Category Archives: Holiday

Silk Tie-Dyed Easter Eggs

I hope it wasn’t irreverent to be sifting through ties at the Goodwill on Easter Eve at ten ’til closing. Because there was the lot of us, concerned, suddenly, that we hadn’t done a single Easter craft, holding up into each other’s faces splotchy ties, ties with paisleys, ties with zig-zags. Until we had two we could collectively shrug weren’t that bad.

It was then mentioned on the ride home that we had no eggs.Which turned into a stop at Fred Meyer. Which turned into buying more than eggs “since we’re here.” Which turned into rolling home after bed time with wired children and zero time for an egg craft anyway.

Which is how it happened that we remembered our ties on Thursday–four days after Easter–which, was just as well.

If you’ve done this before–dyed eggs with silk ties–then you know that you don’t need much in the way of tangibles. A couple of 100% silk ties, an old t-shirt, scissors, eggs, twist-ties, vinegar, and a pot of water. But add to that list a hefty dose of patience and perseverance and this could actually be fun. With children. Heh.

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Alright. Here’s one of our sweet purchases.

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What we’ve got to do first is take the tie apart. A pair of sharp scissors makes this easy.

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If the tie’s got a piece of fabric on the inside, toss that. Or give it new life by handing it to someone who can recycle just about anything.

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Double check that the tie is 100% silk. Then clip off that little tag, too. The dye for the eggs will come from the silk. Which means that if you’ve got something else that’s 100% silk–a blouse or underwear, ahem, those would work too.

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Now we’ve got to wrap the UNCOOKED eggs in a piece of silk. Which is about as easy as tearing open a bandaid with one hand. Nothin’ hard about that. Until that’s you with the bandaid. And one hand.

The problem is that the egg is happy being mostly covered in silk. It’s getting the whole thing dressed and ready that requires a bit of perseverance and a few wrestling moves.

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Here’s our first egg wrapped in silk and held with a twist-tie.

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And here’s our second.

A thing to note is that the ‘good’ side of the tie–the most colorful side–is what we want to wrap the egg in. The darkest print should be against the egg.

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The eggs get wrapped one more time. This could mean using old dish towels or sheets. We went with an old, white T-shirt.

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And there it is. All ready.

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Since we’re down one egg to a ‘woopsie,’ we’ve got eleven eggs all double-wrapped in our basket. We’re just going to carry those right into the kitchen.

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To our pan of water, we’re adding 1/4 cup of white vinegar.

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Then we’re adding our eggs and bringing the water to a boil.

When the water boils, we’re turning the burner down to low and letting the eggs simmer for 20 minutes.

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Then it’s time to pull the eggs from the water and see what happened.

And the coolest thing? It’s usually nothing we expected.

Brown and pink? Um…okay.

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Here’s our whole batch.

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From the blue and gold tie, we got this design.

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And from the dark-purple and blue, we got this. Wild.

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So what do you do with a bunch of pretty eggs?

Well…

You set up shop in your living room.

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And you sell them to your sister.

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Easter eggs for sale.

Pretty Easter eggs.

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It Was Merry

Before the wrapping on a single gift was shredded and chucked, my heart was full.

This last week had been a sketchy one with crumbling health and too little sleep for the weary. At which time I realized I wanted nothing…needed nothing…hoped for nothing but my kids to rise from their covers alive.

When my son’s fever broke at 4 a.m. Christmas Eve, I melted back into his bottom bunk more grateful, more joyful, and more wiped out than any other Christmas.

We had each other. Mostly whole. Swaying on our own two feet. Ready to ingest more than water.

This was Christmas.

 

We spent Christmas Eve with my in-laws, where there was simple happiness in receiving an ornament.

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Where a pair of night goggles were a hit.

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Where even those who’d done their hair, shoved on a head band and played along.

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And where those whose hair takes no thought at all, forgot to take their head band off.

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On Christmas morning, Santa came through for the second year with stockings hung in the vacuum closet.

