I’ve written before about my experiences as a homebrew widow, but that was over a year (and another blog) ago, so I thought it was time for an update. Ryan is still going strong with his hobby, and he has brewed close to 35 beers now. He’s also begun entering contests, mostly to gain feedback about his recipes, and he won second place in a competition sponsored by the American Homebrewers Association. It’s something he’s really passionate about, and because I feel the same way about writing and this blog, I can definitely relate. I’m incredibly proud of him, and his hard work is really paying off.
We’ve worked out a more efficient brewing schedule, and he now brews every two weeks, either on Friday or Saturday evenings. He has a small group of loyal friends who faithfully attend each brew session, and he’s also gained the attention of a neighborhood beer drinking club (composed of a few retired guys). I’ve been trying unsuccessfully for years to meet neighborhood moms, but anytime Ryan’s outside doing something beer-related, random people stop by to chat with him. Some want to know what those big pots are for, some people ask if he’s making Moonshine, the occasional police officer attempts to make a quick joke, and fellow homebrewers come to learn a thing or two. It’s phenomenal, really, and I never knew that beer could literally bring a community together.
Ryan keeps most of his large equipment in the garage, but much of his preparation takes place within our kitchen. He’s great about cleaning up after himself, something I really appreciate, but I’m still amazed at the random things I find from time to time.
Like this:
(No, that’s not a potato.)
That’s a large flask (ordered online, since Texas has strict Breaking Bad-type laws against selling them) holding a single, white, knee-high stocking (like the kind your school nurse used to wear) filled with some strange coffee concoction. I think it’s that fancy coffee made from the excrement of some weird animal who eats the beans and then, well, you know. I don’t drink coffee, either, so I’m not dwelling on it. The flask is then covered with a latex glove and secured with a rubber band. It’s all very scientific and part of Ryan’s latest recipe.
And recently, I was working on an upcoming post and needed to take pictures of our kitchen while the sun was shining. My plan was foiled, however, by Ryan’s yeast starter, which was mixing on the stir plate two days before brew day.
(Notice the flask on the left, carefully balanced with cookbooks.)
I tried to camouflage the flask and stir plate with a strategically placed vase of flowers, but I wasn’t very successful. And since the mixture could not be moved, I just gave up.
(My attempt to hide the beer behind a vase of flowers.)
But it really helps to keep a sense of humor about all of this, and I know it could be so much worse. This is Texas, after all, and it’s not that uncommon to see hunters and fishermen cleaning freshly killed creatures in their front yards.
I should thank my lucky stars that our trash can smells like hops, and not something much, much worse.
So my boys are in school two days a week now, which gives me a little time to do things by myself. It’s too easy for me to stay at home cleaning, blogging, reading, blogging, and cooking, and I’m really trying to take advantage of my alone time to venture out and about. I’ve been at home for almost four years now, and that is a blessing for which I’m truly grateful, but I need the stimulation of adult interaction and conversation. Since I’m not the “Ladies Who Lunch” type, I’ve gotten a little creative in my outings.
Like my recent crafting workshop at Anthropologie last week. That was definitely out of my comfort zone, I got to make a cute craft that wasn’t a complete and total disaster, and I also networked and mentioned my blog a tiny bit. I consider it good practice for the upcoming Alt Summit in January.
That was Thursday.
And last Tuesday, I spent the morning volunteering at a local charity, which was so humbling and so much fun that I’m planning to work there regularly, as much as I can. Before I had children, I always volunteered in some capacity, and after Rhys was born, I became a volunteer moderator of an online site. That is definitely rewarding in its own way, but I miss the face-to-face connections I experienced in past years. I also felt the need to do something in my community, so I found a place that needed help, and offered a little of my time. Nothing much, but it’s meaningful nonetheless.
I am not telling you this to get a pat on the back, and I wouldn’t normally talk about something so personal, but I think this story deserves to be told. I solemnly swear that it is an honest account of the actual event and is not embellished in any way. It also goes to show that I often find myself in the most bizarre situations without any idea how I got there.
Oh wait, I signed up for this one.
