That was my motto yesterday. We had St. Paddy's Day corned beef & cabbage for supper with Pi Day (March 14, you know, 3.1415...) for dessert. We were two and five days late with our celebrations, respectively, but the food was good and spirits were high. I held off making Irish Soda Bread but now that the idea's planted I'm afraid I might break out in soda bread baking sooner rather than later. Chef John's recipe has golden raisins and orange zest in it in addition to the currents; I might have to take the plunge. Soon. Once I stock up on currants and golden raisins, that is.
Happy Spring! Look at the sun, all shiny and warm. It's funny, the air feels different today, the sun's rays feel warmer. Watch, it'll be back in the 20s, damp and dreary by the weekend.
After supper and making notes on Pinterest on the slow cooker Corned Beef recipe I used (I always change something [don't you?] and no longer trust my memory) I sat down to finish up the crocheted waffle. It's bigger than I thought (no measurements on the pattern) but then it's a potholder so I should have expected something bigger than palm size. Fortunately I ran short of yarn so I finished the edge with single crochet. Now all that's left is to weave in the tails, send it through the washer and dryer, and it can go into the play kitchen bin. I'm considering whipping up another one to sew to this one so it's firmer like a real waffle. LC is a fan of the play food I make which makes Meemaw feel pretty darned awesome.
Mr. & Mrs. Cardinal came, separately, to visit the platform feeder this morning. He tolerated a pair of House Finches sharing the feeder with him, she didn't.
Oh, I forgot to show you the yarn spinner one of the Guild members made for us. The Guild bought the spin-y part and she cut wood scraps and put them together. You poke a ball of yarn on the spindle, then use the outer end to knit with while it twirls around as you tug on it. The yarn stays put, doesn't roll all over or under the couch which will be very handy. Thanks, LP!
March 20--John Singer Sargent, Lady with Parasol. She twirled the parasol that rested on her left shoulder so fast that the tips of the ribs looked like saw teeth. "Stop that," said the older woman with her, not her mother, probably an aunt or a governess. "Sophie, a lady does not twirl her parasol like a common strumpet hoping to drum up business." The whirling silk buzzsaw stopped like she'd hit the brakes. "Yes, Miss Rogers," the girl said. I was right, governess. After a few steps, she said, "Miss Rogers?" "Yes, Sophie?" the older woman said. "Miss Rogers, what is a strumpet?" I watched the blush rise over the governess' collar and creep into her graying brown bun. "A strumpet, Sophie, is a woman of easy virtue. Quit asking questions and keep walking." Miss Rogers strode ahead. "Once more around the deck is a mile." Sophie's little feet in their slippers pattered to keep up with the quick and confident step of Miss Rogers' sensible shoes.
About halfway through that I realized that "we" were on an old ocean liner and "I" was a Miss Marple-type spinster strolling behind them. Wonder where "we're" off too?