Savah

ElfQuest is getting very, very close to the conclusion of The Final Quest, and as such I've found myself awash in nostalgia.  Part of my initial love of watercolor came from the old Starblaze Editions of The Original Quest, so it's only fitting that as I struggle to learn the craft, I return to the characters I fell in love with over 25 years ago:

Some simple linework.

That's Savah right there, aka Mother of Memory to the Sun Folk, adorned in my take on the outfit she wears when she first meets the Wolfriders.  I really, really wanted to paint her fluttery, transparent-ish green robes, sooo...

Not bad for a 4" high doodle!

Now, I did not get the effect I was hoping for, which means that I will be revisiting the subjects of ethereal silks at a later date, but that aside, I'm actually quite pleased with how it came out, and I hope you are, too.

Slytherclaw

It's been a day fraught with emotional upset, but none so great as what happened to me this afternoon.

Once upon a time, when I worked at Borders, Harry Potter books were still being released.  I worked several of the midnight release parties (always super fun!) and during the first one I was the Cafe Manager, and thus dressed up as "Sortia O'Simmer, Syltherin Potions Mistress".  That was my first inkling of my future greatness.

A few years later, Pottermore was released to potential beta users.  I was super lucky, and managed to get in- and was promptly sorted into Slytherin.  I wasn't surprised, exactly- I knew I'd come out either Ravenclaw or Slytherin- but I was a little saddened by the lack of Positive Slytherin Representation in the world.  I vowed to show the world that Slytherins were basically the best of Ravenclaw and Griffindor- we're incredibly clever (some might say "sly") when it comes to getting our way, but we also have deep, powerful bonds loyalty (to those who deserve it).

I've been bleeding green and silver ever since (we even did Neeps's birth announcements with me in Slytherin robes and Nathan in Ravenclaw robes), although I've never been super active on Pottermore.  I'll pop over every once in a while, when JK Rowling updates with something cool.

As she did today.

So of course I wanted to know which of the American houses I'd be sorted in to!  But... I couldn't remember my password.  And they couldn't email it to me, apparently, because I'd originally signed up under the old Pottermore: I'd have to sign up again.

So I did.

And lo!  They told me that if I entered my old username, I could recover all my old stuff- house, wand, etc etc.  Well that was cool- except I couldn't remember my randomly generated username.  I knew I could dig it up if I looked hard enough, but I figured what the heck- I'd just re-sort myself into Slytherin and would be fiiiiiiine.

Except that's not what happened.

The test- a test which was noticeably different from the one I took seven years ago- sorted me into freaking Ravenclaw.  I was aghast.  I may have literally howled, "Nooooo!"

Almost immediately thereafter, I found my old username.  "Okay," I told myself, trying to calm my breathing.  "We can fix this.  I'll just... delete this new account, sign up for a new new one, and use my recently recovered username to grab my old info!"

Except that's not what happened.

I went to go delete my account- and was informed that if I did so, I 'd lose access to all the Harry Potter books I'd purchased several years back.

There was definitely some very vulgar swearing at this point.

And so I've sent Pottermore a letter, laying out my situation and begging for mercy.  We'll see what they say.  I'm sure they can help me out, with the power of friendship and magic...

(But don't think the Slytherin in me isn't shrieking, "I will burn shit to the ground!")

EDITED TO ADD:

After a second, pleading-intensified missive, they finally took pity on me!  I'm back in the snake's den where I belong.  Thanks, Pottermore!

This is Just to Say

Plums were on sale the last time I went to Chuck's, both red and black, and so I loaded up on the red ones, and that was on Wednesday and now it's Friday night and I've just eaten the last one (my fourth of the day) and all I can think is that I need to go get more plums like literally right now.



(Seriously you guys, it's been like eating succulent rubies imported directly from Bism.)



(Also, if my husband had eaten the last one before me I'd probably have murdered him, no matter how excellent a poem he left on the counter to replace it.)

My New Hobby

"I guess being pregnant is your hobby now, huh?"

That's what Nathan said to me this morning as I dutifully checked not one but both of my pregnancy apps.  I have to say, he's not wrong.

