baked goodness

Tis the season for baked goods! My husband, sister-in-law and I decided to bake up some sugar cookie platters for holiday gifts; by rough count we baked up about 10-12 dozen. I also whipped up a few cakes, platters of peppermint thins, chocolate barks, and other sweet treats for friends, neighbors and holiday gatherings.  

Sugar cookie invasion

Chocolate and white chocolate peppermint bark, chocolate and white chocolate mint thins

Triple Chocolate Bliss Cake with white chocolate snowflakes

Starlight Red Velvet Cake with raspberry and vanilla whipped cremes and peppermint medallions

More chocolate peppermint bark

Mint and chocolate covered pretzels

Guido says "get outta my kitchen"

Keister cookie elves

ho ho ho

A few more from my pre-Christmas knit-a-thon.

Morgan English driving cap

Grace Kelly slouchy lace beret

Christmas lace beret

Suzzallo

The flash

Falling leaves lace cap

knit, purl, repeat

This year I'm determined to knit holiday gifts for the ones I love. I may very well have carpal tunnel by Christmas, but by God, there will be knitted hats and scarves! Here are a few of my finished cabled pieces.

The Capitan

Cabled Button Toque

The Utopia

Big Cable Scarf

Utopia 2.0

carnaval

Over the past few years, I've been planning for a Carnaval exhibit, set to open at the Burke Museum on September 24. It's been an exciting and enjoyable project and I can hardly wait until the show opens, but now that the real "characters" of Carnaval are here, I admit I'm a little creeped out. Carnaval is all about celebration, but with a macabre humor. There's nothing that gives me the heebee jeebees quite like unpacking elaborately dressed, but faceless mannequins from their traveling crates -- it feels like removing bodies from their coffins (wait, did that one move?).

For me 8:00am is the witching hour. I open the exhibit gallery before the museum is open to the public. No other staff are around. The overhead lights are dim. The howling wolves soundtrack from the adjacent exhibit hall whines quietly in the background. And I'm all alone with these guys...

Bauta and Plague Doctor (Italy)

El Catrin (Mexico)

Moco Jumbi and Robber Child (Trinidad and Tobago)

jam session

I've always wanted to learn to can and preserve the fresh fruits and vegies we grow in our garden, since we never quite seem to consume them all in a season. This year I was determined to give it a try ... and by "give it a try" I mean attempt to preserve everything I can possibly think of putting in a jar. (I admit I tend to go all in with new projects.) The only hold up -- nothing in our garden had ripened enough to pick. Late summer heat got our vegies off to a slow start. So, I decided to first do a little homework and learn the process. After borrowing a recipe book from a neighbor, I checked out some references on processing at my local library (some great tips can be found in Canning and Preserving for Dummies).  The same generous neighbor gave us bags full of fresh plums and my in-laws contributed several tubs of fresh blackberries. So with some brand spankin new jars in hand and every large pot and mixing bowl I own spread over my stove and countertops, I was ready to make jam happen.

The process was simple, but required quite a bit of prepping the materials and a strictly ordered process. The end result -- a beautiful and delicious few batches that we can enjoy in the cold winter months... and (better yet) can give away to those we love!  Next I think I'll try making pickles. Time to design some appropriately adorable jam labels.

Jars washed and ready to go

New rings and lids

 

Crushing berries 1 cup at a time

Jars and lids hanging out in the spa, waiting to be filled

 

Sweet blackberry deliciousness

 

Jar filling (I really need a funnel and a smaller ladle!)

Cleaned up jars go into the boiling basket for heat sealing

 

Round 2: Plummy goodness 

 

Finished jams cooling... can't wait to taste test! 

sweet sweet summer

The busyness of summer has kept me from blogging in far too long!  Time to catch up...  My mother and brother stayed with us for a much anticipated, but too-short visit in July. While here, I persuaded her to demonstrate making a strawberry rhubarb crisp. I mentioned that mine always comes out a little too dry, so she gave me her trade secret to a perfect batch. (We can both thank my Nana Marguerite for creating the original recipe.) I'll reveal that the secret really is in the sauce!  

