Life on St Martin's Hill - Current 9 December 2011 Slowing Down Think about the best day of your life.  What were you doing?Where was it?  Were you alone or were you with friends or a relative perhaps? If you're lucky, you can think of more than one special day or moment.  I bet you have several.   I won't presume to know what happened to make that time or those times special for you, but I speculate on the following:  Your special moment had little to do with a cell phone, a television show or a video game. Here the rant begins. White dog and I were out for a walk the other day.  We were stopped at a crosswalk waiting for the signal to cross.  The little white pedestrian signal lit up and I felt myself leaning toward the other side of the street when I heard a faint female voice in my head say 'always look both ways'.  I'm not sure if it was the voice of my grandmother or that of my mother, honestly it could have been the voice of Susan Sarandon or Helen Hunt or Dana Plato.  The fact is, I heard it and I obeyed. Sure enough, with one foot in the street I turned to look behind me and caught glimpse of a car speeding around the corner towards us, a dark blue steak of motorized 'get me there'. I lurched back and managed to pull white dog back toward the curb (the waits at crosswalks are a terrible frustration to him and one I'm not sure he fully understands.)  'The bunnies are on that side of the street dad,' his face almost smiling, says to me, 'why aren't we going?' Once the signal changes and I make the slightest move for the other side, he's ready to sprint.  This isn't that he's bad on a leash.  In truth, I taught him to do so.  Our walks in Michigan often involved crossing a busy highway, one without a traffic light or walkway, as a result we used to wait for traffic to clear before we sprinted to the other side.  That was years ago, and the habit has never left him. Anyways, onto our courteous driver.  He never saw us.  I can't blame him really, it's hard to play on a cellphone while operating a vehicle.  Or so I suppose, I don't do it.  I assume he was texting, but whatever he was doing, that beautifully lit up little screen sure had his interest. Maybe he was dialing someone during his own emergency, but I doubt it. What are we doing? Slow down. I recall thinking that cell phones would be great to have in case of an emergency.  I still think they are.  I feel good knowing that while I'm laying in the street and can't operate my phone, at least the driver that hit me might be able to call for help.  Although, he might just keep driving. We need to slow down. II Recently I've caught a few advertisements for video games.  I'm not anti-video games, not by a long shot, nor am I anti-cellphones (well maybe a little), but if Battlefield 3 plays anything like the advert would have us believe, I think we've gone too far. I've never been in combat, and when all else seems dark, I can always fall back on this fact and find somebody to thank.  When I was young we would 'play guns' or play with toy soldiers or G.I. Joe's but is this the evolution of the toy soldier.  I have my reservations about anyone that so relishes the realities of warfare.  Bash all the zombie hoards you want, at least you're dealing with a fictitious enemy (I hope they aren't real anyway).   I like the occasional video game, and there are some I absolutely love, but I'm not sure I want to next in line at the gas station behind the guy that's just put in four straight hours of video combat and needs a Mountain Dew fix to keep sticking it to the enemy.  Is life really this boring for people? Do we crave anxiety this much? Slow down. III Let's get something straight.  No matter how much you may enjoy movies, television or nearly anything else that comes out of that screen... it's entertainment.  That's it.  Simplifying a bit here, but television (and video games) are what we do when we aren't doing anything else.  That's anything else as in, anything important, that's anything else as in... living.   We fill our 'free time' with them.  That's how it was meant to be... I think.  Luckily, with our wonder phones, we no longer need to wait to get home to 'not do anything else'.   Sometimes I wonder about us.  If we didn't use them for eating, would we evolve seals over our mouths.  It seems we don't have to really interact with each other anymore.  