So, I had the best intentions to write up a big Stitches recap, including who I ran into, podcast audio drama and thoughts on the entire weekend. Then, there was my company trip to Tahoe and my paltry attempts at snowboarding (It only lasted one run.) after those two posts, there was going to be my rah-rah Austin-let’s-knit at SxSWi! rallying cry (after much research and ravelery-ing).

But best intentions aside, I never sat down and wrote. Now I’m in Texas and panels have begun (and I haven’t eaten yet). I’m just gonna roll with it.

For now, I need something edible.

We have a Meals on Wheels route at work. Let me back up. Our company has a program so anyone can volunteer for whatever they’d like, on the clock. It could be a one-off event like a beach clean-up or a regular commitment at an animal shelter. Our MOW route is something we do every week.

Until today, I had never done it.

When Steve asked me to go with him, I agreed, under the condition I drive. I recognize I have a little fear around interacting with the elderly, but it would be a great way to hang with him and take baby steps in confronting that phobia. Sadly, he had to attend a funeral today, so I ended up being paired with another coworker, the always-on warehouse guy. I still got to drive, but missed catching up with someone I haven’t spent much time with lately.

Now, if you’ve driven with me, you know I drive very cautiously. I hate cars, I don’t enjoy the act of driving, I’d rather ride a bike, bus, train or plane than deal with the road myself. Since it was lunch-time, and just around the neighborhood, I knew it wasn’t going to be too bad. Besides, I could drive our company’s fancy biodiesel VW Passat, and who doesn’t mind rolling in a black station wagon that smells like french fries?

My car-mate is pretty high-energy (read: spastic) and kept changing and turning up the radio. He navigated and did all of the meal drop-offs. He’s pretty frenetic and wanted me to cut through a gas station when a red light stopped us. As we were returning to the Berkeley Senior Center, we got caught by another traffic signal.

“Turn left here,” he pointed, flailing his arm across my chest. “Into the auto parts parking lot.”

We were just a few blocks away, so, against my better judgement, I did. And, there was a cop behind me. Lights flashed as he followed me through the parking lot into a parking spot. I turned off the car, took off my seat belt, then thought better to put it back on and sit there. He asked for my license and registration. I gathered it from the glove box, wishing the my passenger would stop his grumbling and complaining about how “it wasn’t right, everyone does it!”

The officer explained that I had crossed a double yellow line and he had to give me a ticket, since so many people had witnessed. Knowing I was at fault, I feared how much it would be and whether it was considered a moving violation. And, cool as they are, work doesn’t pay for tickets you get yourself.

He asked if I was related to a Jonathan with the same last name (which I wasn’t) and Phillip interrupted, “C’mon, man! We was doing Meals on Wheels for the seniorz!” (Yes, it sounded like he added a “z.”)

“Do you have any proof?” He doubtfully scanned the shiny black car with tinted windows. Darn you, on-site car washes!

I handed him the route list and pointed at the hot and cold containers in the back seat. He shook his head as he gave it back.

“I can’t give you a ticket.” And with that, we were allowed to go on our way.

There’s no major life lesson here, just a realization that whatever extra credit points I got for doing a good deed, the Universe cashed them in for me with the reprieve.

Oh, and that Meals on Wheels isn’t so bad. I may even sign up again. I just hope someone would care enough to bring me food when the time comes… and that they have a good time while doing it.

Today, little Miss Janie Sparkles turns four. Or at least that’s what the vet estimated when she came into rescue, five months before she moved into our home and hearts.

While she’s not a big eater, she did get some extra boiled chicken bits handed to her this morning. And, I’m thawing out some fancy natural, organic lamb and rice (given to us by an even fancier dog friend’s parents). If the weather holds, we’ll go out for an off-leash adventure this weekend, too.

(photo by Mr. Man, aka DeadSlow or Christopher. Pay no attention to the man behind the dog.)

I took Friday off last week and enjoyed a day all for myself. I’ve accumulated too much vacation time, maxing out, so I need to indulge in a couple of days here and there, or else I lose the time!

Typically, I just sit on the couch and knit, watching whatever the Tivo’s been holding for me. Maybe a nap with Janie Sparkles and a touch of cooking.