The coffee table is currently home to a teetering pile of library books, spanning the not-so-broad subjects of pregnancy, pregnancy yoga, pregnancy massage, and birth.  I have a new collection of websites that get checked on a daily-if-not-hourly basis, a new (still secret) wishlist on Amazon ("Spawning"), and, obviously, a new blog** to host all my extra-self-involved thoughts on the experience of growing an entirely new human.  The kitchen table has a few pamphlets from the maternity center, including the paperwork for our first ultrasound.  My phone, in addition to the aforementioned apps, also has a gallery labeled "Belly Progression", which currently sports a grand total of seven photos of me making various faces in reaction to my non-existent "bump" (and my suddenly extra-existent boobs).  I just got done watching a film that I probably wouldn't have watched a year ago.  (Hint: it shares a title with one of the few pregnancy guides not currently perched on my coffee table.)

Hobby is, of course, the polite way of saying obsession.



 



**(at the time of writing I'd created a baby-specific blog so that I wouldn't drive the readers of this blog insane.  Needless to say, circumstances changed and so did the blog this entry belonged to.)

Dem Bones Dem Bones

Let us all celebrate that I do not have any broken bones by looking at my sketch of a partial dog-skeleton!

Underlying structure is always the most awesome.

Cocoa Regina (or: Honey-Sweetened Chocolate Ice Cream)

I stayed up a bit late to ensure there was an illustration for today's entry, and not just a whole lotta' jabbering...

I have a problem with sugar, Gentle Readers.  And that problem is that although I like sugar, sugar does not like me.  Specifically it does not like my joints, or my un-inflamed state.  Yep, too much of the deadly white stuff and my joints get all swollen and painful- plus I just generally feel like crap.

Honey, on the other hand, does not seem to have this effect on me.  Don't ask me why- honey is sugar, too, after all- but I'm sure there is some science-y explanation I just haven't stumbled across yet.  Or perhaps it's psychosomatic- who knows!  Anyway the point is that ever since I discovered this strange reality (sugar = pain, but honey does not) I've been turning to honey to sweeten things.  Obviously it's not a one-for-one substitute (honey is sweeter, for one thing, and it's a liquid rather than a solid- although you're supposed to treat sugar as a liquid when you bake, sooo... never mind, ignore my ramble-prone brain) but it does a damn fine job.  Especially since I actually prefer the flavor of a good dark honey to that of plain white sugar.

But.

Oh but, Gentle Readers.  When we got our ice cream maker last month, I dutifully made my beloved Riesling ice cream- and for that I used sugar.  I thought, briefly, of using honey, but there was much I did not understand- for example, would it crystallize differently?  Probably, but would it matter?  According to the interwebs, using honey in ice cream can make it grainy- well that's no good.  So I stuck to the traditional recipe, and vowed I'd do some experimentation later on down the road.

Well last week I came across an article on NPR about the bacon sundae.  What an excellent idea, I thought to myself, bacon and ice cream!- and then recoiled in horror at the photo.  Basically they just threw a couple of limp "bacon" slices into a cup of soft-serve.  Gross.

I can do better than that, I thought indignantly.  But if I was going to make bacon ice cream, I was going to use chocolate.  And if I was going to start experimenting with ice cream, then the time had come for me to muscle down and figure out how to do it with honey.

On a whim I posted to Facebook: "Who has the best recipe for chocolate ice cream? Bonus points if honey is used instead of white sugar..." because sometimes I am lazy and want other people to have already done the work for me.  The only person who responded was my friend Jason, who didn't have a recipe, per se, but offered to tweet at Alton Brown for his opinion.  The response?

"It's not a simple trade out because the honey is quite different from sucrose. And there's the added moisture to calculate."

Which made me say, "Not a SIMPLE trade-out, but DO-ABLE. This shall happen, oh yes..."

And thus began another, more in-depth round of Interwebs Research.  Finally, armed with what I'd gleaned from dozens of sources, as well as Alton's own chocolate ice cream recipe as a jumping-off point, I got started.

