the peace of wild things

I've been working on my postcard for the October BPS exchange and will share it with you soon! (Quite soon, actually, since it needs to go out the day after tomorrow.)

Here is the poem that will be included on the postcard and inspired its design. The sense of tranquility that Mr. Berry evokes reminds me of early morning runs around my neighborhood pond, when squirrels and waterfowl outnumber people and the sun slanting through the trees reflects off the water.

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time,
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Jamaica Pond, my bit of nature in the midst of the city.

(photo on chazferarri's Flickr photostream)

ailurophile update

Just in case you were worrying about the two-month-old kitten with the poor appetite, I'm back with a happy update. Today I saw his foster mom, Glory, and found out that he's now thriving!

Don't you love how his plate is bigger than he is?

(photo on Glory's Facebook page)

Glory tried a combination of my advice (offer a variety of foods, including fish-based ones) and advice from the real experts, the shelter staff (syringe-feed with a prescription food). The kitten responded well to both: turns out he adores tuna, and he liked the new prescription food, requiring syringe-feeding for only a couple of days before taking over on his own.

Now he has quite a round little belly, and he weighs in at a whopping 1 pound, 13 ounces (up from 1 pound, 6 ounces a week ago, a great weight gain for a kitten).  He's doing well enough to be part of the upcoming Kitten adopt-a-thon, scheduled at the adoption center on Saturday, October 3rd. Thanks to Glory's care, he's not only healthy and cute but also sweet and social, so we predict he'll find his forever mom or dad in record time.

bag lady

When it comes to shoes, I'm no Carrie Bradshaw. I appreciate a comfortable and reasonably stylish pair, but shoe shopping is not particularly fun, given the challenges of fitting my funny feet (rather large relative to my short stature; right larger than left; and both flat as a fallen soufflé, to boot [ha, ha]).

Bags, however, are a different story. I love bags. (I imagine some of my dear readers who know this nodding emphatically as you read.)

The term "bags" in my case encompasses everything from the smallest coin purse to the largest suitcase. I love 'em all. I'm pretty sure that I suffer bag addiction (BA), an ailment that may affect either gender and seems to have a hereditary component. (Both of my parents have milder BA: my mom for designer handbags, my dad for bags of the more manly sort, such as backpacks and rugged roll aboards.)

How does one diagnose BA? No official laboratory tests for BA are available. A non-validated but potentially helpful assay is measurement of an elevated heart rate upon exposure to a Coach store or even simply the smell of expensive leather. (Note, however, that the latter finding may be seen among individuals suffering shoe addiction, as well.)

In addition, from close observation of myself and other subjects, I propose the following clinical criteria for BA:

Major criteria:

1. The number of bags owned by the subject matches or exceeds the number of pairs of shoes.
2. The number of bags purchased by the subject in the last 12 months is at least 3.

Minor criteria:

1. The subject engages in long periods of bag admiration (via either on-line or print catalogs) in lieu of productive activity.
2. The subject has suffered (or come close to suffering) neck injuries upon whipping the head about to catch a better glimpse of bags on the shoulders of passersby.
3. The subject reports experiencing a state of bliss upon acquisition of a coveted bag.
4. The subject's acquaintances are heard to say, with regularity, "Is that another new bag?"

Presence of 1) 2 major criteria or 2) at least 1 major and 2 minor criteria is highly suggestive of a case of BA.

Lately, my focus hasn't been luxury designer bags (although I admire those, too, perhaps due to the maternal genetic component of my BA) but rather handmade bags I've discovered on Etsy.

Like these:

The Bud Bag in robin's egg blue by hu.made.

The Letter Bag (adore the name!) in rosewood by Moop.

The Weekender Tote in blue and white striped ticking by DNTX.

The small walk in the forest purse (with plaid) by Made by Hank (harder to acquire, BTW, than premium Red Sox season tickets).

And here's my latest bag, with which I'm still in early stages of infatuation:

The MDarling Large Blue-Green Handbag by Yellow Wallpaper Handmade (gotta love a shop name with a literary reference).

So there you have it, a description of BA, complete with me as a case study. Unfortunately, I am aware no of cure.

prized

You may remember my excited announcement last month that I'd won a drawing on the blog Automatism (the same blog you've heard more about lately because its author founded the Benevolent Postcard Society). The prize was a softie of my choice, handmade by the talented Danielle Wright of the Etsy shop Stitchface.

