Kindness

One of my favorite blogs is Kind over Matter, which is like a daily dose of feel good moments. When The Modern Gal and I were talking about it sometimes feels like the world is going to hell in a jerky-mean-asshole of a handbasket, it's the kindness of the things like the card drops on that Website that make me feel better.

This video exemplifies so much of the philosophy that I love and I wish we, as a society, embraced more often.

Pour Kind Over Matter from Kind Over Matter on Vimeo.

Peace.

In which I eat scallops and die happy

Every since I came back from Hawaii I've been fighting a losing battle with a newly developed food craving for scallops.

SCALLOPS, y'all. Yes. Scallops.

Not, like, coconut. Or chocolate, or fresh fruit, or any of the normal things people crave. Me? I want scallops. (For the record the last Great Noodles Food Craving was kale. But leafy greens don't have the staying power that the NECTAR OF THE SEA DOES.)

Specifically I want sea scallops finely seared with a bit of clarified butter, Tabasco sauce, and salt and pepper to taste. (Also: scallops? BAH. Crappy. Knock. Off. Food.)

And no, I'm not pregnant. I'm just a Maryland girl at heart with seafood running through my veins. If anything, I blame genetics.

So on that note, off to go sear me some dinner. Y-U-M.


P.S. Of course, one of the many problems with this new addiction of mine, aside from its apparent weirdness, is the fact that sea scallops are effing expensive. At Whole Foods, a pound will run you $19.99. I know, I know, it's Whole Foods. But they're SO DAMN GOOD. I'm currently plowing my way through a pack of frozen sea scallops from Trader Joe's that I bought for the lovely price of $12.99. SCALLLLLLLOOPS.

P.P. S. What are you craving lately?

Being a grownup. And puppies.

In light of great recent conversations with The Modern Gal...
And the fact that I didn't win last year's Real Simple Life Lessons essay contest...
Which means I can now publish this little not-winning essay entry of mine...
And because with every passing day I'm increasingly convinced that maybe, just maybe, my life is one that's meant to be filled with fur babies instead of not real ones...
Which is totally fine and dandy, despite what society says... (For a great post on that, click here)
And because there hasn't been a post about the Mutt Princess in a while ...

I give you last year's essay for Real Simple on the topic of when I knew I was finally a grownup. Feel free to add your own "eureka" moment below. (With apologies to my mom, who made me promise I'd never write about her on the blog.)

___
My parents preferred a purebred. My heart was set on a mutt.

It was a few weeks after my 24th birthday and I was still unpacking boxes from my recent move to Indianapolis _ a new and thoroughly Midwestern place where I could hear the roar of the engines at Speedway if the wind blew just right. This was corn country, far from my East Coast roots and the lush mountains of Tennessee where I’d spent the past three years soaking up southern culture (and some moonshine) as a newspaper reporter.

I’d moved to Tennessee right after college, loading my little Civic with whatever it would hold and renting a furnished apartment in a falling-down Victorian house from an elderly man who recited Bible verses and made me promise not to let men stay the night. I didn’t intend to stay longer than six months. But I fell in love with the place and the people, and somewhere along the way it became home.

When the offer came for a bigger and better job hundreds of miles north, I knew turning it down wasn’t an option. But after three years, uprooting my life seemed almost unimaginable.

In Indianapolis I had a house to call my own. Two whole bedrooms _ and a fenced-in yard _ that I could decorate however I wanted. But new places can be impenetrable when you’re young and unattached and unconnected to the community. My office was small and my coworkers were older. I didn’t have any friends there or know where to find new ones.

I was alone, and bored, and 100 percent homesick for the life I’d left behind. So, I did what any girl would do. I decided to get a dog.

At the office, I alt-tabbed my way through Petfinder.com. I wanted a small female dog _ not small enough to ride daintily in a purse, but small enough to comfortably sit shotgun in my aging car.

