Dwell Studio Chinoiserie

This bedding is such old news, so why am I still so not over it?  Does that mean it's true love?

Perhaps someone will valentine it to me this year?

He can find it here.

**update: Jennifer, who does PR for Dwell Studio just let me know that they will be introducing new Chinoiserie pillows in different sizes and brighter colors, next month.  I'll be on the lookout for those and post them as soon as I spot 'em.**

the birthday boy

Today is my sweet husband's birthday.   

Happy birthday, Love!

I am reminded again today of a line from Rilke that we stole from my friend's wedding program and put it in ours, as we loved it so....

I'll pursue solitary pathways

through the pale twilight meadows,

with only this one dream:

You come too.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Happy New Year!

So, I realize that this is a little late but man it is hard to post from another person's home.  And alas, we are home.  so...Happy New Year!

I love, love fresh beginnings.  New calendars, clear journals.  Endless possibilities.  Limitless hope.   

And I am not someone that balks at resolutions.  Sure, we may not meet them all perfectly.  Sure some may fall quickly to the wayside but is that a reason to have no goals, no aspirations.  No hope to be a better you.  Perhaps with each resolution we take a baby step forward, and that is at least, something.

Here are my big 3 for the coming year.

1.  I want to pursue real and lasting health this coming year.  I want to make choices that contribute to, rather then steal from my and my families health.   

2. Walk in true joy that is not tied to my circumstances.  

3. Be present in the moment.  Not let technology or entertainment or even future dreams take away from what God has given me - right now.  

What are your resolutions for the coming year?

{photo from Antiquish's}

O wonderful day!

{We have no water today and cannot cook, shower or flush...the gifts still sit wrapped under the tree...and yet it has still been and still will be - a wonderful day.}

Merry Christmas everyone!

{image from the Nativity Story}

Amaretto

When I saw this recipe on In(side) the Loop's great blog, I decided to whip up a batch of Amaretto to go with the cranberry liquor that I made for my sister. This recipe is so yummy and so easy. It was a breeze compared to the cranberry liquor.

Homemade Amaretto

3½ cups sugar
1 tbsp. instant coffee
1 oz. almond extract
5 tsp. vanilla extract
5 dashes Peychaud's bitters
1 fifth [about 25.6 ounces] of vodka

Dissolve sugar in 2 cups boiling water. Add instant coffee and stir until completely dissolved. Remove from fire and stir in remaining ingredients. Be sure to taste, but consider yourself warned when you're making this at 9AM.

{yummy in cocoa, champagne, amaretto sours & lots more…}

Baby, it's cold outside.

Well we made it. At last, it finally feels like Christmas.

Snow, snow, snow!

I just wanted to share a few pictures of Chicago at Christmastime.
Oh, how I love it.

{images from: Chicago the band, Lynn Becker, Chicago Weekend Fun,  jdiddy, Allen Group}

colored lights

I have always been a white Christmas lights kind of girl.  So classic and simple and pretty.  Now I live in the desert where the lack of snow makes for a rather drab winterscape.  White lights just don't seem to cut it anymore. I went a little ga-ga when I saw this photo out of J.Crew.  All those big bright lights but not the least bit tacky or over the top.  Classic but happy classic.  

Well, I tried to do it and as with most well styled ads, it's easier seen then copied.  Bulbs that large don't come with a battery pack and who wants a cord dangling from the front door.  I'll have to get re-envisioned and try again next year.  

afternoon tea

I can't believe that I forgot to mention our most favorite tradition of all! Sean and I love to go have afternoon tea.  Whenever we are out of town, just the two of us, we try to make it happen. When we are in Chicago, we love to have afternoon tea at the Peninsula.   A huge selection of teas, little bites of wonderfulness, a quiet respite from the cold - we love it all. One day we hope to make going to "holiday tea" a tradition with our little ones (when they are not quite so little.)  For now, we'll enjoy this little tradition while it's still just the two of us.  

a french Bulldog for the 12th day of Christmas

I'm going to go ahead and past the final "day of Christmas" post today too, as tomorrow I will be flying the hopefully friendly skies.  

As my final wish on my wish list, I would like to add one of these furry friends to our family. My mother likes to tell me that a dog would destroy my previous post, the lovely crewel rug. But for this face, I might, might be able to forego the rug.  

