CraftyRichela

Welcome me to the party—I’m late as usual.

In my haste to start a blog last year, I did not research the best blog providers. (Is that the right term, “blog provider?” It sounds so medical, like it might be heard in the whole health care debate. “So who’s your blog provider?”)

Anyways, here I am trying to make up for lost time.

I am switching over to blogger:

http://craftyrichela.blogspot.com/

Oh, yes. It’ll be fancier. I have a nice little blog roll (which I couldn’t figure out how to add with this current crappy blog provider) and some other pretty thangs. Hope you like it.

So please check out the other blog. And make a habit of it, will ya??

This is the sample pop up book that my crafty girls are currently making. Since I’m not fully recovered from last week’s PTA event, I’m just providing a lot of photos (excuse the poor photography) for the various elements. 

This is my alter ego, Walter.

He’s feeling a bit run down and tired. Walter is going to rejuvenate by spending the weekend with his sisters and getting a spa treatment.

Okay, I’m spending the weekend with my sisters and getting a spa treatment. (Who am I trying to fool with this Walter business??)

Last night’s PTA event was fun but left me running on fumes. Must get back my mojo.

Oh, and no pics of the steak. By the time I remembered to whip out my camera, all 3 steaks were gone! Go, grass-fed beef!

Hungry yet?

This is my version of macaroni-n-cheese. Yes, I could have used a fancier pasta, but who cares? It’s the cheese to pasta ratio that really matters. And the types of cheese that you use. And making a proper roux. And adding breadcrumbs to the top. And…

I made two large trays for a local PTA event, along with 3 steaks. Well, they were more like roasts. I prepared 3 London Broils from my cow share and the best way to cook these tougher, leaner cuts is by slow roasting them in the oven.

Picture of steak to come. In the meantime, you can salivate over the mac-n-cheese pic.

Someone recently asked why I started running again. This is my answer:

I am not a good driver.

Let me explain this further. Yes, I am—as the oversized Con Ed worker wearing a ridiculously small orange bib told me when I couldn’t merge lanes fast enough—a “worse driver than his grandma.” I’m an Asian American woman behind the wheel of an SUV, which should mean that I’m predisposed to the “lead foot” syndrome. But I’m not. In fact, I drive within 3 miles of the speed limit wherever I go. And you know what other crazy, horrible things I do? I signal before changing lanes, yield to pedestrians, and take up only one space in a parking lot.

To set the record straight, I did not “just start driving yesterday.” Like most people, I got my license at the tender age of 17. And I am not “blind.” I may wear corrective contact lenses, but my eyes are working just fine otherwise.

I like traffic rules. I know that it’s wrong to like the law, to feel good when I see the “po-po” in the next lane, but I do, I cherish it. I’m the nerd that got all questions right on the written test and did not make one mistake on the driving test back in high school. But apparently I am a bad driver because I know what a double yellow line means.

My worst offense is probably stopping at stop signs. I can’t help it. I can read, something that started when I was about 5 or 6. So when I see the word “STOP” in bold capital letters, I have this innate desire to cease moving.

The other day, I got into my car, drove to a town about 5 miles away, and registered my daughter for summer camp. Weary of scaring half the folk between here and there with my bad driving, I tried my best to imitate a “good” driver. I attempted to accelerate 15 miles above the speed limit. All the while, my heart raced and stomach felt queasy. The site of the “po-po” did not comfort me. When it was time to park my car, I took up two parking spots near the front of the building, next to another similar sized SUV who had done the exact same thing. The owner, who was about to get in his car, gave me a nod. It was a “bro” type of gesture that I had never been on the receiving end before. I tried to give a nod back. It left me out of sorts.

This is why I am a bad driver. This is why I don’t like driving.

This is why I started running again. Feet on the ground, one step at a time… 

Crafting with kids that you don’t particularly know can be tricky. Are they crafty? Are they good listeners? Are they terribly shy? Do they get upset easily when things go wrong?

(Are they a pain in the ass??)

One time while teaching a craft to a bunch of first graders, I found out that the at-first-seemingly-diminutive child was really the hell raiser of them all. And, boy, did he NOT like getting crafty with me. But, as you can guess, the feeling was mutual. Being the adult in the situation, I attempted to disguise my horror with a smile and a joke. I can’t say the same for the kid.

Despite the rare “oh-my-God-I-can-just-kick-that-kid-right-now” moments, I do truly enjoy crafting with kids, whether it’s one-on-one or with a large group of rowdy chatterboxes. Kids are surprisingly creative, resilient when least expected, and can cut through the bs like no one’s business!

