Consider the Marshmallow Peep. Wholly lacking in nutritional value yet somehow irresistible in their simplicity. They are colors that do not exist in nature, certainly not the colors of any chick I’ve ever seen, which, ok, doesn’t say much with my being a city girl and all. But have you ever heard a harsh word from one of those little sugar-dusted cuties? Never. No, instead they happily sit in their little box, cheek by jowl with their identical, fluorescent sibs, oblivious to the fate that awaits them. Myself, I like them slightly aged but “raw, with a dry white wine.” Happy 50th and many more!

Tonight I start the sleeves on my current main knitting project, a mohair sweater for the First Born. I am also within shouting distance of finishing my other project, a pale blue chenille turtleneck, which is for me. I have been trying very hard to have no more than two current projects at any given time. This policy theoretically insures that projects actually get finished so anticipation is running high for starting something new. I can’t wait to begin my next project – a Sirdar aran sweater for daughter #3, the Sprite. I have been looking forward to it for months. This yarn is a gorgeous green/gold Classic Elite Mistral cotton/alpaca blend that I bought from elann some time ago. Heather says that she has to knit green yarn in the spring and I totally agree. I can’t wait!

Howard Zinn's comments on the war are certaily worth a read.

This week is school spirit week at City Honors. Every morning, Mona Lisa, a/k/a daughter #2, descends the stairs to breakfast dressed in some …shall we say… “interesting” outfit. Today it was 80’s garb. You would think that, having survived the fashion crimes that defined the era, all traces would have been banished. But no. At least now these things are recognized for the jokes they are. WE thought they were stylin’.


I had made up my mind not to write about the war but, in the words of that man, so much for that resolution. I stayed up way too late last night flipping between CNN and CBC. Then, still unable to sleep, I was up at 5, back to the news. I guess I feel compelled to watch to see what actions, over which I have no control, are being carried out in my name. This is not my America. We are not a nation of lawbreakers. We are not international bullies. How did this happen?

Vive San Guiseppe!
My family has celebrated St Joseph’s Day for generations. I remember, as a young child, going with my Grandmother around her neighborhood, visiting other tables and sampling the delicious food offered there. The pinnacle of the event was always, without question, the St. Joseph’s Table my Grandmother made. I can recall the wonderful cooking smells wafting down the stairs as we climbed to my grandparents’ dining room. Although, as a child, I was less than crazy about eating fish, I always loved the omlettes, and the sweets—sfinge, cannoli and pinalatta. As I grew, I came to love the pasta con le sarde and other more savory dishes. It has now been several years since my Grandmother passed but thankfully, we have managed to keep the tradition going. St. Joseph’s table is, in my mind, as much a way to keep my Grandmother’s memory alive as to celebrate the saint’s day. I think that the best traditions are those that allow for some evolution. Several years ago, when they were very small, my children and nieces and nephews came to expect ice cream sandwiches to have a place at our traditional St. Joseph’s Table. And now they do.

The First Born leaves for Spain in less than three weeks. Good friends just returned from three weeks in South Asia. Older sister and family leave for England and France in a few weeks. Greg and Meera are in Sydney. Claudia and Scott go to Mexico for dinner. We are 15 minutes from Canada when traffic is heavy. The world is a very small place. Our neighborhood extends beyond the Elmwood Village into every corner of the globe. And yet, inexplicably, our government insists on being the neighborhood bully. I suppose it is possible that the crabby old lady who yells at the kids for trampling her hostas is really a child-eating witch instead of just a lonely, arthritic woman who loves her garden. As a child, it was easier to believe; as an adult, it is harder to swallow.

I have been asked about the name of this blog. I thought about just calling it “m1” but, in light of world events, it sounded too militaristic. Knitters will recognize “m1” as an instruction to make a new stitch where there wasn’t one before. To my way of thinking, a happy thought.

Don’t get me started on all of this French bashing. Are we such fickle friends that we refuse to hear opinions from loyal friends who happen to disagree with us? Women understand that you can disagree with your friends and not resort to name calling and other childish behavior. Maybe that color is not flattering. It’s possible. Just because I disagree with my friend’s opinion doesn’t mean I will change “Amazing Grace” to “Amazing Maude”. As for us, we are doing our best to support the French. In Wegman’s the other day, we stocked up on baguettes, brie and imported French butter. Tonight we try the “C”s—coquilles, croissants and champignons. If fraternity requires us to consume more French wine, so be it!