When we have signs at checkout counters asking people to hang up their phones, we've gone too far. It's time to slow down. What I really want to know is, who are you talking to? Obviously, it's someone you know.  No offense to any of my friends or family, but you're not that interesting!  I'm kidding of course, but what does this behavior say? I mean really say...  It screams 'I'm number one in my life.' 'I may be bothered with having to (fill up gas, buy smokes, pay for groceries, pick up stamps) but I don't have to like it and I don't have to talk to you.' These people are missing something.  By flooding themselves with everything, they are missing something.   I wonder what it is?   Maybe I should slow down.  27 October 2011 The Mover I've been stopped by a passing train many times before, but last night was the first time I have had the experience on foot.  The white dog and I were out for our evening stroll, and I opted to take him across the tracks and down to the river.  He is partial to the river as the geese and squirrels keep things exciting for him.  The evenings are even better as the bunnies come out in full force, giving my companion plenty to think about.  I am partial to the river as I like the to watch the lights bounce off the surface of the water and think of home. After a stroll around the park, we headed back toward the bridge just as the the bells went off, the checkered gate began to fall and the red lights began to glow.  'We're stuck,' I said to myself.  Rather than stand there on the walkway next to the mounting line of inconvenienced commuters, I retraced my steps through the park, much to the delight of my companion. After a few turns in the park, we stood together and watched the train cars roll by.  I read the graffiti that I could discern, but the words meant nothing to me.  Words from another place and time.  The words could have been written on papyrus in a dead language.  I simply could not recognize them for anything more than a series of intricately drawn letters.   Then there came a large booming sound as a forward car, long passed, shifted, setting all the trailing cars to follow suit.  Each did so, one by one and gave off its own booming moan of adjustment.  The sound was captivating, something like thunder might sound if caught in a cathedral and then repeated  endlessly but at a greater distance upon each repeat. I was relaxed and enjoying the moment.  And then I found myself back in theology class, trying to wrap my head around my Aristotle and Aquinas.  I thought of the unmoved mover and watched the cars go by. Each car with only the knowledge of the car in front and the car behind.  Each car made to adjust to movement of a car unseen dozens of car lengths up the track in a place not yet known.  It was getting dark and the round backs of rabbits became harder to discern from the darkening ground.   I felt small and cold. I wonder what car I might be?  Would my breaks scream when engaged, or would they fail completely, pushing the car in front of me?  When I needed to make an adjustment, would I do so with a booming voice?  Would I even stay on the track?  And what of the cars behind me?  How would I make life for them? As the last of the cars went by, I heard the bells' song start to deaden and I looked back across the road, now full in its entirety with stalled commuters, their head and taillights lit the bridge up like Christmas.  It was now dark and I was still cold, but happy to have been made to stop and watch the cars go by. *****     5 July 2011 Roomies? Who wants pizza? We're sending a call out to anyone living in the greater Green Bay, Appleton or Fox River Valley that may have a room to rent to one of us for a few weeks in exchange for private lampworking instructions (beginner, intermediate or master level).  All equipment and tutelage would be provided by us. We are advanced maintenance ninjas with a fine understanding of the custodial arts with degrees in dusting, dishwashing and the vacuuming sciences.  Please contact us if you're interested at  info@m-verdi.com or a.c.kruse3@gmail.com 26 April 2011 Baking & Aching II Even in the face of defeat, we refuse to quit.  Our second, or third attempt—depending on how you want to score it—turned out much like the first.  Within ten minutes of beating the new batch of egg whites and cream of tartar, we had a bowl of frothy goodness.   Now that's more like it. The finished product. For you adventure seekers, I'm happy to share my amended recipe, inspired by the good people at 'Better Homes and Gardens'. It isn't nearly as difficult as we made it.  