I sometimes get caught up in giving out what I think are pearls of wisdom. But I’m no Ben Franklin, and the stupidity that drips out of my mouth is regrettable. So I have an apology to make.

I recently taught a book project and a kid asked me if her finished book was pretty. I gave a canned response: “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” What a cop-out! I am sorry. Here is the honest answer that you knew you deserved (I saw it in your eyes) and that I should have given you:

NO, your project was not pretty. It was delightfully strange. But it doesn’t mean that I didn’t like it or appreciate it. It doesn’t mean that your book is less important or relevant than the conventionally pretty one made by the kid who could cut pristine edges and could never have a glue mishap. Your book had personality and a sense of style that was all your own.

And that, to me, is a whole lot better than being just “pretty.”

(recipe at the end of this entry)

A little background before I delve into this blog entry: about a year ago, my neighbor and I began a journey into the world of grass-fed beef. We bought our first share of a cow raised by a local farmer (or somewhat local—it’s a four hour drive from where I live, but I am not the one who drives—thanks, Karen!). It’s been an interesting experience so far. The only negative part is the physical storage of all that beautiful beef, especially since my husband Dave is not a big fan of purchasing an additional freezer for our basement. I’m hoping to wear him down soon, especially since grilling weather is on the horizon. But until Dave gets his “a-ha” moment, my neighbor and cow share cohort lets us store some extra cuts in her basement freezer.

Now I am preparing my home for the next delivery of our grass-fed beef. The short ribs, which are the most intimidating part of our cow share, still remained from the previous delivery until about three days ago.

And why are short ribs intimidating? For two reasons: 1. the entire cut is really, really big, about 7 pounds of dead weight that require me to, as my Pilates instructor would say, “engage my core” in order to carry it and not hurt my back; and 2. they are really, really fatty in all the wrongs places (with a naked eye it looks like pure fat attached to bones—where’s the beef?). Oh, I know that some of you who are short ribs fans are probably booing me right now. But ordering short ribs in a nice restaurant and cooking them in your kitchen are two very different things.

Being the crafty gal that I am I decided to braised the crap out of these suckers. Four hours later, I let them cool off so I could remove most of the rendered fat. And two hours after that, we all ate like kings.

Short ribs, I have conquered thee.

Now if I can only talk my way into getting a piece of cow tongue. That would be a real challenge!

RECIPE FOR BRAISED SHORT RIBS

Since I had no idea how to braise these short ribs, I decided to perform the kitchen sink method: I ransacked my kitchen and threw into the pot everything my hands touched. Aw, don’t get picky on me now…

Ingredients

5-7 pounds of short ribs

3 small carrots

1 large yellow onions

2 celery stalks

1 whole head of garlic

1 28oz can of diced tomatoes

1 bottle of red wine (I used a nice cabernet)

4 cups of chicken broth

2 cups of water

4 stalks fresh thyme

1 tablespoon dried oregano

2 bay leaves

salt and pepper to taste

First, brown each piece to get rid of some of the fat in a large pot. Set aside.

Dice one large onion, three carrots, and 2 celery stalks. Crushed a whole head of garlic. After sautéing these ingredients in the melted fat left in the pot, Add the bottle of red wine, chicken broth, another two cups of water, and the spices (thyme, oregano, bay leaves, salt, and pepper). Bring to boil and add short ribs. Reduce heat to simmer and slow cook for 4 hours. Let it cool so the fat rises to the top and solidifies. Remove rendered fat.

Preheat oven to broil. Remove short ribs and place in casserole dishes. Broil short ribs for 3 to 5 minutes. Remove from oven and add sauce. Add fresh thyme for garnish and serve immediately.

Serve with mashed potatoes.

I love my crafty daughter and all the big and small crafty things that she does. Her friends are always noticing the “Masana” (for that is her beautiful name) touches to her clothes, her hair, her shoes, her knapsack, and even her homework (my sincere apologies to her teacher, Mrs. Borom, for the baroque approach she takes with writing her name!).

When we were at JFK airport a few weeks ago, Masana’s craftiness did not go unnoticed. In fact, it delayed the line for searching carry-on luggage by at least twenty minutes. (My sincere apologies to the man behind me who had to hold his smelly, wet shoes in his hands because the TSA security detail wouldn’t let him place anything on the conveyor belt; you deserved a big hug at that moment.) As our bags were going through the x-ray machine, one of the security guards slammed on the brakes. He called his two cohorts over and they poured over the screen. “What is that?” “I know what that is, but that?” “We better get Carl.”