My parents always had purebreds. First, it was an English foxhound who, according to family lore, anchored herself firmly underneath my crib and let out a headache-inducing howl the second I began to whimper. (Bonus: no baby monitor for me.) Later, it was a small, scruffy border terrier whose breed was selected through a multiple choice questionnaire devised by my mathematician mother. I wasn’t convinced one way or another what breed of dog was right for me. But I knew there were dogs that needed a home. And I was ready to open mine to one who did.

She was honey yellow, with a curly tail and mismatched ears, and her name at the time was Sasha. She was a puppy, but housebroken. She could fetch. And, when I first saw her at the pound, she snuggled on my lap like it was the softest pillow ever.

It was love at first sight. My heart melted. I named her Macy Mae, loaded her into my car and headed home to begin life as a team.

Twenty-four hours later, I knew something was wrong. My new sidekick wasn’t eating and couldn’t keep food down. By the next morning, she wobbled when she walked. I held her in my arms when the vet told me the bad news. She had parvo, a usually fatal intestinal virus. By that point she was too sick to even stand.

If Macy could survive _ a big if _ getting her healthy would be expensive and cost far more money that I had, especially after such a big move. They told me to consider putting her down.
I knew a dog was a responsibility _ financial and otherwise. But I wasn’t prepared to pay $2,000 for a furry little critter who stumbled into my life two days before. I was sobbing by this point, as I held her and looked into her big, brown eyes. I did the math, said a prayer, and gave them my credit card.

I was her only chance. And in a way, she’d turn out to be mine.

The fight that followed with my family was one I’m not sure I’ll never forget.

“You should have gotten a purebred,” my well-meaning mother said on the telephone a time zone away. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone to a breeder.”

That was when I hung up the phone. I probably blamed the dropped call on a bad connection. But I was angry. Furious. How could she think that? I loved this dog. She was my responsibility.
More than that, she was MINE. And I wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

It’s strange how some moments _ milliseconds, really _ completely change who you are.

Somewhere that day my reality shifted from being a girl alone in a strange place, who still asked her parents for permission, to being an independent woman who was firmly in control. Through my tears, I realized I was the one in charge of my life. I didn’t need an OK from my mother or my father. Or their validation. I just needed me.

Some people say they don’t feel grownup until they buy a house, get a 401(k), grieve the loss of a parent, or hold their newborns for the first time. For me, my first twinge of adulthood came that first time I realized that I was responsible for a something that depended totally on me, even if that something was a funny –looking pound puppy who most likely wouldn’t survive the night.

One week later, I brought her home. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, Macy’s ribs traced an outline through her fur. She still wasn’t healthy, but she’d eventually recover. My credit card balance never did.

Four years (and three rounds of yet-to-be-successful obedience training later), Macy and I are still a team. She may be genetically incapable of learning to stay, but she’s still managed to teach me a lot. She’s licked away tears cried over breakups and shown me that there’s such a thing as unconditional love. She’s taught me pet people are, for the most part, kind and generous; that dog parks are great ways to make friends in a new city; and any bar that lets you drink a pint with a furry friend in tow is going to be, unquestionably, fabulous. She’s taught me that the world feels like a better place after a game of fetch; that there’s beauty, even at 5:30 a.m., walking through snow drifts with a dog by your side. There’s bigger things too, about how you can surprise yourself with strength you never knew you had; that learning to be comfortable with who you is never easy and never quick, and that being a grownup means putting others first.

She's a constant reminder that someone’s pedigree isn’t what matters; it’s who they are today that counts.

As an adult, profound moments come when you least expect them. Mine just happened to come with a cold wet nose, a curlicue tail, and lopsided ears.

Wedding Quilt. A Tour.

One month shy of the Emily Post wedding gift limit, I was finally able to send off Currer Bell's wedding quilt. I've written about the super-slow progress on the project before. It kept getting sidelined by baby quilts and other assorted projects that I could power through. In this one, though, there was no powering. It was just lots of work all the way through.

