the WingDangDoo

“Think with your head, not with your heart,” my sister warned me when I told her where I was going today. NYCACC, Staten Island. Listed as a Dutch Sheep Dog, the dog in the picture looked like a doodle to me. “Don’t bring him home unless it’s right.” I promised her I wouldn’t.

We discussed it with our children last night. We have been pursuing so many options. Rescue. Shelters. Craigslist. You name it, we’ve tried. I came across this boy yesterday during my daily sweep of adoption and rescue Web sites. As I explained the situation to them, my children agreed we had to at least try to get this dog with the expressive eyes and the goofy smile Click to continue »

reckoning

I consider myself a decent baker. I make a mean pie crust, and most baking endeavors don’t intimidate me.

Except for bread.

I’ve made focaccia many times, and homemade rolls once or twice. I never really did much else with yeast; its unpredictable nature scared me. I never thought I was capable of making bread this delicious. I had a hunk of it, fresh out of the oven and dripping with butter, and I swear I heard the angels sing from the heavens above. OK maybe it was my contractor’s air hammer from the second floor. But I clearly heard something.

Props to Chris at the LBC for recommending this recipe. I was wondering what to make in my new enamelware Dutch Oven*, and he piped in with this winner. I can see now why he refers to the no-knead bread as a bit of an obsession.

If you’re on the fence about getting a Dutch Oven? Do it. Do it so you can make this bread. Do it so you can make Ina Garten’s Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic. As devoted as I am to my slow cooker (and grateful to my friend Stamford Talk for tweeting** about honey hoisin chicken, which I will be making again tomorrow… this time with shallots, mushrooms, cashews and water chestnuts), I definitely am developing a crush on my Dutch Oven for its versatility.

We’re supposed to go out for dinner in an hour. But I think I’d rather stay home and make out with the bread.

*Yeah, I know. Hold the fart jokes, please.

**Twitter. It’s what’s for dinner.

Because we love this ridiculous muppet of a rescue dog so much, we want another one exactly like her.

He had been in the shelter since November 22. I was selecting the day I’d take off from work this week to drive the 7 hours (each way!) to spring him from the hoosegow. A gorgeous boy with amber-colored eyes and brown-black fur, the shelter workers described him as round a year old and very, very sweet. “Call us tomorrow between 1 and 4 so we can tell you more about him,” they wrote me. “We’re considering transferring him to another shelter, because other than you, no one has been interested in him.”

An hour later, he was adopted by someone else.

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Let’s turn the wayback machine to 1999, when selling some of our priceline.com friends & family stock gave us the capital we needed to score this house of ours. As I’ve mentioned before, the kitchen was nothing short of a minor disaster.

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With near-daily trips to the dog park, we’ve been spending a good bit of time outside. When Henry was a pup, we spent a lot of time in Waveny Park, walking the trails and enjoying the company of our little knucklehead. We’re always happy to stroll these gorgeous grounds after Talullah has a romp in the dog park, especially with two boys who need to burn off some of their cooped-up cabin fever energy during this frigid winter break.

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I’m experimenting with cool fx for the iPhone. It’s a fun, useful app for 99 cents.

Also? If we don’t score another dog for the ‘doodle soon, we’re going to spend the entire winter of ‘10 freezing our toes off at the dog park.

Non-staged, messy reality. Although I did move the muddy boots from this afternoon’s walk out of the picture.

Alpha kitty on the couch. Doodle on the floor (odd) next to her dad (everyone say HI, Paul!). Beta kitty off-camera to the right. Children elsewhere, playing a new video game. Snow man ignoring me since I’ve cruelly placed him so close to the fire. Dirty wool sock in the foreground. Christmas detritus everywhere. Curtains? Yeah. New. After 10 years of naked windows, I’ve been on a tear.

This downtime stuff? It’s kind of nice.

I’m off to eat a slice of pizza and find a bottle of wine that pairs perfectly with contentment.

I am a little overly-pleased with my Christmas Eve badassery.

But now I have a problem. I resent my $12 IKEA curtains.

When we first moved into this house 10 years ago, our kitchen was a minor disaster. Formica and particleboard cabinets. Dull off-white paint on the walls. A flickering fluorescent light fixture. Stairs covered in drab gray paint. No countertops to speak of. A refrigerator in the middle of the frickin’ room. Oh, and the dirt. 70 years worth of dirt, everywhere.

We soon learned I was pregnant, resulting in the famous declaration “No pregnant wife – and no child – of mine will be eating in this kitchen.”

And thus we began the 5 year 7 year 10 year renovation.

I’d be hard pressed to say if the low point was the month we went without a working stove and microwave, or the Christmas Eve when Saint Paul tried so worked himself into full body cabinet-hanging, floor-sanding exhaustion… followed by a bad case of the flu… followed by me hauling 125 lbs of This End Up tables down flights of stairs to set up for the holiday dinner while simultaneously cooking for 18 people and taking care of two toddlers.

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Texting while my husband was running errands earlier:

teh crazeez is here.

One curtain done. Badass.

No, ME. Just got your last present.

But I’m so done with presents, I’m MAKING

CURTAINS on Xmas eve. Total badass.

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The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. Parts of Christmas dinner are burbling on the stove. And I’m waiting for my husband to come to help me hang my badass curtains.

Merry Christmas, dear friends. Love to you all.