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Apr. 21st, 2020 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkat1. Sigh. I have an Amazon shopping addiction that I really need to break. I keep buying food items on Amazon. Tonight, it was baking mixes. I blame all the idiots who keep telling me all the things that they are baking on various Zoom chats. Today, someone told me that they had baked three apple pies, brownies, and cookies.
And someone else mentioned how they were snacking on the brownies they made. And of course the breads and the muffins. So, I finally caved and bought brownie mix ("Baked Brooklyn Blackout Gluten Free Brownies"), Simple Mills Artisan Almond Flour bread mix from Simple Mills, Pancake and Waffle Mix from Simple Mills (which I love and was running out of - it's unsweetened and made with almond flour), more kind energy bars (this time mint and dark chocolate), olive oil (could run low soon), and Kruteaz Gluten Free Blueberry Muffin Mix.
Yes, I know, I should use the flours I have in the fridge and figure it out myself. But...I am not a baker. I can cook, but following measurements can be dicy. Although I may try to figure out how to make muffins this weekend - I just need to get a hold of some bananas. I think another grocery store run is in my future - just for fruit.
I'm compulsive about food. There's three things I get compulsive about: food (I'm kind of a foodie and use food to comfort myself), books (ditto), and music (which is why I have an apple music streaming subscription on my phone). Basically, I'm a frustrated Buddhist Monk with a food and culture addiction.
2. The problem with Face Book is the pesky family members.
Me: So Aunt D really pissed me off. (I read what I wrote and Aunt D's responses.)
Mother: Yes, you're right that was uncalled for and callous. She scolded you for no reason. Can you just hide it or delete it and then forget about it?
Me:Ooooh, I can delete it! I'm going to do that right now!
Granted, it may not be the most mature response, but it is exceedingly comforting.
3. Apparently Margaret Atwood Has a LockDown Diary - while self-isolating in Canada - honestly lock-down is kind of tailor made for the professional novelist. If anyone is happy with being locked down it's professional novelists.
I actually found this to be surprisingly charming and funny. I can identify with what she states about the knitting groups - I'm a terrible knitter - I can't count to save my life, as you may or may not have noticed with my posts? I occasionally skip a number - and don't always remember to fix it. Or repeat one. Just imagine that but with knitting? Also no patience, and my hands kind of shake.
My grandmother joined a knitting group in rural Nova Scotia. You started on washcloths, progressed to scarves; then, if you were sufficiently adroit, you moved on to balaclavas and socks, and ultimately – the pinnacle! – to gloves. My grandmother was a terrible knitter. She never got beyond washcloths.
I’ve often wondered about these knitting groups. What were they for, really? Were they providing much-needed knitted items, or were they boosting morale by giving a bunch of otherwise very anxious civilians, whose sons and husbands were in jeopardy, something to do with their hands while waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting? I can see the socks and gloves making it to the frontlines, but the washcloths? Photographs of muddy, cramped, stinky trench life don’t show much washing going on. And my grandmother’s wonky, hole-filled washcloths in particular – were they sent to a secret depot where they were unraveled, and their wool reclaimed for something more functional?
So, in the spirit of my grandmother’s washcloths – not ultimately useful, perhaps, but let’s hope they focused the mind and gave a sense of accomplishment – I present some of my more bizarre self-isolation activities. You can do some of them at home. Though perhaps you won’t wish to.
I won’t bother with the photo sorting, the purging of old files, the delving into storage trunks, the wonderment at some of the things found there – why did I save that, and what exactly is it? – or the reading of letters from boyfriends long gone now, or bald. I expect we are all doing something like that. Or the gardening, which would have happened anyway. Or the return to baking, something I used to do at industrial volume when there were teenagers around, and have made a tentative return to. Instead, I’ll move straight to the fire starters made from dryer lint, egg cartons and candle ends. Why should these clutter up landfill sites when you can make fire starters from them instead? The method was given to me by a group of female bush pilots who took me out to breakfast in Whitehorse, the Yukon, back in the 1990s, and I’ve been making them ever since. They are popular holiday gifts among certain of my easily pleased family members.
Here’s what you do. Collect the lint from your dryer. Collect egg cartons, the cardboard variety. Collect candle ends. Stuff the lint into the pockets of the egg cartons. Melt the candle ends in a metal container kept for that purpose and set in a larger pan of boiling water. Do not melt them directly over an open flame. Pour the melted wax over the lint. When hardened, cut into cubes. To quote the bush pilots, who never took off for a flight into the trackless wilderness without some, just in case their plane went down: “Best damn fire starter you ever saw!”
