I Drank Those Colors In

Two years ago this week I nearly went blind. I went to my eye doctor for a new prescription for contacts, and by the end of the day I was sitting in the office of a retina specialist. The retinas of both eyes had holes in them, and the left had developed a tear which, if left unchecked, would result in complete blindness of that eye. I had known for several years that I was at risk or retina detachment, so I knew what symptoms to look for. They just happened to occur when I already had an appointment. So my eye doctor dilated my eyes when I told him I had been seeing silvery blobs drift across my vision as well as gobs and gobs of floaters. He saw the holes that had formed and immediately called a specialist and asked that I be seen as soon as possible that day.

So I needed to get to Tyler, which was about forty-five minutes away. I didn't know how to get there, and furthermore, I could not drive safely since my eyes were so dilated that the light made it impossible for me to open my eyes more than a slit. Eyes watering profusely, I felt awash in a dread panicky feeling. I had no idea how I was going to get myself to that new doctor. I fumbled my way out to my truck with my disposable sunglasses looped over my regular glasses. Too much light came in around the edges for them to help with the brilliant sunlight, so I put my contacts in as I sat in the driver's seat trying to figure out what to do. With my normal sunglasses on I could tolerate opening my eyes. Good. I couldn't focus on the screen of my phone. Not good. I looked up at a shop sign outside the window, and I could not read the huge letters...I needed to be able to read the little print on highway signs to drive the unfamiliar roads. After a painstaking effort, I was able to navigate my phone book;  I called Titus, who was at work, an hour away from where I was. Maybe he could come get me and drive me to Tyler...or at least tell me how to get there, although I couldn't read the directions I would write for myself. No answer. I tired his office phone. Again, no answer. I didn't have the plant's main office number, so I called my dad who does the water treatment for Titus' plant. My idea was to get that number from Daddy and then see if they could get Titus on a phone to talk to me, since he must have been out on the floor where the machines were so loud he couldn't hear his cell phone.

"Hi! Um, my eyes are broken, and I need to get to Tyler, but I don't know the way, and I can't get Titus on the phone...do you have the main number for his office?" I squeaked.

Daddy was just a few blocks away in Lowe's. I was on the road now--heading in the complete wrong direction to get to Tyler, it turns out. But I could get to Lowe's! (I could drive to Lowe's in my sleep!) What were the odds of Daddy being off that weekday? Very slim. And what were the odds that he would just happen to be right down the street when I called? Impossible. This was yet another instance of God's provision that day.

So Daddy drove me to Tyler, and as my eyes slowly returned to normal from the extreme "hoot owl" look they had when dilated, I was able to squint out the window at all the trees. In East Texas, the trees wait until nearly Thanksgiving to turn, and this was the most brilliant I had ever seen them. That day on the road to Tyler, they were at their peak. The pines were scattered with oaks, maples, sweet gum, dogwood, redbuds, crepe myrtle, and muscadine vines that were so brilliantly colored you could mistake the scene for New England. At this point I had no idea if I was going to lose my sight or if the doctor could fix it. I drank those colors in. I knew if I lost my sight that day that I would always remember those trees.

A tree in our back yard in Hughes Springs around the time of my eye surgery.

After the minor heart attack of figuring out a plan, I felt calm. I didn't know how things were going to turn out, but I felt at peace and I was already amazed at how things were falling into place. Those fiery trees were like a rainbow of promise, that even if I lost every drop of my sight and never saw colors again, God was still good, and He would provide.

My view of the back yard while recovering from surgery.

That day I had laser surgery on both eyes to stop the tearing in my left eye and prevent the holes from becoming tears in my right eye. The next night I went to the hospital for the big surgery where I was given a scleral buckle in my left eye. (Don't look up the YouTube video of that surgery unless you have a tough stomach.) Retinal detachment doesn't hurt at all, but the damage is permanent. I lost a little of the peripheral vision on my right eye, and pretty much all of it on my left eye, including some at the top and bottom of my vision. (So there's a C-shaped scoop that's gone now.) But I am so thankful for what I have left! Now every year when I see the leaves changing colors, I remember how God brought all the pieces together and preserved my sight.

A lovely crepe myrtle with bamboo in the background.

A Blog is Not a Blog Without a Vanilla Tutorial

I have a very strict set of policies regarding food. Is it savory? Add ground chipotle. Is it sweet? Add nutmeg. Is it after the 4th of July? Add all the holiday spices. Because if I'm honest, in my house at any given point in the year it's always Christmas somewhere...A reindeer throw pillow in the library, a snowflake shower rug in the bathroom, a Christmas quilt on the couch...you get the idea. I kind of love Christmas. I also unashamedly start listening to Christmas music before Halloween. I'm one of those people.