Danielle's creations include bears, bunnies, beavers, and even, lately, a mole (wonderfully named "Holy Moley"). My choice, however, was one of her kitties (surprise, surprise!).

Here's a photo of him, soon after his trip from his birthplace, Toronto, to his new home with me. He's a rather sleepy fellow.

And here he is with his more alert sibling, my first Stitchface kitty.

Danielle makes her creations from up-cycled fabrics or articles of clothing that she hunts for at thrift stores. You can read about her creative process in this interview. She describes letting the personality of a fabric tell her into what sort of creature it should be transformed; her stuffed animals clearly reflect her knack for this type of "listening."

My favorite line from the interview: "I love to take fashion crimes and transform them into something lovable again." It captures what I find so appealing about Stitchface animals, beyond the fact that they're just plain cute.

Rather than being mass-produced and generic, each is distinctive and full of personality, as if already imbued with interesting experiences from the first lives of the materials. I can imagine a cast-off, loud plaid jacket, once languishing and sadly reminiscing on its glory days, now discovered by Danielle and reveling in a second life as a beloved kitty (and a fox and a bear or three . . . ). It's the sort of self-reinvention we all hope to achieve as we get older.

(And I thank you for letting me wax philosophic about softies.)

talking about the weather

" . . . one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it."
- Mark Twain

(photo on enviromom)

Although the official first day of fall has come and gone, the weather here in Boston is still vacillating, seemingly unable to commit to the new season. Over the past two weeks, our high temperatures have ranged from the upper 50s to the low 80s.

I've observed a fair degree of sartorial confusion as a result, including most notably a woman on the train dressed in a long down coat and flip flops. Ordinarily, I might complain about this meteorologic state of affairs since I love autumn and, as I've hinted, am not so crazy about summer (at least not east of the Mississippi). It's actually been a godsend, however, because I'm woefully behind on laundry. Being able to cycle through both my summer and fall wardrobes has prevented the situation from reaching a crisis point.

The limiting factor, I've found, is that I'm running out of clean underwear. This reminds me of a cousin who went away for college and kept calling home to request shipments of new underwear. Her loving mom dutifully complied until she figured out my cousin's end game: to accumulate enough underwear that she'd only have to do laundry once a month.

Never fear. Rather than go to the extreme of an unplanned trip to Gap Body, I finally dealt with the situation. I just put a load of clean laundry into the dryer before writing this post.

ginkgo truly no more

Today while passing through the hospital garden, in what has become an automatic move, I glanced over looking for the ginkgo stump and its sign only to see . . . that the ginkgo was now truly gone!

In its place was this full-sized maple.

This little blue sign next to it gives its name, in both Latin and the vernacular.

The "three flower" part, I learned (how ignorant we must have been before Google!), refers to the fact that the tree's flowers grow in clusters of three.

I guess that the garden's overseers (who seem quite fond of good signage) decided that a sufficient period of mourning had passed for the ginkgo. I feel sad for it, all traces swept away as if it never existed. The maple seems a bit too new and perfect, like a beautiful young second wife, married too soon by a pragmatic and unsentimental widower after his first wife's tragic demise. (Can you tell that I'm presently reading a nineteenth-century British novel?)

Then again, I suppose it's always hard to be the replacement. I imagine the poor maple is feeling disoriented. One moment it was growing tranquilly amidst its maple friends, working on its fall foliage display, only to be yanked unceremoniously from the ground, transported far from its birthplace, and transplanted into the manicured environs of our garden.

No one had better tell it what happens in these parts to trees who suffer branch failure.

pretty cool

That title refers not to the weather, but the fact that I just deposited a check into my savings account using my iPhone!

I bank with a financial services company called USAA, which serves people in the military and their families (I'm eligible for membership because my dad was in the army).  As one might expect with that clientele, the company's image is conservative, solid, maybe even edging into stodgy.

One arena in which USAA is on the cutting edge, however, is electronic banking. This makes sense considering that many of their customers move frequently and travel far from home during military service, including internationally. The company only has one brick-and-mortar location, in San Antonio, Texas, so it has been conducting on-line transactions since long before web-based services became commonplace. For the most part, I haven't missed having an actual local branch; I always had a hard time making it to the bank during banker's hours, anyhow.  USAA refunds all ATM fees, so customers can use any ATM for withdrawing cash.