Here is what I used, and what I did with what I used:

1 c. cocoa powder
2 pints half and half
1/2 pint heavy whipping cream
8 egg yolks (fresh from the farmer's market, no less!)
1/2 c. local raw honey (I used Garden of Beeden's "Mystery Blend") (Wish I could link to them but darned if I can find their website)
2 tsp vanilla extract

Oh farmer's market, full of delicious things to use to make other delicious things.*

First things first, I put a cup of half and half and the cocoa powder in a sauce pan and whisked the heck out of it until they were well blended.  Then I added the rest of the dairy and turned up the heat to medium, stirring occasionally until it hit a low simmer, at which point I took it off the heat.


While the dairy was heating, I whisked the egg yolks in a medium bowl until the yolks got paler, and then whisked in the honey.  Once the milk mixture was ready, I enlisted Nathan's help to ladle in 1/3 cup at a time while I kept whisking (I know the limits of my own dexterity).  Once he'd ladled in about half of the mixture I had him pour in the rest, then I put it all back in the saucepan and back on the heat.


I kept it on medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until it hit 175 degrees and passed the spoon test, then poured it back into the medium bowl and let it sit at room temp for thirty minutes.  Then I stirred in the vanilla extract and transferred it to the fridge to chill for three hours, until the bottom of the bowl was cold to the touch.  After that it was just ye old "follow ice-cream-maker manufacturer's instructions".


It came out super thick- and amazingly smooth and creamy, which I'd been nervous about.  Honestly, it came out incredible.

Super, super thick.

In my opinion the texture fresh from the ice cream maker was just perfect- after being frozen overnight it became annoyingly hard (not icy: just hard)- but I've read that's par for the course with home-made ice cream (that hasn't been made with alcohol).  Maybe next time I'll just serve it fresh from the 'maker and ensure there isn't any left over for freezing!


Nathan thinks we ought to try using less cocoa next time; he felt it had a weird follow-through that dried his mouth a little.  I didn't get that, but I'm- obviously- always willing to experiment...




*But where's the bacon, you ask?  Well, I decided I'd better make sure I could successfully make the ice cream using honey before I went tossing perfectly good bacon into it.  So next time, Gentle Readers.  Next time.

Weather 'til Leather

Happy three year anniversary to me!

The Official Year Three portrait

We're celebrating by taking a trio-moon to Hood River (as opposed to the one-ymoon we took to North Carolina our first year), emphasis on the trio, since we brought Isis with us.  We're staying at the very swank (and dog-friendly) Columbia Gorge Hotel, in a room that is bigger than I'd feared it might be (you never can tell with this charming old historic places), and we have all sorts of adventures planned for the next two days.

But first, let me take a moment to be inordinately pleased with my anniversary gift, which was a pair of knee-high doc martens (because year three is leather, you see).  Oh so fabulous, I assure you, and they satisfy a literally decades-long (because fifteen years is more than one decade!) lusting.  And I must say, they are sexy as hell...  There was a long debate about whether to go with the oxblood or the black.  On the one hand, I felt like oxblood is kind of my signature- I own two pairs already.  On the other, as Nathan put it, I'm "kind of covered" on oxblood, because, um, I already own two pairs.  Also, the oxblood came only in smooth leather, which is beautiful and hard-core, but a bitch to break in (I speak from bloody experience) whereas the black came in buttero ("a full-grain, smooth leather, with a satin gloss and luxurious supple feel", according to their web site) which requires no breaking.  So basically it was Young and Hip Jenny O arguing against Old and Comfortable Jenny O ("But oxblood is awesome!" vs "But breaking in knee-high-boots will be the opposite of awesome for several very long months!") and in the end Nathan made the call (based on the aforementioned surplus of oxblood) which made sense since he was the one making the purchase, anyway (and is also the one who would have to listen to me whine about ripped open blisters).

I like my black boots.  They are super comfortable and also classic.  And as it turns out they are the perfect accent to an outfit that I'll be sharing with you sometime next weekend... in the meantime, have a sketch!

I need more practice doodling Isis, so that she looks less dooftarded when I do it...