As it may be, I don't like to spend a lot of money on things.  Nearly always, the item or type of item that I like is the expensive kind.  Why is that?!  

French Bulldogs are not cheap.  My guess is that if this little guy doesn't show up on a sleigh, he won't be showing up at all.  

But at least then, I could get my rug.  Just looking for the silver lining.

Does anyone know how French Bulldogs do with chickens?

{images from: Dog Breed Info, Kevin Colden, 321 dogs}

Anthropologie for the 11th day of Christmas

Have I ever loved a rug more?  I think not.  If is far, far more beautiful in person.  It is all delicious crewel work and though I love many rugs of this style, this one in particular has stolen my heart.  

You can find it here. 

teacher's gift

We went through lots of ideas before we decided upon a monogrammed pen as a gift for Mrs. Daw, E.'s teacher. Granted, it's not super exciting but we liked the one that we found, it writes great, it was a good price, and I am a sucker for anything that can be monogrammed.  

The company is called Retro 51 and they're tag line is "Life is too short to carry an ugly pen."  I don't know about that, but the pen is cute and old-school looking.

We decided to monogram the pen with "Mrs. Daw" rather then her initials as it seemed sweeter since that's what her students call her.  I was a little nervous about this and hope she doesn't think we just couldn't remember her name. (!)

We love you, Mrs. Daw.

favorite song of the season

Homemade Cranberry Liquor

Each year around Thanksgiving, my extended family draws names to determine the person that they will buy for that Christmas.  For years and years we did a "real gift" and a "gag gift".  That tradition ended on a sour note and included something to do with an {read: my} ex- boyfriend and a {read: again, my} future spouse.  It was not funny and it quickly ended the gag gift tradition.  Many years have past. This year I had the 'genius' idea of suggesting that we again give two gifts to our person.  A purchased gift and a handmade gift.  As soon as everyone agreed, I quickly remembered that I don't know how to make anything.  After much anguish I decided on what to make for my sister.  Cranberry Liquor.  I mean really, how can you screw up sugar, vodka, & cranberries?  Doesn't it have to be good?

Well, it has been stewing or festering or matriculating or whatever homemade liquor does, for days.  And I just had a little sip.  

It is good.

In case you are wanting to whip up something festive at the last minute...here's the recipe.  This could become an annual tradition. 

I bought some swing-top glass bottles from World Market and the whole thing just looks very sweet and again, festive.  The color of the liquor is beautiful.  

I'll just go grab one more small sip. 

{image from MishaM}

Folger's Coffee Ad circa 1985

This is the coffee ad I was referring to. Still love it. Ugh... Why couldn't Sean mother name him Peter?

downtown

I am heading to chicago in a couple days with my two little ones.  My husband, Sean, sadly won't make it out there until the 23rd (it feels just like that holiday Folger's commercial) - but all of my family is in Chicago so it will be great to have some time with them.   Sean's birthday is just after New Years' so when we are in Chicago for Christmas we like to celebrate his birthday there.  We both love Chicago.  And most other large, wonderful cities.  My nice family lets us slip away from the kids for a night and we try to fill 24 hours with as much Chicago-wonderfulness as we can!  We always Priceline a hotel and then research all the fun stuff that we want to squeeze in.  

This year we are staying at the Millennium Knickerbocker Hotel, a 1927 landmark hotel that has just been renovated.  We have never stayed there before and are excited to check it out as we have this deep, strange love for hotels.  I posted the above photo because I love the colors in that Suzani coverlet!)

{sidenote: it's a long-standing to dream of our to one day open a little hotel.}

We will definitely be eating at Zed 451, as we have a gift card from my parents that we have never gotten around to using.  It looks yummy. Kind of a modern take on the Brazilian Churrascaria, which has never been my thing, my maybe the "modern take" will change things for me. 

A few other "definites" on our list:

Museum of Science and Industry (specifically to check out their Smart Home exhibit)

Jayson Home & Garden

and of course, Jonathan Adler

Can you tell I'm excited about our lone day in Chicago?

{images from The Millennium Knickerbocker, Zed 451, the Museum of Science & Industry, Apartment Therapy, Friendly Joe}

Garnet Hill on the 8th day of Christmas

What can I say? I'm blanket happy this year. I must be chilly. I have gazed lovingly at images of this throw for going on three years now. I'm not sure what it is about it - the colors? the pattern? Not sure, but love it, I do. I would be more then happy for Santa to crochet this for me himself if he prefer that to the hefty price tag. I dream that one day I will learn to crochet. And then a day much further along I would be able to knit something like this, myself. That's right people, I dare to dream the big dreams.

