And we’ll leave it at this:

Image and hand lettering by Lisa Congdon, borrowed without permission.

Proof that the blue lopapeysa has been done since Friday, but still no photograph. A friend took a picture of C and I at Rainbow Grocery, as we were both Icelandically wool-clad, but I don’t have a copy of the picture to share. I hope it’s worth it, what with all the build up.

Another lovely vacation day: bread was baked, doggies napped, I napped, knitting on a 5 or 6 year-old WIP was completed, 5 miles scampered, groceries procured, homemade pizza shared with S.

Shucks. Clock just turned to midnight. I wanted this to be Sunday’s post. In 24 hours it will be next year. Here’s to hoping everything that needs to get woven in and finished will for the New Year.

Promise broken. No knitting content, in written or photographic form.

Today we saw Les Misérables, the recent film version. As a teen who danced around and memorized every note of the French, London and Broadway soundtracks, I expected a lot from the movie. Alas, I was let down by the lack of singing ability by the two biggest male leads. The choppiness of the scenes and abbreviated libretto was startling as well.

That said, I did cry and enjoy it. However, I cried more while listening to the music at home before we went to the show. If you’re a fan of the musical, or don’t mind spoilers, I appreciated reading this article from a Wisconsin talk radio station’s website about the differences and departures the film took from the theater original production.

One day more.

Another day and no time set aside for writing. Instead, enjoy this cute picture of Decibelle.

I promise actual knitting content tomorrow. (Shocking, I know.)

Midnight.

Pardon the one word post that was here for a second. I wanted to get a word recorded before the clock left 11:59pm on Thursday and ventured into Friday.

I’m just home from an evening out with Annie, after a dinner, lunch and morning movie with her. I could get used to this not working thing.

The bar we went us known for not having a menu and for its tiny size, despite being named Big. Your bartender mixes a custom drink for you, based on your requested spirit, flavor preference or mood. I’m not the most educated in the cocktail world, but I was game. My first was an evolved gin fizz, in a non-sweet direction. I liked it, even though there was some pear, grapefruit and chartreuse in there. The egg white and bitters were funky.

The second was not as successful and I blame myself. I was not specific enough other than “not sweet.” Unlike a sushi bar, omakase was not my friend tonight. Bartender’s choice got me a whiskey something with habanero, vermouth and who knows what else.

My faith in other people leading me to what I want is unfounded. Especially when I don’t offer a lot. There’s a lesson somewhere in here about asserting myself or having a more clear vision for my desires, but it’s too late to go into that now. I’ll leave it at being honest with myself if I really want fennel, scotch or salt.

I’ll be back for more. And I’ll try harder next time.

Washed nine pairs of handknit socks. Wove in a few ends. Ran five miles in the rain and the sunshine. Poached an egg. Snuggled dogs. Folded laundry. Tried a new recipe for a Boxing Day party. Made dates for movies tomorrow and Saturday.

I’ve got no complaints.

It was a delicious holiday at home with amazing friends and family by phone. Thanks to those who traveled to the City from the faraway East Bay and shared their culinary, conversational and crafty talents. You make my life richer. I am full in every sense of the word.

From our two little elves, Janie Sparkles and Decibelle Doughnut.

I made two loaves of Tartine bread. And I spoke with my sister as these guys went in and out of the oven. That’s something I don’t do often enough. Talking to my family, that is. I make plenty of bread.

I moved across the country from Philadelphia to San Francisco in 1996. No one is left in Philly (blood-wise), with my parents now in Tennessee (after West Virginia, Delaware, and New York) and Becky is just up the coast in Seattle. (There’s an older brother in Ohio, but we have absolutely nothing in common and barely speak more than once a year, if that.) The first few years I dutifully flew home for the holidays to hang onto what we’d always done on December 25th. At this point, it’s been at least ten years since I did that.

As time wandered on, we have each made our own lives, with new families of choice and traditions in our new communities. For me that’s a meal out on Christmas Eve with Chris, friends over for brunch (the loaf on the left will become my first attempt at strata) and knitting on the day of, and an incredible dinner made by our friend and next-door neighbor Annie that night. Don’t forget a potluck at Sonya’s on Boxing Day. In some ways, it’s smaller and less significant than once-a-year Santa wake and all-important school break from growing up, but it’s also more personal and intimate. And it’s mine.

History for history’s sake is no reason to reenact the past. Memories can be far more touching and important than their recreation. Especially when there is no there there. My past is long gone. There’s no childhood home or neighborhood where I grew up. There were ten moves up and down the East Coast before I graduated from high school. Wherever I head back to, It would simply be a visit, not a homecoming or reunion.

As I grow and evolve, I’m ok with my “traditions” transforming according to my life. That said, I wouldn’t mind inviting my mom & dad or sister to the Bay Area to share how ill be soendig the next three days and to see what new memories we can create while toasting some of the old ones.

Words cannot begin to describe how amazing and inspiring it’s been to watch my pal Sonya create one hundred dresses over the past year.

When I finally get behind a sewing machine again, I will have her to thank. Read more at 100actsofsewing.com.

Now if only I could create four new knitted garments within a year…