And now it's time for some ruminations, I suppose.  About marriage, since it is my anniversary, which should be a time as much for reflection as for awesome gifts.  So what insights have I had after three years?  Well, I don't know about insights, per se, but I'd say that finally, finally the "newness" has worn off.  But not the vague sense of surprise that it worked out the way it did.  I no longer have to actively remember that I'm married, but I do still look at him and think sappy things like, "Is this happy life really mine?"  So I am used to being married by now*, but I do not yet take it for granted... and aim to keep it that way.






*(full disclosure- I did refer to myself as "your girlfriend" the other day, so maybe I'm not actually that used to being married?)

Lovely Things

Some of you might possibly be familiar with my red Dr. Martens.


More specifically, you might have noticed my love affair with said boots.

It all started back in autumn of 2003... the year I decided to be Punk Rock Dorothy for Halloween (yes there are pictures: no they will not be posted). I chose that costume specifically to justify buying a pair of red (oxblood or cherry, depending on whom you ask) docs. They put me back about a hundred dollars- no small change for a recent college grad. But I got them in the mail and I put them on and they were so gorgeous I knew they were worth every penny... just as they were worth the subsequent months of sheer bloody (literally) misery it took to break the damn things in. But break them in I did, until they were so comfortable the blisters became a gentle, half-remembered nightmare. And you can ask anyone I've dated or lived with since then- I take care of my boots. I'm not quite military-level-obsessed with it, but I do enjoy polishing them, caring for them. Which is how, seven years after the initial semi-impulse of a purchase, they are still a beautiful (and practical) staple in my wardrobe. Audrey Hepburn had the little black dress: I have the supple red boots.

Over the years I have looked at other Dr. Martens- I do enjoy the aesthetic of the brand, after all, not to mention their sturdy construction- and occasionally dreamed of getting another pair. But I never went through with it, for various reasons. First of all, when it comes right down to it, I'm a bit of a miser when it comes to buying myself impractical stuff. Second of all... well, actually, that pretty much sums it up. Sure, docs last forever, but I already had a pair- and they were living up to their long-lived reputation. There was no way I needed another pair, and I just couldn't justify spending that kind of money on something just because I wanted it, when I already had it... or a version of it, anyway... am I making any sense at all here? In a thrifty way?

And then a friend of mine pointed these out to me. And oh, how I lusted.

See, the thing is, my boots? Are distinctly masculine. This makes sense, seeing as how they're men's boots. I like it- I tend to have a fairly distinct masculine streak, myself, and I certainly have never let it stop me from wearing my boots with skirts and dresses... but a part of me saw the feminine detailings on those Manor Alettas and just... purred.

So appropriate for work, I thought to myself, so subtly subversive. Perhaps I shall allow myself to daydream of these boots...

And I did. But I did not, gentle readers, actually purchase them...

Which brings us to today, and the early exchange of Christmas presents with my husband. My darling, wonderful husband, who is also a photographer. Behold:

Boooooooots!

Are they not lovely? Here, have a shot that gives them a better angle:


As you might have guessed, Nathan and I decided to take the opportunity to use his new lighting set-up (Christmas gift from his parents) to try and get a few more "product"y-type shots. You know, the kind where the focus is on the merchandise for sale rather than the model's... assets? (Did I just call myself a hooker? Maybe? Don't think about that- look at this photo!)

(I definitely look concerned that I might be a hooker...)

This is probably my favorite, in terms of what we set out to accomplish:

Can't you just see that in a magazine? With a hand-scrawled "Dr. Martens" across the top? With a catchy little phrase like, "always appropriate" or some such nonsense... anyway it was fun! And as a bonus, here is a picture that shows me with ::gasp:: cellulite!


Yup, little dimples there on the back of the thigh. So I'm here to tell you, ladies (and dudes)- if my highly muscular and sexy legs are showing dimples, then dimples are just a part of life and nothing to fret over so screw those air-brushed alarmist magazines!

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go polish some boots...

This Will Possibly Bore the Crap Out of You

Here is a Thing you may not know about me: I love perfume.

Oh yes, it's true. Miser that I typically am (who really needs new clothes every year? or even three?) I am willing to spend a decent sum on perfume (although I do not believe perfume must be expensive to be good). It is one of my luxuries. I try to change my perfume on a semi-regular basis (about once a year) because I purposefully use it to create scent-triggered memories. In other words, I deliberately tie different scents to different seasons in my life. Would you like some examples? Sure you would.