I found this one here.

write it down

Do you think I have time to whip some of these things up by Thursday, say four-ish? Sure, I could just buy them from Paper-Source {which I love, by the way} but I am really just wanting to find an old letterpress machine on Craigslist (with manual) read up on it for several minutes and go to town. Welcome to my fantasy world.

Ok - how about this. I go buy some nice, thick, cream-colored cards from Hobby Lobby and I jot down "I am thankful for:" with a pretty pen. Welcome to my reality.

I'm thankful for Squanto

Many of you may be quite familiar with this man and his story but I was not. Why is this story not told year after year and part of the fabric of our Thanksgiving traditions? For all the junk that is made into movies, i can't for the life of me understand why none makes this into a film? It is, after all, the real story of Thanksgiving. And without this man, none of us would probably be here today.

Without further adieu, I give you the story of Squanto. Perhaps you can share it at your Thanksgiving table this year.


Sailors poured onto the rocky beach as their small craft landed. Nearby cliffs echoed with a shout: "Grab that short one before he gets away!" The Indian boy felt a sailor's callused hands grasp his shoulders. Though he thrashed and jerked, Squanto (SKWAN- to) couldn't break free. As fibers from a coarse rope cut into his wrists he finally decided that struggle was useless. He was dragged into a longboat, then carried aboard a three-masted English ship anchored offshore.

Squanto had been fishing along the rugged coast when his friend had looked up and pointed, "Great boats with white wings." They had scrambled over the boulders to meet the strange white-faced intruders. Now Squanto was their captive.

Weeks later, a pale Squanto wobbled down the gangplank from that lurching deck onto firm land. He and other Indians were taken to the elaborate mansion of Sir Ferdinando Gorges who had financed many expeditions to the New World. For the next three years, the Indian youths were taught English. At first Squanto found the new tongue awkward, but eventually he surprised himself: "My name is Squanto. I have come from America."

His English host was eager for the Indians to master the language. One day Gorges called them to his quarters. "Young braves, you have studied hard. Now you will be sent as guides on new explorations of America. I will miss you."

"Another ship? How can I stand that constantly rolling deck?" Squanto thought. But in time he gained his sea legs. His knowledge of the rivers and natural harbors, of the tribes and chieftains of his homeland proved very helpful to the English explorers.

For years he had longed to see his beloved bay and village again. One day, as his ship sailed along the New England coast, he spotted it. Squanto ran to the captain. "May I go ashore, sir? That's my village. That's my home!"

"Yes, young man. You have served us well. Now you can return to your people."

As soon as he heard the pebbles crunch under the longboat's hull, Squanto jumped out and ran to embrace his parents. He was home!

But his homecoming didn't last long. Within weeks Squanto spotted new sails on the horizon. No longer afraid of English ships, he proudly led a band of young braves to greet the sailors. Armed seamen seized Squanto and nineteen other Patuxet (paw-TUX-et) Indians.

Once again he was imprisoned aboard a British merchant ship. Rats scampered across the damp hold where the Indians were chained. Scarce provisions, a stormy trip, and continual seasickness took their toll. Several Indians were buried at sea. By the time they reached the Spanish slave-port of Malaga (MA-la-ga), Squanto was very weak.

One by one the surviving braves were pushed up onto the auction block to be sold. Finally it was Squanto's turn. He could barely stand. "Senores (sen-YOR-es), what will you bid for this strong Indian?" the slave trader rasped. A brown-robed monk nodded and the auctioneer grinned. "Sold to the brothers of the monastery."

A heavy pouch of coins exchanged hands and the monk led Squanto home. At last his wrists were untied. A friar brought fresh water and plenty of food, though Squanto could only eat a little.

"Estas libre (es-TAS LEE-bray)! You are free." Squanto looked into the clear eyes of this man of God. Though he knew no Spanish, he understood. Over the next few weeks he pieced it together. Their love for Jesus had prompted these Christian brothers to buy Indian slaves and teach them the Christian faith. As the monks nursed him back to health, Squanto began to love this Jesus, too.