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The Christmas story was read…

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While these two tried not to burst from the chair to the tree.

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Then it was a dog hat for him.

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A dog hat with glasses for her.

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A sweatshirt with sparkles.

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The most exciting gloves ever.

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And an empty syrup jar washed out and crammed with beans and wrapped with too much paper.

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A gift from him, which then elevated the recycled jar into something she’d always wanted.

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If I can read between the lines, this little card says, “Merry Christmas, Mommy! I love you.”

And if it doesn’t, well…I like it just the same.

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Our hearts are full.

Truly full.

Merry Christmas, friends!

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Choosing Joy

It started last Monday with our daughter. The one who couldn’t get warm. The one who then got too warm bundled in bed and who screamed with fever such that I covered twenty feet in a single step when I flung myself to her bedside.

“It was okay,” I told her. “Mommy was here.”

Still she sizzled and shrieked and fled from her covers, and I pulled myself together for the long haul on what felt like concrete with a pillow under each hip.

We danced like that for three nights. At which time I hovered in the same red sweatshirt and black pants–the same ones I’m wearing now–and stared through warped frames that kept sliding down my nose.

By Friday afternoon, the lids of our son’s eyes had lost all their pep. Could someone just please put him to bed? he asked.

And we did. At which time the same scream, second kid started Saturday morning.

It was me again, saying the words I’d been uttering all week. “It’s okay, sweet one. Mommy is here.”

For hours I cooled my son’s skin with a wet pillowcase. I leaned in with water glasses and straws. I laid near him when he panicked I’d gone, near enough to kiss the cowlick on the back of his neck, near enough to whisper like a broken record, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

 

Last night, before I re-curled like a cat beside my son, we stepped outside. All of us.

It wasn’t much. Three boxes of lights. Hung by my husband around our garage doors. Hung on December 22nd.

Hung when I’d offered that he needn’t bother.

But he had. Bothered.

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And so there we stood, where our driveway meets the street, watching our little lights shine. In the darkness.

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Our little lights that meant, if nothing more, that we could be joyful…we could choose joy…this day…right now…

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In sickness and in health.

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The Wrapper

About this time yesterday, our son was alone. In the living room. For ten minutes.

Alone with his Christmas presents, the rest of a roll of blue masking tape, a wad of rubber bands and a black Sharpie.

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At which time he rigged his present pile such that he could drag the thing down the hallway with a single finger.

And he identified it lest it get lost in the bathroom and we all scratched our heads as to whose it was.

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There was no proof he’d peeked. No torn paper. No patched up holes.

Just sudden concern about why he was getting a box for Christmas, when he hadn’t asked for one.

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ReDecking the Door With A Bough of Holly

The bough of holly that’d been hung haphazardly at the Orting Post Office finally swooped from the ceiling and dangled like a knee high sock at the ankle, blocking the entrance.

The next lady through the door wiped the bouncing bough from her face and stood on one saggy side of it as the four of us ahead of her stood on the other. There was a collective shrug. It didn’t seem right. Like maybe someone ought to fix the thing.

Which was when the twenty-something guy behind me, mailing a six foot poster tube, poked the droopy frond with his tube. Only his poke didn’t do much. The thing hung limp as before.

Poster guy turned to me. “How ’bout I lift you up and you push it back into the ceiling?”

“Heh, ” I breathed. “How ’bout it hangs there a little longer.”

We all twisted our faces in thought. We suddenly cared about this holly bough.

But our sentiment was interrupted by the counter clerk ‘s bark about decoration doom. Her finger wagged as her tongue spoke.  ”It’ll never work,” she promised. “Just rip it down.”

Another post office customer inspected the bough.

But again the clerk ordered, “just rip it down. It’s over.”

And for a moment, it was over.

Until I turned a half glance and saw poster guy, without his poster, monkeying up the door jamb with the worn out bough.

“Aha!” we all grinned.

But the bough slipped and swayed a little lower now.

It was the naysayer again. “JUST RIP IT DOWN,” her lungs bellowed.

