Back In (Oven) Business

My kingdom for a filter…

Since several of you have asked, this is what an oven vent filter looks like! The filter itself is the honeycomb-looking thing; it’s made of rough ceramic and so far as I can tell functions a bit like a smokescrubber, catching particles. An oven needs a vent for proper heat circulation, and that vent needs a filter so cooking smoke doesn’t taint the food–even a small amount can ruin a whole meal. You can use your oven without the filter in the vent…but I wouldn’t recommend it for stuff that could produce even a little smoke. (Like bacon. Mmmm, bacon.)

We found out we needed a new filter as the Princess was baking a cake, when the old one literally fell out. The vent tube itself is held by a couple screws and that flared lip–in this picture the tube itself is upside down, it’s supposed to be fixed to the roof of the oven interior. There are ways to get the filter back in if it’s just cracked, but unfortunately ours was too broken by its trip through the wire racks. So a whole new vent tube/filter was necessary; there are tabs on the inside that hold the ceramic disc and, wouldn’t you know, a new disc wouldn’t fit.

Cue about two hours’ worth of weeding through useless AI-tainted swamps before finally finding out what precisely we needed, then a trip to the manufacturer’s website for the precise part number and ordering info, another half-hour of drilling through that mess, and finally I found the part number…only to discover it was out of stock. A month and a half later it was finally back in stock, and it took another long while to be shipped.

Guess how long it took to take the old vent tube out and put the shiny new one in? Less than seven minutes. It would’ve been less than five if I’d been able to take the oven door off like I once saw the appliance repairman do, but I felt like that was just a way to create more problems. And now the oven is back to full use.

I absolutely needed the dopamine hit from this victory; it’s been a heckuva week. And I still have a character to kill in the Sekrit Projekt today–it would’ve been yesterday, but so much intervened. And to be honest I wasn’t ready to let go. This particular fictional person deserves better than what they’re getting; sadly, that’s life. Even in fiction.

See you next week, my dears.

Life, ah…

…finds a way.

One of the reasons I love moss is how it provides a bed for other plants upon inhospitable surfaces. Moss quietly goes about its work, an advance guard enduring terrible conditions which would either rot or parch lesser warriors, terraforming bit by bit. Moss is very patient, and after it often comes the weeds–also ignored and maligned, surviving despite it all.

The work goes on, ever and always. Life creeps in just like hope; while I often dislike the latter for its habit of kicking me in the teeth once I allow it purchase, the former is beyond my small feelings. It will continue no matter what I think.

Sometimes I find comfort in that.

Anyway, it’s the Ides of March, or as we refer to it around the house, Happy Stab-a-Dictator Day. The Republic was a bloodbath, the Empire somewhat worse, and both were afflicted by murderous power-greedy bastards. Wonder if there are a few lessons to be learned there–oh, I’m sure humanity will ignore them, I just wonder if they exist, hmm?

On that cheerful note, I shall be sailing into the weekend. This week has been…odd, indeed. I’m hoping for a chance to take a breath.

Almost Daffodils


Walkies have grown a little stressful since Boxnoggin is in the phase of recovery wherein he would really like to Do Something Foolish to Reinjure Himself, For He Is Feeling Ever So Much Better. Keeping him tightly-yet-gently reined is a constant endeavour. Plus, it’s been uncharacteristically warm so several plants are attempting to get a head start on spring; this is both heartening and deeply disturbing. I keep telling them perhaps a little caution is called for in these times of climate change and general trashfire everywhere.

The cherry trees are not yet causing me woe, for once, so maybe they understand. I don’t worry too much about the snowdrops, since it’s right there in their name. But the magnolias, the roses, the hyacinths, and the daffodils are driving me to distraction–like these fellows, not quite bloomed but certainly past the point of no return. I am heartened by their cheerfulness but also full of nail-biting tension, hoping against hope we won’t have a plunge in temperatures to blight early risers.

They are hopeful creatures, daffodils. Let us devoutly pray ’tis warranted.

Also, it’s a first of the month, and that means the Monthly Sales page is updated–including a sale on an entire series later in March. (Remember to check the dates!)

