In which she embraces e-books

I got a Kindle for Christmas, thanks to my parents and inspired largely by the largeness of Infinite Jest, th'usband's favorite book, which I'd been trying to read on the subway for about the past year.

If you're not familiar with the novel, it is over 1,000 pages long, 200+ of which are end notes that carry a surprising amount of the plot, such that it is, and require constant toggling back and forth, all the while not smudging or in any way otherwise besmirching th'usband's first edition hardcover, of which (the hardcover, not these efforts, which he found inadequate despite the fact that I was using Book Bungees and everything) he is very fond. I will say much more about said e-reader, and more importantly about David Foster Wallace, in a not-too-distant post, but in the meantime the point is that the reading is going much better now, mostly in the middle of the night when I'm up nursing the baby. I can jack the font size way up and turn pages or toggle with a single thumb. It's awesome, and I don't think it will mean the end of paper-type books in my possession or anyone else's, despite some pretty compelling essays to the contrary. And the further point is that th'usband and I have borrowed and slightly modified one of DFW's pet IJ acronyms, P.G.O.A.T. (Prettiest Girl Of All Times) to serve as a pet name for V., hereinafter the P.B.O.A.T.

The fittingness of this name being obvious to all who know her, the prettiest baby of all times has already inspired her super awesome Brazilian Tia A. to make the first of what in all rights should be an entire line of excellent babywear, as pictured, except that all the other cute-ish babies who might otherwise be candidate wearers are by definition but pale shadows of the P.B.O.A.T. I can't pretend to take credit for this bit of DIY genius although A. suggested that I might machine-stitch the little boat down to prolong its laundry life, which I just did with a zig-zag so as best to harmonize with the excellence of the original disen~o. I'm posting it here because it's still kind of a big deal that merits celebrating when I turn the sewing machine on.

The P.B.O.A.T. beckons from her swing in front of the Christmas tree. Time for another feeding, and a few more pages on the Kindle.

Here I am, baby.

So it looks like it's been a year. More than a year. I could go on and on about that, or just trust you to understand that a lot has changed in the intervening time. Most saliently, I am now a mother. My baby girl, V., my most ambitious and promising DIY project ever, was born on November 1. She fills me with all kinds of plans, most admittedly dependent on having all kinds of time that I never have been good at safeguarding but swear I will learn to be now that she's my Everything that's at stake.

To wit, this item discovered by browsing my alumni magazine tonight: Oliver and S., a children's sewing pattern company evidently begun by an old college classmate of mine. That V. is on the receiving end of a hand-me-down supply chain so awesome and intense that the girl may never wear the same onesie twice doesn't mean that I don't want to be the kind of mother who makes her all of her favorite clothes. Who makes her all of her favorite clothes out of custom-printed fabrics, even, although I admit that could be a little obsessive. Who freelances or owns her own business or finds some way to keep her little girl by her side every day. Or even if she can't, who fills the time they do have together with fun they make with their own four hands.

She's napping now. Time to clear off my sewing machine.

After the reading

Don't think that I don't know that I do this. That I start things. That much, much later, as it turns out (as it will turn out), I will never finish said things. That I cut out pants that I translate from the Dutch that I bellydance on Wednesdays that I can my own sauce that I'm a blogger a knitter a salsera that I'm a crooner and a wife. That I am crooning. That eventually, like just now, between the third and the fourth poem, I'm not even listening anymore, that I've bored of my brewing my apples my half marathon in February. My stockings and my garter belt. The funny thing is that the people I like best tend to do the same things over and over. And over. I know. What can I say except that I'm sorry. Except that I'm here. Again. Now.

still crazy

Awhile back, I wrote to tell my old friend D, himself known to wrap quiet desperation in some pretty darn elegant pop tunes, that there was a Paul Simon retrospective running that had brought him to mind, as had an accompanying review noting that Simon had tasked himself with using all 12 notes of the chromatic scale in each melody on Still Crazy.

"Ah," D. replied, "this explains why I can never play mid-70s Paul Simon on the dulcimer." (Dulcimers apparently are fretted on a diatonic scale. Now you know.) "This afternoon I finished a 1000-word (precisely, of course) essay on [X ]for our [Y] publication," D. continued. "I once wrote a course description for an academic catalog that was a pangram. At what point does it just become obsessiveness?"

My answer? That darlin', --and this goes for you too, dear reader, if try as you might, all you can see/think/do is one thing, or conversely, you've got yourself some attention deficit or a bad boggle habit--you've got it backwards. It's obsessiveness that sometimes blooms into genius; genius does not devolve, it only transcends. Your obsessiveness and your genius are one and the same real thing.

While I may not actually be doing much to exemplify my own insights these days, I have been enjoying a near-daily reminder in the form of a nearly life-sized coral reef fashioned from yarn and plastic.