I would highly recommend making sure your egg beaters ARE DRY before attempting your meringue. Daffodil Cake You will need for batter: 2 1/4 Cups sifted flour 1 1/2 Cups sugar 1 T baking powder 1 t salt  1/2 Cup vegetable oil 6 eggs separated (yolks for batter, whites for meringue) 3/4 Cup cold water 2 t lemon juice 1 t lemon zest For the meringue: 6 egg whites (mentioned above) 1/2 t cream of tartar For the frosting: 1/2 lb cream cheese 2 t lemon juice 4 Cups confectioners sugar 1 t lemon zest 8 drops yellow food coloring Starting with the batter, sift together flour, sugar, baking powder and salt.  Make a well in the mixture and add: vegetable oil, egg yolks, cold water, lemon juice and zest.  Beat until smooth. Beat separately: egg whites and cream of tartar until stiff.  (see Baking and Aching part I) Pour egg yolk mixture over whipped whites, folding until just blended.  Pour mixture into greased cake pan (your choice), bake at 325 degrees for about half an hour or until top of cake springs back when touched.  Invert pan on cake rack and leave till cold.  Use a spatula around edges of pan; turn upside down and ease cake loose with spatula. For frosting: blend cream cheese and lemon juice and gradually add confectioners sugar.  Add lemon zest and food coloring.  Ice cake with frosting and give it time to harden a bit or place cake in fridge for a few minutes.  I put jelly beans on mine! Enjoy! ***** 24 April 2011 Baking & Aching 'If that isn't ready by three o'clock, it's going in as is.' 'Well, what time is it now?' 'Ten minutes to three.' You know, time flies when you're having fun, but the same can be said when you are diligently engaged in a losing battle with a meringue.   It all started about a week ago, my wife—wonderful hostess that she is—set about making a lovely daffodil cake for my visiting parents.  Long story short, it turned out to be wonderful.  Fast forward a bit to this morning and our second attempt at the wonderful treat.  Put simply, the recipe calls for your batter to be prepared, followed by a large dose of angelic frothy meringue to be folded into it before baking.  Easy enough, right?  Meh, not so much. Lucky chap that I am, I happened into the kitchen just at the moment that the mixing marathon was about to take place.  'This is going to take a while,' Aimee said.  'You want this to look like icebergs.  And when you think you're done, you will be about half way there.' I felt up to the challenge, rolled up my sleeves and set to mixing the egg whites with a pinch of cream of tartar.  I should mention, I know many of you love your kitchen gadgets and that's fine, but we don't.  I do own a shamwow, but it was a gift.  And honestly, up until his arrest involving the 'girl for hire,' I felt like Vince was a trustworthy guy.  At any rate, I  live with a woman who swears that older is always better, quality towers over quantity and whisky is capable of curing diseases in a fashion akin to those found in the Bible.   I set about my task with an el-cheapo hand mixer.  It was electric, we aren't the Flintstones, just a bit stubborn and old fashioned. Well, about ten minutes in, there was really little change in the mixture.  It mostly resembled grits.  Runny grits at that.  Ten more minutes, my darling wife walks past and yells over the mixer 'It's getting there, keep going.' So I do.  Ten more minutes, looks the same to me, or was it a bit more yellow in color?  My arm at this point is starting to fizz out, but I'm not about to wimp out on something so frilly.  At last, Aimee relieves me of my post.  Ten minutes go by, then twenty. I would be lying if I said I didn't seriously consider ways to avoid the kitchen at this point.  I'm often guilty of hiding my common sense in the same general area that is occupied by the socks whose mates have mysteriously vanished, but I know the sights and smells of a blossoming disaster quite well. I eventually did the right thing and went in to relieve my wife.  The glop in the bowl had transformed from a soggy white mess into a white soggy mess.  'It works best if you make quick wrist movements like this,' Aimee said as she proceeded to demonstrate the proper technique. Thus the rotation was born.  We continued to take turns every ten or fifteen minutes to allow the feeling in the other's arm to return.  You've heard of sailors having sea legs, we were both stricken with mixer arm.   