right before dinner. What, you weren't burning with curiosity about the weather, my odd roasting timing, or the state of my bananas? Huh. Weird.

** This is obviously a great drawback to moving away. I'm going to have to take some of the sourdough starter up north with us and get my own bakery in operation. Dammit.

Can You Spot the Pot?

My Crock-Pot* has become an eccentric. It seemed normal enough when I bought it twelve years ago at a Goodwill thrift store in Albany. In fact, it seemed to be a brand-new, in-the-box Crock-Pot. For ten dollars. It didn't occur to me that perhaps it was at a thrift store in the first place because it had a defect.

But I think it does. And I think the defect is that it has no insulation on the outside, so it gives off a lot of heat. Slow cookers aren't supposed to generate a lot of heat, are they? I'm always hearing about how great they are to use in the summer because they don't heat up your kitchen. Mine does. Which is why I put it out in the shop in the summer when I use it.

When the meat is done, perhaps I could shred it with A.'s industrial grinder. I mean, it is right there on the same table.

I use the Crock-Pot so seldom, however, that I've never thought it worthwhile to get a new one.

When the plastic handle on the lid came off, A. carved me a new one out of wood. Then that broke off and I used twisted-up aluminum foil for awhile before he made me another new one. He decided to be funny with that one and made it out of a ram lamb's tiny horn. 

Ha ha. That A. Such a card.

Now that one has gotten brittle with the heat and is disintegrating. Also, one of the plastic handles on the side of the main body of the Crock-Pot has snapped off, so lifting it has gotten a little tricky.

But it still cooks. So I'm still using it, despite its, uh, quirks. 

At least I could never be accused of disposable consumerism.

* Yes, it is an actual name-brand Crock-Pot, so I don't have to call it the generic "slow cooker." Not that I would worry overly much about that, anyway, even if it was a generic slow cooker.

Lucky Thirteen

Today marks thirteen years of marriage for A. and me. So that's . . . let's see, either lace or textile furs.

Textile furs? What the hell is that?

Maybe I should have gotten him a fur pillow edged in lace, just to cover all the bases.

Actually, I didn't get him anything. He got me a cabin in the north woods. We really pull out all the stops for anniversaries, obviously.

We aren't going to do anything particular to celebrate. Maybe we'll take the kids to get ice cream after dinner. I'll be happy if the day doesn't involve disintegrating rodents in our drinking water.

Happy anniversary to A. I bet this thirteenth year is going to be the luckiest of all.