The only word for this past weekend is "blustery." The wind blew and it blew and it blew, bringing with it lots of cold, Arctic air. The wind, combined with me feeling a bit under the weather myself, made for a good weekend to stay inside and take care of indoorsy things.
I did make myself get out for just a bit each day, taking a short walk and finally planting the garlic (not a moment too soon). Last winter, the leaf mulch I put down blew away before we got snow cover. This time, I weighted it down with a few pieces of wood.
I also finally put the ol' punkin-heads to rest in the compost pile. It's sort of sad that Jack-o-lanterns only live for a night, so I like to let them extend their stay on my front step (though this year they might have over-extended by just skoch).
It was nice to take a weekend to take care of very un-wordy things, after sending off a draft of my thesis to my mentor last Wednesday. While there was plenty I could have been doing (working on my presentation, writing a speech, designing a website, starting on a couple of essays I've been toying with), I rather reveled in not doing anything related to writing. I like the idea of artistic endeavors as a kind of breathing--with productivity as the exhale, and rest, inspiration, and refueling as the inhale.
I think we need both, exhale and inhale. And after talking to my mentor on Sunday (seven out of nine endings need rewriting!), I have plenty of exhaling coming my way this week.
In the meantime, I did some catching up on housework that I'd neglected the previous weekend (how come it is never done?).
And sent the boys out in the wind to try to prevent the seven p.m. pillow fights that seem to break out when not enough fresh air and exercise has been had. M built a newspaper water bomb that exploded a bit on takeoff.
I also knit up the body of the first of E's mittens (during two more episodes of Ripper Street). I hope to do the second this weekend, and finish the thumbs. I love how the olive yarn looks with the Noro.
And I finally, finally finished one crocheted rock. I gave up on using the wool--it kept splitting, and in places was too thick--and switched to pearl cotton. I also bought the correct-sized crochet hook--I had been using a 10 when the pattern calls for a 9, and crochet hooks, unlike knitting needles, get smaller as the number goes up, so 10 was really tiny. But craft store doesn't carry single hooks in size 9, and I had to buy a package of six hooks in order to even get one (which explains why I hadn't bought it in the first place). I also realized that I should be using number 12 pearl cotton (not 8, which is what I used on the rock below). It's much, much finer, but only comes in very plain colors. I bought one skein of ecru, as well as some brightly colored embroidery floss. I'm going to see if a single strand of floss will work. I don't know why I'm so weirdly obsessed with figuring out how to do this right (I think I'm just indignant that it should be so damn hard!).
Meanwhile, M, about whom I just said two weeks ago, "He has no interest in cooking," decided to make an apple pie. I helped out with the crust and peeling, and the general moral support (have you ever noticed kids just like you to be right there next to them while they do things?).
Sunday night, before he cut into it, he said, "You can come take a picture of it now if you want, Mom." (And C said, "You're almost as bad as your mother.").
When he looked at the pictures, he said, "Are you going to put that on your blog?" But of course!