One finds inspiration in the strangest places.  Despite the numbness and pain, the rattling glass and screaming beaters, I found solace.  It was like a strange trance of sorts.  I had images in my mind of small children bundled up in their car seats fast asleep to the droning sound of tires slicing slush.  I felt it possible to fall asleep, my head landing in the white guck and I wondered if the mixers would wake me when they found my skull. After a few more rotations, after adding more cream of tartar and adding uncalled-for sugar to the mix, we decided it time to take things seriously.  'Get out the airplane mixer.' Our airplane mixer is basically a knock-off of the much popular Kitchen-Aid mixer that comes in so many wonderful colors.  I think they sell for around $300.  Our airplane mixer, from the 1950's is available in one color: silver, cost less than twenty and was purchased at a thrift store, much like the 1953 copy of 'Better Homes & Gardens' that our disastrous recipe  in question came from. The airplane mixer is aptly named.  It has ten settings, all of them simulating the nostalgic sound of long scrapped propeller aircraft.  It also has a delightful habit of 'taking off' down the countertop if not handled properly by the user. 'Now you're talking,' I thought to myself as I readied the beastly appliance into position. The transfer was made and the airplane mixer was set to its task.  I ramped it slowly, careful to secure it with my free hand while spinning the bowl with the other.  Finally some results.  Slowly, but surely the sludge turned to chunky sludge, the airplane mixer hummed with delight.  I increased the speed.  The sludge responded.  I heard the scientist scream over the twitching body of his monster creation 'More Power!'. The mixer growled a bit and sputtered ever so slightly, but the sludge was now bending to my will. 'Good enough,' Aimee said.  I ramped the mixer down for a landing and Aimee pulled the plug to deter a backfire.  Just as my wife was about to add the beaten mixture to the batter she stopped.  'We can't use this.' 'Why not?' 'It's full of metal shavings.' Sure enough, I had pushed the mixer too hard.  The proud mixer, surely built from repurposed Zero fighters after WWII, had met its match. We both hung our heads and leaned against the countertop.   'Do you have anymore eggs?' 'No.' 'This will make a good blog story.' We covered the batter and disposed of the metallic froth.  Defeat. For now. 'Better Homes and Gardens' 1953 The Meringue Sludge (after about an hour). * * * * * 31 March 2011 The End, In Other Words, If This Were The End You see, I was out running errands late this afternoon.  The sun out high and full doing its best to coax Winter's Skirts to the wind and history. I've seen images all over the web, and on my friends' blogs all chattering on about the Spring and its Infinite Glories. Oh, we went to the nursery and picked out four fruit trees, and a tray of these cory-something-or-others, and 100 yards of mulch and planted all of it already! You did all that, just today?  Well I'll have you know that I hosed down the back patio and moved my furniture and herb garden outdoors, and Pier 1 is having a sale on outdoor cushions that will match my outdoor, lighted birdbath that chirps in French!   And!  I'm making sun tea! And how do we, living about the 45th Parallel, celebrate the incoming of Spring?   Let's put it this way, while out and about this afternoon, I drove past Dairy Queen (which is due to open tomorrow!) and there was so much ice and snow still on the ground, that a crew of four were out with ice picks, rakes, and a power washer trying to  finish the job. That we cannot even think of planting a single seed, bulb, or tree without first cleaning up the massive piles of dog poo accumulated since last November.  And we can't clean that up until the danger of the 7ft chunks of glacier ice that clings to the roofs of our houses melts enough to shift in the middle of the night and shear itself off the high peaks of the roof coming down so straight and so hard that one, if standing directly under it, would be innocently guillotined. But instead, the massive ice slab plummets toward the ground and thrusts itself four feet into the frozen earth, and then stands proudly straight up in the yard, after having sliced any once existing hydrangea bushes directly, and cleanly in half.   So, what did I really do today, in honor of Spring? I donated two shopping bags filled with books to St. Vinnies.   