lady cordelia

it's this that I feel

Weekends for us are the opposite of what they are for most.  My husband works at home during the week in his upstairs office.  He is usually gone (out of town) for work on the weekends. 

I don't mind single-parenting the weekends. When it comes down to it, I would rather be just hanging out at home with the girls than anywhere else in the world. If I could, if it made sense for us, I would love to have another baby or two.  Since that is not an option for us, I treasure every moment with the two beautiful children I have.  I remind myself that they get more private time with me because there is no one else they have to share it with.  I read to them, one under each arm. I watch as they get closer and closer with eachother.  They deeply connect with a bond I will never truly understand.  I am an only child.

People assume it's nice for me to have the girls at "this" stage.  They are a little older now and so I can start doing my "own" things again. 

I don't know what my own thing is anymore.   I write songs with my girls in the same room. I garden with them by my side.  They help me clean up their rooms.  My own identity is wrapped up in being a mother to them. Maybe this will bite me in the ass at some point.  You know, someday I'll have the "kids are grown" crisis.  Fine.  I'll deal with it then. 

To give myself credit: I am doing the music career thing a little more these days.  Once I'm actually up on the stage with my guitar and singing, I do love it and it does feel very homey.  But, let's be honest, it's not a "career" anymore because I just don't have the same energy or time for the business end of it.  I wonder if I should be a little more aggressive about it.  And I know that I can't.  Some part of me still waits for something amazing to "just happen" with the music.  I've had good breaks before.   Why not now?  

Anyway, look, this is me: I'm in the yard.  My girls swing and run and skin their knees. We hold onto eachother in the breeze with the birds and the trees.  Some song that I love (maybe Rufus Wainright's "I Don't Know What It Is") floats from the Ipod.  And I'm all smiles.  In the hammock, perhaps.  Or watering the garden.  Filling up the duck pond.  Clearing spiders from the playhouse.  Oh my, oh my I am brilliant at this. 

 

 

 

this moment

A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, wonderful moment.  One that expresses a special feeling, time, or place. (A tradition inspired by Soulemama.)

around the farm

 

Alas, I am simply one more woman blogging about homemade bread and fresh picked berries.  It's nearly embassasing.  But, c'est la vie.  It's also delicious.

I'm a harworking farmer who installed a wire fence.   This took all of 10 minutes.  It may take another farmer 15 minutes, and a fast-working farmer only 4 minutes.  I consider myself an average farmer. 

I am allowed to go into the deserted yard next door and take any "trash" that I may be interested in. (The family, who is taking over the ramshackle house for their ill grandmother allows me to do this.)  So, once in a while I wander around the overgorwn yard and spy things I didn't see before.  Mostly I didn't see them before because they are covered in dirt, muck and cobwebs.  My eyes are getting better educated in finding objects that are camoflouged in this way.  Do you like this wonderful bird-feeder?  My husband thinks it's slightly ridulous.  It's pure heaven to me. 

How about my lovely potted veggie garden and ceramic pot assortment.  Ridiculous?  Humff.  I think not.

Chard and lettuce anyone? Onions?  This is how to make space work for you when you don't have many acres.  This is the backside of our house that really has not much else going on except an ugly driveway.

Going inside for a moment, I got this lovely framed landscape print from the 40's or 50's at an antique store this morning.  It was very well priced and then %25 off.  Husband has not noticed it yet and that is why I am still alive and breathing.

And this is me, back outside again, showing you how much I enjoy being at home. 

I'm going to water my tomatoes and zucchini and blackberries now.  I also have to check on a chicken who had an egg break inside her.  This is not good news and I am far from happy about it.  I have not had the nerve or heart to "probe" her internally for the remnants with lubricant and a latex glove as my vet suggested.  My husband says being able to do such a thing is "Farming 101."   This comment hurt.  But, I don't want to make a mistake and cause the poor hen more pain.  We will see how she is doing tomorrow. 

As a last thought: you do all know I love my husband, right?  He's a real sweetheart. I like to make him out to sound a little bit mean sometimes just for fun.  Why not?  I have to add some interesting perspective to homemadebread and chickens. 

Play

Amongst all the handmade bread baking, the gardening, the knitting, the organic shopping, the vintage thrifting and the farming...there is this...

The plastic and fully physically disproportionate Barbies, Snow Whites, Cinderellas and so forth. 

I don't know how this happened.  I wasn't into these things as a child.  And once in a while I get a comment from a friend or aquaintance such as this: "My daughter never played with princessy things.  And I'm so glad for it."

