How on earth is that I've spent damned near 27 years on this planet and haven't before now tasted a persimmon? I actually bought one a few years back when I was going out to sushi multiple times a week and our sushi chef recommended I try them. Well, I bought one and thought it was so pretty I just had to paint it before I ate it...And, well, I never got around to painting it, and it went bad.

And now I'm kicking myself for letting it go bad. Since I've been trying to get healthier, I've been really good about eating at least one fruit or vegetable with every meal and snack, and so several days ago at Fred Meyer I saw that persimmons were in season, and picked up two Fuyus for a total of $1.98. They then sat in my fridge for days on end, and finally tonight I decided to try one as my afternoon snack.

Oh. My. God.

Why didn't I try these things earlier?! They are absolutely heavenly. Like, literally. This must be what ambrosia tastes like. They're this delightful combination of honey and brown sugar and apple and pumpkin. I see myself buying these just as frequently as I buy pomegranates when they're in season.

Okay, so I posted to the mittenswap community about how Mr. Mittens and I went down to Knit Purl and met Cookie A. and were even able to pose with her for pics...

Well, Cookie A. updated the blog.

Sho' enough, there's a picture of me!

I am on Cookie A.'s blog!

ME!

Oh yes, trying to look like I love the Koigu. Heheh.

I'm tickled pink.

Date:	2007-11-07 18:04
Subject:	Wheeee!
Security:	Public
Mood:	happy

So I took myself off the phones for a moment to go grab a glass of water, and as I'm quickly walking from the office/bedroom to the kitchen, what do I see on the couch but a pretty bouquet with orange flowers. He looked kinda of startled to see me, so I didn't act like I saw them and just grabbed my water and went back to work.

I'm smiling so much just knowing that he got me flowers, and I'm gonna smile even more when he gives them to me.

He's so sweet!

I'm not an attractive person. I came to terms with this a long time ago, and to be honest, it doesn't really bother me. I guess I'm one of those people who's managed to make up for it in personality, because T. is certainly attractive, and I've always managed to net attractive men in the past.

But T. has always insisted that I'm beautiful. I'll never see myself how he does, but that's okay, because I know he's not just flattering me, he truly means it.

So imagine my surprise today when I was at Sephora, one of their employees was applying the makeup to me, and a little girl (probably around 8) walked past me, turned back to look at me, and exclaimed "So pretty!"

Oh yeah, that's good for the ego.

Overall, I'd say you're a good neighbour. You don't slam the door like your predecessor, you're much better at parking than your predecessor, and your patio is covered in potted cherry tomato plants, which is way more cool than the barbeque with a year old bottle of Kraft barbeque sauce sitting on it.

But please, for the love of god, would you throw your trash away promptly? The first time you left a bag next to your front door, T. and I surmised that you had a few bags to take out, had put the remainder there and simply forgot about it.

But this is a regular occurance. You set garbage out there and then abandon it for hours on end. Once it was even over a full day before it finally dissapeared. I can make two trips to the garbage bins during a commercial break, so it's not as though it's a particularly long trip from your front door to the bins.

So why, why must you leave the garbage by your front door? It's beginning to drive me crazy. It's frustrating to know that if we have anyone over, we'll have to peek out our front door before people start arriving to check that there's no garbage. Should I leave you a snarky note? Should I just throw it away one time and hope you get the hint?

But, neighbour, I do thank you for at least not putting your baby's diapers in there. At least your garbage doesn't stank to high hell.

Date:	2007-10-23 20:38
Subject:
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused

Ya know those urban legends about a guy who cooks food with a habanero and then has sex with his girl and she gets burnination in her hoohaa from the habanero?

Apparently it can happen, and with something as mild as an anaheim pepper.

Date:	2007-10-15 17:44
Subject:	Going postal.
Security:	Public
Mood:	annoyed

The Hazel Dell post office ladies are holding my mail hostage. Actually, they have progressed from the taking-hostages stage to the killing-hostages stage.

My PO box payment was due in August. I, being the unique and special snowflake I am, had it written down as being due in September, and, thusly managed to pay late. For a while now I've been pondering switching to the Orchards post office for my PO box, not only because it's closer, but it's also open 24 hours. So when I went to pick up my mail and apologize for being late, I told them I was going to just go ahead and close the box and would get one in Orchards. I then drove over to the Orchards post office, opened a box, filled out a change of address form and dropped it in the mail.

