Scamp update

After my husband began building his Scamp sailboat last spring at the Northwest Maritime Center last March, I promised occasional updates on its progress. Although he’s put in plenty of time and effort, there hasn’t been much to show. But after some recent interior seal coats, I thought the project deserved an update.

Most of what you see above is the result of hours of work performed by one man standing folded over and working upside down. All of the interior joints have been filleted (filled with an epoxy mixture), taped, and then sanded. Then there was an interior seal of three coats of epoxy with color added. A little sanding on the exterior of the stern. Interior fittings have also gotten seal coated. And three rows of reef nettles have gone on the sail. While waiting for the epoxy to cure (akin to the speed of molasses in January) he’s also been working on the mast and rigging.

My husband has gone through epoxy almost like a large family drinks milk: by the gallon. There’s a gallon jug of epoxy resin under our Christmas tree. Santa understands.

Joke…or a little piece of heaven?

Beware! This post probably contains more verbiage about fruitcakes than you can tolerate. But heck, it’s that time of year!
It’s fruitcake season. Fruitcake: The brunt of jokes (the first one I heard this year: “My family has one fruitcake. We pass it from person to person every year..”). For some, like my husband, it ignites an annual quest: Find a fruitcake, a decent fruitcake, that can approach the taste ambrosia his grandmother created each year. As his search has become more, well, fruitless, the longing increases. His grandmother used fruit, lots of fruit. “All these have too much cake! It should be more fruit!” Grandma started making her cakes in September. “Lots of green and red cherries. And citrus peel.” After they were baked she’d wrap them up and then soak them in brandy, dousing them repeatedly month by month until they were just right. By Christmas they were perfect and the little boy version of my husband feasted so contentedly he’s never recovered. Though the fruitcake above is iced with marzipan, this is the first fruitcake that’s come anywhere near passing muster in decades. My husband’s face lights up like a four year old catching a glimpse of Santa when I dole out the nightly slice. It remains hidden. Otherwise it would disappear in moments as he beasts it.

Me? I’ll eat fruitcake but my affection for it doesn’t approach the level of addiction of, say, chocolate. Fruitcake had an entirely different place in my family history. My uncle, a commercial baker, was in charge of fruitcake production for Hostess Bakeries. We got a fruitcake every year in one of the distinctive Hostess antique-looking gold tins with a picture of a woman on it. I think she was holding a plate with a fruitcake on it. And every year around the Christmas table we’d hear war stories of fruitcake production from my uncle who, by Christmas, had seen enough green and red cherries to jade the jolliest of Christmas elves. The only brandy I knew that was related to fruitcake was probably downed in relief by my uncle. I took it totally for granted, much like my childish belief that nothing would ever change. I don’t remember when we stopped getting the cakes. My uncle moved up the corporate chain and eventually moved to the East Coast for the remainder of his working career. He moved on to Twinkies. (Really!) But that’s another story.

So. What about you? Shall I cut you a slice, or is there another treat that speaks to you of happy holidays?

Cold welcome

We went to Victoria, B.C. late last week. They’re sharing our current cold weather with a notable exception: We’ve not (yet) had snow – they did, a good part of the day we arrived, Thursday. It was enough to thoroughly dust our Thursday night destination, Butchart Gardens, with a magical, seasonal white shroud. I’ll share some shots of our Victoria travels from time to time in the coming days.

The Watusi

I don’t know how long the sign was up before I noticed it, but I became aware a few months ago of a place advertising itself as a “Watusi Experimental Ranch.”

Really? Watusi? This is one of those esoteric subjects tucked back – way back – in my mind. I worked very briefly at a private zoo in California that had Watusi cattle, native to Africa and considered a sign of wealth, often sacred. Unlike typical cattle found in the U.S., Watusi can forage under more sparse conditions. Wikipedia indicates that humans drink their milk. One of those factoids floating up from my brain is that their blood is also drunk. It’s just surprising enough that I don’t think I made that up.

So I finally tiptoed up to the fence and tried to get a shot of our Washington Watusis. One cooperated and showed its massive horns which can be up to eight feet across from tip to tip. The second Watusi was much more interested in grazing until my feet started getting numb from the cold. But you can still see the horns sticking out.

Here’s the sign.

Elusive Mount Baker

Mount Baker, in the Cascade Range east of us, is a tantalizing part of our viewscape. It’s often hidden by clouds and it’s distant enough that a clear view is a treat. But the views are never quite ideal and a really good picture seems just beyond reach with my lens range. That doesn’t seem to keep me from trying every time I have a chance. I should just take a road trip to the other side of Puget Sound and get up close and personal.