Yet he longed for home. The Indian used his command of English to find a fishing boat headed for London, where he rejoined his explorer friends. Again, Squanto became a guide for explorations of the New World. Years passed. The day finally came when he saw the familiar coastlands of home. Once more he was granted permission to go ashore.

No one greeted Squanto at the beach. He ran to his village. The bark-covered round-houses were empty. Not even a dog barked. Graves outside the village told the story. Samoset (SAM-o-set), his friend from a neighboring tribe, could bring little comfort. "A whiteman's sickness struck your people. One week, all dead. Many villages lie silent like Patuxet."

Squanto's emptiness overwhelmed him. Parents, brothers, sisters, forever gone. He wandered the forests for weeks in his grief. Finally he went to live with his friend Samoset.

One cold December morning, six months after he returned, Squanto watched the white sails of a ship grow on the stormy horizon. This time he hid as the men came ashore. Their clothes looked different from those worn by sailors and the fancy English officers he had seen on other ships. Broad hats and great black capes shielded them from the biting wind. He could glimpse white caps and long dresses of women aboard the ship anchored in the bay. Often he saw children playing on deck. As green leaves came to clothe barren trees, the settlers began to build houses on the very place where his village had stood. Day after day Squanto watched intently, never seen.

Samoset urged him to meet these settlers. A cry went up as the Indians strode into the settlement. Men grabbed for their muskets.

The Indians lifted their hands in greeting. "My name is Squanto. This is Samoset. We come in peace." The settlers were astounded. An Indian who spoke clear English? The Pilgrims lowered their muskets and invited the Indians to share their meager food.

The sun had set by the time Samoset got up to leave, but Squanto hesitated. Many of the settlers had already died from disease and winter's bitter cold. There was little food. Yet they weren't giving up. He thought of his old village's battle with death. "You go," Squanto told his friend in their Indian tongue, "I'm staying. This is my home, my village. These will be my new people."

Squanto turned to the leaders. "May I stay with you? I can help you. I know where you can find foods in the forest."

The white men studied the Indian carefully. Could he be trusted? Still, the struggling colony was in no position to refuse help. "Yes. Please stay."

That spring and summer Squanto proved his worth many times over. He led them to brooks alive with herring beginning their spring migration upstream. He showed the settlers how to fish with traps. He taught them where to stalk game in the forest. The children learned what berries they could pick for their families. Twenty acres of corn grew tall after Squanto showed the Pilgrims how to plant fish with the native corn seeds from a local tribe.

Once, a hostile tribe captured Squanto. "If he is killed," shouted their chief, "the English have lost their tongue." A small Pilgrim force arrived just in time, firing their muskets in the air. The terrified chief released his captive and fled. Squanto repaid the Pilgrims' favor. His bargaining skills kept neighboring tribes from attacking the small Plymouth colony.

In the fall the Pilgrims planned a feast to celebrate God's merciful help. Squanto was sent to invite friendly Chief Massasoit (MASS-a-soit) and his braves.

They gathered around tables spread with venison, roast duck and goose, turkeys, shellfish, bread, and vegetables, with woodland fruits and berries for dessert. Before they ate, the Pilgrim men removed their wide-brimmed hats and Indians stood reverently as the governor led them in solemn prayer.

"Thank You, great God, for the bounty You have supplied to us. Thank You for protecting us in hardship and meeting all our needs. . . ." Towards the end of the long prayer, Squanto was startled to hear his own name. "And thank You for bringing to us the Indian Squanto, your own special instrument to save us from hunger and help us to establish our colony in this new land." Squanto stood proudly. It was a day to remember.

Two years passed. Squanto lay mortally ill, struck by a raging fever while scouting east of Plymouth. He turned over in his mind the events of his strange life. It almost seemed that a plan had led him. The first time he was captured he learned English. The second time, he was freed by gentle Christians who taught him to trust in Jesus. And though his own people had died of sickness, God had sent him to a new people who built their colony where his old village once stood.

Pilgrim leader William Bradford knelt at his bedside. "Pray for me, Governor," the Indian whispered, "that I might go to the Englishmen's God in heaven." Squanto breathed his last November 1622, gone from the New World, but entering a heavenly one.

This account is based on historical facts found in primary sources such as William Bradford's Journal, Capt. John Smith's The Generall Historie of New England, and Sir Ferdinando Gorges' Brief Narration, and numerous secondary sources.

{image from NativeAmericans.com}