Never Would Have Thought of That

I hate my stove.  And not just because as a cook, I make an excellent woodworker. 

I hate my stove because it was a POS when it was new.  It was the cheapest one the dude who built my house could find in the scratch n' dent aisle of Sears.  It's 13 years old now, and time has not been good to it.  It's not level. If it ever was.  Making an omelette is an intricate Pas de bourrée combining the cat-like reflexes of a Ninja and the attempt to defy gravity.  It's true what they say:  Eggs Roll Downhill (or something like that).  Pancakes are just as bad.  My children think all pancakes are oval and burnt on one end.  And before you ask, yes I know stoves can be adjusted, but the feet on this one are irrevocably "gunked" in place by 13 years of kitchen particulate.  Every attempt has grossed me out so badly that learning the Danse Culinaire seemed easier.

The oven underneath the stove is just as bad.  It heats so unevenly that a 20-minute tray of tater-tots requires no less than 6 separate adjustments to brown evenly.  During which operation I am guaranteed to burn myself somehow.  It's like being shackled to a 200lb Rube Goldberg experiment for the duration of all food prep.

But hey, at least we have a stove.  I mean, microwaved tatertots would be pretty bad fare, even by my standards.  I've just been waiting for the damn thing to finally blow out some way, so we could replace it with something better.  A bonfire on the floor, say.

Forward-thinking parents that we are, Phillip and I have lately embarked on a crusade to teach our children to feed themselves.  We sometimes make them prepare meals.  This is partly so we will feel confident when we throw them outta here that they won't starve, and partly because they are ALWAYS hungry, and we get sick of feeding them.

It was just such a situation on Saturday, when Phillip instructed Lindsay and Campbell to begin preparing the evening meal.  We smugly relaxed in the living room, awaiting any call for assistance ("Mom, which one is the Boiling Knob?").

And that's when the sickening crash, followed by shrieks and cries emitted from the kitchen:

I gathered the sobbing Campbell into my arms, checking him all over for injuries (of which there were none, thanks God), while Phillip calmed the hyperventilating Lindsay ("I didn't do it, Dad; it wasn't me!").  I think she may have had a coffee table flashback.

I actually laughed when I saw that stoopid stovetop.  When you drop the lid to the Dutch oven from a fairly good height onto the ceramic stovetop, the result is pretty much what you'd expect.  What a clever shortcut to the new stove we've been needing!  Thanks, Campbell.  How come I never did that?

We ordered Pizza.  And then waited for the appliance store to open the next day.

Which was a good thing, because the washing machine started to make a horrible screaming noise (even louder than the one in my head), later that night. 

My house has become the Elephant Graveyard of appliances.  For those not keeping track, The list of things requiring replacement within the last 8 days it goes like this:

1.    Coffee table top (Not really an appliance, but definitely a catalyst)
2.    Spray arm in dishwasher (Did I mention we were already washing by hand?)
3.    Kitchen Stove/Oven (See above)
4.    Washing Machine (OK, Household Chaos Gnomes, this is No Longer Funny)

We priced refrigerators while we were at the appliance place, just to steel ourselves against the sticker shock, in case that's next.

And on the way home, the "Maintenance Required" light came on in the car.

If I just wreck the car, can I get a new one?

As Long as I Don't Preheat

Thank you so much, Gentle Readers, for all the great yarn storage ideas.  There are no more inventive creatures in the world than knitters.  My favorites are the clever repurposing of food-storage containers as yarn containment systems.  I'll never look at Costco the same way again.  And who knew we had so much in common?  Lots of you told me that you also have your stash spread out over more than one location, and that it's bugging you.  All of you admitted to having way more yarn than you think you ought to.  Some of you have plans to offload some of it.  Others are unapologetically hoarding your string (God love you); they'll pry it from your cold, dead hands.  We also, as a group, love Ikea, notably the Expedit shelf unit, with its many insertable basket options:

There's even a version of this with a desk attached.  I'm dreaming of a whole room devoted to my yarn pile, where I could also write books, blog, and even knit.  There is such a space in my home; an annex off the garage which only needs a wall, some windows and hvac to become my atelier.  I'm only one viral knitting pattern away from realizing the fantasy. 