I called everyone I could think of that had my old address on record and got it changed to the new one. Of course, I know full well that I'd manage to forget to notify someone. So imagine my consternation when, after two weeks, I still had not received one piece of forwarded mail at the new PO box. So I ask one of the nice ladies at the Orchards post office why I haven't gotten any forwarded mail in the past two weeks, and she said I should have by that point, and that I should go to the Hazel Dell post office and give them a new change of address form.

So I go over to the Hazel Dell post office and ask the nice, but clueless, girl at the counter about my mail. She defers to a woman who is apparently in charge, who gives me a nasty comment about how I hadn't told them where to forward mail to, and so they've just been sending all my mail back to the sender as undeliverable. Fanfuckingtastic. She also informs me that it takes 3-4 weeks to do an address change, and that I should've let them know I'd be switching boxes a month before I closed out the Hazel Dell one. Nevermind that a) you're required to give your home address when registering for a PO box, so they would've been able to, at the least, send the mail to my home address, b) I had notified them by sending in a change of address form, and c) USPS.gov states that it takes 7-10 postal business days (i.e., two calendar weeks) at most for mail to be delivered. I was handed a change of address form, and moved over to the counter to fill it out, where I could hear the woman in charge bitching about me to another one of the women there as they were putting mail into boxes. I gave them the newly filled out form and left. That was Thursday. As of this morning, I still had no forwarded mail in my box.

And, naturally, during all of this, I completely spaced about the darned mitten swap, so now my mittens are happily on their way to the Hazel Dell post office, and I've no bloody idea if the bats there will actually forward them over to Orchards, or if they'll just be returned to my buddy :( But, the hostess said my buddy has been apprised of the situation, so at least I'll get the little buggers eventually.

I do believe if I haven't gotten any mail in a few days, I'll go and talk to the ladies at the Orchards post office, and see if they can't light a fire under someone's arse. Near as I can tell, the women in Hazel Dell are pissed that I switched boxes and spaced my payment and are just returning my mail out of spite.

Apparently I forgot this thing existed, even though I've been activeish in communities. I will post more regularly, I swear.

In somewhat related news to the lack of posting, I got an awesome little job working from home, doing customer service for a major credit card company (no, not that one, and not that one either, the third one you'll think of is it). It's pretty well cut into my oh-so-active social life (ha!), but the money will be useful for the wedding.

And on a totally random note, there are downsides to having minor nerve damage caused by a spinal cord injury. One of those is that nerves occasionally go wonky. For the past few days, I've had this lovely intermittent vibrating sensation near my left ankle. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, I'll have one second of vibration followed by three to five seconds of non-vibrating. It's practically like clockwork. And really freaking annoying.

Date:	2007-06-14 09:45
Subject:	Officially old and busted.
Security:	Public
Mood:	silly

I just found a grey hair in my right eyebrow.

Date:	2007-06-01 15:12
Subject:	Kaput!
Security:	Public
Mood:	giddy

Wednesday I went to the doctor and had my thyroid tested.

Yesterday evening I got the results back. "Way out of whack" were the doctor's words. Normal on the test is 0.35, and my result was 15. Not 0.15. I asked. 15. Though that's somewhat misleading, my thyroid is actually quite underactive, not overactive.

This morning I headed off to Fred Meyer and picked up my pills. Synthroid. Reminds me of synthahol from Star Trek. I'm supposed to take it first thing in the morning, but hey, it was 10 am, close enough. So I took the first one. And now I feel somewhat...wired. I've got energy. And it feels good. I'm itching to do every little creative thing I've been thinking of but haven't been quite motivated to do. Hell, I might even clean. It's still technically spring, after all!

In other news, I completely spaced knitting last night. It's been forever and a day since I've gone. Have had a few family engagements, and then there was the night where T.'s company's stock tanked (30% drop in one day, fun!) and a good stiff drink (or two) was all important. Next week, I swear!

So it's been a good three months since I've posted a finished object. I've actually finished a thing or two, more or less, but I've been a non-monogamous knitter, so I now just have two items to show off. You better like them!