See you Monday, my dears.

Ivy and Horizons

Even in winter, life is everywhere.

It’s too warm for February. (Thanks, climate change!) At least we’ve had some icepocalypse to cut down on summer’s insect population, and the cherries aren’t blooming yet. Even the one down the street which usually wakes up first–giving me no end of worry, I might add, the poor thing’s going to gamble wrong one of these years–is still blissfully asleep. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening.

For example, the ivy-banks are full of berries. The blooms were active far later in fall than anything else, and on sunny days late bees clustered them with zest. They’ve swollen through the worst winter has to offer, and I’m not sure what precisely eats them but something must be overjoyed at the snack.

Ivy’s a terrible plant in this part of the world, and can choke entire hillsides if allowed. Yet for obvious reasons I feel a sort of kinship with something thriving despite every effort to kill it. I also saw a dandelion in the backyard t’other day, while waiting for Boxnoggin to decide which part of the turf to christen. A tiny yellow sun saying hello, good afternoon, fuck you to the world; many are the yards in this neighborhood where such a thing would call for a sudden vengeful application of weed-n-feed. But the older I get, the more I want to just… let things live, if they’re not hurting anyone.

Still going to prune any ivy so it doesn’t kill the Venerable Fir, though. There’s letting things live, and then there’s being foolish with a vine which can kill a tree that will in turn absolutely take out two whole houses if it comes down during a hard wind. I’m broadening my horizons, not being stupid. (Granted the line is a little blurry some days…)

See you next week, my dears.

Blackberry Lesson

Clinging to life, even after ice.

Blackberry brambles (and raspberry canes, to a lesser degree) love the climate here. In spring they don’t grow quite so quickly as kudzu, but sometimes it seems that way. In summer they’re banks of green hiding small animals–maybe larger ones, too–and full of wicked claws just aching for a bit of flesh. As the season turns to autumn the berries are ripe, birds gorging and people with buckets heading for the closest bush uncontaminated by pesticides, dreams of cobbler dancing through their heads.

But I like blackberry bushes best in winter, simply because some absolutely cling to green life through the worst weather imaginable. There’s a beauty to the dormant vines, while their roots sleep safe below frozen ground. Sure, they’ll still take a blood sacrifice, and a lot of gardeners around here hate them almost as much as ivy. (Do not get me started on ivy…)

There’s just something about a plant that shelters so many, feeds so many, and refuses to die even after icepocalypses, that pleases me. If I can be even a fraction as resilient, I will consider it effort well spent.

See you next week, my friends.

Love, Anonymous

I needed to hear that, thanks.

Chalk art is one of my favorite things. The beauty, the impermanence, the care taken with each scribble…I love it. And I see a lot of it at certain points in the neighborhood when weather permits. The rain has no doubt already washed this away; I’m glad I got the snap.

It’s odd to have been living in one place for so long, and to feel almost as if one belongs. I wandered a great deal and never felt at “home” even during childhood. How could I? Home is where one feels safe, after all, and I knew very well from an early age that I was not. Finding a tiny corner of the world to call my own has been a revelation. Ah, so this is what people talk about when they say home…how odd!

How odd indeed. How wonderful.

Anyway, this felt like a tiny, anonymous hug, and happened right when I needed it. So I pass the gift along, with thanks to the anonymous artist.

Have a lovely weekend, my dears.

Catkin, Half-Drowned

Half-drowned, still protecting.

As the Icepocalypse faded we had a few days of soaking rain–really, Pacific Northwesterners need a thousand names for the different types of liquid precipitation we get–at relatively balmy temperatures. 50F is not usual for January, and several trees are putting out catkins or outright flowerbuds.

I’m not so worried about the camellias and that one cherry tree down the hill always goes earlier than anyone else. But I do whisper to the others–please, be reasonable. We could still get more ice, or worse. Try not to get too excited.

They’re not listening. I got this snap of a half-drowned little fellow, tousle-ragged, protecting tender new growth underneath. I hope they make it.

I hope we all do.

See you Monday.