the squibix family blog

Of course, we also had a party to celebrate the event. The invitations (featuring this adorable photo) indicated that no RSVP was necessary, and we sent them out to a large number of people. So we weren't sure how many folks we were going to get, or whether we would have enough food. In the event, we did. We won't be needing to cook for several weeks. Also, we've ordered a new freezer. That's not true, but in all seriousness, three dozen bagels and four dozen muffins is clearly more than enough for any party. At least I didn't cook the bagels myself.

The only distressing moment to the entire day was realizing I had left my camera case, containing not only my camera but my wallet as well, on the back of the car as we left for church. I wasn't in the best mood when I realized its absence; even after driving all the way home and back to look for it, though, I still got there in time for the service. Nelly suggest that it was the work of Satan trying to get me to be sad for the baptism, and that very well may be true, but it didn't work: my lovely wife made sure I had a good time, and felt the full measure of joy in the occasion. Which it was indeed very joyful. And a neighbor found the camera in the street and returned it shortly thereafter, so all was as perfect as could be.

So Harvey's now a fully paid-up member of the Christian faith. Does that mean he won't be fussy any more?

[photo credit Seddon Beaty]

Initially I thought it would be no trouble just to walk the rest of the way to the school, but that notion failed to take into account the fact that walking is remarkably slower than cycling. Remarkably. I am not capable of calculating the percentage difference in the respective rates, but suffice it to say I would not have been able to make it on time on foot. (Fun fact: did you know that bicycles were once the fastest form of human transport? I thought of that as I trudged along.)

My next idea was to stop at a gas station and use their air. I had everything I needed to change the tire, after all, except the pump. Unfortunately, gas stations are not what they once were, and no longer provide inflation to customers: both places I managed to reach on foot had the pumps up there on an outside wall, but in both cases they were out of order. You know, what I call gas stations used to be known as service stations... and this isn't the first time were I've felt I know the reason for the change in terminology.

In any case, out of options for getting myself out of my predicament in time for work, I called, first, my wife—not home—and then my mother. The latter very kindly agreed to come and pick me up and bring me and my bike to work, and then even more kindly stopped by the school to drop of my pump, enabling me later to get home under my own power. So. I learned my lesson, and will never leave home without the pump again. Only problem is, I'm now out of spare inner tubes and the bike store doesn't open until after I start work tomorrow. I might leave an hour early tomorrow, just in case lightning strikes twice.

Which of course filled me with guilt as soon as I had the though: after all, I'm up and walking around, and don't feel that bad, right? Also, I can't—ever—seem to get my temperature up to 98°, so there's no chance of the thermometer telling me I have to stay home on account of fever. But Leah told me it wouldn't be the end of the world, and the folks at work are (especially this year) encouraging us to err on the side of caution, health-wise. So I called in, and went back to bed.

And as soon as I did, I really felt sick. It turns out I can do a pretty good job convincing the body that we need to keep going—a relic from my days outrunning lions on the plains, I guess. Watch out when I tell myself that there's time for a rest, though! In bed most of yesterday, and still not allowed out to walk the babies this morning. So that's where I was yesterday.

Suffice it to say that for now, in any case, staying up much past 8:00 pm is now a struggle, just like it used to be for our pioneer forebearers. We can get up early, too, which means we are among the elite few who manage to save daylight (by the ridiculous definition of the federal bureaucrats who shove the "savings" scheme down the throats of honest Americans) during Standard Time. Yes, we're still taking full advantage of all of our daylight hours! To do so, of course, means sleeping some when it's dark, so we do that too. Like last night we went out to a show (Harvey's second time seeing Southern Rail), and, even though we were enjoying it, we staggered back home in time to be in bed before 9:00. Yes, life is good.

Even if the bottles do make it into the bin, and then the bin makes it to an actual recycling center—and Washington isn't the only place with that problem, I've worked at schools where the custodians toss everything in the dumpster because they "don't get paid" to do anything else—it still takes energy to turn old stuff into new stuff. It's not magic.

