Waste not, want not...

I'm feeling very into reducing, re-using, and recycling today.

I repaired a pair of work-out trousers this afternoon.  They had holes in them, so I sewed the holes up and put a patch on where the fabric was wearing thin.

I also made my own facial cleanser, with honey, glycerine, and castile soap.

But my favorite project was the one I did for Edith.  Sure, I could have made a kitchen scrubber when my Body Shop loofah bit the dust, but it was a lot of very pink fabric, and it was screaming "TUTU" to me.  So I stripped some pretty pink elastic from an old nursing bra of mine, got out the sewing machine, wound a bobbin, threaded the machine, sewed a single seam, threaded the elastic, and now Edith is prancing around the house like a ballerina.




Also done today was a closet clear-out. I've bagged up a small grocery bag full to take to the charity shop and done some pre-emptive layering.

The project for tonight is to deep clean the kitchen and bathroom, then make some laundry powder.

Wow, for some reason I am feeling a bit organic supermom-ish. I'd better get some more stuff done before it wears off and I am back to being a slacker!

One in the oven...

No, this is not an announcement.  My recent hormonal rantings have nothing to do with a pregnancy--my husband won't allow it because he hates me (just kidding...about the hating part.  He really won't let me have another baby).

This is all about bread, because yesterday I baked THE BEST FRENCH BREAD I HAVE EVER MADE.

No big deal, right?

Wrong.

Before we moved to England, I used to make home-made French bread about once a fortnight.  It was good, too.  I got the recipe from a vintage (old) Betty Crocker cookbook, and it turned out nearly perfect every time.  Then I moved over here, and it's like my baking skills flew out the window.  I even got the old recipe off my lovely sister who has all my stuff, thinking that my recipe I was using over here was just pants.  But no, it was me.

I got a bread maker off Freecycle a couple of years ago, and that has been good.  But I really enjoy baking bread because the process is nice, not just for the bread.  Plus, hand made tastes better.  Maybe it's because of the dirt on your hands while you knead it?

Anyway, I haven't given bread a go since before Dylan was born.  Actually, I think the last bread I made was the November before he was conceived.  How weird is that, that I remember my last loaf of bread with that much accuracy?  I also recall that it was chili and goat's cheese flatbread in the shape of a leaf.

Part of me has been worried about having to stop in the middle of mixing and kneading to wipe a bottom, clean up a spill, or break up a fight.  Part of me has just been unwilling to try again since I had been failing so miserably before.

Yesterday, while Dylan was at school, I asked Edith if she wanted to make some bread with me.  She said yes, because she loves helping me cook.  I was making beef stew, and wanted some crusty French bread to go with it.  So while the beef was simmering in stock with onions, garlic, crushed mustard seed, bay, and fenugreek, Edith and I started mixing.

I remembered reading a tip on breadmaking a few months ago.  This baker said that you would reach a point during the kneading process when the dough would feel too sticky and you would be tempted to add more flour, but you should not.  Just keep kneading and it will come out right.  Add more flour and your bread will be heavy.  I took the advice, and the bread was nearly perfect.

Though, in the spirit of humility, probably not as good as someone else's would have been.

Anyway, it must have been good.  Edith ate about half a loaf of it on her own.  Of the two loaves I baked yesterday, there is only 1/2 a loaf left.

Edith and I both had a good time, and I am sensing many happy bread making days to come.  I might even try my hand at sourdough, since I am always interested in being able to survive if civilization as we know it were to end tomorrow.  No more yeast, no more baking powder (unless someone can tell me how to make your own?)--sourdough is it, man.

Clumsy...

I totally just tripped over the ironing board, knocked the hot iron onto my carpet, and melted it a little bit.  I reckon my husband won't notice if I just place some of his dirty clothes over the scorch mark and don't move them for a few weeks.

Maybe I can blame this one on the kids.

Hmmm...

I don't think he could stay mad at these two for very long...

Domestic goddess, me?

So I was talking to my Yankee friend Amy the other day about stain removal (yes, my life really is that boring).  She said that her mother swore by pouring hot water from a height to remove fruit juice stains.  I was skeptical, but didn't say so at the time.

Well, today Edith was wearing a beautiful little sundress that Noelle made--green and white checked gingham with a halter neck and little white pockets.  We passed a cherry tree on our walk home from Dylan's school, and it had ripe cherries on it.  I gave one to Edith, and she dribbled cherry juice all down the front of herself.

Panic.

Despair.

Anger.

Idea...

When we got home, I took the dress off her and put her down for a nap.  Then I came downstairs and put the kettle on.  I took the clothes off the washing line and did a few other little jobs.  Then I held that dress over the kitchen sink, took a deep breath, fought the inner voices that were telling me to pre-treat with chemicals and NOT set the stain with heat, held the kettle about 12 inches away from the dress, and poured.

What do you know, that cherry juice came right out!

The dress is drying on the washing line, and ready for Edith to put it back on when she wakes up.

I'll have to tell Amy that her mother's tip worked a treat.

I definitely won't be avoiding conversations about stain removal, either.