April 25, 2010

Since Stella now plays in the dirt every single day, the need to wash her hands has increased considerably. And since our backs cannot handle the simultaneous action of holding her over the sink and washing her hands, a stool was called for. I found some free pallets on Craigslist a while ago and used a few pieces from one of them to build the stool.

Thanks to Sam for the idea!

April 10, 2010

"And what these acts subvert is nutritionism: the belief that food is foremost about nutrition and nutrition is so complex that only experts and industry can possibly supply it. When you're cooking with food as alive as this - these gorgeous and semigorgeous fruits and leaves and flesh - you're in no danger of mistaking it for a commodity, or fuel, or a collection of chemical nutrients. No, in the eye of the cook or the gardener or the farmer who grew it, this food reveals itself for what it is: no mere thing but a web of relationships among a great many living beings, some of them human, some not, but each of them dependent on the other, and all of them ultimately rooted in soil and nourished by sunlight."

-- Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food, 200-01


Hopefully a review to come soon...

April 8, 2010

Before I walk into her darkened room, I can already hear her babbling. Between her ooohs and auggghs, which always end with a high pitch sound like she's asking a question, I can detect a few barely intelligible words. Daaat? Maa? Daaa? Her sounds are sometimes muffled, which means that her face is still half buried in her pack n play mattress, which means she's still horizontal, which means I'll give her a few more minutes before I get her up.

Weighing in at twenty-three pounds and standing over two feet tall, she is slender and thick all at once. Her stomach bulges out between her ribs and her pants, but her shoulders and arms are petite and fragile, like twigs protruding from a sturdy branch. Her thighs are chunky and rather squeezable, but her calves are ruggedly tough. Her cheeks swell out unmistakably and sometimes you'd swear she actually was storing a few acorns in there. This is especially true during her smiles, which come often and pack enough force to make you stop thinking about whatever else was on your mind. Her tanned skin starts soft and delicate at the top of her frame and gradually gets a teensy bit rougher once you arrive at her calves, ankles and feet, which she has happily and purposefully drug through mud, grass, sand and concrete over the course of her thirteen month life.

Her temples are always warm, even hot sometimes and whenever I need to warm up, I'll bury my cheeks into them, which she almost exclusively dislikes. She smells like baby, which is strangely indescribable, but worth every sniff. During the rare moments that she will snuggle up close, which has happened more in the last month than the previous twelve combined, her breath is sweet and milky and smells like innocence.

Her deep blue eyes. When you contrast them with her dark hair, they are strikingly beautiful. But when you see them every day, when you see them connected to a smile or a scream, when you see them filled with hope or hurt, they are piercing, hinting at a bold and independent personality that lurks just below the surface.

She is standing now, her babble more crisp and defined. George and teddy, her sleeping buddies, have likely been tossed onto the rug below. She has begun sprinkling yells into her talking, signaling her readiness for a bottle after twelve hours of sleep. As I walk across the creaky wood floors toward her closed door, her babble goes quiet. She hears me. I push open the door to find her standing there, one arm slung over the side and one dainty finger pointing in my direction. Good morning Stella, I whisper, and we start another day.


Written for prompt 2 of the workshop...

April 4, 2010

Dress made by Kari. Worn by our baby turning toddler.