Which is why, of course, that recycling is the last of the three environmental "R"s: reduce, reuse, and recycle. So why do we hear so much about it? Because it's super easy, comparably! First, use fewer bottles. Then, put new water back into the bottles (for plant-watering only, if you worry about the plastic). Recycling is the last option: practically a failure, really. But of course, you all know all that. I just had to get it off my chest. Back to talking about the weather and cute babies and puppies tomorrow!

(Admittedly, the gouda consumption may have been primarily due to the lack of other cheese alternatives. Having tried it at my prompting, Leah now believes the favorite cheese of the Dutch is edible; when it's available, though, I bet she'll still go for good honest American.)

They cooked down for a while, until they got all mushy.

Leah ran them through our awesome food mill, a very thoughtful gift from Cara and Alan.

Rascal thought the process was taking a little too long, so he cuddled with a toy on the couch. Harvey missed the whole thing, having been sent up to bed before we got started.

We put the sauce in pint jars and processed them in the canning kettle, so they should be shelf-stable for a year or two. All those apples only made five pints, so we may have to do it again soon!

So what to do all day? Happily, the baby was better enough that he could get outside a little bit, to take a walk with me and Rascal and then help me and Leah with some leaf raking. But that was only a couple hours; the rest of the time he and I were in front of the tv watching the football. Which takes alot of time, it turns out. Combine the two games I already watched today with the fragments of college games I took in yesterday, and I've probably watched more tv this weekend than I did over the last two or three months. And that's not all! The Patriots play the Colts this evening (starting in mere moments, in fact!) and despite my tiredness I'm going to try and take in at least some of it.

Then we can cancel the tv service.

But then, there are people who are surprised I ride my bike even in the nicest of weather. One of the fourth graders was shocked, shocked! to hear that I had stopped by the grocery store to pick up straws (to make pyramids for math!). She remained incredulous even after I told her it was on the way: "it's not on the way from my house!" she said. Nope, I'm not coming from around the corner, even if I do arrive under my own power!

Imagine my disappointment, then, when I paged through the book and found it was actually nothing more than the Greatest Hits of the 60s and 70s, toy style. It's not aimed at parents who want real, well-made toys, in other words, but at those who want to exercise their nostalgia by inflicting upon their offspring a variety of awful plastic crap from their own childhoods. I mean, Rock 'Em Sock 'Em robots? Fisher Price pull-along Chatter Telephone?! ("I had that one!" says Leah. It was already nostalgic then, having come out originally in 1962.) Plus some random Sharper Image-esque junk like a plastic piggy bank with an LED display of the balance. Needless to say we will not be placing any orders.

One wonders, though, what the response will be of the little tykes who do get something from Back to Basics on Christmas morning. The little girl on the cover (pictured above) seems, on the surface, happy enough with her matching set of dead-eyed Raggedy Anne and Andy dolls, but look a little closer and you can see the desperation... I bet she asked for a Bratz doll. Don't worry little girl, in thirty years you'll be able to get one for your own daughter from the Back to Basics catalog!

Although there were moments when he just wanted to be left alone to savor the sensation.

Honey wheat bread just out of the oven, leftover turkey, mayo, homemade zucchini relish, salt, and pepper. And tomato, of course. Good stuff for November 27th!

I also re-cooked some peach jam that I made a couple months ago, because it was actually more like peach sauce, rather than anything that you would want to put on bread. So cooked down some more, with more liquid pectin. This jam stuff is more an art than a science hear at the squibix home, and I'm afraid I'm still drawing with crayons.

However, at least we're managing to put up some reasonable quantities of preserves. To date we have the equivalent of five gallons of jam, relish, and pickles, not counting the stuff in the freezer (which wouldn't stay good following a power loss due to nuclear war or global economic meltdown). Most of that is shown in that picture up at the top of this post. Not that we're planning to eat it all ourselves, of course. If you're on our Christmas list, look forward to delicious local, home-canned produce! Place your orders today.