But I'm so, SO glad I did. I think it looks great and I really like the totally different double sides of it. They have such alternate vibes, but yet they fit together. A fitting metaphor for a marriage, no? (Note to self: existential thoughts about quilts and quilt design makes you STRANGE.)

Anyway, because I am a strings-attached friend, I made Currer and her man, Hot Pants, send me pictures of the quilt once they'd received it. And they totally delivered.

To start with, I should note that the theme of the quilt was birds. They used a bird theme prominently in their wedding decor, and I wanted to use this awesome Alexander Henry "starling" fabric as the centerpiece of my blocks.


From there, I modified this pattern by Oh, Franson and built four concentric color-themed squares (with four different fabrics per square) around the piece of the Starling fabric. (Incidentally, this quilt pattern is where I learned about the Starling design.)

From there, I added white sashing (borders for you non-sewer types.) And the front winds up looking like this.


Here's another view:


The back is totally different. It's a scrappy Urban Amish quilt, a pattern designed by the always awesome ladies at Quiltology.


Next I added two borders _ one white and one in this kelly green fabric by Denyse Schmidt.



The quilting is done in a kelly green stipple pattern and I did the binding in something that for the life of me I cannot remember. What I do remember is sitting in a rocking chair in the back of our unairconditioned church sanctuary with the quilt in my lap working on the binding during a service. And loving every sweaty minute of it.

The quilt winds up be a solid snuggling size for one person, or two people who just want a light blanket. Here's Currer Bell holding it up.

Front:



Back:


Crazy view:


Woot!

Hawaii Pictures. Part III.

.
Sunset over Hanalei Bay.

Wise words

"You drown not by falling into a river, but by staying submerged in it."

As tweeted today by Paulo Coelho.

Quilted baby goodness.

Or maybe it should be baby quilted goodness? Either way, behold this gender-neutral baby quilt I made for my friend Sara and her little boy Ben. (Who, at the time, we did not know was a boy.)

I don't know who's cuter! The quilt, the kid or the onesie (which is a gift from my awesome friend Emily.)


Here's a look at the front of the quilt, sans baby.



And the back:


The quilt is less scrappy than my usual ones, although I made it entirely out of stuff already in my stash. Also, it's the second-ever quilt I quilted by myself. Hell to the yeah.

Hawaii Pictures. Part II.

I'm sure you're SO excited to see more of my Hawaii photos -- none of these are super impressive, but are all little snippets of what it was like to be on the island. In case you want more eye candy, Part I can be found here. Hoping to finish editing the massive collection this week!


Sign for a sort-of hidden beach off the beaten path.


This is what the beach looked like when you got there.


On Kauai, the Kilauea Lighthouse is famous. It's the most northern part of the state's most northern island.


Isn't the sky amazing? Speaking of amazing sky (or really, an amazing shade of blue) check out the color of the water here.


On my last day, I tooled around and saw a small sign pointing me in the direction of the oldest Catholic church on Kauai. St. Raphael was founded in 1841 and since I'm a sucker for churches, I stopped to take a bunch of pictures.


There were great icons and statues inside.


And there was also a great little cemetery nearby. Yes, I did type the phrase "great little cementery." What of it?


On Kauai, everyone said "mahalo" instead of thank you. This was possibly my favorite use of "mahalo" in print.


One of the places I wanted to visit was Lumahai Beach on Kauai's north shore. It's where they filmed part of South Pacific ("I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair!") It's a hike to reach the beach, and it's also one of the islands most dangerous in the winter time. That's because the steeply sloping sand create a strong undertow and the waves crash right on the shore. You actually have to hike down a pretty steep dirt trail to reach the beach and along the way, there's all sorts of signs to reminds you that you're about to risk life and limb. At least three of the six signs ended with "you could be swept out and drown." Noted, Kauai. Noted.


