Le monde de fromage de Kate

My favorite quote at the moment is from a FABULOUS Christmas compilation CD from my lovely friends, Michael and Frank:

Socks, I name you “Phil.”

Every time I hear this (and other quotes from the same source) I laugh like a crazy lady (which is, of course, apropos).

I received a large pimple on my right (face!) cheek for Christmas; it was rather festive. It was not the only gift I received. But I’ll get to that another time. I was going to call this entry, “What Would Cause Kate to BAKE?” But zits are funnier.

Nonetheless, let’s address the question. Indeed, what WOULD make Kate act even slightly domestic? Well, as I had mentioned, I was on to Plan G with my big Christmas Craft Project. I think Plan G might actually work. However, I was sooooo tired of broken drill bits and red-hot stone shards flying through the air, wearing eye protection, getting covered in moist stone grit (to the point that it would make my hair stiff – interesting thought for a styling product, perhaps, but also YUCKY), and losing my favourite pieces of rock. I needed a break. So in the middle of the night (is that not when I do ALL my most interesting work?) on December 23 – which, I suppose, would technically make it December 24 – Christmas Eve, I baked a TRIPLE batch of Boiled Raisin Cookies. This is, believe it or not, something in my skill set; I make a decent Boiled Raisin Cookie. And if you’ve not tasted Boiled Raisin Cookies, I should tell you that even folks who do not like raisins have liked these cookies. I use my Great-Grandmother Monson’s recipe (and she was a really WONDERFUL cook and baker). Here, FREE FOR THE TAKING, is the THE RECIPE.

So, yes, I have yet to finish my big Christmas Craft Project, but I have not given it up completely. Besides, Boiled Raisin Cookies are my Dad’s favourite, so it was a nice festive holiday-like thing to do for him.

So Happy Holidays and All That Jazz to All Y’all!

So I’m on to Plan G (I believe) with my major holiday craft project. It seemed simple and elegant; it is now gargantuan, pollution-emitting and, to be frank, slightly dangerous.

The “Rock Men” have been very helpful. They, for instance, inspired my very special hand-crafted water bath made from a piece of laminate flooring. Nonetheless, I’ve broken TWO MORE diamond drill bits (at least this time the didn’t go flying into the air or put me in danger of putting out an eye). I went to replace them, and the “Rock Men” very sweetly told me that one needs to be patient and I was PERHAPS bearing down too hard with my Dremel® tool. Well, in truth, they are more frank than that; they said, “You’re pushin’ too hard.” They then suggested an alternative to suddenly magically assuming the patience of Job. One of the “Rock Men” even showed me how to do it. It looked straightforward, I have the tools, I thought Plan F was well on its way. Nope. I now have ruined approximately two yards of REAL “half-round” silver wire (priced by the GRAM, for crying out loud).

So please, pretty PLEASE, wish me luck with Plan G. It’s a little sticky, but at least no one will sustain second or third degree burns from it.

I have always DETESTED the Carol of the Bells for myriad reasons. It’s overdone (usually badly), it’s anxiety-producing (bad form, you’d think, in a Christmas Carol that talks about anything “sweet”), it provokes an entirely inappropriate (for the subject matter) ominous feeling, and basically it has a bad fit of lyrics to a tune – it scans HORRIBLY (I believe it’s a Ukrainian tune that might be nice with – say – Ukrainian words on an entirely different subject) – how the lyricist (who shall remain nameless because I shan’t even BOTHER looking up such a hack – and I don’t want to know if it was someone good who was temporarily on CRACK or the like) thought that phrases such as “Hark how the bells, Sweet silver bells, all seem to say, ‘Throw cares away,’” should EVER be coupled with that portentous tune (portending EVIL bells, I would say HELL’S BELLS!!!). Don’t even get me started with the chorale arrangements of the beastly thing, which invariably turns into some sort of thumping, marcato nightmare. “Sweet” MY ASS. (Sorry, sometimes there is just no “gilding the lily”). I could go on (Really? One might ask in feigned astonishment).

But Jenny has found the salve for my discontent with this Holiday Carol. Click below to see it in all its glory:

I cannot begin to tell you how happy this song makes me. It is the PERFECT pairing of lyrics with the tune (if you’re going to do it in English, at least), capturing the urgency of the melody and fitting each syllable with faultless beauty. And the PERFORMANCE is utterly FLAWLESS. I LOVE this guy (his name is “Skipper,” too – how perfectly lovely it THAT). Thank you, Jenny. And thanks, too, American Angst.com.