We shared the final baked dish with my in-laws and everyone loved the result.  Delicious!  

Odessa rhubarb and Tacoma strawberries were a match made in heaven

Glazing between layers = flavor booster!

The crumbles are just the right consistency

Mom, proving that the best desserts are made with love

who let the dogs out?

Me!  Part of my job entails unpacking artifacts and specimens for museum exhibitions, and then examining and documenting their condition.  This week, I got up close and personal with some fearsome furry characters -- North American wolves.

Great Plains Wolf

In June, these wolves make their local debut on exhibit at the Burke Museum. Wolves and Wild Lands in the 21^st Century examines the coexistence of wolves and humans in North America, an increasingly controversial and fascinating subject.  

Ow ow ow owoooo!

Mexican Wolf

in memoriam

Today I attended a memorial for a colleague's father. I hadn't known him personally, but knew of his generous life. Several colleagues and friends spoke about his many lifelong passions and ever-giving spirit. I was moved by their love for this man and his family. An old friend reflected on his ability to treat each person as if he or she were the most important person on earth, the way he genuinely engaged with people and remembered details, even minute details, about their lives. She likened the quality of his character with a poem by Rudyard Kipling.

If
If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too; 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, 
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son! 

from russia with love

Over the past month, my mother and I have been researching our family tree. While some branches of the tree have been downright confounding, I've traced one of my grandfather's branches back to 1370 in Stettin, Germany (modern day Szczecin, Poland). 

One question has popped up a few times: Why are so many of our relatives from Russia, when we consider ourselves Germans?  The answer: they were ethnic Germans living in Russia as homesteaders.  Aha!

 Catherine the Great

So I learned a little history about my ancestors: At the invitation of Catherine the Great, a German native who assumed the Russian throne after her husband Peter's death, many Germans moved to the Volga region of Russia.  These immigrants were invited to farm Russian land, but were allowed to maintain their ethnic identity and cultural traditions.  A majority of my relatives settled near the village of Frank.  Images of this village brought tears to my eyes -- the similarities between Frank and the community where they settled in the US (and where I grew up) where startling.  Thankfully, most of them appear to have left the Volga region for the States prior to the atrocities experienced in that region in the early 20th Century. 

Digging into my family history has proven more tedious and occasionally frustrating than I imagined -- why are there so many Conrads and Katharines? -- but the experience has been incredibly rewarding.  It's really more than just digging into the past -- it's about exploring my own identity.  These relatives, most of whom I've never even heard of, suddenly mean more to me than faceless names and dates in an online database.  They are my people. Getting to know them, even so impersonally, is a supreme privilege.  I am grateful that because of them, I exist.  So thanks, all of you.

the phrase that pays

Often I find there are phrases that define my day.  They so perfectly capture the unusual and interesting moments.  I generally don’t see them coming – a coworker, friend or spouse will spit out the perfect comic zinger, raise just the right question, or a size up a moment in a way that gets to the heart of the matter.  However they happen, they delight me.

Here are the phrases that defined this week.

Sunday:  I think Pat is stalking us. 

Monday:  Q: How do we create an intimate learning environment for this bird exhibit? 
A: Hey big boy, wanna see my woodpecker?

Tuesday: That outfit is sort of Mardi Gras meets Where the Wild Things Are.

Wednesday: Well, how many snakes would fit in the basket?

Thursday: The doctor lied! He’s really a Canadian!

Friday: We should all get down, down and dirty for the community.

Saturday: Go Sentinel baseball!

the amiables

I show my emotions.
I am a good team player.
I am adept at integrating conflicting opinions into a synthesis that all parties can support.
I am willing to do the unglamorous, out-of-the-limelight work.
I am very friendly in a low key way.

These are traits I learned apply to me – an amiable. Our staff engaged in a behavior styles workshop today with the goal of understanding our own uniqueness, to thereby understand and communicate better with those around us.  (This is the part where my inner cynic wants to insert the proverbial finger and gag.) 