Elizabeth Arden's Sunflowers: freshman year of high school

Bonne Bell's Flirty (un-linkable, because it's been out of production for years): partying in college

Escada's Sexy Grafitti: Adam and Tacoma in the summertime

DKNY's Be Delicious: Katie's first visit to Portland

Demeter Fragrance's Gin and Tonic: Karaoke with JoeSeph

Este Lauder's Pleasures Delight: my "year and a day" experiment with Nathan

There have been many others, of course, but that's a nice overview of the past fifteen years. And now we come to the most recent scent, Este Lauder's Bronze Goddess, which I have been wearing since the day of my wedding, and am now ready to put into semi-retirement so that in the future when I smell it, it will take me back to my newlywed days (I suspect it will take me specifically back to my honeymoon, but we'll have to see...). Anyway, the point is that it is past time for a new perfume, so I've begun the arduous job of hunting for it.

On the one hand I know enough about my likes to help narrow it down- I basically do not do musk, period. Florals (unless light) don't particularly do it for me, nor do grassy scents. Orientals are generally a good bet, and citrus notes practically guarantee a winner. I seem to be particularly drawn to bergamont, for some reason... But on the other hand, I also like the quirky and unexpected (helloooo gin-and-tonic); it's a safe bet that if it smells too "perfume-y" I will be repelled.

So where does that leave us? Well, still hunting. So the other day I did something semi-dangerous that I've wanted to do for a long time: ordered perfume from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. Why dangerous? Because over the internet, no one can hear you scr- no, wait, that's not it. Oh, right- no one can smell you. And you can't smell them. So basically I was purchasing perfume on faith in the (admittedly well-written) descriptions. Now, lest you think me entirely fool-hardy, let me rush to reassure you that I didn't order a whole bottle's worth of anything; I ordered a handful of tiny samples.

Said samples arrived today:

O (The scent of sexual obsession, slavery to sensual pleasure, and the undercurrent of innocence defiled utterly. Amber and honey with a touch of vanilla.)

Lolita (Bright, sweet and youthful, but swelling with a poisonous sexuality. Glittering heliotrope, honeysuckle, orange blossom and lemon verbena.)

Schrodinger's Cat (A paradoxical scent experiment! - tangerine, sugared lime, pink grapefruit, oakmoss, lavender, zdravetz, and chocolate peppermint.)

Shanghai (The crisp, clean scent of green tea touched with lemon verbena and honeysuckle.)

Undertow (The Dark Side of Water: clean and purifying, yet menacing -- lotus and juniper with a hint of mint. A scent dragged up from the depths to the Stygian shore )

Wolf's Heart (Grants courage under extreme conditions, helps overcome fear of death, and strengthens the fortitude of artists and businessmen, enabling them to further their goals.).

Plus two more that I didn't order but that they were sweet enough to throw in for free:

Black Lotus (Born in the shadows of a Temple to Set, this corrupted Egyptian scent evokes images of black pyramids, river demons, and bleak, deadly desert sands. Black lotus flower, amber, myrrh and sandalwood.)

Tombstone (A celebration of one of the first commercially produced perfumes of America's Old West. A rugged, warm blend of vanilla, balsam and sassafras layered over Virginia cedar.).

Now, as you may or may not know, you can't just sniff a perfume and decide yay or nay. Perfume reacts differently to everyone's skin, so you must put it on your own skin to see how it reacts (for instance- my mother also wears the afore-mentioned Pleasures Delight, but it smells totally different on her). And not only do you have to put it on your own skin, but you also have to wait a few hours, sniffing periodically, because the scent will change as your skin warms it and the base notes begin to come out. Which is why I know that although smelling Undertow directly from the vial almost made me gag, the longer it was on my skin the more intoxicating it became. And yet Lolita, which I initially loved, enamored me less and less as the day passed.

The jury is still out on whether or not I'll actually purchase a full-sized bottle of any of these. To tell the truth I think they are all too strong for me, which means that even if I do I'll need to cut it with alcohol. But we shall see... and anyway, I guess I could always order more samples...