The one transaction that has been less ideal, however, is making deposits, which previously always had to be by mail.  The company provides special postage-paid deposit envelopes, but deposits typically took several days to post, and I've sometimes paid FedEx or UPS charges in order to track large deposits.

But no longer! USAA offers a free iPhone application that enables customers to submit photos of their endorsed checks using the iPhone's camera. Image analysis software determines on the spot whether the image quality is adequate, and if so, the deposit posts immediately (with no need to provide the paper check, ever).

Here's a video that shows how the process works. You don't need to watch the whole thing to get the idea, just the first demonstration. Be sure to check out the scary technicolor tortilla chips. That couldn't be an authentic Mexican restaurant!

Pretty cool, huh? And speaking of technology, aren't you proud of me for figuring out how to embed a video in my post?

benevolent postcard society: september, part 2

As a spin-off of the Benevolent Postcard Society, Lori, the project's (seemingly) endlessly energetic founder, has created a BPS Flickr set. She's suggested that members take photos of their postcard against surroundings reflective of the postcard's new home.

These pictures show my postcard against the backdrop of Newbury Street, popular in Boston with both tourists and locals for its boutiques, cafes, and salons. Located in the historic Back Bay area, the street also features examples of the lovely brownstones for which Boston is famous.

first rule of consultation

Today I ran into my friend, Glory. This was our conversation:

Glory: Oh, Mari! I've been meaning to ask you a question on Facebook, but now I can ask you in person. You see, I know you're an expert, and I'm fostering a baby.

Me: Uh-huh (thinking, Wow, I knew Glory was generous and kind, but what an incredible person to take on being a foster parent!).

Glory: He's only two months old, and he won't eat! I don't know what to do.

Me: Uh-huh . . . (now feeling alarmed).

Glory: He eats just a little bit in the morning, and he won't eat dry food at all.  And he's underweight!

Me: Ah . . . (about to interrupt and suggest a STAT visit to a pediatrician).

Glory: What do you think I should do?

Me: Well . . . (and then it finally occurs to me to ask) . . . Glory, are you talking about a human baby?

Glory (laughing): No, no! I mean a kitten. I know you have lots of experience with cats . . . .

(photo of Glory's kitten on her Facebook page)

In retrospect, dear reader, a kitten was a far more logical conclusion. Glory works part-time at the animal shelter, and that is in fact where we were talking.

What threw me off was that she talked about "a baby" and referred to me as an "expert," and I just assumed that she was referring to my being a pediatrician and therefore ostensibly an expert on children.

Note to self: When performing a consultation, first establish the species of the patient in question.

benevolent postcard society: september, part 1

You may recall my mention of the Benevolent Postcard Society project in this post, or perhaps you've clicked on the nifty button in the left sidebar. Just in case, here's a quick recap: The Benevolent Postcard Society is a collaborative art project, invented and curated by Lori Langille of the beautiful blog Automatism.  Monthly for a year, each of the 250+ members will send a postcard to a randomly assigned other member (who could live anywhere in the world!). At the end of the year, Lori will collect the postcards and create a book about the project.

The first mailing occurred on September 1, and I just received my first postcard two days ago!  It was this stylish hand-drawn card from Alexandra in Johannesburg.

She explains that "Jozi" is the nickname for her city. I love how she wrote her message as a speech bubble coming from the silhouette sketched at the bottom. It was fun to read about spring in Johannesburg on an autumn day in Boston.

I didn't show you the postcard that I wrote (to a member in Norway) because sadly, it was nowhere near as creative as this one. But I'm thinking hard about what to send in October. Stay tuned . . . .

the lanyard

The Lanyard

Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly

off the blue walls of this room,

moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,

from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary

where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist

could send one into the past more suddenly—

a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp

by a deep Adirondack lake

learning how to braid long thin plastic strips

into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard

or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,

but that did not keep me from crossing

strand over strand again and again

until I had made a boxy

red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,

and I gave her a lanyard.

She nursed me in many a sick room,

lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,

laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,

and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,

and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.

Here are thousands of meals, she said,

and here is clothing and a good education.

And here is your lanyard, I replied,

which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,

strong legs, bones and teeth,

and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.

And here, I wish to say to her now,

is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,

but the rueful admission that when she took

the two-tone lanyard from my hand,

I was as sure as a boy could be

that this useless, worthless thing I wove

out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

O, Billy Collins, how I love thee! I had the good fortune a few years back to hear Mr. Collins read. He was just as you'd expect from his poetry: warm, thoughtful, self-effacing, and very, very funny.