I have taken these communication-style trainings before: the Myers Briggs assessment, the “what color am I” assessment, and various others.  Generally I feel that my category changes depending on my mood and my willingness to be honest.  I assign value judgments to my outcomes, generally negative ones.  Being an INFJ just doesn't feel like a good thing to be. 

I have to admit, today was a surprise.  Looking at the relatively short list of questions, I assumed this survey would stereotype or misrepresent the real me.  But it was spot on. Scarily spot on. I am an Amiable. This means I am diplomatic, empathetic, and a good conciliator.  I respect processes and like structured situations. This also means I avoid conflict to keep the peace, may be guarded when asked for my opinion, and can be indecisive.  But all in all, I feel the good outweigh the negative.  I am assigning this a positive value judgment. Booyah!

What surprised me most were my coworkers.  For weeks, many of them presented an overwhelming lack of onboard-edness.  They were skeptical just anticipating all the touchy-feely situations, having the spotlight cast on their personal needs, or at the very least, the non-efficiency these group activities inevitably produce (you know, the "this is a complete waste of time and I have waaay better things to do" naysayers).  What surprised me was all the laughter, the sharing between people who ordinarily have minimal interaction, and the “I know, me too!” exclamations overheard round the room.  Perhaps it was the funny, but approachable facilitator or perhaps it was the cookies.  Whatever it was that sparked us, the group seemed to buy in to the exercise.  At least most of us.  Certainly all the amiables.

Participating in this exercise has infused me with a ridiculous sense of all-knowing.  I looked at the other groups and thought, “oh yeah, she is a Driver,” or “he is definitely an Analytical.” I thought about my friends and family and assigned categories to them all, even the pets.  In our respective behavioral groups the similarities became clearer.  My group really did share a low key friendliness that I found quite comfortable. I hate to admit it, but we selected for our group logo a ying yang with two smiley faces (where is that proverbial finger now?).  And I heard from across the room: “look at that group of amiables. They really are the nicest people at the museum.”  Silly as it may be, I took this as a badge of merit.  I’ve decided it’s not a bad thing to be nice.  The world could do with a little more niceness all around.

blue gold

“The flesh is strong, my spirit's stronger” – Indigo Girls

On my desk today were two chunks of solid indigo dye.

The dye was recently on display in the Weaving Heritage exhibit at the Burke Museum as an example of organic material used to dye textiles. The exhibit featured masterpieces from the museum’s permanent collection, giving visitors a rare opportunity to view incredible textiles from  Indonesia, Micronesia, Japan, Mexico, Guatemala, China, Tibet, the Philippines, Southeast Asia, Bolivia, Peru, Chile, Ecuador, and Native American tribes (Salish, Tlingit, Haida, Navajo and Hopi).

Indigo is one of the oldest dyes used for coloring textiles and has been used since the time of ancient civilizations around the world.  I’ve been pondering the notion that people thousands of years ago in ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, India, Greece, and across Europe, Asia and Africa used similar materials to produce deep vivid blues.  These blue chunks are a reminder of a centuries-ago past, when indigo was a vital part of international commerce and cultural heritage. Long before synthetic dyes were created to color our blue jeans, indigo chunks like these impacted the entire known world and were an incredibly valuable commodity – a true luxury item known as ‘blue gold.’

Over the last few months, this indigo was enjoyed from behind Plexiglas by thousands of visitors to the museum, and enjoyed by 20 or so looky-loos who stopped by my office today to check them out with an unobstructed view.  I’ve certainly enjoyed having these fragile blue nuggets around and thinking about their legacy, but now my job is to pack them safely for travel.  I added a little ethafoam and acid-free tissue for support, stabilized them with cotton twill tape, packed inside a polypropylene bag within a padded shipping box, and voila! – they are ready for their next adventure.  Bon voyage, indigo! 

signs of spring

Can February March?
No, but April May. 

