I’m still learning to knit. It’s a long and arduous process, made all the more difficult due to my inability to “read” the knitting. I don’t know how to fix my errors, so I knit with the fury and fear of someone walking on the edge of a high cliff—one slip and I plummet to my knitting death below.

For example, I knit two rows and purl two rows—but oops, I just did three by accident, so I pull out one row of purling, but now I can’t remember if I’m supposed to knit or purl and all the Yarn Staring in the world doesn’t reveal the correct answer. And so I yell at my husband that I’m going into another room and no one may come close or I will unleash all my knitting fury upon their poor heads.

And knitting is supposed to be a relaxing activity, ha.

If a stitch gets dropped, oh woe. And whoa. When that happens, I have to set the whole project aside and wait until Sunday when I can take it to church to ask my friend to help me fix it. This friend—a woman who has been known to sheer the sheep, card and dye the wool (whatever that means), and then knits beautiful things with it (bow low, reader friends, bow low), looks at my stringy mess for a mere couple seconds and then says, Oh yes, I see. You knitted that one backwards, so I’ll just reverse that like so and pick up the stitch there, like that, and there you are, all good to go now. I stare at my resurrected project in utter amazement and say stupidly, “I have no idea how you just did that.”

I’m determined to figure this whole knitting business out. I experiment with my brown yarn, trying different patterns to see the effect, not worrying if I mess up and need to rip it all out. It’s my scrap paper, so to speak. I’m making a red scarf for my youngest daughter (I stole her yarn so I had to repay her somehow). It has mistakes in it, but I don’t think she’ll care.

During Sunday school yesterday, I sat beside a friend who was knitting a sleeve for a sweater. She had the four needle thing going, plus a washer as a marker (or something). I watched, fascinated. I kind of even understand what she was doing.

My goal for this winter: learn several different stitches, and learn to make hats, socks, and mittens. Next winter, a sweater, maybe. Am I being completely unrealistic?

I’m not the only one getting into the knitting spirit. My little boy has persevered with his knitting. He knows how to cast on and knit row after row. However, his rows kept getting shorter and shorter, thanks to all the stitches he dropped. His knitted creation (too short to be anything) is one step from the garbage, but hey, it kept him happily occupied for many, many minutes so I’m not complaining.

I even hauled the kids’ knitting projects to church one Sunday. I glanced down the row during the sermon—three of the kids were knitting away in unison. Bliss.

We all went to West Virginia for the turkey (that was actually a chicken) this year. My brother came, and my perfect aunt from over the mountains, and some of the Pennsylvania cousins: uncle, aunt, and boy cousins one, two, and three. We got there on Wednesday night and Thursday morning, before everyone else showed up, I went for a walk.

It’s hunting season, so I put a florescent orange vest over my coat over my hoodie over my t-shirt and set off up the road. A gun banged in the distance, and I hadn’t even crested the first hill before I spied a dead deer in the gutter (not a result of that banging gun). I started to feel like I was in a war zone and I took a closer look at my florescent orange vest. How many square inches did it cover? How many square inches do hunters have to wear? Did I have a sufficient amount of square inches? And while my front and back were draped in orange, I wasn’t so sure about the side view. Would a gun-happy hunter mistake me for a walking deer in a blue coat? But then there was a lull in the shooting and dead deer spying and I kind of forgot all about how much I resembled a deer.

And then I ran into Eddie Murphy. I’m not sure which is which, but they both reminded me of Shrek’s donkey, so I promptly named one Eddie and the other Murphy. I could practically hear the thoughts running through their heads.

Eddie: Oh, will you look at that! It’s a person that’s trying not to look like a deer! Dang, ain’t she smart?

Murphy: I don’t know about you but I think we need that orange thing a lot more than she does. Our owner is a total dumb ass leaving us outside this time of year.

Eddie: That’s right, Murf. We are in constant danger of gettin’ our behinds pinged. I just know, before this is over, I’m gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy. Look at my butt twitchin’.

By the time I got to the top of the hill, I was hot. I took off my coat and tied it around my waist. And then I looked over and saw my shadow walking along beside me in the ditch.

What with my hair in a ponytail, my hoodie up around my neck like a tied cape, the orange vest fluttering behind me like a fluttering cape, my coat tied around my waist like a short skirt and the sleeves poking up all sword-like, I looked exactly like a knight. (Or at least my noble shadow did.) I squared my shoulder and lengthened my stride.

When I was halfway home, I heard a gunshot in the direction of my house. My father had been out hunting when I left—perhaps it was him? Thirty second later another shot rang out and I gave a little skip of hopeful happiness. A minute later and there was another shot. Oh dear, I thought. Problems. And then, Or maybe I should think, ‘oh deer’? (Turns out, it wasn’t my father doing the shooting.)