I was reminded of this poem lately when my mom hired me to copy edit her dissertation. She insisted on paying me, despite my objection that the job was a small thing to ask considering that but for her, I'd not exist. So in our case, the line would go: "You gave me life, and I proofread for you."

(photo by Derek Fagerstrom and Lauren Smith on design*sponge)

first impressions

Tonight I started a ballet class with a new teacher. I always find this somewhat nerve-wracking, I guess because I aspire to make a good impression and appear more proficient than I really am. I still feel this way even though I realize, as I discussed with my friend, Jamie, afterward, that an experienced teacher can probably gauge a student's level of experience within minutes.

(photo on Boston Ballet)

Although in truth I was no better than I ever am (and maybe a bit worse on balances), I'm happy to report that I enjoyed the class and will definitely go back. The degree of difficulty was about right: not so easy that we were bored, but not so advanced that we were frustrated. The mental challenge of learning a new teacher's combinations was fun. In addition, our teacher suggested some new ways of approaching certain movements that I found very helpful.

I don't know that I'll ever be fond of change and the unfamiliar, but I try to remind myself that as I get older, I'm amassing evidence that I emerge from most new situations unscathed--and sometimes even pleasantly surprised.

overheard

A conversational snippet from two passersby:

Guy: . . . oh, like, maybe 14 times.

His female companion: You've been pulled over 14 times?! God, your driving must suck.

(photo on masspolicecars)

I was impressed and horrified, too. The really scary thing was that the guy looked like he was only in his twenties. I suppose it's unlikely that she'll let him drive anytime soon.

Actually, I suppose it's unlikely that he still has his license.

ginkgo no more

I encountered this sad sight in our hospital garden:

As I prepared to take the picture, I heard a passerby exclaim, "Oh, there used to be a beautiful tree here!"

Somehow I suspect that "branch failure" is not an official horticultural term. Also, the tree's name is actually spelled "ginkgo" and not "gingko." (I had to look it up to be sure, so that's merely an observation and not a criticism.)  And finally, I love the self-evidence of "for safety reasons."

I confess, I don't actually remember the ginkgo tree in its glory because until recently, I rarely walked through the garden. I'm sure it was indeed beautiful. Since it had to removed, however, I'm glad there's at least a great sign to commemorate its passing.

read in september

In a further indulgence of my love of list-making, here are the books that I finished reading during the month of September (list updated over the course of the month).

(photo of Boston Copley Public Library from Librophiliac Love Letter on Curious Expeditions)

1. Neil Fiore.  The Now Habit: A Strategic Program for Overcoming Procrastination and Enjoying Guilt-Free Play.

Includes a sound understanding of the psychology of procrastination, but rather dry and uninspired reading--which I suppose makes finishing it a good exercise in overcoming procrastination. (3 stars)

2. Emma Holly.  Kissing Midnight.

Enjoyable paranormal romance, set in 1930s London. (4 stars)

3. Richelle Mead.  Storm Born.

Urban fantasy, first in a series. Well-developed, interesting characters, including a highly likable protagonist who struggles with plenty of internal conflict and a compelling love triangle. (4.5 stars)

4. Linda Buckley-Archer.  The Time Thief.
Second in a series. Although this novel about two modern-day British children who travel back to the 18th-century is aimed toward and appropriate for young adults, it offers much for adults to enjoy, as well. Much more than a time-travel romp, it depicts three-dimensional characters and nuanced relationships. Even the villain is a complex character, his motivations apparent even as his actions remain dastardly. (4.5 stars)

5. Charlaine Harris.  Dead Until Dark.
The first of the famous and highly popular Sookie Stackhouse Southern vampire series. Light and fun reading (despite the multiple murders!), yet with moments of gravity and the truest first-person voice I've read in a long time. (5 stars)

well-stated in september

Favorite quotations featured on incidentals during the month of September.

Jane Austen
(portrait on upenn.english.edu)

"Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way."
- Jane Austen

"Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary and everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self."
- Iris Murdoch

"Think in the morning, act in the noon, read in the evening, and sleep in the night."
- William Blake

"The mere chink of cups and saucers turns the mind to repose."
- George Gissie

big dreams

I've been leafing through my college alumni magazine, which usually just leaves me with an inferiority complex as I read about the remarkable accomplishments of other graduates. I remember one article, for example, about Dennis Hwang, who serves as chief Google doodler--he designs most of the Google logos displayed on holidays and other special occasions.

