She’s Come Undone

After a few weeks of wondering (ok, I was on pins and needles for daaaaays), we finally got an email from the trailer repair shop, updating us on Elenore’s progress – or, path to progress, as it were.

Poor Elenore.  Under her looks-pretty-darn-good-for-a-50-year-old aluminum skin, she’s a bit of a mess.  The pictures that we received show quite a bit of rot in the inner wood framing, but luckily, we were expecting some of that.  Even so, the detail of all that decay is just … eeew.

So far, so-so. The prognosis is pretty good as long as the rot doesn’t extend into the upper and roof areas, so fingers crossed that we get good news on that front.  In  the meantime, I’m still holding out for the possibility of sitting around a campfire under a starry autumn sky. 🙂

Project Elenore

Luca wasn’t quite 2 yet, and I was wearing him in an Ergo when we went to see Elenore. She was tucked away in the corner of a large, well-lit garage which was owned by a Shasta aficionado with a gigantic log home, a gleaming, cherry-red Airflyte reissue and a vintage Mustang that I eyed up with envy.

She was shaped like a cute little vintage toaster, with those iconic aluminum wings, and the interior smelled like 1968 (or what I imagined it smelled like, anyway). I was in love. We didn’t yet have a hitch on our Subaru, so the owner kindly towed her to our house, deposited her in the driveway and disappeared into the late May afternoon.

She’s a 1968 Shasta Compact, so we christened her Elenore, after the Turtles song released that same year.  She’s basically languished in covered storage until a few weeks ago, when we towed her off to the trailer repair place, where they will hopefully address some rotting issues in the inner wood frame (she is 50 years old, after all).

We took out all of the drawers and cupboard doors; they were all covered with a sickly grayish cream veneer that was flaking in some places, and the hardware was definitely not the midcentury-modern style of my dreams.  Shasta purists would definitely clutch their proverbial pearls at the idea, but we decided to paint the interior a warm, creamy white (Dutch Boy’s “Banana Split,” to be exact) and then apply new mahogany wood veneer to the drawer fronts and cupboard doors. Joe, dedicated guy that he is, spent a humid July weekend in the garage, carefully sanding, painting and veneering, until I could hardly remember what the original pieces looked like!  We couldn’t quite find the chevron-style drawer pulls of our dreams, but instead snagged some sleek, modern hardware at Menards for under $3 apiece.

The next task will be measuring and selecting fabric and plywood for homemade cushions … mainly due to the fact that the upholsterer quoted me around $2,000 for 4 new ones. (Gasp.)  Stay tuned!

Talk Soup

I’ve become seriously obsessed with cooking as I’ve gotten older.  There’s something inherently zen-like about the process to me … the fragrant ingredients, the chopping/slicing/dicing (Joe and I splurged on this Shun knife set when it went on sale after Christmas, and they’re kiiiiind of life-changing), and of course the end result of eating all that hard work.

I’m looking to make more soups/stews lately, because the leftovers make great, easy-to-transport work lunches, and also because we’re trying to eat more veggies and protein. I’m a carb-lover from way back, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I feel a LOT better (and lose weight) when I try to limit them.  Sigh.

I recently found this chicken soup recipe from Ambitious Kitchen, and I just thought it looked so beautiful – the turmeric gives the broth this lovely golden hue, and it’s generously studded with pearl couscous, which is a great sub for traditional noodles, as they don’t soak up as much of the liquid.  This recipe is touted as “soul-soothing” and great for those nasty winter colds, and it’s true that the combination of aromatics (SIX cloves of garlic, ginger, fresh herbs) is almost medicinal.  I’m not currently sick, but damn if I won’t make this soup the next time I am – it’s like the culinary version of Vicks vapo-rub and a warm blanket.

And apparently, very particular three-year-olds also approve.  😉

 

Blogging, Version 2.0

For as long as I can remember, a large part of my identify has been defined by writing. My first memory of churning out a relatively impressive combination of words was in Mrs. Duerr’s third-grade class, where we were assigned a project that required a short, one-page story (with an accompanying illustration), wherein we were to imagine ourselves as passengers on the Mayflower.  My resulting piece, scrawled carefully in pencil on clean, lined notebook paper, won a blue ribbon at the county fair (ah, the Mayberry-ish benefits of a small-town childhood).  I was presented with a cashier’s check for a WHOLE DOLLAR, which my dad promptly framed and hung in my bedroom – after handing over the cash, of course.

In high school and college, I bought hardcover journals with ribbon bookmarks, and wrote intently in tiny letters.  I wrote about friends, boys; I wrote horrible, Jewel-inspired poetry, and a particularly teenage-esque entry titled, “Annoying Things Parents Do.”  (Much to my chagrin, the adult me now disagrees with about 99.9% of it.) I filled pages upon pages with heartbreaking dialogue of hatred against my own body – a body that I would kill for now; a body that I desperately miss as I tumble, headlong, towards middle age.

And then, though I don’t remember exactly when, it dried up like so many old flowers. I married the boy of my dreams, had a son, owned two lovely homes.  I started a graduate program; I planted a vegetable garden.  I dreamed of going to Europe for my 40th birthday.  But I didn’t write.  Somehow, writing only seemed fitting back when I was an eager 18 year-old – when the world seemed like one endless Oriental rug at your feet, rife with the color and designs of possibility.