GETTING IN SHAPE – OR LACK THEREOF

Have you seen the movie, Ruthless People? The husband (Danny DeVito) has his wife (Bette Midler) kidnapped. While a pudgy Bette is in captivity, she begins to pass the time by exercising with televised fitness programs. The impression is that she's exercising for hours on end. At first she's fighting boredom, but as her body noticeably improves, she warms to the task before her. At the end of a supposedly short time, she's lookin' pretty good. It would be so nice if that would really work.

I was looking at mother-of-the-bride dresses online. The lack of style for women in my age group just drives me nuts. Here are these dresses designed for the mature woman – I mean, if you're the mother of the bride you have to be mature, right? – and you've given birth to at least one child, right? – and here are these dresses modeled by young women who have probably not given birth, let alone gained the maturity that tugs us downward. But that's all beside the point. The point is that the dresses are basically all the same – skirts falling from the bodice or maybe short jackets over shapeless gowns. You get the picture – designs to camouflage.

I love to watch that old show, The Golden Girls, if only to see what they wear. They were always beautifully dressed – all three of them. But most of us never see such classy clothes. I've worn Alfred Dunner separates for years – loose-fitting slacks and boxy sweaters and tops that hide a million pounds and figure problems. I don't even try them on any more – I know my size and step right into them. Now that I'm retired, even my Alfred Dunner separates go unworn. This time of year, my usual uniform is warm-ups over long-sleeved knit turtlenecks. I often wonder how I would be made over if I were a candidate on "What Not to Wear." I'm sure I would go right back to baggy pants and sweatshirts.

"The mother of the bride wore satin warm-ups in shocking pink, trimmed with imported French lace."

FIRST LESSONS

It's time for you to learn to make a dishtowel," said Mother. "First, I'll teach you to straighten the hem. Then we'll stamp a design on it and you can embroider it."

"Why do I have to straighten the hem?" I asked her.

"Because it is poorly done," she said. "It needs to be straightened and correctly done."

Re-hemming the towel did not make much sense to me then, and it didn't make much sense to me years later. My dish drying towels – all three of them – had big holes in them. It really had progressed beyond a point of pride. I needed to replace them. So, I bought some flour sacking at the old Big V Department Store, thinking that I would make more towels. But the need was urgent and my time short, so I simply began to use the flour sacks "as is" – no re-hemming, no embroidery.

I saw Mother examining the towel as she dried my dishes one day. "Kathy, you really ought to straighten this hem." I'm a bit of a passive resister, so I didn't say anything. But to me, this was a towel – a rag for a specific purpose. That it was clean was all that mattered to me. And I really believed that hemming one's dishtowels was a waste of time. The towels will wear out before the hem ever matters. My guess is that the women of my generation don't worry much about their dishtowels. I don't even worry much about doing the dishes! But in my mother's day, I suppose it was a point of pride that one's linens -- which might be examined by another who might happen to help you with your dishes on some rare occasion – should be neatly and prettily done up. Women really were focused in some frivolous directions. Talk about the waste of good minds . . .

I thought of this today as I prepare to embroider a set of dishtowels for Hallie. You see, she never had a hope chest. I never wanted her to think of marriage as a goal, and I'm proud of myself for encouraging her to think for herself. At the same time, she should have some embroidered dishtowels to remind her of her roots. You see in the photo to the right that it didn't exactly go well initially. I scorched the first towel but good! Mother always did that for me -- so that I wouldn't scorch it, you know. And the transfers are very old. Never mind -- I had enough towels. KW

THE HOPE CHEST

My sisters married when I was a little girl. They all had "hope chests" – cedar chests in which treasured items – mainly linens – were stored for the day when they would establish their own homes. I wanted a hope chest, too, so Mother fixed up a little white trunk and I early began the process of collecting goods for the day I would marry. I had a number of embroidered pillowslips, a few "flour sack" dish towels with simple embroidered designs, some luncheon cloths (tablecloths), stainless steel flatware, and eventually a few of my rose dishes.

Mother embroidered most of the pillowcases, though I made several pair myself. I'm sorry to say I now have a drawer full of beautifully embroidered worn-out pillowslips. My dream had been to preserve them by making "pillowslip dolls," and I have several patterns for such in my collection, but when we moved to the modular home, I put all my pillowslips into one machine load to freshen them, and when I took them out of the dryer they had split. It doesn't seem to me that I used them all that much, mostly relying on the pillowcases that come with the bedding sets. But -- textiles get old just sitting on the shelf, and maybe once those body oils get into the threads it hastens the process. Sister Harriet adds that whiskers are rough on pillowcases.