But Lumahai is actually pretty awesome in the summer time when the waves are gentle. We saw an amazing beach wedding take place on the sand. It was just the bride, the groom, and officiant, a photographer and a guitar player. No guests. No family. No ridiculous party full of details no one will remember, but that probably overshadowed the point of the wedding -- you know, to be MARRIED. It was, quite honestly, one of those moments that restored my faith in people. It was a ceremony that was just about the two people and not about what other people thought or what other people wanted. Somehow, the bride hiked down the path in her dress. When she got to sand, she tossed off her shoes.


And last but not least, this is a picture of the sidewalk at the Kauai Coffee Company. With more than 3,100 acres, it's the country's largest coffee plantation. And note, to travelers: unlimited. free. samples.


And last but not least, a bird of paradise flower.

In which I make things.

Because I am a dumbass, I forgot to take pictures of this project while I was working on it. But sometimes, there's something even better than a picture of a finished sewing project on a hanger. What is it? A finished sewing project on a person!

Meet my friend Emily. Or should I say, Rev. Emily.

That's her at her ordination service late last month. And that lovely green number she's wearing around her neck? That's the stole I made for her as an ordination present. Green happens to be her favorite color and it's also the liturgical color for ordinary time, which is a hefty chunk of the liturgical year. (Non church geeks click here to find out what the hell I'm talking about.)

Anyhoodles, since I love Emily and she is 800 percent fabulous, I knew I wanted to make a stole for her big day. I didn't use a pattern, but if I make another one, I'll tweak it a bit so it wasn't so wide. The hardest part was getting the stole to lay flat along the back, so I borrowed a bunch of stoles from my pastor friend and tried to figure out what worked best. (BTW, I have a lot of minister friends. And seminary friends. And yet I have the world's foulest mouth. They love me anyway, because that's the kind of people they are.)

Here's a strangely cropped picture showing Em serving communion to her hubby. Note the pretty back of the stole. Say it with me: Ooooh. Pretty.


And here's an even more strangely cropped picture showing the full stole. It's a little rigid because I put interfacing on both sides, but I hope once it gets a few washings that it softens up a bit.

Even though I forgot to take pictures of the project (and here's where I should give a shoutout to Emily for letting me use her pictures of the blog, since I am a horrible friend and missed the whole service because I was drinking mai tai's on the beach in Hawaii), I had a ton of fun making it. It actually was a pretty simple project and I love the idea of making something for clergy who aren't into the standard stoles that are a) heavily brocaded and look like they were made with my grandmother's old draperies or b) look like they should be accompanied by Birks and a rousing chorus of Kumbaya. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) I really hope I get to make some more!

It's hard to see here, but there's a smattering of stuff from different designers including Denyse Schmidt, Amy Butler, Anna Maria Horner and Art Gallery Fabrics in there. I used mostly fat quarters and lined the back with two different Amy Butler prints.

Woot! And, may I be one of many to say congrats Rev. Emily! I'm so proud of you!

Hawaii Pictures. Part I.

Hello, bloggy peeps. So check it: I went to Hawaii! For a week! It was awesome! Beyond words! So much so that all I can do is talk in exclamation points!!

Anyway, since I'm a rather huge freak, I managed to take something like 1,800 photographs during my week on Kauai. That, of course, means the editing process is going to be nothing short of a beast. But I started today and made a dent.

Here are some of my favorite shots from the first batch.

Enjoy!

_____

After a storm, I spied this double rainbow over Shipwreck's Beach. That's dad in the swing, taking his own pictures. Did I mention the light in Hawaii is effing stunning?



Fresh papayas, for sale in Hanapepe.


Sails of a catamaran, cruising in the Pacific along the Na Pali coastline.


Sunrise over Poipu Beach, by our hotel.


Random graffiti along a back road.


Flowers on the edge of a cliff looking over into a valley along the Na Pali coastline.