I also take a recipe's suggestion of how much vanilla and toss it out the window. I rarely measure it. I pull an Emeril Lagasse and "eyeball it" and by "eyeball it" I mean add way more than the recipe writer ever intended. I measure vanilla the way Emeril measures wine. We're talking about a guy that keeps a cork screw in his pocket when he cooks. (Not even kidding.) I remember being absolutely enthralled by him on a cooking show when I was a kid. "He said to 'add a cup of wine'...but he poured in the whole bottle! I didn't even know you were allowed to do that! He's not even following his own recipe! This is nuts!" I remember thinking. These days, that's how I roll in my kitchen, and therefore, I need a lot of vanilla.
It's been several years since I bought vanilla extract. The fact that it is so easy to make, tastes better, and costs less than anything you can buy at the store makes it a no-brainer for the home baker. All you need is vanilla beans, a strong alcohol of your choice, and patience. And that's probably why every blog that ever talks about food has a tutorial on making your own extract.

There are many options for storing the vanilla. I've used the tiny quarter pint mason jars, which are easy to dip a measuring spoon in for those who like to be precise. This is a good gift-giving size too. However, my favorite approach is to just buy the 750 ML bottle of 80 proof vodka, snap out the ring inside the bottle mouth, stuff in seven or eight slit vanilla beans, and pop the ring back in place. (Just be sure your alcohol of choice is 70 proof or higher.) It pours smoothly with none of the annoying dribbling that conventional vanilla extract bottles have. I don't care how pretty that apothecary-style brown bottle is, if the lip is too round, the vanilla simply follows the curve all the way down to your hand. And I like my vanilla in my cookie dough, not all over the counter. 

I don't put my vanilla on the floor...This was the counter top at our previous house. Left to right: store-bought vanilla in the cute-but-dribbly bottle, vanilla for gifting, vanilla in a re-purposed bottle that poured decently, and newly made vanilla. (May 2014)

Once the beans are in the bottle, screw the cap tight, give it a vigorous shake, and leave it on the counter. Give the bottle a good shake a few times a week so the little seeds will wash out of the pods. According to beanilla.com it takes two months for the magical transformation to occur, so if you start now, your vanilla will be ready by New Year's. Beanilla is where I get my vanilla beans from, and they are about a dollar each, but you are welcome to source your own from whomever you like.

Vanilla that's ready to use is the color of strong tea when you hold it up to the light. Vodka based vanilla on the left, rum based vanilla on the right.

If you are so inclined--and have a tremendous green thumb--you can even grow your own vanilla orchid! But from what I have read these house plants are quite the high maintenance creatures. Even more so than the average orchid. I am a decent gardener, but I have killed an orchid, and it was in the "easy to care for" Phalaenopsis family. If I can keep my current orchid alive and convince it to bloom again...then maybe I will consider a vanilla orchid.


Now, when you have used up your extract, do not throw away the beans! Fish them out of the bottle, cut into small sections and throw them in a jar of sugar to make vanilla sugar. Give it a good shake. You may need to stir it with a butter knife to break up the chunks when you use it due to moisure, but it's very tasty stirred into tea or coffee. I also use it when a cookie recipe calls for white sugar. :)

Now go make some vanilla!

Scars and Mistakes of Impatience

The Jer. 17.7-9 painting before I boogered it up

This morning I was looking over a watercolor painting I made yesterday. I saw a pencil line and decided to erase it. The bit of graphite vanished, but so did some of the green background. I dipped a brush in water and loaded the bristles with paint. My touch-up wouldn't have been a big deal, had it not been in an area where I had text with very concentrated black paint. If I had thought it through, I would have known better than to swipe over the dark paint; but in my haste, I ended up smearing the area. Immediately I blotted the area with a piece of magic eraser sponge which lifted the majority of the paint--especially the green. (Whew!) Crisis averted. Except that I screwed up. Again. I tried to fix the area while the abused paper was still wet. The fresh black paint spider-webbed and bled all over the roughed up area. Now it looked even worse than when I first "ruined" it. The sponge didn't pick up as much of the paint the second time. The paper was even more mangled. But I finally stopped trying to fix it. Iknew I had to wait for the paper to dry.