And in case any of you are already clambering for more winter, I have the greatest, most generous announcement for you: Free Snow.  Come Shovel All You Want. * * * 23 March 2011 Where Have You Been, What Have You Been Doing,  And Why Have You  Been Doing It? Around here, sometimes, there's just no explaining our behavior. Everybody knows that. * * * 31 January 20111 4' Four feet of snow on the ground does not prevent spring's arrival.  Three nests upcycled from vintage flannel fabric, New Fairy Real Estate. Knittingly. Four feet of snow on the ground doesn't stop Valentine's Day from approaching. Sweetly.   Four feet of snow on the ground hardly  stops us from Thrifting, either. Huntingly. Four feet of snow on the ground only encourages more knitting.  Brand new purse, vivid with color, and a new MVerdi design for 2011. Knittingly. Four feet of snow on the ground leaves little room for daylight to enter thru the windows.  So some extra sparkle is generated by raiding the  ginormous stash of beads. Dancingly. Four feet of snow on the ground, however, prevents me from wearing this fancy design any time soon. Longingly. Four feet of snow on the ground keeps the studio temperature right around 33 degrees. Freezingly. Four feet of snow on the ground does not prevent the  wearing of these earrings. Industrial-ly. Four feet of snow on the ground reminds me that my twin goddaughters birthdays are approaching. Knittingly happily. Four feet of ho-hum encourages raids of paper supplies for new Easter ornaments. Swooningly. Four feet of ho-hum will make one little niece very happy in this two-piece outfit, crocheted with vintage elements. Cozily. 4', ho-hum, knitting. 4', ho-hum, knitting. Increasingly. Therefore, 4' + ho-hum= Increased Chance of Knitting For Your Area.   * * * * * 28 January 2011 End of the White Month We know you've been waiting in anticipation behind that door, and our new offerings are almost complete!  Andrew has listed two dozen of our favorite designs from the M-Verdi archives. Browse Made To Order category to see! More to come next week! * * * 10 January 2011 A Super Special Announcement Brought To You By M-Verdi Another year has been rolled out before us, and since 2010 ended like the lion, we here at M-Verdi will expect 2011 to end like the lamb. The Made-To-Order lampwork will be updated soon, as we are currently sorting through a couple hundred designs.   Our Etsy shop is constantly being filled with all things great and small.  Holiday, upcycle, lampwork, jewels and jemmies, gloves, gloves and gloves. Can't get enough of those gloves.  I would wear a different pair every hour, but they really need to move on to new homes. Sounds like a special sale is in order. Go to our Etsy shop. Buy everything. Use this coupon at check-out: luvmverdi (now don't you just luv m-verdi?) and it will deduct 30% off your entire order.     Everything in our shop is mouth-watering, jaw-dropping, and just enough wow to make anything special. Enjoy! (sale ends 15 January 2011) * * * * * 14 December 2010 Angels We Have Held On High Sort of like an Angel Rescue, we are.  They come here, most plucked from the edges of Thriftdom. Some move to esteemed positions in our art. Or esteemed positions on the mantle. Or the top of a tree. Some stay just long enough to calm themselves and gather their thoughts before moving on. To someplace new. To celebrate a new era of Christmases. Going around a second time, perhaps a third or even a fourth time. But who's counting? We should all be so lucky. * * * 8 December 2010 Gnomes at Home As one admirer so simply put it, What an amazing find! * * * * * 1 December 2010 Winter Update Just a quick update to let you all know that over the next few days I will be pulling many of the items from the 'Made to Order' category of the site and adding a new selection to chose from.  So please don't panic should you pop in and see the place pretty bare.  New selections are on the way. Our etsy store is being packed in with tons of vintage Christmas goodies, Aimee's knit gloves, etc.   We are getting caught up on lampwork orders, there is still time to have your custom order finished in time for the holiday.  New items should follow by the weeks end, but quantities may be limited while were filling orders, so if you're waiting on lampwork, it is best to drop us a line and get on our firing schedule. Thanks to all of you for keeping us so busy! ***** 25 November 2010 Of Harvest Long Gone   The snow came early that year.  