Pattern: Twisted Flower by Cookie A.
Yarn: Shi Bui Sock in "Midnight"
Needles: US 1 & 2 Crystal Palace Bamboo DPNs
Duration: March 22, 2007 to May 21, 2007, with lots and lots of non-monogamous knitting and familial distractions

Do ignore whatever freakish is going on with our storeroom door. Instead, marvel at what may be the most perfect sock pattern ever. I swear, I'm really not a sock knitter. But Cookie A., well, she's one impressive sock designer. Not only do the socks look fantastic (both to non-knitters and knitters!), but the pattern is well written. The charts may be gigantic and complicated, but Cookie A. cleverly put in two purl ditches that run throughout the sock, thus nearly always keeping you on track.

Since my calves are a bit larger than I'd like, but my ankles and feet are on the narrow (read: bony) side, I worked on US 2 needles until row 17 of the second repeat, and then switched to US 1s for the ankle and foot. A good idea, in theory. I should've switched to the 1s when I began working the heel, because the portion where I switched needles is so snug that I have difficulty pulling the sock on.

This yarn is fairly new, and I rather like it. One ball had a few quality control issues (some pills and one spot where it was thin but did not break), but otherwise it's great. I absolutely love the colour saturation. I like how it stripes but is quite subtle about it. It's soft, not obscenely warm, and the yarn is delightfully squishy. Even sproingy.

So, after showing you a pair of socks that took two months, what about a pair that took two hours? Well, it was slightly more than two hours...



Pattern: My friend Terrisa's
Yarn: Rowan Felted Tweed in Ginger
Needles: US 5 Crystal Palace Bamboo DPNs
Duration: 2:00pm May 21, 2007 to 3:00pm May 22, 2007, with lots of eating, cooking, shopping, TV watching, and sleeping in between

Aren't these just adorable? I figured that with a culinary name like Ginger, it was only natural to model these among my swiss chard sprouts. That's actually two baby socks laid on top of each other, not one with a freakishly big cuff. These little buggers took me between two and three hours each, including time to weave in ends and try to figure out what Terrisa meant by what she wrote down. They look biggish to me, a bit too large for a newborn, but I figure at some point they'll fit just about any infant. By the time a baby is big enough to wear these, they'll probably be in shoes, but the Rowan Felted Tweed makes a nice thin fabric, so I have no doubt they'll still be of use, even with shoes. These will likely be going to Sandee, a former coworker whose daughter is expecting her first daughter in about a month or so. Another pair is planned in the "Pickle" colourway of the same yarn, with some similarly coloured mohair carried along, for my former coworker Jaime, who is expecting a baby of unknown sex in about seven months.

Am I the only person who thinks that the singer from the Fray is completely incapable of enunciating? I realize that a certain vocal style is important to the music, but cripes, he's worse than the guy from Coldplay.

The other day T. wanted ice cream, so I introduced him to the pure, heavenly goodness that is Tillamook Peanut Butter Chocolate. He's been dishing rather large bowls ever since.

I've lost four pounds in the month since T. proposed. Hurray for a combination of actually getting off my arse and sticking to my non-diet diet.

Sometime soon I'll make a post with picturey goodness, I swear, but I'm feeling random today.

Date:	2007-05-11 18:12
Subject:	Sometimes it pays to be polite.
Security:	Public
Mood:	satisfied

I'm what you might call a regular. The girls at my coffee shop know me by name, will often have my drink done before my credit card has even finished processing, and will sometimes give me my drink and shoo me away without paying when there's a gigantic line. When I buy bacon and ribeyes, I buy them from the butcher counter, not the refrigerated cases. All non-bacon cured meats and cheese I get from a small market, where the guys recognize me and even anticipate me asking where the St. Agur bleu is when I can't find it.

My mom raised me to be polite. I might be quite casual about it, but you can be damned sure I say my "please" and "thank yous". I smile. When people ask me how my day is, I respond with the requisite "Good," and take an "and you?" on to the end.

On March 14th, I naturally bought steaks to make T. for dinner. So I went to the butcher counter, smiled at the friendly older guy who works there, and asked for two filet mignons. It was only when I was preparing them that I discovered that my two filet mignons were labelled as tenderloin, a significantly cheaper cut, on the package.