Only…only there was enough Christmas spirit spread ’round the room, enough Christmas spirit and enough packaging tape to flatten the poor bough above the door again.

We smiled.

Not because it was a holly bough.

Leftover from last year.

Drooped and weary like the rest of us. Revived with a wad of tape.

But because the act of rehanging it, the act of saving the sorry thing made some of us feel Christmas…

If just for a moment.

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Cinnamon Applesauce Ornaments

I tell ya. I can almost handle a craft that has three ingredients. And about as many steps.

Which is how we ended up making Cinnamon Applesauce Ornaments on Monday.

A couple of Christmases ago, we’d tried these with just applesauce and cinnamon, and they’d turned out great.

We went ahead and messed with perfection this time and added glue to the batch. Not that it made any difference. It just seemed that as many recipes as not were adding glue. So we dumped the stuff in, too.

Here’s what we used: 1 1/2 cups of cinnamon; 1 cup of applesauce; 1/4 cup of glue.

And after we stared at it…

We did the only step there was, which was to stir the stuff…

Until we had a brown ball that smelled like Christmas.

It was all play dough skills from here.

And so while he hurried to finish first…

She meticulously stamped each candy cane.

Then together, we turned them into ornaments by twisting a straw through each top where we wanted them to hang.

Here’s our whole batch. Mostly finished.

What we had to do now was walk away–pretend for a couple of days that we never made these, so that they could air dry in peace.

After two days on the counter, they’re a lighter brown and able to withstand a trip down the hallway when a little boy slides in his socks with one to show his dad.

The last step is as simple as taking each ornament…

And threading it with red raffia.

Or green.

And hanging it on the tree.

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Dress Up Day 2012

There was no wavering.

No indecision.

No…I’ll be this or that.

Our daughter had ‘cat’ on the brain. And couldn’t wait to pounce on her brother or prowl the neighborhood in her new cat suit.

There was also this one.

Our son.

Who mentioned on Monday he wanted to be a Lego.

Which meant he might have gotten the most last-minute, home-made costume of anybody.

And which–once he scraped his way into the thing–hardly mattered.

So here they are. Pre-stomach ache.

The cat and the Lego.

And…the Lego and cat with cousins.

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Painting the Price

This is my Aunt Chris–my dad’s sister–and her husband Jim.  And introducing my aunt to anyone is nearly the same as introducing her to myself.  We’re linked by history and the same relatives.  But the time we’ve spent together can literally be squished together in eight hours.  And five of those were Easter weekend.

What I’ve always known is that my aunt’s an artist.  Known it in a way like I’ve known Disneyworld is a blast.  No personal proof.

But on Friday evening at the Good Friday service in Wenatchee–the service I took both kids to, one of whom overheated in his sweater vest, my aunt painted.

A masterpiece.

Her canvas was set up on the left of the stage.  Like it wasn’t the main event.

And yet it was.

And so for forty-five minutes, while the choir stood up or sat down.  Or someone read scriptures.  Or the whole church filed up front for communion, whereby my son helped himself to seconds on the sourdough bread…

our eyes were on one thing: That ever-changing canvas…

the canvas my aunt used to bring the face of Christ to life…

one gnarled thorn…

at a time.

We abandoned the sanctuary in darkness…

Only we knew…and we know…that Christ’s story didn’t finish on Friday.

He lives.

He. Lives.

Thank you, Jesus!

President’s Day

I don’t know what you did to celebrate President’s Day…

but after we dumped every last oat from our homemade granola straight from the oven onto the kitchen floor and I spent ten minutes breathing like a dragon, well…then we partied like it was 1863.

Two hours later, without meaning to, we found Abe’s profile under the dining room table.

Then at eight p.m. when my son clinked his ziploc baggy of coins on the table, we figured we’d find out for sure with whose faces we’d been buying groceries.

At nine p.m. we realized that the dog hadn’t moved from his current position for eight hours except to shift his ears, it was still raining, and we hadn’t left the house.

Here’s to one heckuva holiday!