Well.  So be it.   I know plastic is "out".  And the Disney stories are a bunch of crap.  And barbies don't look like real women look.  I know that.  But my little girls like to play with their Barbies (and Snow Whites and Cinderellas. )  About 90% of them were found at the local thrift store and despite what you see in the above photo, there is good cultural diversity in the lot of them - and possibly even sexual diversity, with the recent addition of a Ken doll in a snappy light pink golfing outfit.  I totally love that my three-year-old picked out the effeminate Ken doll.  I felt proud.  (Though she said his name is not Ken, it's Joe.)  

There is a book called "Playful Parenting" by Lawrence J. Cohen that some of you have probobly read or heard of.  From the title, you can certainly get the jist of the book.  In a nutshell: in today's society, many parents don't slow down enough to get on the floor and play the games that their kids want to play.  He finds "play" to be the best therapy, connection enhancer and all around medicine for children.  Why? because children are naturals at playing.   It's the world they thrive in and understand. 

 The author shares his pure hatred of playing "Barbies" with his little girl.  But, despite his judgement, he got down on the floor and played Barbies.  And he always ended up having a pretty good time.  He found he could express his ideas about things, things he felt were important to teach to his daughter, through the Barbie play instead of in spite of it. 

I have gone through periods of really just not wanting to play Barbies (or the like) with my girls.   But the pain that I always feel afterwards from not getting down on their level and playing what they wanted to play...well...that taught me something.  Let me put it this way: I've never once felt  I "wasted time" by playing with my kids.  But I have most certainly wasted time doing a lot of other things that I thought, at the moment, might be more important.

So.  We play Barbies. I get down on the floor and pick up the ugliest, oldest and most thrashed Barbie and I make her say things like "Ohhhh, I feel sooo gosh darn beautiful, even though my dress is outdated and I'm having the worst bad hair day ever!"  And I make her dance and sing and fly.   

I've come to believe that it's how we play with our children.  Not exacly what we play with them.   See, I would never want to steer my girls away from their passions.  No way.  I'd much rather be invited inside them.  Even if the passion is Malibu Barbie.  And especially if it's Ken the golfer in a pink cap.  (I mean Joe.)   Point is, mama is here for all of it.  And I'll be saving all the Barbies for my grandkids.  I wouldn't want them to miss out on this much fun. 

 

 

 

Big Love

Often I find, I do not want these times to pass.  The times of little toes. I try to find comfort in the fact that it happens for all: little feet get bigger.  I remember measuring their newborn feet along the side of my hand.  Trying to take in the moment as both fully real and suddenly passing. 

Many people say teenage years are terrible.  But I have a friend with several teenagers (who I've known since thier birth.)  These kids are amazing, happy, funny, comfortable, creative, dedicated, bright, polite, responsible.  My friend does not miss them being little.  In fact, she finds the teenage years the sweetest yet.  I love this.

They will always be my daughters.  I will always have carried them in my belly and carried them in my arms.  And I can always hold their hands no matter how old we all become.

C. is five now.  She has been taking a pottery class up the street for over a year.  Now look what she can do:

And last night she figured out how to make a crown for a stuffed animal with paper, scissors, glue and wire.  It takes my breath away as I watch this little five-year-old color her world with creativity and joy.  And am reminded that every year, every stage is incredible. 

Still.  On some nights, I awaken out of my sleep with a shudder.  A shadow of fear overtakes me:  the fragility of life.   I reach out for something to soothe me, comfort me, realizing quickly, there is nothing of substance.  Nothing is certain.  Nothing is clear.  Only my love for them. 

Only my love for them.  That is what I fall back on in the dark of the night.  And that, thank goodness, is what saves me.

this moment

A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, wonderful moment. A moment that expresses a special feeling, time, or place. (A tradition inspired by Soulemama.)

 


(photo courtesy of Uncle Jimmy)

into the blue

I am so happy that weird little storm has cleared.  Enough odd weather.  I'm ready for what the corner into Summer should be: Warm. Clear.  When I wake up and the sun is up, there is more energy to be had and I can face my list of things that need doing.  Firstly, blogging: the art of logging onto the world wide web my thoughts and feelings.  Why?  Why the hell not.  It's a neat fad.  It's weird.  It's cool.  It's my year anniversary or thereabouts.

So....

Every morning the husband and I trade off "sleeping in." This is a luxury of being self-employeed.  (If you would like to see the massively less luxuriouious part, take a look at our bank account.) And the new early morning duty, along with feeding small cute humans, is to let the big, fat duckies out so that they can wraddle (when waddling is very fast paced) to their pool. 

