Quiche, the Bishop and a Sock

I mentioned I'd given an artwork to the neighbor who visited and who's very happy with it. I managed to find a picture. It's the  left here, entitled The Cellist, stitched on linen, among various other stitchings.

This is a setup I did when I was demoing various fiber arts at the library, this one on goldwork. Bottom right is a slightly crazed photo of me they used to use for promos.

And, speaking of neighbors, I free cycled this giant ceramic planter for Gary, to someone strong enough to lift it.

Yesterday was about cooking a rapid quiche, using three cheeses, sharp cheddar, mozzarella, and feta crumbles. No added salt, plenty in the cheeses. All the rest of the spinach, three eggs.  One slice with a piece of toasted multigrain, pretty good supper. Near Christmas, so it's Cheeses of Nazareth.

 

After which, the Annual Watching of "The Bishop's Wife", the only Christmas movie I like. Especially the skating scene!

Look at that cast. Speaking of which, I cast on a sock, and let's hope this yarn works better for socks than it did for gloves. So far so good.

And here's today's poem, about which I have mixed feelings.

Not a great idea to just endure a season instead of plunging in and seeing what's good about it, but I may be in a minority there, a lot of people being ready to get past the solstice and count the lengthening days.

Happy day, everyone! Whatever length the daylight. Here's a tribute to all Sags everywhere, including Gary and his daughter, much more to my taste.

Cheers!

Field and Fen Breaks out into a poem

In the kitchen, with a big bag of spanish onions, partly for dye purposes, the outer skins, that is, and the rest for the freezer, I came over with a poem.  I wrote this right then, and have sent it, in response to listener invitations, to wnyc.com in celebration of National Poetry Month.  

Long time since I committed a poem, so I thought I'd share:

Today I brought home a whole bag of onions
ready to collect the papery golden skins
for the dye bag
and the food for the freezer to preserve
as memory, again, thrusts, fresh,
the onion-worked smell of my mother's hands
at my child's eye level, cracked and broken by
a lifetime of labor, many children,
no time to dye
barely time to live

Liz Adams, in honor of Lizzie Ryder