This month's issue of the magazine, however, includes a very cool piece about Caitlin O'Connell-Rodwell, a Stanford-based ecologist who studies elephant communication. She and her research group recently discovered that elephants can communicate by sensing and responding to vibrations felt through the bottoms of their feet. They can differentiate vibrations from familiar elephants versus strangers and perceive other elephants traveling even several miles away. (I guess it's a good thing that elephants don't wear shoes.)

Together with her husband, Timothy Rodwell, Dr. O'Connell-Rodwell founded a non-profit organization called Utopia Scientific that raises research funds and "promotes understanding of the value of conservation, public health, and basic science through education and community outreach." They conduct research in Namibia at a remote site near a waterhole, monitoring elephant interactions in order to gain insight into their societies, cognition, and communication and to develop strategies for preventing negative interactions with farmers.

To help staff their research teams and cover the costs of their field studies, Utopia Scientific hosts paying volunteers for two-week sessions. I don't know how competitive or expensive the spots are, but this sounds like it would be an incredible experience. Elephants are one of my very favorite animals (yes, along with cats!). I admire their intelligence and sophisticated social structures, their enormous ears and dexterous trunks, and how gentle they are despite their size.

The Namibia camp runs on solar energy, features a bush shower and toilet, and houses volunteers in shared tents. As my family can attest, I fail to appreciate the charms of "roughing it" and have vast affection for indoor plumbing. Nonetheless, I've added "Be an elephant researcher" to my mental someday-maybe to do list. To spend days living in close proximity with elephants, studying their behavior, sounds like a magical dream come true.

september bliss

(photo by Zanchetta Fabio on Wikimedia Commons)

Bliss equals . . . 

1. a lazy long weekend. (September 6)

2. the pure clarity of autumn light. (September 10)

3. staying at home in a cozy, lamplit apartment on a rainy, rainy Saturday. (September 12)

4. a dental checkup that went well and six whole months until the next one.  (September 17)

5. discovering that the "final-sale, no-returns," $15.99 top fits perfectly.  (September 18)

6. lunch. Really! Pretty much every day, lunch makes me very happy. (September 28)

my mycologist

Remember that strange-looking, orange, ruffled thing featured in my post a couple of days ago? My friend, mycophile, and local amateur mycologist, Ian (whose day job is being a first-grader), has identified it!

He recognized the thing as a chicken mushroom, a.k.a. sulfur shelf or Laetiporus sulphureus. (Thank you, Ian! I'm so excited to have the mystery solved.)

Ian's mom provided a link to americanmushrooms.com, maintained by David Fischer.

I was amused to encounter this warning upon accessing the site.

Here's a photo of a chicken mushroom from the site. Looks a lot like my mystery fungus, doesn't it?

Some interesting facts about chicken mushrooms from americanmushrooms.com:

• They are primarily an autumn mushroom but can be found from spring through autumn.
• Depending on the species, they grow on a variety of trees, including hardwoods and conifers.
• Identifying the type of tree upon which a chicken mushroom is growing is critical: those found on any type of conifer shouldn't be eaten. Mr. Fischer cautions, "The bottom line is that if you cannot tell the bark of a black cherry tree from that of an Eastern hemlock . . .  you ought to steer clear of this particular mushroom."
• At the same time, "few edible wild mushrooms are considered as exciting a find." Chicken mushrooms have "a unique mushroomy flavor and a slightly grainy, meaty texture."

Mushroom Gatherers by Henry H. La Thangue on AskART) 

Prized though it may be as a culinary find, I plan simply to admire the chicken mushroom and have no wish to harvest it.  I'm personally not a fan of "mushroomy flavor" and definitely can't distinguish a black cherry tree from an Eastern hemlock.

in praise of my bed

At some point between elementary school and high school, bedtime shifts for most of us from an event to avoid (with one more drink of water, one more visit to the bathroom, one more story . . . ) to one that we appreciate, even anticipate. From my own experience and that of friends, I've learned that going through medical training even more profoundly inspires passion for sleep, especially a good night's sleep in one's own bed.