I remember that in our teen years Aunt Chris gave me two dishtowels embroidered with poodles busy at daily chores. I suspect her training was much like mine. Among our first sewing lessons we were taught to straighten the edge of a piece of flour sacking by pulling a thread to determine the straight of the fabric, hem (or re-hem) the towel along that line, then stamp and embroider it. You could (and still can) buy sets of transfers for hand embroidery that included seven whimsical designs – one for each day of the week. Dish towels also wear out, but occasionally when I'm cleaning windows or mirrors, I pull out a "holey" towel with a poodle on it and think with affection of my "old" chum. KW

SPRINGLIKE WINTER DAY

This beautiful February Sunday was made for an outing, so Mike and I took the dog and went to the homestead to check on things. We drove clear in to the house; I think just about any vehicle could make it in. The soft ground would be more troublesome than the snow. While the fields are still white, the snow is gradually disappearing. There were a lot of llimbs in the yard, but everything looked fine. We found no mice nor sign of any. I checked my project closet, picked up some embroidery floss, and packed Mother's last recipe box into the pickup. We dismantled the artificial tree and stored it in the barn and put the tv set back in the entertainment center.

Outside I checked the hill behind the clothesline for signs of spring (sprouting bulbs). Just as I decided it was too soon, I noticed some tender green sprouts poking through the ground. The tag said iris but I don't know – could be I also tucked some crocus or other such early bloomers into that spot. We stopped a few minutes to discuss the raised bed vegetable gardens we plan to establish this year.

We were back in town by 12:30. During our travel we continued listening to "Letters of a Woman Homesteader." Once we were home, Mike set to work. He washed the filthy Dakota and his motorcycle. Then we went to Costco where he picked up supplies for work and I bought an iHome compact iPod speaker/clock radio which I set up at bedside. After that I walked Nellie while Mike took an actual bike ride out Peola Road. Nice to have the days a little warmer and a little longer – noticeably light at 5:00.

Tonight Mike will grill pork loin chops for dinner and I'll make an apple pie. KW

MOTHER OF THE BRIDE

My excited daughter called last night to say she received an engagement ring for her birthday. Often throughout the day – her birthday – I had thought of the tiny baby girl she had been when she came to us that day 27 years ago. And then I thought of the wise and wonderful little girl she had been. As a kindergartner she said to me, "I will be in school all day next year. You will have to find something to do." So, I did. I got a job. And that same 5-year-old gave Grandma Bennie directions to the grocery store when I was sick.

I spent the day thinking of these things from the past. And then the reality check -- the big girl called and said she has a beautiful diamond from Tiffany's and is going to get married. Apparently plans for the actual event have not been determined. "Well, you and Nick talk it over," I said, "and we'll help you, but you decide what you want."

Of course, I'm not ready. There won't be time, I lament to myself, to do all the special things I wanted to do for my daughter, the bride. I should have started last year – or the year before that. What about this? What about that? But, of course, "this" and "that" are not important. And it's not about the mother of the bride. KW

DOVES IN SOUR CREAM

This recipe, a family favorite, was in Mike's collection when I married him.
Flour 6-8 doves in seasoned flour, shake off excess. Brown well in butter or margarine (about 1/2 cup). Pour oil in casserole. Pour in 1/2 cup sherry, sprinkle with paprika and add a good pinch of marjoram leaves. Cook (covered) at 350 degrees about 30 minutes. Put about 1/2 cup sour cream in gravy and cook about 10 minutes longer until hot. Season with salt.

I used a crockpot chicken recipe to cook the chukars. I believe it is called "Chicken Delish."
4-6 whole chicken breasts
1 can cream of mushroom or cream of chicken soup
1/3 cup dry sherry or white wine
1/2 cup sour cream

I find it works best to dredge breasts in flour in order to thicken the sauce. (You can brown the breasts or not.) Place chicken in crockpot. Pour soup/wine mixture over the chicken, seasoned to taste. Cook on low 6-8 hours or high 4 hours. Add sour cream before serving and allow to heat on low another 15-30 minutes.

I don't know anything about cooking with wine. We've always just used cheap sweet wine and have come to love the sweet flavor. If you're trying to duplicate my dishes, you'll need some Boone's Farm. KW

RETRO FAILURE

I finished my coat, but there's no particular joy in it. Research has reached me post-production that you have to be tall and thin to wear this style. I guess I knew that on some level, but I just loved the pattern. I struggled to find the right fabric, though, and I began to question to myself the reason this project wasn't unfolding as it ought to. Not only is it wrong for me, it's too big, despite my attempts to carefully reason through the sizing.

"Take it in," advised a friend. "Take two inches out of the back and two inches on the sides. Lay it out again and actually cut a size smaller." But why should I do that when the basic style is just wrong? If I just hang it away, maybe someone will come along who could use it. The more I mess with it, the less likely that will happen.

"That's why none of us sews clothing," said my friend, a quilter. But something in me just doesn't want to give up.

Just thought I'd tell you that I made a retro jacket. I didn't want you to think I haven't been doing anything.
[Okay -- I posted a picture. I was thinking that it would be good and roomy -- and it is -- but when I put it on, it swallows me up and makes me look huge. It puts me in mind of a shopping trip to Spokane with Hallie a few years back. I started to try on a coat and before I got it over my shoulders, she was saying, "Ooooh -- take it off, take it off."] KW