Spent most of Thursday and Friday home sick, and for me that means asleep. Whatever meds, or flu remedies, or whatever I might take or have recommended to me, the best thing for my body is to just shut down for a while.
"Advil? Aspirin? Yeah, okay, cool. But I got this." [thud] ZZZZZ
The Love of My Life would check in occasionally when the snoring stopped, make me drink something, convince me to eat something as my guts allowed, and then let me fall down again.
When I couldn't sleep, I would read for a while. Cheerful stuff like finishing the Hunger Games trilogy, or "The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe." Cheery stuff, made for some really interesting fever dreams.
And when I didn't feel like reading, I would knit. Yes, I'm into knitting now. Finished a cap, then looked around for other project ideas. What I settled on was making bandages for leprosy victims. No, I'm not making that up, nor am I trying to be funny (for a change.)
There's a real need for them, and a small organization is coordinating volunteers and shipping them to Vietnam. Might as well put my latest creative hobby to good use, rather than for adding to a costume or a set of reenacting gear.
If you knit, take a look at their site and consider volunteering your time, talent, and/or treasure.
The D.O.V.E. Fund Bandage Brigade
Monday, March 5, 2012
Saturday, September 11, 2010
So, what's with the hat?
The name of this blog is Under My Hat, which has a couple meanings. Most of what I say has double meanings, but that's another blog.
1. Under My Hat refers to what's going on in my head at any particular time. Since my brain is inside my head, and my head is Under My Hat, it seemed a natural title.
2. Keeping something under your hat means to keep a secret, kind of implies this stuff is just between me and you. Since there are currently two people following the blog, the secret is well kept.
3. Under My Hat references one of my for-better-or-for-worse trademarks. I love hats. Real hats. Sure, I'll slap on a ball cap from time to time when convenience or the situation calls for it. But take note of the term "ball CAP"-- it says right there it's a cap and not a proper hat.
I don't feel properly dressed without a hat. Yeah, it's old fashioned, but that's not a bad thing. People at work know I'm in the building because they see The Hat sitting above my desk. I always know where my keys are, because they are in My Hat.
My main Hat is brown, well-travelled, dusty, and a bit beat up. It is my unashamedly disreputable hat--it gets crushed into carryon bags, covers my head in the rain and wind and dust and hail and NERF darts and snow and falling rocks and whatever else the world has thrown at us. Because that's what a Hat is for.
I respect what this lid does for me, and, as such, even capitalize it--it is The Hat.
Yes, it is an Indiana Jones hat--but a good one. It's NOT like some of the licensed ones, with the wrong materials, the wrong structure, the wrong lining, the wrong brim, the wrong, well... everything. Akubra made this one with the classic 30s styling, broad brim, quality critter fur materials under it, and it came with a high, open-crown, meaning it could be bashed into whatever shape works for my head. Sure, it's a good Indy hat at its core, but its first-and-foremost My Hat.
What something looks like, or reminds you of, is an aspect of that thing. Since perception is reality, the connotations of The Hat are part of what it is. You may look at My Hat and think "Indiana Jones!" or of those great movies you saw as a kid, or connotations of adventure, or sneers of "fan boy!" It's all good.
In a world of generic fashion, of hipster uniforms, of ubiquitous jeans-and-t-shirts, and the fashion-of-the-month, I enjoy wearing items with a long personal history, and typically immediate recognition. It may be a kilt, or a pair of boots an extra wore filming "Saving Private Ryan," or The Hat. Something you see and know "there's a story behind that."
Yes, with me, there's a story behind EVERYTHING.
1. Under My Hat refers to what's going on in my head at any particular time. Since my brain is inside my head, and my head is Under My Hat, it seemed a natural title.
2. Keeping something under your hat means to keep a secret, kind of implies this stuff is just between me and you. Since there are currently two people following the blog, the secret is well kept.
3. Under My Hat references one of my for-better-or-for-worse trademarks. I love hats. Real hats. Sure, I'll slap on a ball cap from time to time when convenience or the situation calls for it. But take note of the term "ball CAP"-- it says right there it's a cap and not a proper hat.
I don't feel properly dressed without a hat. Yeah, it's old fashioned, but that's not a bad thing. People at work know I'm in the building because they see The Hat sitting above my desk. I always know where my keys are, because they are in My Hat.