The charity opens its doors at 10 am, and the volunteer coordinator asked me to come at 9:30 for a short training. I arrived a few minutes early, only to find a group of people seated around a table, with the man at the head talking extremely loudly at the entire room. A friendly woman, whom I correctly assumed to be the coordinator (we had only been in touch via email), motioned me in and promptly seated me next to the yelling man. As I sat down, quite embarrassed for interrupting what I thought was a board meeting, she leaned over and whispered, “I’m sorry! I forgot to tell you we do Bible Study on Tuesday mornings!”
That guy next to me yelling at the top of his lungs was, in all actuality, preaching. And speaking of lungs, he wore a tube through his nose that pumped oxygen from the small canister at his feet. The one I tried not to knock over as I reached into my purse to silence my cell phone. It took me a few minutes to calm down and relax, because this was not what I had anticipated at all. Well, that and the fact that the man was screaming so loudly that my instinct was to cover my ears. But I didn’t, don’t worry.
I listened to the sermon politely as more and more people trickled in, filling the room to capacity ahead of the 10 am opening. At the end of the sermon, the man said a prayer and offered what was, essentially, an altar call. He asked some of the volunteers to pray with the people who requested it by raising their hands, and I bowed my head, trying to disappear.
At that point, he looked directly at me and asked, “Can you help?”
It took me a second, but I said, “Sure,” jumped up and found a woman with her hand raised, her sleeping baby lying across her lap. She didn’t speak English, and someone was translating loudly as the man prayed, so I just put my hand on her shoulder and listened along with her. I was trembling, both from nerves and shock, and I’m pretty sure she felt it. What had I just signed up for? All I could think was that my home was less than a mile away, and here I was, in a room full of strangers on a random Tuesday morning, a million miles from home.
When the prayer was over, I gave her a hug, and she looked back at me bewildered. I honestly don’t think she understood what was going on, and she was just trying to get help for her children and herself. I just did what I could in that moment, and I was so scared and probably more bewildered than she was.
After that, I properly introduced myself to the coordinator, and she told me that, next time, I don’t have to come so early. Unless I want to.
But here’s the thing: If I can sit in a room as a man screams at me (with good intentions, but really, really loudly), and jump when he says, “Help,” then I can do those little things that make me so nervous. Like taking craft workshops, meeting new people, and talking about my blog with strangers. I can say goodbye to my boys for a few days, take a plane to another state, and meet bloggers who are writing alongside me.
That forum I help moderate has a motto: Do It Scared. And who cares if my hands shake a little? I certainly don’t.
So I’ll go back again this week, maybe not at 9:30. But I’ll go back.
This past week, I received an email from Anthropologie about their in-store Holiday Display Workshops. The idea sounded fun, and fortunately, my local store was holding a session while my boys were in school. So, in the interest of putting myself out there a bit more, I called and reserved a spot right away.
The workshop was last Thursday, and despite my complete lack of craftiness, I’m so glad I decided to attend! I had trouble finding a parking spot when I arrived right at lunchtime, so I got to the store a few minutes late and found several women, both employees and shoppers like me, already hard at work crafting found object cupcakes for the store’s holiday display.
It took me a few minutes to get my bearings and come up with a game plan, but I was soon constructing a cupcake from a cardboard tube, packing paper, coffee filters, and a smoking hot glue gun. I snapped a few shots with my phone, and here’s how my first try turned out. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.
The other women working alongside me were especially talented, and included a wedding photographer and some of the store’s visual merchandisers. Their cupcakes were adorable, of course, and they graciously let me take a few pictures.
(A gorgeous creation by Anna, a visual merchandiser and jewelry designer.)
(A beehive cupcake by Lauren, a local wedding photographer.)
(My attempt at a mini cupcake. I now realize the bead on top resembles an olive.)
Our cupcakes will be part of the holiday display within my local store, and it’s nice knowing that I contributed to a little handmade decor. By inviting customers into the store to participate in activities like this workshop, Anthropologie is building a community and encouraging partnerships on a local level. That’s something I’m thrilled to support.
As I walked back to my car, I passed through Macy’s, and was struck by their shiny, plastic decor, in contrast to the pieces I helped to create.
I’m so glad I was able to attend this workshop and spend a fun hour crafting with talented women in my city, and I’m looking forward to more of Anthropologie’s offerings.