At home I grabbed my camera and drove back up the road to take pictures for you since I almost never think to take my camera on walks with me.

And thus concludes the tale of a bright morning walk with guns, knights, two asses, and a dead doe. The End

Other things that happened:

Tools and guns…

The grownups sat around inside…

and played with plastic tools that my mother picks up at her local thrift store while the kids ran around outside…

and played with guns. (Yes, they were real, and yes, they had permission.)

(Overheard: “Don’t shoot each other!”)

Odd, manly rituals such as…

A. measuring each others arm spans. (Your arm span is supposed to equal your height, right? Well, not so for my husband. My husband is just a smidge shy of six feet tall but his arm span measures 6 feet 5 inches. So now we call him Gorilla Man.)

B. playing table football with money.

Actually, I don’t know what that game was called. All I know is there was a bunch of yelling and quarters kept hitting people in the head.

The kids sat out on the porch and watched through the window.

Conversations…

around the table. We’re big yakkers, all of us. Lively times, ya’ll.

Sewing…

I learned how to purl and am immensely please with myself.

My brother…

played the mandolin and made lots of weird faces while I tried to take pictures of him.

What a dork.

Food (of course) …

We had Feast Number One at noon: chicken and stuffing, garlicky mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, turnips and greens, kale, applesauce, and cranberry salad.

Feast Number Two: A Supper O’ Desserts. I ask you, can there be anything more glorious?

Nectarine tart, black raspberry pie, apple pie, two pumpkin pies, banana bread, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, vanilla ice cream, and coffee.

MY MOTHER MADE ALL THE BAKED GOODS ON HER STOVETOP.

Yesyoushouldbeimpressed. (Plus, the next morning we had gorgeous loaves of stovetop bread for our breakfast toast.)

This same time, years previous: Thanksgiving of 2010, Swiss chard and sweet potato gratin, pumpkin pie

Please tell me that you haven’t made the pies for Thanksgiving yet? Please, please tell me you have a bag or two of unclaimed cranberries hunkered down in your freezer? Please, please, please tell me you’re in the mood to make a pie today, right now, immediately, at this very minute?

Because, honey sugar, it’s what I have on my agenda, for you.

[Ahem, cough-cough, much pompous throat clearing]

I hereby merrily (and joyfully and happily and ecstatically) proclaim the great news of November 23, 2011: I have discovered the new bestest ever pie in the world and it’s totally perfect for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas dinner or New Year’s dinner or Three Kings Day or winter solstice day or the first big snow day or Sunday dinner or Monday dinner.

It’s perfect, and it’s perfect for whenever, is what I’m trying to say.

For quite some time, I’ve been on the lookout for a cranberry pie. I’d tried some mixed fruit cranberry pies, and while they were good—cranberries make everything good—they weren’t pure cranberry. And then Aimee posted a cranberry pie and I got down to business lickety-split.

One bite and I was bowled over. It’s potent, unlike normal pies. In fact, it’s so dark and rich and strong that one small sliver carries you over the moon and back, no problem.

Cranberry Pie with Cornmeal Streusel Topping
Adapted from Aimee of Simple Bites

Aimee calls this a cranberry-orange pie, and while the pie contains both orange juice and zest, I found their flavors to play more of a supportive (but delicious) role, so I dropped the “orange” in the title. To me, this pie is all about the cranberry.

I used frozen cranberries instead of fresh, increased the amount to a generous 4 ½ cups instead of 4, used light brown sugar instead of Turbinado, and added one tablespoon of tapioca as thickener just in case. Not a hitch in sight anywhere.

This pie is best eaten the same day it is made.

1 unbaked 9-inch pie crust (I used this one)
4-5 cups cranberries, fresh or frozen
1 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter, melted
zest of two oranges
juice of one orange (it looked like a lot—close to ½ cup, perhaps)
1 gently rounded tablespoon granulated tapioca

for the streusel topping:
½ cup flour
½ cup brown sugar
1/3 cup cornmeal
½ cup salted butter, cut in chunks

In a large bowl, toss together the cranberries, sugar, butter, orange zest and juice, and tapioca. Pour into the unbaked pie shell.

Measure all the streusel ingredients into the canister of a food processor and pulse to combine (it took quite a few pulses). (Or, rub together with your fingers. That will work too.) Sprinkle the crumbs over the top of the pie.

Bake the pie* at 375 degrees for 40-50 minutes, or until golden brown all over and the juices are bubbling madly.
           
Serve with vanilla ice cream.

*Important Pie Baking Note: Place the pie on the bottom rack of a very hot oven (about 425 degrees) and bake for 15 or 20 minutes or until the pie juices are starting to bubble. At that point, set the pie on a foil-lined baking sheet (to catch the juicy drips) and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. This extra step helps to ensure a golden brown bottom crust.

This same time, years previous: apple rum cake (oh goodness, I want this NOW)