Of course, this is not a phenomenon unique to doctors. Deprived chronically of sleep, anyone is likely to emerge with a deep reverence for its sweet relief and restorative powers. I'm sure parents of young children feel the same way. Combine medical residency with early parenthood, as so many people impressively do, and your adoration for bedtime (first your baby's, then your own) must increase exponentially.

(photo by Donna Griffith on Country Living)

Because of my own fervent love of sleep and my bed, this poem is among my all-time favorites.

In Praise of My Bed
Meredith Holmes

At last I can be with you!
The grinding hours
since I left your side!
The labor of being fully human,
working my opposable thumb,
talking, and walking upright.
Now I have unclasped
unzipped, stepped out of.
Husked, soft, a be-er only,
I do nothing, but point
my bare feet into your
clean smoothness
feel your quiet strength
the whole length of my body.
I close my eyes, hear myself
moan, so grateful to be held this way.

From The Writer's Almanac.

name that . . . um, thing

Look what I recently spotted, growing at the base of a tree near my office.

I think it's pretty amazing-looking. My best guess is that it's some sort of fungus, flourishing after the rainy summer we had here in Massachusetts. I wish I could perform a reverse Google image search: instead of entering a phrase and getting back pictures, I'd submit the photo and get back a name.

If you know what it is, please, please leave a comment. Even if it's incredibly common in the Eastern U.S. and I'm betraying my Western roots with my ignorance.

I have a young friend named Ian who's something of a mushroom expert, and I'm wondering if he could shed light on this mystery.

cringeworthy

I just saw a driver trying unsuccessfully to parallel park on one of the narrow one-way streets in my neighborhood. As a woman in the passenger seat looked on. And cars, unable to pass, piled up five deep behind him.

(photo from abbyladybug on flickr)

I rather admired the poor guy because if it had been I, I'd have given up as soon as the first car appeared behind me. Actually, I'd have been too chicken to try in the first place. Which is why I will never get better at parallel parking.

a softie for softies

Like most kids, I adored stuffed animals when I was young and went through a period when I thought one couldn't have too many. I used to sleep with several of them and arranged them at bedtime in a very specific configuration (my organizing tendencies manifested at an early age), leaving a narrow space on the edge of the bed for myself. My parents joked that eventually there'd be no room left for me.

But like most kids, as I got older my need for plush friends faded. I did take my beloved teddy bear, Chocolate, whom I'd had since birth, to college with me, and he was a comforting presence in my dorm room. By then, however, I regarded the compulsion to acquire new softies as a thing of the past, left behind in my (supposed) ever-increasing maturity. Of course, for the past ten years I've had a soft, warm, breathing, purring kitty with whom to snuggle at night. (I actually thought when I adopted Isabel that she'd sleep in a cat bed on the floor; so naive!)

Well, dear reader, it seems that I'm regressing. Ever since my discovery of Etsy several months ago, I've had a steadily growing family of new softies, both dolls and animals. I find myself drawn to their clever and creative designs, skilled craftsmanship, and beautiful materials.

One artist whose softies I particularly love is Sara Kirkpatrick, of the Etsy shop Blueberry Bandit.

Here is my little Blueberry Bandit menagerie.

When I first saw Sara's felt creatures, I fell for their gentle colors and delicate, old-fashioned trims and embellishments. As Sara explains in her charming blog, Confessions of a Blueberry Bandit, she also has a day job, so she works on her art (softies, paintings and drawings, and paper goods) in her free time.

Plus, she's a self-described "incurable perfectionist," as clearly reflected in the exquisite details of her creations, which means, I imagine, that each of her softies takes some time to make.

As a result, her felt creatures are not numerous and tend not to remain long in her shop. I feel fortunate to have my small collection.

I guess I haven't completely regressed because rather than residing on the bed, my softies decorate various bookshelves around my apartment. It wouldn't do to make Isabel and Maisie jealous.

my special power

I think a fervent love for brownies imparts a brownie-baking sixth sense. I just got up to check on my current batch and discovered only 44 seconds left on the timer! This is pretty remarkable since my mom claims that I have no innate sense of time. But if brownies are involved . . . .

The brownies are from another excellent Trader Joe's mix, the Brownie Truffle Baking Mix. These are the the best-tasting brownies-from-a-box that I've encountered. This might have something to do with the entire stick of butter that they contain, but I think the quality of the chocolate is very good, too.

The instructions say to wait for 30 minutes before removing from the pan. I say, ha!