Today I went to buy some prosciutto for a spinach and pear salad I'll be eating over the next several days. Normally I buy the domestic prosciutto. Of course, normally, I'm cooking with the prosciutto, and the lower quality is acceptable for that. But today, I wanted the good stuff. The $24.99/pound good stuff. I've gotten friendly with the guy who works there, he's the one who knows I always want St. Agur (and suggests excellent substitutes when there's none to be found in the entire city). I've seen him around town, at the Farmer's Market and at Jake's. He's a nice guy. After he sliced the prosciutto and wrapped it up, I asked him which of the two Italian prosciuttios he'd selected for me ("di parma," he replied) as I glanced down at the package. The computerized label clearly stated domestic, at $16.99/pound.

I'm not saying I'm the nicest person out there. I mess up sometimes. I have days where I am cranky, but I try not to be rude, even if I'm a little less polite. But I've always thought it was best to be polite to those who serve you--baristas, janitors, secretaries, and yes, butchers, meat, and cheese mongers. And sometimes it really does pay off, quite literally.

Date:	2007-04-23 10:18
Subject:	Hidden treasures.
Security:	Public
Mood:	calm

I've got to say, I love the Portland area. I can't think of a more perfect place to live. Go east and there's a beautiful mountain and the Gorge, go west and there's an equally spectacular coast and lush forests. To the north is the Emerald City (a wonderful place to visit, but somewhere I wouldn't want to live) and Mt. St. Helens and the Gifford Pinchot National forest, and to the south we've got vast farmland and quaint little towns.

T. had been sick off and on for a few weeks, and before that I'd been sick, so on Easter weekend we were going a bit stir crazy from being in the house so much. We'd originally planned to go visit my mom's mother-in-law and his mother over Easter weekend, but the illness prevented that plan. So on Easter, we went for a little drive.

We decided to head east, to the Gorge. Crossing the I-205 bridge, the Columbia River was perfectly still, completely glass-like. Pretty unusual for her, it'd been quite some time since I'd seen it that way in the Portland area. We headed east on I-84, and skipped our usual by-pass of the Columbia River Historic Highway, because the Corbett exit was closed due to a small slide. Once we reached Hood River, we ate brunch at a cute little place called the 3 Rivers Grill. It was sunny and somewhat warm, and I was wearing all black, so we opted to eat on their deck. I had a nice view of the river and Mt. Adams, T. had a view of the hill and pretty houses. The fish and chips was excellent, according to T., my breakfast skillet was great (though came with eggs and mushrooms, neither of which were listed on the menu), and my Cosmo was from a mix.

We decided to head to the Maryhill winery, and on a lark decided to go across the Dalles Bridge. As I dug through my purse for quarters, we discovered the Dalles Bridge is, in fact, not a toll bridge. And here I'd always been crossing at Biggs because I thought it was the first free bridge east of the Glenn Jackson.

Maryhill was having a bit of an off day, which is somewhat understandable, you can't expect a winery's service to be spot on during any holiday. Back across the Dalles Bridge we went (no one in their right mind would take SR-14 all the way home), and Mt. Hood was doing her best impression of Mordor.



We decided to take Highway 30 back west, because I'd never been along it this time of year, nor had T. For once we decided to head down the road outside of Hood River that proclaimed it had yarn and alpacas. We'd never gone there before, probably for fear of exhausting our bank accounts. Really, we should have gone down that road ages ago. The yarn shop is cute, it has all the required items (Cascade 220, Noro Kureyon and Silk Garden, etc.), and a giant wall of alpaca yarns. Debbie Bliss, Joseph Galler, Plymouth, if they made alpaca, it was represented. And there was a display of alpaca yarns spun from their very own alpaca, each skein replete with a portrait of the alpaca who gave up her fleece. I bought a worsted skein of Jezebel's fleece, and Jezebel's portrait is rather fitting, that alpaca has a bit of attitude.