Plumeria flowers were EVERYWHERE. I wanted to take them all back home with me.


Awesome warehouse painted like a dive flag just off the dock in Port Allen.


More to come.

Logging off? Confessions of a...

Confession: I'm an Internet addict. I tweet. I Facebook. I check email within 30 seconds of its arrival. I use AIM. Gchat. The office internal IM system. Hell, I don't even think about going to the store without my phone and its ability to offer insta-Google. Why would I? You never know when there could be a produce crisis and I may suddenly really need to know the difference between kale and Italian kale.

I've been thinking a lot about how wired I am and how it fuels distraction in my life, in part because I just finished reading A.J. Jacobs' latest book, "The Guinea Pig Diaries." In one chapter he spends a month doing nothing but "unitasking" because he says we've multitasked ourselves away from our ability to focus.

In the 18th century, there were things like "attention athletes" who spent hours and days focusing on ONE THING and one thing only.

"Oh, to be born in the golden age of attention," he writes. "When Lincoln and Douglas could have three-hour debates, or the faithful could pray without ceasing for four hours. When people would look at a painting for an afternoon. Paintings! They're like TV, but they don't move."

Today, though, the average U.S. student gives up working on a complicated math problem after only 9.5 minutes. (Because he writes it better than I ever will, I'll keep quoting.) Jacobs says the "culture of distraction changes the way we think." It, literally, reroutes our brain, which makes us anything but the brightest, happiest, conscious people we wish we were.

So, what the hell happened to us? Turns out we basically started screwing ourselves out of the ability to focus sometime around the Industrial Revolution. That's when, as Jacobs says, "we began to fetishize speed and equate quickness with intelligence."

Personally, I can barely sit in silence without my mind suddenly doing the mental equivalent of crunking. Prayer? OMG. Try to find time to sit and quietly reflect? Pashaw. Ride the bus and just focus singularly on the beauty of Lake Michigan? Such effing effort. That's when my brain suddenly decides it MUST comes up with an 8-point plan on how to clean my floorboards. Floorboards, people! Right! This! Very! Second! (This is hysterical because, well, a solid 80 percent of the time you can't even SEE my floorboards, what with the giant mountain of clothes everywhere. But that's beside the point. Or maybe it IS the point.) Hell, I can't even talk on the phone without doing something else: emailing, typing, cleaning, lounging in a bubble bath, walking the dog, cooking dinner, driving my car. I do, however, draw the line at toilet talking. Because, I'm sure you REALLY wanted to know that.

My point... my point... where was I? Oh, right. Yes. Focus. Technology.

In essence, we've (and me, specifically here) somehow acquired this cultural ADD and then proceeded to magnify it with our increasingly wired lifestyle.

I know I do.

Once a few years ago when I was felled by a particularly violent stomach flu, I spent the night crouched on the floor of the bathroom holding on to my Blackberry so I could tweet and text my woe. In between heaving.

Sure, I was never a Focus McFocuserson. Hell, Currer Bell once nearly kicked me out of a Zen meditation group because I couldn't stop fidgeting. But I swear, with each passing day it feels like it's harder and harder to do one thing -- and do it well from start to finish without interruptions

Do you feel that way, too?

All of this is swirling around in my brain today while I was a) at work; b) at lunch; c) riding the L; d) trying on my FABULOUS new prescription sunglasses; e) did I mention they were fabulous; f) basking in the sun on the ride home; g) walking the mutt dog; h) watching 2 episodes of NCIS while eating dinner and sorting fabric scraps and mocking SATC2 for simply existing.

Yet somehow, in the midst of all the noise of my mind, I came across this: 8 reporters at The Washington Post tried to unplug for a week. They nearly lost their minds. Then they wrote about it.

Think about it: no e-mail. No iPhone. No quick Googling. No YouTube to see the latest Greyson Chance video. I don't think I could it. A full-on wired hiatus. A technological Sabbath.

