I had absolutely no plan for Yoni #25 this past weekend. As our days quickly filled to over-brimming (for good reason, and ultimately for good cause - more on that later when it's fully resolved), I realized I didn't have the head space nor the time I'd like to dedicate to yoni-ing. Since starting is usually the only hurdle I consciously have to jump, I started. I flipped through a book of stitching techniques looking for inspiration. I found an insertion stitch I wanted to try. And then it became merely a matter of colors and shapes. So I began.
With time in short supply, I'm not sure what possessed me to choose to anchor the two halves of the circle with seed stitches. I love working the stitches, love how they look, love the texture they create, and equally love - if not love even more - the organic edges they create when I don't fill in the space completely. But, when time is of the essence, working slow going seed stitch is surely folly? Maybe. Or maybe it's just what my racing mind and tense shoulders needed to rest and unwind?
As I was working, the Hubs peaked over my shoulder and said something like, "Nice hamburger." Until he said it, it did not occur to me that the two halves of circle with matching color seed stitches were starting to look very much like a sesame seed hamburger bun. Especially with the rust colored "meat" in the middle. I suppose the insertion stitches might resemble sandwich toppings slipping past the confines of the bun. I was chagrined for a moment, then shrugged it off and continued stitching.
The chagrin is easily explained. I HATE hamburgers. Attempting to ingest red meat of any kind has always made me retch. Other meats and I never got on much better. As a child, this put a bit of a strain on our nightly family dinners. I refused to eat the meat on my plate. My parents insisted I eat X number of bites. I waited them out, stubbornly not eating a thing. Then, after my brothers and parents were long gone from the table, I secreted a few bites in my pocket. This is what one must do when there is no household pet, conveniently waiting under the table, to be fed surreptitiously by little hands. So, with no pet to use as a garbage disposal, I took my secreted pocket of meat to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.
This method worked well until the day my oldest brother told me I had backed up the septic system by flushing my meat down the toilet. That's how I remember it anyway. He has no recollection of telling me any such thing. But I remember having to come up with a new disposal plan. This made an lasting impression on me. I don't know how old I was, but definitely still young enough to believe that out of sight equated with no longer in existence.
I began to hide meat around the house. A regular dumping ground was behind the china hutch, conveniently located near the dinner table, with its back a few inches from the wall. At this point, you need to understand that our house had electric baseboard heat. We lived where winter is long and cold. We lived where electricity was expensive. We lived with the heat kept at a low temperature. My hidden meat was safe from discovery.
My hiding place was safe, that is, until my parents had a dinner party. In winter. And turned up the heat to welcome their guests.
A collection of meat in various stages of decay atop a heat register that has been turned up for the first time since the meat began to accumulate -- I don't want to imagine the stink. It is the stink that led to the discovery of my dumping ground.
I don't remember what happened with me and meat after this discovery. But I can tell you that the first time the Hubs spent Christmas with my family, he and my nephew pulled out the checkers and chess set. This boxed game used to sit on a set of cabinets with shelves my father built in the house I grew up in. My parents had since moved to a new place. I think the game was now kept in the guest bedroom. Regardless, inside the box were several pieces of desiccated meat. It resembled tiny pieces of jerky. Apparently no one in my family had played chess in twenty years.
This method worked well until the day my oldest brother told me I had backed up the septic system by flushing my meat down the toilet. That's how I remember it anyway. He has no recollection of telling me any such thing. But I remember having to come up with a new disposal plan. This made an lasting impression on me. I don't know how old I was, but definitely still young enough to believe that out of sight equated with no longer in existence.
I began to hide meat around the house. A regular dumping ground was behind the china hutch, conveniently located near the dinner table, with its back a few inches from the wall. At this point, you need to understand that our house had electric baseboard heat. We lived where winter is long and cold. We lived where electricity was expensive. We lived with the heat kept at a low temperature. My hidden meat was safe from discovery.
My hiding place was safe, that is, until my parents had a dinner party. In winter. And turned up the heat to welcome their guests.
A collection of meat in various stages of decay atop a heat register that has been turned up for the first time since the meat began to accumulate -- I don't want to imagine the stink. It is the stink that led to the discovery of my dumping ground.
I don't remember what happened with me and meat after this discovery. But I can tell you that the first time the Hubs spent Christmas with my family, he and my nephew pulled out the checkers and chess set. This boxed game used to sit on a set of cabinets with shelves my father built in the house I grew up in. My parents had since moved to a new place. I think the game was now kept in the guest bedroom. Regardless, inside the box were several pieces of desiccated meat. It resembled tiny pieces of jerky. Apparently no one in my family had played chess in twenty years.
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