In the meantime, all this stash sortation and storage meditation has me wondering:  How many of us have made plans for the disposition of our stash when we die?  I haven't, but I know knitters who have.  What's your plan?  Divide it between your favorite knitters?  Be buried with it (or, more likely in my case, UNDER it)?  Donate it to charity?  Leave the whole (problem) legacy to your heirs?

Sure, it's a grim subject, but how else can we be sure something so precious as a yarn collection meets an appropriate end?  A stash is not like money, after all; it's much more valuable than that. Think about it:  How often do you hear about crazy old ladies leaving their stash to a cat?  Never.  Because we all know that cats are terrible knitters.

A Knitalong, A Winner, and the Stash That Ate Suburbia

Today's Random Really Important Things:

1.    Some clever beasties over on Ravelry have decided to test whether I have invented the wheel or not!  They are going to knit my new "Dogwood" sock pattern together, beginning on June 1.  In case you missed it, I recently discovered the magic of the toe-up sock.  Even though everybody else in the whole world already knows how fabulous toe-up socks are, I went ahead and posted about how much I love them and how they have changed my thoughts about socks forever.  I made mine with gussets and heel flaps, just to see if I could do it.  I could, and so can anybody.  If you've never tried a toe-up sock before, give it a whirl.  If you have, smile indulgently at the rest of us, and make a pair of these, too.  The KAL thread is HERE, and the pattern is HERE.

2.    Gentle Reader Nancy G. is the randomly-chosen winner of a shiny new autographed copy of my new book!  Thank you to all who entered, and stay tuned for another chance.  Thanks for telling me a story!

3.    I work from home.  Specifically, I work from my desk in the foyer, and a chair in my living room.  The living room, even if it were totally empty, would only measure 12' x 14'.  That's not a big space when filled with 3 bookcases, 2 overstuffed armchairs, a full-size sofa, 2 end-tables and a coffee table.  Oh, and there's also a console table that holds all my winding equipment, in addition to a spinning wheel and its chair. 

Last week, I started to feel like the walls were closing in on me.  It was a truly claustrophobic episode, so intense that even knitting could not help me deny the problem.  A wild fit of Tidy-up-etude took over.  Before my family knew what hit them, I had gutted the living room, rearranged the furniture, washed all the slipcovers, hung different draperies, and reorganized the entire family book collection.  Well, the entire ground-floor book collection:

All the knitting books are grouped together by subject. And on the same floor.  Win.

Campbell was my right-hand man, and Paisley supervised:

Paisley got trapped behind the Literary Barricade for a time.  Book Pile = Tall.  Scottish Terrier Inseam = Short.  FYI - the wire rack (upper right) holds my circular needle containment system.  It's the only organized thing in my life: each size has its own zippered case, sorted by diameter, in mm.  Hear me Roar.  Then ask me to remember what my zip code is.

And while I was doing that, I began to understand the real problem:  THE STASH has been reproducing.  I emptied no fewer than 15 project bags, baskets, and other containers (there may have been a half-knit sock in a tuna can.  I deny all knowledge).  I jettisoned an uncountable number of ill-conceived notions,  returning them to the wild to be with their own kind.  I hooked up the ballwinder to 3 failures, recycling the yarn for another day.  It was SO cathartic.  Here's the new Work In Progress strategy:

Okay, the WIP's are contained in the green bins on the tower.  The steaming pile of, um, BAGS, is my actual stash.  On payday, I am getting some more bins.  Really.

Here's the spinning fiber.  Hmmmmm...where did all the negative space in my living room go?

Who has this much fiber in baskets in the living room?  Sicko-Weirdy-String-Playing Freaks, that's who.  And my family, God bless them, never even noticed.  I'm taking their pulses later.

Looky!  I made a cozy Spinning Nook:

Doesn't it just shriek at you "Hey! You! Come over here and make some string for a while!  Cause you clearly need more string!"?

And here's where you come in:  If you have the guts, tell me where your Stash lives.  Hangar? Bins? Boxes? Tuna Cans?.  I need to know your solution, Friends.  Where do you keep it all, and can I do the same?  If you don't give me some ideas soon, the bathtub and the oven are next.  Help a girl out won't you?