It makes my busy brain hurt to think about.

I wonder if I could even go a day. Could you? I wonder how I could become better at quieting my my monkey mind that bounces all around like a 3-year-old riding the wave of a raging sugar high.

I guess what I'm saying is this. My name is Noodles. I'm wired. And I'm an addict. And I bet you are too.

Image found here.

God. In brief.

N.B.: If faithy type things make you squeamish, come back next time for more tawdriness or sewing thingies!!

The pastor at my church challenged our congregation to get in on a previous blog challenge over at Patheos.

The assignment: Describe who or what is God in ... wait for it ... 100 words or less.

There were tons of responses -- many of them powerful. She specifically cited this entry by educator and community builder Callid Keefe-Perry.

Bird Shadows/Holy spirit. My God is in the next room, cooking unseen feasts and humming; moments of ache before the rain when the whole June cloud is ready to burst through though no drop has yet fallen; dandelion blades that insist adamantly they must reside directly in the middle of your neighbor's blacktopped suburban driveway; sights of the shadow of a bird flitting by the sill near the bed of an aging Grace, who can no longer move but counts herself lucky because at least she can still see. This is my God: expectant and grinning, wild and near.

This is SO up my alley. I mean, I may be verbose. But damn do I appreciate a good, briefly written piece. So I decided to accept her challenge. And now I want to pass it along to you. Your God doesn't have to be one of a particular faith (or any faith for that matter. I believe God is unique to everyone.)

Here's my answer in 99 words. Maybe on a different day at a different time, I'd write something different. But for now, here's mine.

My God is an affirmation, loving me simply because I am. He is raw, strong and powerful. She is subtle, gentle and soft. God has high standards (like Tim Gunn) and says to me: "Make it work." Then "Let me help." God is the face of a red and frightened newborn that bursts, screaming into this world. God is the peaceful, gnarled hands of a grandmother waiting to go home. God is dichotomous and mysterious. Confusing. Simple. Beyond and within. My God is along for the ride, happy to be by my side. God knows the feeling is mutual.

So take some time and think about it. And then take a stab at the assignment in the comments, on your own blog, in your journal, or where ever.

Peace. And good luck.

In which I make a mess. And progress.

N.B. If I owe you a long-awaited wedding present that's really going to be more like a Happy First Anniversary! present, read at your own risk.

Many moons ago I started working on a wedding quilt. Started, being the operative word. The pattern was taking forever. None of my colors seemed to go together. I ripped out every seam and started over. A lot. It was just ... icky. Luckily (or at least, luckily if you enjoy procrastinating) everyone on the planet decided to have babies, which kept me up to my eyeballs in baby quilts for a while.

But birthin' season is almost over so now I MUST return to the wedding quilt, which is inspired by this.

I spent about three hours working tonight and only made three blocks. Sigh. I forgot how much is involved in this, especially since I can't use my favorite fast-sewing technique of strip-piecing.

After what felt like an hour of cutting, I had this. One glorious mess. (This is just a part of it.)


I had a hard time taking pictures of the finished blocks. Plus, it's getting late, I'm tired and I don't feel like playing with photoshop to fix the crappy lighting. So pretend this looks STUNNING. Is actually a picture of the whole block. Has cool colors that aren't funky in the light. Is straight. And then multiply it. By a lot. And then your mind can enjoy its imaginary-for-now-but-soon-to-be-actualized awesomeness.


The end.

I solemly swear ...

... That I am up to NO GOOD.

Something new.

So what if snowed last week? Or if there is frost forecast for the weekend? Pshaw! Today, there was sun. Lots of it. And somehow, in the past 24 hours, things finally started blooming.


Say what you will about Chicago's horrific winters. (And God knows, I've used a few choice four-letter words to describe them.) But there's nothing like surviving that dark and frigid drudgery to make you appreciate the beginning of spring.

(Shot Thursday afternoon in Lakeview.)