Jammin'

Disclaimer: For some unknowable cyber reason, I can't upload any of my recent photos. It says "done", but nothing comes up. So I'm posting anyway, and if the cyber monkies inside my computer decide to behave, I'll post the photos next.

I must be out of my mutinous mind.* (see rant on language use below) Either that or I'm channeling some forties version of Betty Crocker with a print apron tied around her waist. What did I do this weekend?



And that's only the first batch. All told, I made 4 batches of jam; 2 cherry, 2 strawberry. And there's more to come!

So, I say to myself, why? Not just because the taste of homemade jam on toast (the world's most perfect food -- it's warm, it's buttery, need I say more?) is wonderful; not just because I remember my mother and aunts doing the same, but -- it's something I can look at and feel good about accomplishing. Something "real."

Unlike the practice of law.

Most of the time, I feel as if what I do has no meaning. Seriously, who cares about the Tupperware or who gets to keep the Precious Moments collection? It's not only that, but listening all day long to stories of failed relationships is draining. And explaining that, "Yes, I know it's not fair, but it's the law," and "Even though your spouse cheated on you numerous times, with numerous others, in the marital bed, he/she still gets half the assets," is depressing.

So jam (and I would add knitting) is tangible proof of hard work. And it's sweet! And leads to toast. Enough said.

I also worked on the cotton cardigan, finishing the neck and left front bands. Here it is:

I hate picking up stitches!!! I always rip them out at least once, then agonize over the gaps, forgetting each time that they fill in with the weight of the band and I can always tighten them up later. It's still nerve wracking to me, which leads to "FOF" syndrome. Fear of Finishing. If it's not yet an official syndrome, it should be. And the worst is yet to come. Buttonholes. Maybe I'll crush more berries instead!

* Language Rant: Freakin'. What the freak? I've used it. I hear it said all the time. Along with it's cousin, "frig". And it bothers me. Now I know it's a socially acceptable substitute for the "real" f word, and although I am a fierce proponent of the First Amendment -- Nazis, KKK, pro-lifers -- let 'em talk even if I disagree -- I hate the freakin' use of freakin'! If you're going to curse, just curse, I say. Or find something more creative. Like, "Die you mutinous dog." Or, "A pox on your genitals." Can you tell I watched the 1935 version of "Mutiny on the Bounty" this weekend? With Clark Gable, nonetheless, a true hunk:

So why does it bug me? Maybe because one of my little 6 year old Law Guardian clients uses it. Maybe because I like to learn new swear words and this seems like the chicken's way out. Or maybe because it's Monday and I wish I were in the south of France with my daughter Caroline. Oooh la la!