As we were leaving, I asked the proprietor if it would be alright if I took some photos of the alpacas, after all, I didn't know if they were shy creatures. She did me one better, and informed me that we could feed the alpacas. Sure enough, I turned around, and there was an old-fashioned candy dispenser filled with alpaca feed. In went a quarter, and I had a dixie cup full of little green pellets. Accompanied by her gigantic herding dog (whose job was to protect the alpacas from coyotes), we headed to the pen where the show alpaca were. As we approached, all half dozen of them took attention and eagerly came towards us, obviously aware that they were going to get a treat. Feeding them was something else. They're very gentle, I never felt a single tooth, but their little lips move all over your hand as they search for more pellets, it tickles quite a bit. And it's rather amusing when they use their lips to try to determine whether or not your rings are edible or not.



This was by far the most assertive alpaca. The others would be eating out of your hand, and this one would manage to wiggle its way in there. Very nice, gentle animals, though. There was a lovely chocolate brown one (ever so slightly featured in the above photo) who had never eaten out of anyone's hand, and he ate out of mine. The proprietor was quite impressed.

After we dried the alpaca spit from our hands, we hopped back into the car and went around the back side of Mt. Hood. The destruction from this winter's flooding at Wind River was impressive. Awe-inspiring. Phenomenal. I have no pictures, though, because there wasn't a good place to pull over and get out. Aside from passing by a pretty serious accident in Gresham, the rest of the drive was blissfully uneventful.

Date:	2007-04-20 15:44
Subject:	Yes, it's what you think it is.
Security:	Public
Mood:	happy

Date:	2007-03-22 15:02
Subject:	Spring has sprung.
Security:	Public
Mood:	sick

My body has been fighting off some bug for the past few days. And yesterday it lost. I've got a lovely fever, I'm completely and utterly phlegmy, and generally miserable.

I attempted some soldering today and it appears as though someone damaged the torch tip. Huzzah. I'll be buying myself my own torch tips soon.

I am consoling myself with some lovely spring pictures I took the other day. I love spring. It's full of everything new. And in spite of my damned crocuses being in bloom right now (and no sign of daffodils whatsoever), the rest of the city is on schedule.



Cherry blossoms are one of my favourites. They come before virtually everything else. They have a wonderfully perfect fragrance, but you can only smell them up close. It's your little secret, just between you and the tree. So many people never stop to smell the roses, or the cherries, as it were. Just like roses, flowering cherries are all over the city, taken for granted by all. They're graceful, beautifully evocative, and there's nothing quite as gleeful as watching waves upon waves of cherry petals skitter down a road.



And then there are the camellias. Not nearly as many camellias in the city, but they're around. Hidden in little out of the way places, nearly inevitably planted in the oldest parks and around the oldest houses. So very old-fashioned, just like the magnolias. Coco Chanel sure could pick a flower. Of course, they're not as awesome as the cherries, their flowers aren't generally fragrant, and they don't drop their petals--rather, yellowed, lifeless flowers cling to the shrub. But they're still beautiful while they're at their peak.



And lastly, because I'm sick and feeling woozy, isn't the soup I had the other day delightfully cheezy? I'd met T. for lunch at a place that does potstickers and bao, and had a bowl of lemongrass broth because I was beginning to feel a bit sick. Nothing like a heart-shaped green onion to remind you that even when you're down, there's a reason to smile.

Date:	2007-03-02 15:45
Subject:	I am a magpie.
Security:	Public
Mood:	bored

My birthday was quite possibly the best birthday ever. A huge box was mocking me all day long, but there was no time to open it in the morning, so I had to wait until T. got home. Even then, there wasn't much time, we had dinner reservations, but I definitely didn't want to wait until dinner. I'd been instructed to not shake the box, nor to flip it upside down, so I gingerly removed a small bubble-wrapped package from the box. Under the bubble-wrap was a package of coffee we'd received when we had dinner New Year's Eve at Grolla.

You see, T. is silly when it comes to wrapping gifts. A few of my Christmas gifts had been wrapped, then carefully placed in a much larger box, which was also wrapped. So the coffee shouldn't have surprised me.

Next in the box was a carefully wrapped mini-bottle of champagne, also from New Year's Eve. Silly man.

Below that? He'd constructed a false bottom to the box. Once I pulled that off, I discovered a little box. One of those boxes. A jewelry box.