To deter the squirrels, I climbed a stepladder, placed a steel bowl against the ceiling and whacked it with a big spoon
Another activity I’ve been doing lately is squirrel foiling. Hear a gnawing sound in the ceiling? These are your choices, in this part of the world: raccoons, possums, rats, squirrels, Google Earth. Probably squirrels, I thought, and so it proved to be. At first I foiled them by playing hot jazz and acid rock right under their gnawing station, but they got used to the wailing and screaming, so I climbed up a stepladder, placed a large steel bowl against the ceiling, and whacked it with a big metal serving spoon. Yes, I know, I shouldn’t have been doing that alone at night – the Younger Generation will scold when they read this – because people my age fall off ladders and break their necks, especially when not holding on because you need two hands for steel bowl banging. I won’t do it again, promise. (Until next time.)
4. I work in a Grocery Store, Don't Call me a Hero
I can't speak for every occupation, but for supermarket cashiers, I think the best way you can show your respect is by not showing up at all. Minimize your shopping outings, and make them quick and efficient. Please save the small talk for next year. And I beg of you, don't call my co-workers heroes as you wait for them to bag your carrot-cake muffins and face serum. They would trade places with you if they could.
That's what I'm attempting to do - order as much as I can online and minimize grocery store outings. I used to go four times a week, now I go every two weeks, if that. Which is hard, because I can't cart that much home with me. I also go through as fast as possible. And try to be quick. With minimal small talk - outside of a thank you and a good bye.
5. Grace O'Malley - the Fearless 16th Century Irish Pirate Queen Who Stood up to the English and Told Queen Elizabeth I where to go
If asked to name a pirate from history, many people will mention Blackbeard or Captain William Kidd. If pressed to name a female pirate, they might mention Anne Bonny, who terrorized the Caribbean alongside Captain "Calico" Jack Rackham in the early 18th century. Anne Bonny, however, was far from the only female pirate to terrorize the seas. More than a century before Bonny's birth, another woman ruled the waves, debated with Queen Elizabeth I, and sat at the head of a prosperous pirate empire. She was Grace O'Malley, Pirate Queen.
Grace With the Cropped Hair
Known in Gaelic as Gráinne Ní Mháille, Grace was born in Ireland sometime around 1530. She was the daughter of Eoghan Dubhdara Ó Máille, ruler of the territory of Umhall and the lord of an ancient, powerful dynasty in the province of Connaught. The Ó Máille family's money came from the seas, raised in the form of taxes levied on anyone who fished off their stretch of the Irish coast. The family were also shrewd traders and merchants, trading (and sometimes plundering) as far away as Spain. Ó Máille castles also dominated the southwest coastline of County Mayo, providing protection from invasion for the wealthy lord's territory. At a time when the Tudors in England were ramping up their conquest of Ireland, such defensive measures were vital.
The folklore of Grace O'Malley begins in her childhood, when she supposedly begged her father to let her join him on a trade mission to Spain. When he refused his daughter's request on the grounds that her long hair would be hazardous on the rolling deck of a ship, she hacked off her mane, earning herself the nickname Gráinne Mhaol, or "Grace with cropped hair."
Though little is known of Grace's early life, when she was about 16 she made a political marriage to Dónal Ó Flaithbheartaigh, heir to the lands of Ó Flaithbheartaigh. It was an excellent dynastic match, but despite bearing her husband three children, Grace wasn't made for housewifery. She had more ambitious plans.
Soon Grace was the driving force in the marriage, masterminding a trading network to Spain and Portugal and leading raids on the vessels that dared to sail close to her shores. When her husband was killed in an ambush by a rival clan around 1565, Grace retreated to Clare Island, and established a base of operations with a band of followers. According to legend, she also fell in love with a shipwrecked sailor—and for a time life was happy. But when her lover was murdered by a member of the neighboring MacMahon family, Grace led a brutal assault on the MacMahon castle at Doona and slaughtered his killers. Her actions earned her infamy as the Pirate Queen of Connaught.
Though Grace remarried for the sake of expanding her political clout, she wasn't about to become a dutiful wife. Within a year she was divorced, though pregnant, and living at Rockfleet Castle, which she'd gained in the marriage and which became her center of operations. According to legend, the day after giving birth to to her ex-husband’s son aboard a ship, she leapt from her bed and vanquished attacking corsairs
Grace continued to lead raiding parties from the coast and seized English vessels and their cargo, all of which did little to endear her to the Tudors. She was known for her aggression in battle, and it's said that when her sons appeared to be shirking, she shamed them into action with a cry of "An ag iarraidh dul i bhfolach ar mo thóin atá tú, an áit a dtáinig tú as?"—which roughly translates as "Are you trying to hide in my arse, where you came out of?"