Not this time.

It was terribly cold and rainy, so what better way to start a selfish day than a run?

Honestly, I doubted that I’d actually get out the door, but I knew I’d feel great afterwards.

So, before driving Mr. Man to work (to spare him a wet bike commute), I put on my synthetics and running shoes. Thirty minutes later, here’s the proof of my run piled in front of the fridge.

Then, time to eat. I’ve been having smoothies every morning for the past couple of weeks, which is highly out of character. I’m not a big fruit guy. (Big fruit, yes; fruit-eater, no.) I fear the frothy, milkshake-y goodness for fear of too much sweet. Heck, I don’t even like ice cream, so why try to like a pretend milkshake?

For those who are also dessert-adverse, adding nuked oatmeal, flaxseed meal, unflavored whey powder, plain yogurt and peanut butter insures the concoction doesn’t taste like a berry patch. Or, less eloquently, Mr. Man says it tastes like dirt. However you describe it, it suits my savory-favoring palate.

My friend Rachel had the day off, too, so I went downtown to meet her for coffee. Not just any coffee, $20,000 coffee. Blue Bottle just opened a cafe last week. Of the two big roasters in town, and ever since I stopped adding sugar to my lattes, I prefer the flavor of their roasts to Ritual’s.

‘Twas delicious. It’s a great space. Very theatrical performance of the coffee preparation (read the article linked above). Nice science-y beakers. Good flavor, but perhaps more of a special occasion coffee, not a habit. I’m glad I tried it.

Continuing the indulgence, I took myself to the movies to see Cloverfield. Just ’cause. It’s not the highest-brow choice in this Oscar season (I’ve only seen Ma Vie en Rose), but perfect for a rainy day. I haven’t been to a theater since I saw The Lives of Others last year. And since my beloved doesn’t appreciate sci-fi or horror movies, I gotta get it in on my own. A smidge Blair Witch-y with the single hand-held video camera, but a great tension-filled, frantic evacuation of NYC that doesn’t dumb-down a narrative to spoon-feed you a typical Hollywood film structure.

Today is another day off, and I’ve got a run and perhaps another movie, casting off Henry, and a sourdough starter to continue to feed. Time’s a-wasting!

At Lisa’s birthday on Friday (at her store Rare Device), I sampled some of the most heavenly, poufy, cheese puffs in the world.

I don’t have any good photos of the lovely birthday girl herself, but I did snap a mobile pic of these savory choux puffs made of butter, eggs and gruyere. The woman who made them told me that the recipe can be found in Tartine’s cookbook (a must-visit bakery when you’re in SF).

Obsessed, I searched the interwebs and found that 7×7 magazine published it back in September!

Be warned… I could have easily eaten 38 of these greasy devils… make sure you make enough to share!

Go forth and bake!

It’s like they read my mind.

Every morning at breakfast, we call the tool that decapitates soft-boiled eggshells, “Choppy.” And bunny has been a euphemism for a certain soft, round (not furry) body part that you’re probably sitting on right now.

I feel so 5 years ago… I just finally got an iSight camera from Betsy who’s moving to Italy to start an Art Monastery. She no longer needed it since her fancy new laptop already has a camera built in.

I’ve never had the occasion to video chat, nor do I have the inclination to be LonelyKnitter34 and turn this into a vlog. But time will tell. You may see me sitting here bleary-eyed, not quite looking at the camera in dim overhead lighting soon enough.

Just in case, I opened up a hizKNITS AIM account, should you ever see me online. Grab a window, have a sit and type at me for a spell.

With the crazy storms hitting Northern California, I left work early on Friday, for fear of getting stuck in Berkeley if the Bay Bridge was closed. Instead of pulling out the laptop and writing the reviews that are already overdue, I ran to the store to buy fixin’s for pea soup.

I always intend to make soups and stews, but never get around to it. During my trip to my parents’ house over the holidays, I hopped into the kitchen with my mom and made a bucket of pea soup and a tub of vegetarian chili. Cooking with her was the highlight of my time with them. (A close second was devouring EZ’s Knitting Without Tears—who wants to make a hybrid sweater with a shirt yoke?)