Imagine this. Have you ever tried to knit/tat/crochet? Having grown up just one generation after the demise of the dowry, with my own mother's linen closet filled with handkerchiefs and crisp white sheets edged with lace whose makers she'd known all her life, I actually learned my grandmother's pattern and used to give pillowcases to friends on very, very special occasions. It was a labor of love that progressed at a maximum speed of 4 inches per hour.

Now imagine that there are ruffly little anenomes and mildly obscene sea cucumbers in a glass teaser case I pass on my way through the corporate turnstiles each morning, because there are. Think of their slow, practically geologic accretion into the room-sized exhibit we all snorkel past on our way to lunch. I think it's supposed to heighten awareness, but mostly it just makes me happy that that kind of crazy keeps cropping up, even here, even now.

I think maybe we are the Man

Let me just state that I would get a lot more writing done if it weren't for Boggle, or more specifically, for the online version of the word game found on that social networking site that the kids are all on about these days and that I swore and swore I would never stoop to join because I didn't want my browsing habits traced, right up until the moment that I joined.

Before Boggle it was Scrabble, which just two months ago was blocked by our company servers but which is back now, in apparent recognition that it is far too antique and plodding to pose much of a distraction anymore. But this Boggle thing is a real time suck. My interest dipped after I managed to beat my niece M., who is a monster, in a single, glorious game, but really only enough to make my addiction more furtive. "Did you play your video game?" th'usband often asks after a night when I've once again begged off of some social event to do a little CPR on my inner life. I have no inner life.

To make things worse, I recently took my company up on its offer of a PDA. Now instead of looking out the window before I get dressed in the morning, I can check the weather on my personal hand-held device. Instead of reading a book on the train ride home, I can check to see if any e-mail has arrived since I left the office. When I'm not online, I'm worrying about the extent to which the Man might track my movements. The other day I IM'ed my friend G., who sits a few cubes over from me and who has the same PDA, to ask him if he also worried. There was a brief pause. "I think maybe we are the Man," he typed back.

And so, if you've been waiting for a letter for me, I'm sorry. If you've been waiting for an invitation for dinner or that case of beer or home-baked pie I promised you, I'm really sorry about that, too. I'm sorry about the state of my plans to visit Cooperstown or train for those half marathons or cut out the pants and the little Madmen jacket from the length of roasted pumpkin wool that I take out every few months to repin and set aside again. If you want to help, you could hack into my computer and redirect my browser to the Truth. Or you could challenge me to a word game. If you look hard enough, I'm sure you'll pick up on the white flags and bread crumbs I've scattered on the board.

How to Homebrew event at Vox Pop

Sorry for the last minute notice, but if there's anyone reading this in Brooklyn, you're welcome to join me and a fellow Brooklyn brewer at Vox Pop at 7:30 tonight for a little How to Homebrew tutorial. Samples will be provided!

Don't rush the chiles

Q: I was wondering how your chili beer turned out since I am thinking about making a chili beer myself

Asked by Andy

A: Hi Andy,

I've actually just been thinking about that chile beer again. A family emergency brought us out to Fort Collins, CO last week, where after all was said and done we made our way down to Coopersmith's so I could have myself a glass of Sigda's Green Chili Ale--the very brew that inspired me last time. I have to say, it was much better than I remember mine being, and not just because it was properly aged. There was a very appealing smokiness to the heat, such that I think when I try it next I'll roast the fresh chiles first to convert them to chipotles.

Still and all, while I'm a big fan of flavored, spiced, and/or fruity beers in general, I think the single most important thing I've learned so far is that you've got to give them time to mellow or that flavor will hit you in the face and you won't even taste the beer. That chile beer was a relatively early effort, back before th'usband and I had learned some moderation and we were doing well if a given batch was in the keg for 10 days before we tapped it. I think we might have even wound up with pumpkin ale on one tap and the chile beer on the other, which embarassed me initially because both were very unbalanced when they were young. I know I whined about it to a brewing friend of mine, who consoled me with the story of a juniper beer he'd made one September, thinking it would be a great winter warmer for the holidays. In fact, it tasted roughly like turpentine that first year, and disappointed, he left the bottles under the steps or some such out of the way place, where they sat undisturbed until--I want to say nine months later, but that's probably just baby on the brain talking--I think he actually must have cracked them the next year, by which time he assured me they were great.

I still haven't done any bottling, though I picked up the stuff to do it and am working on a Belgian ale tonight that could probably really benefit from a nice long sit. I've also got the fixings in the house for a Shakemantle Ginger Ale clone (not that I've tried one--it just sounded interesting) and should get that started now if we want to drink it this summer. Fortunately I also recently was given a fifth keg by BrewUnc #1, and if I manage to keep them all full, I'll have a bit more lagering time built right in.

Good luck with your chile beer. It's definitely worth a try. Proost!

Ask The Huisvrouw a question.