My main Hat is brown, well-travelled, dusty, and a bit beat up. It is my unashamedly disreputable hat--it gets crushed into carryon bags, covers my head in the rain and wind and dust and hail and NERF darts and snow and falling rocks and whatever else the world has thrown at us. Because that's what a Hat is for.
I respect what this lid does for me, and, as such, even capitalize it--it is The Hat.
The Hat is an Akubra Federation fedora. Made out of real critter fur, by Australians who know a thing or two about making long-lasting, durable, and good-looking hats. They've only been up to it for about 100 years, after all.
Yes, it is an Indiana Jones hat--but a good one. It's NOT like some of the licensed ones, with the wrong materials, the wrong structure, the wrong lining, the wrong brim, the wrong, well... everything. Akubra made this one with the classic 30s styling, broad brim, quality critter fur materials under it, and it came with a high, open-crown, meaning it could be bashed into whatever shape works for my head. Sure, it's a good Indy hat at its core, but its first-and-foremost My Hat.
What something looks like, or reminds you of, is an aspect of that thing. Since perception is reality, the connotations of The Hat are part of what it is. You may look at My Hat and think "Indiana Jones!" or of those great movies you saw as a kid, or connotations of adventure, or sneers of "fan boy!" It's all good.
In a world of generic fashion, of hipster uniforms, of ubiquitous jeans-and-t-shirts, and the fashion-of-the-month, I enjoy wearing items with a long personal history, and typically immediate recognition. It may be a kilt, or a pair of boots an extra wore filming "Saving Private Ryan," or The Hat. Something you see and know "there's a story behind that."
Yes, with me, there's a story behind EVERYTHING.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Fire, The Meat, and The Rum
We had steaks planned for dinner, and today, the charcoal Weber called to me. For convenience, I often wuss out and use the gas grill, but not today. Today called for FIRE. The real stuff, with smoke, and sparks, and ashes.
Stuffed the charcoal starter chimney with newspaper, poured the charcoal in the top, and... hmm. No matches. Look in the kitchen drawers. Nope. Look in the bathroom. Nope. But I did find my flint-and-steel kit in there.
You ask: why do you have flint-and-steel in the bathroom? I... uh, nevermind.
Couple good strikes of the flint, and a bit of puffing, and I had the charcoal going. Steaks came out great. Even toasted up some buttered sourdough slices. Mmm.
But I had all this perfectly good charcoal burning. Shame to put it to waste. In the depths of the freezer, I dug up a forgotten beef roast. Didn't bother thawing it. No time! There were perfectly good charcoal BTUs going to waste! On the grill it went with a glorious hisssssss. Closed up the lid, and enjoyed our steak dinner.
Checked on the roast after dinner, and it had a nice sear going. The coals were going strong, glowing with content that their heat was appreciated and useful. When I flipped the roast, the meat, too, hissssed rejoicing its freedom from the frigid plastic shroud. Here, with The Fire, it became its true self--The Meat.
In the fullness of time, The Meat was wrapped in foil, resting and awaiting the glory of sandwiches and dinner to come on Monday.
And The Fire, again it called to me. But what to do? Then The Love Of My Life spoke: "What's for dessert?" Hmm, dessert, indeed.
Inspiration struck, and out came the cast iron dutch oven. Sliced up a bunch of apples, stirred them into the cast iron with brown sugar, cinnamon, and a little water. But something was missing... something... ah, yes. The Rum. A generous splash of The Rum, and then another for good measure, and we returned to The Fire.
As I arranged the coals around, and atop The Iron of the dutch oven, The Fire again released sparks of joy. The Iron, The Rum, the sweetness, the sour, the magic, thickened and coalesced beneath The Fire.
And it was good.
The Fire has cooled, and the ashes bear mute testimony to the evening.
The Fire, The Meat, The Iron, The Rum.
Dammit, now I have to do The Dishes.
Stuffed the charcoal starter chimney with newspaper, poured the charcoal in the top, and... hmm. No matches. Look in the kitchen drawers. Nope. Look in the bathroom. Nope. But I did find my flint-and-steel kit in there.
You ask: why do you have flint-and-steel in the bathroom? I... uh, nevermind.