Through each of the mistakes and ever-increasing consequences, I thought about how the situation mirrored life. God tells us "I have a plan for you." We say, "Marvelous! Hurry up!" We get impatient, or think God has forgotten us, or He really must not have meant what he said. So we take matters into our own hands. We make a mess of things. Then we cry for help. "Gah! I broke it! ...I'm sorry," we sheepishly admit. "I still have a plan for you," He tells us. But there are consequences for our disobedience, impatience, and pride. We will have scars where there should have been tattoos commemorating God's faithfulness to His promise. The victory will come, in the proper timing, but the marks of our failings will be a permanent reminder, the baggage of our fallen state. But even those stumblings can be a testament. A many-versed song of the moments when God would not allow our failings to undermine His plan. His faithfulness to uphold His promises will be a song of victory even though we as humans seem only to be able to write songs of lament in our failings.


So while I wait for the paper to dry, I know the painting will not turn out unblemished. It will look better, but not perfect. And every time I see the scarred surface, I will remember the lesson I learned: be patient...do things in their proper time. It works out better that way.

When Barbeque is on the Line

I find it amusing when my cat starts imitating me in order to gain brownie points. Usually there is food involved. Ever since I had eye surgery to repair a torn retina in 2013 I have been prone to squinting my left eye, which doesn’t produce tears as well as it used to, so it stays a lot less comfortable than my right eye.  Today as I sat down to eat my lunch, Smokie hovered near my chair restlessly circling me like a hungry shark. But Kitty chose a different tactic. He hopped into the chair across from me, careful not to put a paw on the table—breaking the rules would harm his chances of scoring a tasty bit of Bodacious barbeque—where he simply made eye contact. Squinty eye to squinty eye, he watched me eat my sandwich.

Back in 2013 when Kitty was honing his food-begging skills. This was before my eye surgery, so he hadn't added the squint yet.

His expression seemed to say, “Oh favorite human, if I have found favor in your squinty eye, may I please have a bit of smoked chicken? Look at us! We have so much in common: we squeeze our eyes the same, we both love tasty food, and we both have better manners than Smokie…could I perhaps have a scrap of sausage?”

Whap!

Smokie leapt from the floor in a spiraling leap, not unlike a mako breaching the water, to attack Kitty’s tail. Kitty looked down his nose at the kitten on the floor. His expression was a classic feline glare where the bigger the eyes, the more angry he was. Not a hint of the single-eye-squeeze was left. Smokie licked his chops and swished his tail as he continued to prowl around the table legs. Kitty got back to the matter at hand. The squint returned. I continued eating my sandwich. Kitty leaned forward, right eye squeezed nearly shut. (He never squints the left eye; he wants to channel all the sympathy in as straight a line as possible to me.) Kitty shuffled a few inches forward on the chair and craned his neck. I sighed and looked at what was left between the pieces of bread. Kitty sniffed and risked a glance at the food.

 I was pretty much full, so I pulled out a slice of sausage and tore it in two for the hungry vultures. Kitty, knew victory was imminent, and he hopped down from the chair and waited by the food bowl. As soon as the meat hit the bottom, the single-eye-squint evaporated and he swooped in. But Kitty is not only a good negotiator, he is also well versed in the game of keep away. Although Smoke had galloped around to the bowl and swiped it out from under Kitty’s face, the wily old cat had already claimed the prize. I have watched this scenario play out almost daily, so I waited for Smokie to grab the bowl before I put his portion in it. Then I was able to finish the rest of my food in peace. No shark attacks around my ankles and no more beggars seated across from me.

The Very First One

Hi!

This is my first blog post, so I really have no idea what to write. I suppose I’ll introduce myself, explain why I decided I needed a blog, and share pictures of my cats. (Because this is the Internet…And it’s my blog!)

I’m Lydia; I am twenty-seven, I enjoy writing, baking, hand quilting, reading, eating good food, gardening, and dabbling in a whole host of artsy things. I am not an expert in any of these fields, but I do love sharing things that I find inspiring, or beautiful, or entertaining.  I have been telling stories and writing them in some form or fashion for pretty much my whole life, so that’s as close to “expertise” as I can get. I’ve learned that there will always be someone better at everything than I am, but if I sit around waiting to be the best--or even be good--at something, it’ll never happen.

Smokie. He's also called Fuzzems.

That’s why I have decided to start this blog. I want to learn, I want to try something new, and I want to stretch myself. I’ll probably look back on this “fist blog ever” and be embarrassed in years to come, but we’ve all got to start somewhere!   

Kitty. Also known as Mr. Evil