Heartfelt apologies to e. e. cummings (even though he’s dead).

I started this “All Lauds and Honours” blog entry for Blobbies in May. Okay, I wrote the title on May 1, 2005 and then became distracted by the e. e. cummings poem upon which I based it (“i sing of Olaf glad and big”) and became intrigued with my great-grandfather’s World War I history in Engineer Company 5 (his name was Olaf – Olaf Wilford Monson – so it’s not QUITE as tangential as one might think) and was caught up mulling over whether or not he was really “glad” and “big” – he was to some extent but that is, indeed, a subject for another time.

So – BLOBBIES!!! It turns out that now is an opportune to discuss said creatures, as the OFFICIAL Blobby Farm is now open!

Not only is it a website of amusement and delight (peruse it – you will agree), it is the official source for Blobby purchases. AND THERE IS STILL TIME if you’d like to purchase a Blobby as a Christmas gift for your niece or you mail carrier or your boss or your cat OR the Queen of England (I’m thinking that she has NOT been privileged to meet any Blobbies). If you order your Blobbies by December 20th, you should receive them by Christmas (if you are not in Iceland, that is. You’d have to check with Blobby Farmers Maria and Chris about their Reykjavik shipping policies).

Oh – have I said that I LOVE Blobbies? I am Blobsessed; it is true. Read about my EXTREME Blobbsession of last Christmas in my Holiday Gift Ideas.

Let me introduce you to my collection:

Dread Pirate Ned 1

Shawny Donut 1

Hoosier, Jr. 2

Peek-A-Boo Radley, Jr. 1

Tot, Jr. 2

Uni, Jr. 1

Also, take a look at my entry to last year’s Blobby Coloring contest, for which I received a “FREAKISHLY Honorable Mention” in my age category.

For which I won this:

Kitty Crud 1

My nephew, Leif, won first place in his age category (talented little spud).

Ashley bemoans the fact that no one comments on Paisley’s beauty or intelligence, etc., but they say, again and again, “Look at all that HAIR!” Charles spent his time as an infant AND all of his teenage and many of his adult years hearing the same, I’m afraid (also, occasionally, someone approaching him from behind would say, “Ma’am, Ma’am” and then be appalled when he turned around – or there was that child that said, “MOM, that MAN is a LADY!” – or was that visa versa?). But it’s OBVIOUS that she’s disgustingly beautiful and I have no doubt that she will have a copious amount of brains, too (genetics working as they do – she is, after all, MY niece).

Anyway, I love her new hairdo.

Paisley has a “Unicorn Tail”

She’s coming to visit at the beginning of January. I hope Charles and Ashley won’t mind going home without her.

One should LISTEN when the gem and rock shop (that’s literally ROCKS – stones, fossils, gems) man (I call him the “rock man”) tells you to always use water when drilling stone with a diamond bit. Though I am Kate the Safety Dog I could not figure out how to use water while simultaneously using a tool THAT PLUGS INTO AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET (I suppose I’ve read too many of those safety warnings that accompany hair dryers and radios that tell you not to take appliances with you into a tub full of water) so I just blithely drilled away. I WAS wearing eye protection (and feeling silly about it – even though I am Kate the Safety Dog), and it turned out to be very providential.

You see, if you DO NOT use water while drilling stone with the diamond drill bit, the stone and the bit shaft will reach incredible temperatures. Suddenly, the stone will shatter into two pieces with the diamond portion of the bit stuck into it (melded, perhaps, by the extraordinary heat?). The broken piece, inconveniently released from the vise, will shoot into the air, hit your protective eye gear (See? I could have put an eye out), land in your lap, burning you through the towel sitting there AND your silk pajama bottoms, and then it will disappear completely (perhaps transported by intense temperature to an alternate dimension). This makes one squeal and is dangerous.

Today, when I went to replace the diamond drill bit, I deigned to ask another “rock man” HOW to use water while using an electrical tool. He told me to spit on the bit (which rhymes – how fun). He also explained several methods by which water could safely be delivered to a stone you are drilling so that white-hot pieces of Tiger’s Eye don’t burn your extremities. We then had a very interesting discussion during which I observed that, though I wouldn’t have thought of using saliva as a drilling lubricant, it may even be superior to water because it is more viscous (take THAT those of you who think I’m excessively germ phobic). I now have figured out a whole system, which I shan’t explain here, because sometimes I get these ideas which I think are very clever (like long ago when I installed a stereo in our old Datsun and I built the speakers into tupperware containers with somewhat long speaker wires so you could set them wherever you wanted). Every man I ever told about that thought it was completely HILARIOUS. Bloody chauvinists. I maintain that it was extremely versatile and functional AND a most creative use of kitchen storage containers, indeed.