Pretty soon Carl came over, and said in a hard whisper “Shake and bake, guys. Shake and bake!” Well, that got me nervous. I thought for sure they were going to rip my bag apart and take my fancy eyebrow tweezers that I bought at Sephora for $30. But instead Carl let my bag go through the machine and down the conveyor belt. He then grabbed Masana’s knapsack and asked me, “Is this yours, ma’am?”

Surprised, I said no, that it was my daughter’s, and then pointed to her lovely eight year old self. She smiled and Carl was caught off guard. He asked her to come over to a table so that they could go over the contents of her knapsack. Oh, you can bet your sweet bippy that he didn’t take her two steps without me within arms reach. I was ready to give good ole Carl the lecture of his life. What could my little girl have in her possession that could have seemed suspicious?

Well, it turned out that Masana had taken some pipe cleaners and wrapped it around her hard plastic headband. In an x-ray, it looked really, really suspicious.

Carl took out the headband, looked at Masana, and said, “Did you do this?” Masana smiled even brighter and nodded. “It’s really pretty,” he said and smiled back.

Okay, Carl. You’re a nice guy after all.

The one thing I would change about the entire trip would be the inbound flight to Heathrow. As much as I love Virgin Atlantic, no amount of free movies could make up for the horrible flight. But I don’t blame the airline. I blame the parent, as in me, mother of the two sleep deprived children who had to lug heavy knapsacks from the plane, through the airport, onto the tubes, and through the streets of the Southwark section of London.

What was I thinking?

And, of course, those rude French teenagers near Buckingham Palace. Pushing, laughing at everyone except themselves, brushing their hair, and putting on makeup. When I mentioned this to my wise (not much) older sister, she recalled a haiku that she composed after a bus encounter with a rather uncouth boy from Xavier High School:

Bus Incident

A horrified face

Witness to a ruthless act

I am no brave soul

I suppose the rude teenager is a universal archetype.

But back to the topic of my “not-even-close-to-being-teenagers” children. They absolutely had a wonderful time in London. I put together these two scavenger hunts for them, one for the Tate Modern and the other for the general streets of London.

And now they are looking forward to our next trip abroad. So despite the bad decision about the inbound flight and the rude Frenchie teens, they are developing a taste for the world.

It was a fine mess last Friday. Wet feet, wet bags, wet, jackets—wet crafty girls. We rushed over to Den Mother’s house and piled our soggy selves into her dining room. And TGYH tended to the girls with her iron fist, making sure everyone focused on getting a seat at the table and a snack in front of them.

Dancing girl was a bit more sensitive than usual, though I suppose it didn’t help that I told her about twenty times that I would get right back to her after she asked me the same question. Oops. My bad. But TGYH picked up my slack. TG!

Den Mother was in a playful mood, and she crawled under the table to tickle feet, which didn’t bode well with Irish Stepper, who just wanted to finish what she was doing.  “Hmm,” she deadpanned with a touch of sarcasm, “I wonder who could be tickling my feet.” This made me laugh. But I had to disguise my laugh with a series of unconvincing coughs, and My Girl looked at me as if I had gone insane.

Irish Stepper’s less than enthusiastic reaction didn’t deter Den Mother from giggling and continuing on to the next person, who happened to be Storyteller. She wasn’t paying attention and was genuinely surprised when Den Mother began to tickle her feet. Storyteller jumped out of her chair and shrieked, which made all the girls laugh. Feeling that she accomplished her mission, Den Mother returned to her seat.

Good With Words was talking about her upcoming family vacation, and she impressed everyone with her plans of swimming with sharks. I think that she meant to say dolphins, and but I certainly wasn’t going to correct her.  And who knows, maybe she really was going to swim with sharks. Or maybe she meant it in a metaphorical way, in which case I can relate to that experience.

Bright Eyes was the only one who stuck to the previous craft project of the mini cereal box book. Every stitch was a mystery that had to be solved and examined afterwards, but her book was PERFECT. She still had 20 minutes left before we needed to clean up, so Bright Eyes began the next project, which was an alphabet accordion book. And to my delight, she actually finished the basic structure of it. Doubly impressive.

As usual, PCJL and My Girl separated from the group so they could work quietly. Sometimes I wonder if they get bored of the sheer madness that is Crafty Girls. But I think that as long as they leave with smiles on their faces and a complete project tucked under one arm, they are happy. I hope to never disappoint either of them.