And what better to go with warm bowls of love? Fresh-baked bread! Because the pea soup was going to be ready that night, I couldn’t rely on the tried and true no-knead loaves. So, I tried my hand at baking my own pita bread. (Pictured are the leftovers on Saturday, with the two no-knead loaves I mixed up to sit that night.)

Now, I’m all for process and the meditative quality of kneading, but rolling out individual circles takes forever, when you’re used to barely touching your dough. Also, by baking them in the oven, instead of a on a griddle, they puffed up tremendously. More like whole wheat turnovers filled with air than warm, soft blankets. Still, ’twas delicious.

This morning we cut into the loaf on the right, made with steel-cut oats. I found a bunch of recipes for no-knead variations at Breadtopia.com. Much denser and moister than plain, old boules. It will taste great tonight with the chili tonight. The kidney beans are already soaking.

Thank you, Mom, for being my inspiration in the kitchen. I wish we had more time to cook (and knit) together. You don’t look a day out of Girl Scouts! (more gorgeous photos of her from the ’60s, scanned into my flickr account, along with some embarrassingly blond baby pictures of me)

And, a (belated) happy birthday here on the blog! (Yes, I called her yesterday, day-of her birthday!)

If any of y’all want to send her a greetings: momannh [at] aol [dot] com.

Here’s our daily bread, freshly baked for the new year. It’s hissing, moaning and cracking on the stove, cooling as I type this.

Perhaps not daily, I’ll do my best to share a little of my breads and other foibles more frequently, hopefully taking pictures all the while.

I’m not a big resolution guy, but I hope 2008 contains many more loaves like this, lots of other handmade things, and sharing them with people I love.

Let’s make it a great one, kids!

What is that compels us to collect evidence of past experience? Do we not trust our our feeble memories? Time robs us of yesterday, while firmly shoving us toward tomorrow.

Being here at my parents’ home in PA, a house I’ve never lived in and only visited a handful of times over the past five years, takes me far away from my West Coast present. Rifling through mildewy boxes of my childhood momentos allows flickers of forgotten time: that Clowns for Christ weekend, those high school SAT and AP test scores, the notes from my fifth grade girlfriend and myriad Boy Scout badges and patches.

I’m surrounded by everything they’ve collected in their years together. The stuff that survived the 10 moves I made with them during my first 18 years has now been joined with new relics of three other moves. What’s going to survive this next one, as they prepare to go to western New York next week?

Watching my dad sort through tons (literally) of magazines and books—theology and religion, magic, writing, origami, role-playing games, science fiction and fantasy, storytelling, cycling—shows me how defined he is by his pursuit of knowledge, or at least the acquisition thereof. Seeing my mom wade through recipes, both handwritten and torn-out from magazines, underlined her connection to people and places across time through food. Some are tried and true (with stains to prove it), and others just symbols of hope for a future sidedish, culinary adventure or inspiration for another idea.

For my crap, it’s all being thrown away, even the seven years of art school drawings and paintings. At least the student loans are paid off. What good would these objects serve me now? Back in San Francisco, they’d just sit in storage, never to be seen until a move or a cleaning purge. Their demise is inevitable.

If I had time, I’d take a picture of every item and write a little bit about where and when it was aquired, a memory blog of sorts. Better yet, I could start by capturing everything that comes into my life right now, so I wouldn’t have to look back and think and wonder what I’m forgetting.

But that would be a fruitless and endless practice. One that would get in the way of they real day-to-day of living. Besides, I’ve never organized any of my photos and I’ll be darned if I start scrapbooking now. I’d focus on the what’s happening of right now, of the bread I baked for dinner and the pea soup I made with my mom.

There’s so much of my own past that I want to hold onto, even seek out and find those long-lost friends. And to do that means a little less time at work and more time creating new memories with people I love. (A New Year’s resolution, perhaps?)

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the rare gem the pops onto my radar screen, like this clipping from the Uniontown, PA paper’s article on the changing lives of minister’s wives. I may no longer have that towheaded mop-top or that killer bike race tanktop, but I know that once I did, and it made me smile.