There is truly nothing sweeter than seeing white (and one black) farm ducks on one's own 1/4 acre farm.  These cuties are so shy and sweet and completley tend to their own business.  The chickens are obnoxious, although somewhat wonderfully so.  Still, because they act like they own the yard (and the universe), they don't get to come out and play til later in the afternoon. 

Ok.  Now how's this for a nice little thing: I heard hubby talking to his mom on the phone last night.  He said: "And guess what! Cory is making handmade bread....I know it's amazing, right?...Yeah she's made several loves of oatmeal wheat ....and bagels too!.....I know, amazing right?" (Ok. Is it THAT amazing?  I mean, was I really such a loser before I could make bread?)   Then hubby went on to say: "It's just so awesome to sit down to breakfast with homemade bread and eggs from our own chickens."

Bingo. On hearing that I knew I had truly achieved a personal goal.  Because I made us get chickens.  I made us get ducks.  I made bread.  I love this!  I am making progress on my dream of self-suffiencency and not only that; my family is truly appreicating it!

I still want to: make my own yogurt + granola + knit a shawl (anyone out there have a great shawl pattern?). I also want to finish the pink mermaid quilt I am making for my older daughter (and start it as well.)

But first things first: today I am going to make cinnamon rolls.  What a lovely thing, no?

Gosh.  Sometimes I just get so exicted about everything.  I think I'll have another cup of coffee.

 

 

seriously bitten by the Baking Bug

Well darn it.  This happened to me when I started to knit.  It's like breaking out in hives.  But in a good way.  It's sudden.  All encompassing.

I went from bread machine to handmade bread to bagels in about 72 hours. This time from another book soulemama recommended "Artisan Breads Everyday."  I found it at the local library and I was SOOOOOO HAPPY.  I mean truly very happy in that excited and satisfied way.  I asked the librarian what would happen if I did not return the book.  How much would I be charged?  Because I knew soon there would be dough all over it.  And there is.  And it is good. 

I have truly loved just being here at home these last days with no "plans."  No trips out of town, no shows or rehearsals.  A messy house.  Fresh baked breads abound (some are artisan, even), and not only THAT, but I picked up my knitting project again and actually got the first cable row finished! This is the hat that sat looking at me for two weeks wondering if I would ever get on youtube and learn how to cable.

If you do not like cables or bagels, perhaps this is not the best entry for you.  I promise soon I will move onto the ducks or garden or something not requiring flour.   In the meantime....next is cinnamon buns.  If you want to gain weight quickly, come on over.

 

 

I baked homemade bread. Yes. ME.

The breadmaker my friend lent me did not win us over with its results.  Even though it is a top-of-the-liner bread maker.  And so, I stepped forth, treading with trepidation, into the flour-y world of handmade bread making.

I often look to soulemama's blog when I want advice on such things as, say,  breadmaking.  And so soon, on Amanda's advice, I was asking my mother who was on her way to visit, to please stop at her local bookstore for the Tassajara Bread Book. (Why did I not get the book myself?  Perhaps you should ask my town why it has no "new" bookstore, only a wonderful used store which never has exactly what I need.  If it is because of that whole "Kindle" thing, then I'm really depressed.)

Anyway: Let me be brief and to the point, shall I? (Because we both know that there are children who need something and are impatiently waiting for me to write and you to read.)

I made Oatmeal bread.  It took many hours.  I pulled it off. 

And not only that, my friends:  I made a ragu pasta.  And if you remember my breakdown exactly one week ago today,  you would truly see how wonderful this news is. 

Of course, neither kid was hungry tonight-which made me very irritated.  After all, I did slave all day to show them I could be a mother who cooked for them.    Children can be truly abominably rude without at all meaning to be- if you know what I mean.  C'est la vie.

Husband will appreciate this meal after he gets home. At least I have that going for me.

The cupcakes?  A friend brought them over.  Is this the carb meal from hell or what?  Pasta, home cooked bread and cupcakes.  And wine.  My goodness people, don't forget the wine.  You will notice my glass is empty.  Cooking is not for the faint of heart.

 

 

 

 

this moment

A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, wonderful moment. A moment that expresses a special feeling, time, or place. (A tradition inspired by Soulemama.)

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Morning Face Squeeze with My Old Buddy.  This baby was with me when I only was dreaming of meeting a great man and having a family.  (photo courtesy of the 'great man'.)