As I walked down the gravel drive, the first timid flakes began to fall.  By the time I reached the back door, the snow lost its shyness and was made bolder by the sudden gusts of wind.  The back yard was barren, having been shaved clean of its harvest only weeks earlier.  Dad’s tractor made a wide path in between the rows of dried corn, corn that still stood as a sentry for the birds to feed during the dark months that lay just ahead. Lights were on inside the house.  Various rooms filled with family, blossoming conversations, smiles, and the clinking of dishes.  This was the last Thanksgiving at the farmhouse, and I was intent on savoring every possible memory as a testament to perfect celebrations.  In stocking feet, I stood on the wrap-around porch looking out into the storm, the flakes swirling around, the muffled sounds of tires as cars drove by.  My feet were cold, almost numb, and yet I held out as though I were about to miss it all in the blink of an eye.   The farm house—  its most notable element was the yellow wrap around porch— white railings and spindles from circa 1881, flanked by a grand set of stairs that had been replaced five, six times.  On either side were two massive concrete urns, filled with the remnants of frost-bitten red geraniums.  High windows, wide rooms, wood floors, and floor to ceiling glass cabinets, a maze of architecture that was appreciated by everyone who ever visited us.  Often I liked to pretend that I was an abandoned princess, and would play my own little games of ‘escape’ through the numerous hallways, Jack & Jill rooms, and hidden stairwells that connected the 3rd floor bedrooms to the basement laundry.   Mom always made the biggest cakes I’d ever seen.  Drenched in rich layers of European chocolate and hazelnuts, one was topped with toasted coconut, the other with Schwartz-wald cherries, both served on elegant glass pedestals.  And two cakes, homemade from scratch, never made enough to go around a second time, regardless of how few, or how many we were.  Afterwards, saturated with home cooking, and jazz strains coming from the kitchen, most retired to the front room where the bravest began to trim the 14ft Christmas tree, the younger cousins ventured to play outside in the wet fury, and I’d go up to my sister’s room and we’d practice each other’s make-up. And the snow continued to fall.   * * * * * 24 November 2010 It's Dear Season Time to get started! After wading through years of collected holiday ephemera, it's bundled and off to new homes. A sneak peek. Stay tuned for the return trip! * * * 18 November 2010 Where Odds & Ends End Up Metallics and mohair. Acrylic and wool. An old linen pillowcase gets a make over using other old things. Scrap from a retired doily, torn 18th century lace, shell button from a sleeping chemise, and a photo of Winifred, Phoebe, and Irene. Art Deco element rescued from an old bracelet, two birds on a budding bough were once earrings, tiny flora salvaged from a child's barrette. Metal beads hand sewn by a Victorian era seamstress.  Salvaged from an Edwardian gown.  And another Art Deco element, all providing the background for another religious wonderment. An old embossed book cover, washed with gold, and draped with a passementerie of medallions and color. An old scrap of paper from inside the thousand pound cash register, text from the Corona typewriter, recycled lace from someone's ancient curtains. One of a kinds, they be. * * * 12 November 2010 Two Many Chiefs Mr. Indian Chief moved to our home over the summer.  He was orphaned in a glass showcase down at the thrift, and always being on the lookout for something unusual, I spied him immediately. Oh, I really liked him. Held him up like the Holy Grail, and exclaimed loudly,  Wow, is this guy cool, or what? The ladies just smiled at each other, and then smiled at my husband as if to say, She's awfully tall for being 10 years old! He smiled back at them, wordlessly agreeing. Oh, fooey on you guys!  I'm getting him! Mr. Chief is an old chalkware carnival prize.  Painted rather sloppily, but wow!  His colors are just the perfect shade of vintage!  Nestled in a ring of silk flowers, he's my favorite decoration for this holiday. And the other Chief in our house? Ah.  You knew that was coming, didn't you? Yeh.  We won't go there. :) * * * 31 October 2010 Orange & Black; Pictorial II <