Couple good strikes of the flint, and a bit of puffing, and I had the charcoal going. Steaks came out great. Even toasted up some buttered sourdough slices. Mmm.
But I had all this perfectly good charcoal burning. Shame to put it to waste. In the depths of the freezer, I dug up a forgotten beef roast. Didn't bother thawing it. No time! There were perfectly good charcoal BTUs going to waste! On the grill it went with a glorious hisssssss. Closed up the lid, and enjoyed our steak dinner.
Checked on the roast after dinner, and it had a nice sear going. The coals were going strong, glowing with content that their heat was appreciated and useful. When I flipped the roast, the meat, too, hissssed rejoicing its freedom from the frigid plastic shroud. Here, with The Fire, it became its true self--The Meat.
In the fullness of time, The Meat was wrapped in foil, resting and awaiting the glory of sandwiches and dinner to come on Monday.
And The Fire, again it called to me. But what to do? Then The Love Of My Life spoke: "What's for dessert?" Hmm, dessert, indeed.
Inspiration struck, and out came the cast iron dutch oven. Sliced up a bunch of apples, stirred them into the cast iron with brown sugar, cinnamon, and a little water. But something was missing... something... ah, yes. The Rum. A generous splash of The Rum, and then another for good measure, and we returned to The Fire.
As I arranged the coals around, and atop The Iron of the dutch oven, The Fire again released sparks of joy. The Iron, The Rum, the sweetness, the sour, the magic, thickened and coalesced beneath The Fire.
And it was good.
The Fire has cooled, and the ashes bear mute testimony to the evening.
The Fire, The Meat, The Iron, The Rum.
Dammit, now I have to do The Dishes.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Respect the kilt
I am proud of my Scottish family heritage. I enjoy a good single malt. I love bagpipe music. Yes, I even eat haggis. Hell, I've cooked the stuff and lived to tell the tale.
And, yes, I wear a kilt. Wore one this weekend, in fact, and have 5 of the things (one I sewed myself.) Over the years, I've heard the jokes, and enjoyed the reactions from the opposite sex in particular.
Guys--when was the last time a woman you've never met came up and asked you if you were wearing underwear?
I prefer the traditional pleated plaid variety. I don't have anything against the Utilikilt, they just aren't my thing.
This afternoon, one of my wife's friends referred to a kilt as a "costume."
A kilt is not a "costume."
A kilt is a true man's garment, going back thousands of years.
A kilt is comfortable and breezy alternative to jeans on a hot day.
A kilt is a proud declaration of one's descent from people who throw logs for fun.
A kilt is a magnet for women.
A kilt is a warning to their men.
But a kilt is not a costume.
You wear a costume when you want to pretend to be something you aren't, or to hide who you are.
You wear a kilt when you know who you are, and are willing to take the risk that you might show the world exactly what you are made of in a strong breeze or if you sit carelessly.
Time to put my money where my blog is--I'll kilt up for work tomorrow. Admittedly, not wearing pants isn't that big a deal where I work. I'd only stand out if I wore a suit and tie around there. But it's the thought that counts.
And, yes, I wear a kilt. Wore one this weekend, in fact, and have 5 of the things (one I sewed myself.) Over the years, I've heard the jokes, and enjoyed the reactions from the opposite sex in particular.
Guys--when was the last time a woman you've never met came up and asked you if you were wearing underwear?
I prefer the traditional pleated plaid variety. I don't have anything against the Utilikilt, they just aren't my thing.
This afternoon, one of my wife's friends referred to a kilt as a "costume."
A kilt is not a "costume."
A kilt is a true man's garment, going back thousands of years.
A kilt is comfortable and breezy alternative to jeans on a hot day.
A kilt is a proud declaration of one's descent from people who throw logs for fun.
A kilt is a magnet for women.
A kilt is a warning to their men.
But a kilt is not a costume.
You wear a costume when you want to pretend to be something you aren't, or to hide who you are.
You wear a kilt when you know who you are, and are willing to take the risk that you might show the world exactly what you are made of in a strong breeze or if you sit carelessly.
Time to put my money where my blog is--I'll kilt up for work tomorrow. Admittedly, not wearing pants isn't that big a deal where I work. I'd only stand out if I wore a suit and tie around there. But it's the thought that counts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)