Today is one of those days where the damp seems to pervade everything, and make it feel tight and full. I feel on days like this it would be nice to be one of the lovely ladies in the image here (Albert Moore, The Dreamers, 1882, Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery;) limp and relaxed, wrapped up in soft clothing, with nothing much to do.
Sadly, it is not to be. Not today, anyway. There's plenty of work to be done at, you know, work. It could be worse. I'm currently working on a Winslow Homer project. I'm not a huge fan - his landscapes and sportsmen/cowboys frankly bore the daylights out of me - but I love his women. The Milk Maid is not bowed, or slumped with resignation or frailty. To me she's just... accepting. Seeing, assessing, caught in a pause before she does what needs to be done. The New Novel (sadly the museum's collection isn't online) evokes so familiar a feeling of hiding out with an anticipated new just-for-me book that I can't help but smile. Mending the Nets is just lovely. Quiet and warm and filled with the comfortable purpose of work. So, things could be worse.
I finished the big crochet blanket over the weekend, and it was immediately put to exuberant use as my husbands current favorite blanket. I'm hoping to get a picture of it soon to put up here, but the camera's gone AWOL. I can't start the baby blanket until I get out to the not-so-local yarn shop, so I've been trying my hand at one of the coffee-cup cozies (nts: the link to which I need to repair.) I'm finding, especially in this case, that I need to just trust the pattern. Parts of it didn't seem to make a whole lot of sense, but I decided just to keep doing what the pattern said. Lo and behold, it's starting to turn in to something recognizable! It's not going to win prizes, but for a first effort, I'm damn proud. Again, pictures forthcoming once the camera is winkled out of whatever hiding place it's snuck off to.
I've sort of sputtered to a stop with I Married Wyatt Earp. Once I got through the Tombstone section, my interest sort of guttered out. Which is okay, since it was the Tombstone section I was primarily interested in. I'll probably wander over to pick up the Breakenridge account, but at the moment I've started reading Gunman's Rhapsody, by Robert B. Parker. My mother passed it on to me after I told her what I'd been reading, and it will likely be a pretty quick read. Already, though, after having read the Josie Marcus account, it's sort of interesting to notice all the liberties that he took as the author. I don't really mind them so much, it's just not very often that I'm in a position to notice the differences between the tales that spring from legend and the actual events. I think Gunman's Rhapsody and Helldorado will be the last of the Tombstone books, though. Then it's on to Marilynne Robinson.
Last but not least, I made homemade vanilla pudding Monday night, from this recipe over at Rosy Little Things, as a treat for Crane. Or, rather, I tried to. What actually happened was custard with vanilla bits in it. You see, wha' ha' happened was... I couldn't find vanilla paste at the local gigunga grocery place. So I just scraped a vanilla bean and thought no more about it. Which would have worked, had I either then put the vanilla in with the milk while it heated, mixed it in with the eggs and such, or mashed it up with the butter. As I did it, there was just no way for the flavor to really develop and intermingle throughout the pudding. So, Crane thinks it tastes like cake batter. Good cake batter he says, but not really like vanilla pudding so much. Pooh, on the other hand, loves it. Of course, since he's diabetic and shouldn't really have any. I'm not entirely sure what I'll do with the pudding, but will likely involve the extra pie shell I have. I'll definitely try again, knowing what I know now, though. Tonight, though, something I am good at: Quiche!