They say diamonds are a girl's best friend. I don't know about that. But they sure are pretty. So, naturally, I made him put it on. And then I had to take a shower and get ready for dinner, so off it came. Got dressed again, on it went. And then we had dinner at Grolla.

And dinner at Grolla is, naturally, divine. James (the chef) is a genius. I think that, with the exception of the first time we dined there (which was our second date), I have informed T. that he's going to have to share me with James. We did the tasting menu, which consists of five courses and five glasses of wine, plus a glass of champagne to start with. I had a fantastic minestrone, a lovely salad of beets, apple slices, and boursin cheese, chicken and pheasant sausage with prosciutto and gorgonzola risotto, beef with strawberries and perfectly cooked greens, and creme brulee. T. had the minestrone, as well, plus a tomato stuffed with various winter-type things, a stuffed acorn squash (which I couldn't try because it contained apricots), something which I can't remember but it came with truly magnificent mashed potatoes, venison chops, and a wonderful spicy poached pear.

It was a fine birthday. I was with the man I love, he'd picked out a rather nice gift for me (now if only I had more shirts that were appropriate for this time of year that have a neckline that allows the wearing of necklaces), and we had dinner at my favourite restaurant. What more could a girl want?

Tonight we'll be having dinner with my mom and R. at Typhoon. It'll be a belated birthday dinner, and I have no hopes that it'll be anywhere near as nice. The food will be great, of course, and I can't wait to have tom kha gai and good tea, but being around my mom and R. is always a bit stressful.

This, too, shall pass.

Date:	2007-03-02 14:36
Subject:	I. Am. A. Genius.
Security:	Public
Mood:	accomplished

It's been a rough few days. Some mishaps in the shop, getting really frustrated at my self-imposed deadlines, etc.

T. was sick last night. Like, when he finally decided to have dinner (orange juice and a hunk of parmesan-garlic bread from Marsee, he threw up. After convincing him that drinking the dreaded Pepto Bismol would really help, he eventually was willing to try food again. I offered broth, but he actually wanted ramen. The only problem is that the ramen we have is from Thailand, it's quite spicy, and while it may be the most delicious ramen ever, his stomach just wasn't going to be handling spicy food, Pepto or not. So I made the ramen with chicken broth, setting aside the seasoning packet for another time.

Fast forward to today. I've been craving salty food for several days now. Probably because of the stress. So I decided to make myself some popcorn. It was popping happily, I had pulled out the salt and the lemon/pepper grinder, when my eyes fell upon the seasoning packet from last night, still perched on the counter. I put away the salt, I put away the lemon/pepper grinder.



I present to you, my friends, the best popcorn known to man. In fact, this may be one of the best foods known to man. I've nearly polished it off, and I may well do so before T. comes home, in spite of my best efforts to save some so that he may taste the deliciousness.

It is salty. It is slightly sweet. It has the fragrance of lemon grass and chili pepper. It is, frankly, magnificent.

To prepare, you will need:

One 3-1/2 quart Le Creuset stockpot (or other large, preferably heavy, pot)
2 tablespoons canola oil
1/3 cup popping corn, divided
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1 packet Mama Tom Yum (shrimp) seasoning
Paper bag

Adapted from Gourmet.

Set the pot over medium heat, add oil and three kernels popcorn. Cover. When at least one of the kernels pops, add the remaining popping corn. Shake the pot every so often. When the corn is fully popped, pour it into the paper bag. Top with the butter, then the seasoning packet. Shake to your heart's content. Pour into a nice large bowl. Gorge yourself.

Date:	2007-02-21 21:23
Subject:	The joys of 1600mg of ibuprofen.
Security:	Public
Mood:	sore

What is a livejournal for if not for whining? Well, in theory, for posting pictures of pretty things.

But damn it, I want to whine. I've felt like crap for the past week. First a sore throat, then a headache that lasted over a day.

And today? Today I kicked the bedframe in the spare bedroom. With my pinky toe. Hard. But my pinky toe hardly hurts, in spite of the smooth metal having broken the skin (that's how hard I kicked the bugger). Oh no, it's a point in my foot that, if I remember correctly, would be termed a tarsal, a good two inches up from my pinky toe. A part of my foot that impacted the bed frame in no way whatsoever.

This makes me a very sad panda.