So, basically, please take care, One and All! Watch out for those winter road hazards, keep warm (and remember that a large percentage of your body heat escapes through your head, especially if your noggin is sizable), wash your hands regularly and thoroughly (this is the very FIRST rule in Healthcare Universal Precautions), get your PSA checked every year (if you are a man over forty, that is), be nice to everyone (I’m being sincere – Plato said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”), and, whatever you do, SPIT on your BIT.

I don’t know if you’ll see this or not, but I wanted to tell you how much I love you. You know you are one of my oldest and dearest friends. My thoughts are with you and your family so strongly, deeply at this moment. I respect utterly that you need time before you receive calls and visitors, and I hope that this entry does not violate your need for privacy (if it does, I will remove this IMMEDIATELY).

My intent, born out of a feeling of helplessness at my inability to do ANYTHING to soothe the unimaginable grief you must be suffering, is to somehow honor you as a friend and a mother, and to somehow honor James as your child.

Joanne Cacciatore, MSW, founded the M.I.S.S. Foundation in 1996 after the death of her daughter, Cheyenne. She often tells others that she has “five children: four who walk and ‘one who soars.’” I think that’s a lovely image. She also said:

There is no greater tragedy, no more devastating human experience, than the death of a beloved child.

That’s certainly not something I’m telling you, but quoting as a reminder for others. There’s a ton of information on her website, but one of the things that resonated with me was the following flyer – about changing the way our Culture mourns, which I think everyone should read.

I still cannot find the sense to know whether or not it is crass and presumptuous of me to post such a personal missive, especially since I don’t know how to give you much-needed solace or could ever be so bold as to guess how you are feeling. Just know this: Tomorrow (later today, I should say) I will light a candle, sit down at my beloved piano and sing one of the songs I cherish the most – Angel by Sarah McLachlan – for you, your family, and for James. An unusual lullaby, perhaps, but I hope it means something. (“You’re in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort there.”)

And I must reiterate a sentiment I know is shared by so many – anything you need, ANY TIME – please ask.

All My Love,

Kate

“Sleep in Heavenly Peace,” James Glenn Kubricky
December 6, 2005

Happy Birthday, Syd.

Sydney Ann Samuelson Riggs
December 7, 1944 – June 18, 2005

You are missed so much.

To Whom It May Concern:

Did the package of combs with the Microban® label (“This product protected by Microban® – antimicrobial product protection – Cleaner. Fresher. All the Time.”) appear in the bathroom because of what was stuck to the furnace filter? Perhaps you do not KNOW what was stuck to the furnace filter, so I will tell you.

But first I should tell you that the only reason I know what was stuck to the furnace filter is because while I was just sitting and minding my own business, my Father rushed up to me, wearing his “Darth Vader” respirator and shoved two items in my face – two objects so lint-encrusted and dusty that they actually were triple their original size and looked FUZZY and vaguely Muppet-like (NOT in a nice way). I recognized one item as one of those “rat-tail” combs. The other – I haven’t the faintest CLUE what it was and I didn’t care to further examine it. It MAY have been a shiv, but do not quote me on that. While he “showed me” these things my Father was saying something very excitedly in his muffled “Darth Vader” voice to the effect of “THESE WERE STUCK TO THE FURNACE FILTER! THESE WERE STUCK TO THE FURNACE FILTER!!!” At least I THINK that’s what he was saying (it was confirmed later that the items were, indeed, stuck to the furnace filter). I was perturbed – first of all because my Father scared the hell out of me – startled me half to death – rushing up to me wearing that frightening mask and thrusting disgusting, grimy objects in my face. I also thought (mistakenly) from his agitated tone that somehow he was accusing me of some sort of impropriety that led to those objects being encased in furnace filter fluff. I suggested that he probably didn’t want to carry those filthy things wantonly about the house (I did not suggest this in a nice way). So he left me and went into another room where I heard him, in his “Darth Vader” voice, eagerly divulging to my Mother, “These were stuck to the furnace filter! THESE WERE STUCK TO THE FURNACE FILTER!!!”

So you can see why I might presume that the purchase of the Microban® combs might have something to do with the comb from the furnace filter which was, indeed, NOT “clean” or “fresh” – rather it was very, very dirty.

Most Sincerely,

Kate of Kate Hall, etc.