And someone else mentioned how they were snacking on the brownies they made. And of course the breads and the muffins. So, I finally caved and bought brownie mix ("Baked Brooklyn Blackout Gluten Free Brownies"), Simple Mills Artisan Almond Flour bread mix from Simple Mills, Pancake and Waffle Mix from Simple Mills (which I love and was running out of - it's unsweetened and made with almond flour), more kind energy bars (this time mint and dark chocolate), olive oil (could run low soon), and Kruteaz Gluten Free Blueberry Muffin Mix.
Yes, I know, I should use the flours I have in the fridge and figure it out myself. But...I am not a baker. I can cook, but following measurements can be dicy. Although I may try to figure out how to make muffins this weekend - I just need to get a hold of some bananas. I think another grocery store run is in my future - just for fruit.
I'm compulsive about food. There's three things I get compulsive about: food (I'm kind of a foodie and use food to comfort myself), books (ditto), and music (which is why I have an apple music streaming subscription on my phone). Basically, I'm a frustrated Buddhist Monk with a food and culture addiction.
2. The problem with Face Book is the pesky family members.
Me: So Aunt D really pissed me off. (I read what I wrote and Aunt D's responses.)
Mother: Yes, you're right that was uncalled for and callous. She scolded you for no reason. Can you just hide it or delete it and then forget about it?
Me:Ooooh, I can delete it! I'm going to do that right now!
Granted, it may not be the most mature response, but it is exceedingly comforting.
3. Apparently Margaret Atwood Has a LockDown Diary - while self-isolating in Canada - honestly lock-down is kind of tailor made for the professional novelist. If anyone is happy with being locked down it's professional novelists.
I actually found this to be surprisingly charming and funny. I can identify with what she states about the knitting groups - I'm a terrible knitter - I can't count to save my life, as you may or may not have noticed with my posts? I occasionally skip a number - and don't always remember to fix it. Or repeat one. Just imagine that but with knitting? Also no patience, and my hands kind of shake.
My grandmother joined a knitting group in rural Nova Scotia. You started on washcloths, progressed to scarves; then, if you were sufficiently adroit, you moved on to balaclavas and socks, and ultimately – the pinnacle! – to gloves. My grandmother was a terrible knitter. She never got beyond washcloths.
I’ve often wondered about these knitting groups. What were they for, really? Were they providing much-needed knitted items, or were they boosting morale by giving a bunch of otherwise very anxious civilians, whose sons and husbands were in jeopardy, something to do with their hands while waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting? I can see the socks and gloves making it to the frontlines, but the washcloths? Photographs of muddy, cramped, stinky trench life don’t show much washing going on. And my grandmother’s wonky, hole-filled washcloths in particular – were they sent to a secret depot where they were unraveled, and their wool reclaimed for something more functional?
So, in the spirit of my grandmother’s washcloths – not ultimately useful, perhaps, but let’s hope they focused the mind and gave a sense of accomplishment – I present some of my more bizarre self-isolation activities. You can do some of them at home. Though perhaps you won’t wish to.
I won’t bother with the photo sorting, the purging of old files, the delving into storage trunks, the wonderment at some of the things found there – why did I save that, and what exactly is it? – or the reading of letters from boyfriends long gone now, or bald. I expect we are all doing something like that. Or the gardening, which would have happened anyway. Or the return to baking, something I used to do at industrial volume when there were teenagers around, and have made a tentative return to. Instead, I’ll move straight to the fire starters made from dryer lint, egg cartons and candle ends. Why should these clutter up landfill sites when you can make fire starters from them instead? The method was given to me by a group of female bush pilots who took me out to breakfast in Whitehorse, the Yukon, back in the 1990s, and I’ve been making them ever since. They are popular holiday gifts among certain of my easily pleased family members.
Here’s what you do. Collect the lint from your dryer. Collect egg cartons, the cardboard variety. Collect candle ends. Stuff the lint into the pockets of the egg cartons. Melt the candle ends in a metal container kept for that purpose and set in a larger pan of boiling water. Do not melt them directly over an open flame. Pour the melted wax over the lint. When hardened, cut into cubes. To quote the bush pilots, who never took off for a flight into the trackless wilderness without some, just in case their plane went down: “Best damn fire starter you ever saw!”
