New & Improved! She rambles on the creative side.

Amy learned to spin today. I loaned her my first wheel, a Reeves castle. She's hooked.
Carla has started quilting and wants to learn to cook.
My advice to her, as the cooking/food freak in her life ?
Buy this book:
Bittman is a god. Our house copy actually has pages falling out from use. Interesting AND straight forward, two things you rarely see in a cookbook.
My other advice is to obsess on one cooking show.

My advice is always to obsess it makes you see possibilities in yourself.

Possibilities in me are my new theme. I realized this weekend, after trying to dodge an offer that I really can't refuse (Hi Shannon!) that somehow I've tied off/tamped down that part of me that always has ideas, the creative part. I've always had more spinning around in my brain than I could ever accomplish. I've always stuffed my brain full of anything that interests me, even slightly, to marinate and circulate with everything else in there and pop out as a creative something - a sweater, a game for my kids, an interesting meal, or an answer for a friend. I’ve always loved having all of that going on, always dreaming on something – back burner, indeed – I’ve got a resturant-issue 8 burner stove simmering away.

But now? Shannon calls to say:"Whatcha got? Whatcha think?" I open the door, ready to pick and choose, to wade into idea-land, to swat away an abundance of ideas like so many annoying mosquitoes.

Nothing. Nada.

"Hello?" I call, "Hello, ideas, someone?" 'Hello... hello... hello...' echoes back from the emptiness.
Shit.
I go for the more concrete idea receptacle - my notebook(s), sketchbooks, idea books, whatever you'd like to call them, they have words, pictures, drawings, stuff that's stepped out of the stew of brain marinade and asked to become more. I usually have 2 going at once.
I can't find my notebooks. Anywhere.
Shit.
I go back to the door, determined to drag something out kicking and screaming. There's got to be something there hiding in corner, sucking its thumb.
I fling open the door, and stand with my hands on my hips, because I mean business (yeah, my kids don't fall for it either).

Still empty. There are empty beer bottles and yarn ball bands scattered around. This time I notice the note:

You didn't come to play; we took our ball and went home.

Shit.

To be continued……..