Although we're still 21 days away, signs of Spring are everywhere this morning: my husband packing his baseball coaching gear for the first day of team tryouts, my car already defrosted by the morning sun, and these lovely purple crocuses peeking out of the snow cover. As much as I enjoy the snowy months, I am ready for a new season to arrive and stay awhile. There's just something so rejuvenating about the very idea of Spring. 

sheer madness

Today my baby goes to the groomer. This is always a special day in our household, since our cocker spaniel, Rocket, LOVES riding in the car. Usually when we arrive at the grooming salon he proves his status as the ladies man and makes fast friends with the salon ladies, but today a crowd of dogs and hurried owners had him a little skittish. My favorite part of this experience is that we leave behind a fluffy little sheepdog and bring home a prancy palomino/show dog.

The before:

When we picked him up the skittishness was gone and, in true form, he was prancing around the salon like the little prince he is. Being the last appointment of the day has it's privileges. 

The after (pic snapped on a rare pause during toy monkey grooming):

slow saturday soup

A hungry traveler stops at a monastery and is taken to the kitchens. A brother is frying chips. 'Are you the friar?' he asks. 'No. I'm the chip monk,' he replies.

Wa wa wa waaa.

If you visit my kitchen, you'll probably be subjected to one of my corny jokes.  Laughter is the spice of life, right?, so silly jokes are the spice of my cooking.

Today is cold, snowy and perfect for staying in.  It's also perfect for a warm pot of soup.

I have a mild obsession with my slow cookers (yes, I have 2). Slow cooking is the ideal way to maximize my energy to prep in the morning, then forget about it until dinner time. Plus, I LOVE the smell of simmering flavors filling up my house.

On today's menu: a variation of Zesty Burger Soup nabbed at A Year of Slow Cooking.

It falls into my favorite soup category: Raid the Pantry Soup. On days when I just don't know what to make I start raiding the pantry and online recipe sites for ideas. This is what I came up with.

This is a hearty, colorful and hopefully zippy little soup that's a cross between my Taco Soup and a Chili.

My Ingredients: 
1 pound ground beef (lean), browned and drained
2 cans (10.5oz) diced tomatoes with onion, celery & bell pepper
1 can (15oz) black beans, drained
1 bag frozen sweet corn
4 cups beef broth
Seasonings to taste
Shredded mexican cheeses (for topping)
Crusty bread (for dipping)

Prepping It: 
Warm the slow cooker on low. I've read that you should never throw hot ingredients into a ceramic crock, so when working with hot and fresh ingredients, I always plug in the crock first and then prep my ingredients.

I seasoned the beef with salt, black pepper, onion powder and chili powder.  (Ground turkey and fresh onion would be nice alternatives.)  Then I browned, drained and added the beef to the slow cooker.  I dropped in the canned ingredients and corn (you could use canned or fresh corn, but I happened to have frozen on hand). I topped it off with the beef broth and gave it all a quick stir. 

Next is my favorite step: the taste! The original recipe called for diced tomatoes with chilis, but since I was raiding the pantry today, my diced tomatoes had a little less kick.  In the last hour of cooking I added some onion and garlic powder and a little chili powder to intensify the flavors.  I gave my bottle of Frank's Red Hot a long look, but thought better of it.  A flavorful alternative would have been my personal taco seasoning mix (it's fabulous, if I do say so...), but I wanted to embrace the original recipe a bit more.  I like to add my seasonings closer to the end of the cooking time (within the last 30-60 mins), since slow cooking can 'cook out' the intensity of fresh herbs and spices. I covered and simmered for 6 hours on low heat.  Once ready, I topped each bowl with a little shredded Mexican cheese with a sidekick of crusty bread. I asked my husband to bring home a baguette and he found this little cheesy pull-apart jewel instead. Hummunah.....

The Verdict:
We enjoyed the sweet mild flavor of this soup. I received a "heck yeah" when I asked my husband if he'd eat it again.  Two thumbs up.