To deter the squirrels, I climbed a stepladder, placed a steel bowl against the ceiling and whacked it with a big spoon
Another activity I’ve been doing lately is squirrel foiling. Hear a gnawing sound in the ceiling? These are your choices, in this part of the world: raccoons, possums, rats, squirrels, Google Earth. Probably squirrels, I thought, and so it proved to be. At first I foiled them by playing hot jazz and acid rock right under their gnawing station, but they got used to the wailing and screaming, so I climbed up a stepladder, placed a large steel bowl against the ceiling, and whacked it with a big metal serving spoon. Yes, I know, I shouldn’t have been doing that alone at night – the Younger Generation will scold when they read this – because people my age fall off ladders and break their necks, especially when not holding on because you need two hands for steel bowl banging. I won’t do it again, promise. (Until next time.)
4. I work in a Grocery Store, Don't Call me a Hero
I can't speak for every occupation, but for supermarket cashiers, I think the best way you can show your respect is by not showing up at all. Minimize your shopping outings, and make them quick and efficient. Please save the small talk for next year. And I beg of you, don't call my co-workers heroes as you wait for them to bag your carrot-cake muffins and face serum. They would trade places with you if they could.
That's what I'm attempting to do - order as much as I can online and minimize grocery store outings. I used to go four times a week, now I go every two weeks, if that. Which is hard, because I can't cart that much home with me. I also go through as fast as possible. And try to be quick. With minimal small talk - outside of a thank you and a good bye.
5. Grace O'Malley - the Fearless 16th Century Irish Pirate Queen Who Stood up to the English and Told Queen Elizabeth I where to go
If asked to name a pirate from history, many people will mention Blackbeard or Captain William Kidd. If pressed to name a female pirate, they might mention Anne Bonny, who terrorized the Caribbean alongside Captain "Calico" Jack Rackham in the early 18th century. Anne Bonny, however, was far from the only female pirate to terrorize the seas. More than a century before Bonny's birth, another woman ruled the waves, debated with Queen Elizabeth I, and sat at the head of a prosperous pirate empire. She was Grace O'Malley, Pirate Queen.
Grace With the Cropped Hair
Known in Gaelic as Gráinne Ní Mháille, Grace was born in Ireland sometime around 1530. She was the daughter of Eoghan Dubhdara Ó Máille, ruler of the territory of Umhall and the lord of an ancient, powerful dynasty in the province of Connaught. The Ó Máille family's money came from the seas, raised in the form of taxes levied on anyone who fished off their stretch of the Irish coast. The family were also shrewd traders and merchants, trading (and sometimes plundering) as far away as Spain. Ó Máille castles also dominated the southwest coastline of County Mayo, providing protection from invasion for the wealthy lord's territory. At a time when the Tudors in England were ramping up their conquest of Ireland, such defensive measures were vital.
The folklore of Grace O'Malley begins in her childhood, when she supposedly begged her father to let her join him on a trade mission to Spain. When he refused his daughter's request on the grounds that her long hair would be hazardous on the rolling deck of a ship, she hacked off her mane, earning herself the nickname Gráinne Mhaol, or "Grace with cropped hair."
Though little is known of Grace's early life, when she was about 16 she made a political marriage to Dónal Ó Flaithbheartaigh, heir to the lands of Ó Flaithbheartaigh. It was an excellent dynastic match, but despite bearing her husband three children, Grace wasn't made for housewifery. She had more ambitious plans.
Soon Grace was the driving force in the marriage, masterminding a trading network to Spain and Portugal and leading raids on the vessels that dared to sail close to her shores. When her husband was killed in an ambush by a rival clan around 1565, Grace retreated to Clare Island, and established a base of operations with a band of followers. According to legend, she also fell in love with a shipwrecked sailor—and for a time life was happy. But when her lover was murdered by a member of the neighboring MacMahon family, Grace led a brutal assault on the MacMahon castle at Doona and slaughtered his killers. Her actions earned her infamy as the Pirate Queen of Connaught.
Though Grace remarried for the sake of expanding her political clout, she wasn't about to become a dutiful wife. Within a year she was divorced, though pregnant, and living at Rockfleet Castle, which she'd gained in the marriage and which became her center of operations. According to legend, the day after giving birth to to her ex-husband’s son aboard a ship, she leapt from her bed and vanquished attacking corsairs
Grace continued to lead raiding parties from the coast and seized English vessels and their cargo, all of which did little to endear her to the Tudors. She was known for her aggression in battle, and it's said that when her sons appeared to be shirking, she shamed them into action with a cry of "An ag iarraidh dul i bhfolach ar mo thóin atá tú, an áit a dtáinig tú as?"—which roughly translates as "Are you trying to hide in my arse, where you came out of?"