Frosted Windowpanes

In my cottage house, there are two big problems with the main floor bathroom: 1) it faces the front of the house, which means if the wind blows the curtains away and I am…say, just getting out of the shower…anyone passing by can get a pretty easy look at me in my birthday suit, and 2) the windows in the entire house are in desperate need of being replaced, and even though the government has issued a nice tax credit if you get energy efficient windows, it doesn't offset the enormous cost of replacing them. Consequently, no new windows at our house this year. sigh!

Plus, now that my son is getting to be super tall, he feels like the world has potentially too much access to him in the bathroom, but what could we do? Obviously a new frosted window is out of the questions—see paragraph one regarding cost!

We have a good friend who randomly said to me the other day, “I wanted to see about adding my house numbers to my screen door, so I went to look for number decals, but instead I found this awesome frost spray, and now my door looks really great. I then went and did both my bathroom windows, too, and they also look great!” The product is Rust-oleum Specialty Frosted Glass spray.

Here's what I have discovered about myself — I must have zero curiosity or desire to problem solve. I think it might never have dawned on me that there is a lot of gray area between exposed window and new window, and no doubt a lot of products that are made for said gray area. Oh dear—must work on that!

He brought over his extra cans, and I read the directions. Like all spray can paints, you need to shake them until you are pretty sure your arm is going to fall off. Here's what I pondered about 45 seconds into the “shake can vigorously for 2 minutes” of shaking…does it really only need 1 minute, but they know Americans are so impatient that they make the time longer in the hopes that we will actually reach the needed 1 minute time? And all that wasted thought was BEFORE I started spraying in a decidedly un-ventilated area! I really must learn to read directions before beginning projects—another thing to work on!

I taped up the windows—hence the lack of ventilation. I do, by the way, recommend against that as the smell is pretty intense, and I felt sorry for all the little brain cells that were dying an agonizing death from the fumes. I sprayed three coats about 2 minutes apart, and it was super easy. Unlike paint, you don't really have to even be careful about how you spray as long as every part gets equal layers.

Long and winding story short, I am really happy with the look of the window. It has not blocked any light coming in, and now we can all romp around in whatever state of dress we so choose in the bathroom without the dreaded fear of the neighbors gawking at our audacity. At least I have that going for me!

-Dayna Del Val

When Mothers-in Law Arrive!

My in-laws are coming for Thanksgiving. I am delighted that they are coming—all the way from England, in fact!—but I am kind of beginning to panic about the state of the cleanliness of my house. To be fair, I should say the lack of cleanliness of my house. It's not filthy, but I'm no Donna Reed either! My husband wants it stated that he believes the only messiness in our house is dog hair from Lilly, our Golden Retriever—he's delusional, but it's a nice sentiment.

I have 16 days before they arrive, so I can dust and vacuum and de-gunk the house in that amount of time—oh, the bathroom alone!!! But here's the real issue at hand. My mother-in-law is only 5 feet tall; I am 5'9”. That means I have to go through the entire house from a completely different height range to see the filth that has collected underneath objects that I never even see because I am looking from the top down.

The first time they came to America to see us, I did the same thing and was so horrified at what had collected under my oven hood that I stayed up nearly an entire night removing the hair and grease from it while trying to keep the bile in its rightful place.

I have a diminutive friend who commiserates from the other angle. She lamented recently that her tall husband was totally unbothered by the gathering of dust and grease that accumulated on top of the refrigerator—where she can’t see and he can. Why, she wondered, did that not bother him the way it bothered her when she finally pulled a chair up to inspect?

Let me be clear: my mother-in-law has an absolutely spotless and lovely, lived-in home, and I would quite happily eat any food off any floor in it, and she has never shown a clear disdain for my less-than-stellar house-keeping skills. She is always incredibly gracious and has never done the Mary Poppins white-glove dust test—at least not in my presence, but I still am feeling incredible pressure to get the house in tip top shape before she arrives.

I hope I can get everything done in the next 16 days that I want to get done. The list is long, but I am pretty sure that I can enlist my husband, her son who seems to feel none of this pressure by the way!, and my son to help. By the time we sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, I should be full of gratitude for the spotless state of my home! And if not, I'll have to be grateful for extended family, and that's a lovely thing, too.

-Dayna Del Val

Living Room Painting Transformation

I bought my little 1950s cottage house three years ago, and the previous owners had painted much of the common living space a pale latte, which, at the time, I thought was pretty nice—better than white, at any rate.

Last spring, however, I began to detest the cold, insipid feel of the latte walls in my living room. They had no personality, no drama, and no warmth. I grabbed my friend, who has painted much of the rest of the house with me, at one time or another, and headed to the local hardware/home store to scope out colors. I had read the book Feather Your Nest by Mary Carol Garrity and was inspired by the wall color on pages 52-53. That dining room was painted in Molasses—a deep, purple-brown puddle of gorgeousness!

I gathered many paint chips in a variety of dark, warm browns. It's amazing how different Cup of Joe is from Cup of Java is from Belgian Chocolate is from…well, you get the idea. I settled on Cup of Joe by Ace. I asked my husband what he thought—“Too dark!” I chose to overlook that because when my friend and I painted the basement in Ginger Palm, Midsummer Gold and Poet's Light—all no VOC paint from Freshaire—he also thought he wasn't going to like that until he came home to a stunning family room and proclaimed it beautiful.

I wanted to use more no VOC paint this time, but it can be hard to find such a deep pigment, so we went with Dutch Boy Dimensions in eggshell. We did use the Poet's Light again for the trim.

My son happened to be off from school the days we set aside to paint, so he moved as much out of the room as possible; then we cleaned, taped, and began to paint. It was a full two-day project, but when I woke up on the morning of the second day and walked in to my incredible living room, even with the piano pushed into the couch in the middle of the room, I fell in love. The natural light streaming through the picture window changed that wall to a completely different shade of melted, dark chocolate. The room felt physically warmer, and the depth of color was just amazing.

I have many pieces in the living room that are dull, brushed gold. They were the motivation for the dark paint. I knew they would pop when placed against that drama, and they did not disappoint me. Again, my husband came home from work, and declared another successful painting job.

All told, the project cost less than $60. Granted, my friend has all the supplies you could want or need to do a job like this, but even still, for two-days' hard work and a little bit of money, I have a living room that I am totally crazy about. Now it makes a statement and showcases my favorite things.

Watch out master bedroom--you're next!

-Dayna Del Val

When in Doubt, Bake Bread

I have an incredible amount of work to do today, so, obviously, I have no choice but to bake some bread. My friends often marvel that I make bread from scratch, but they don't know the secret…it's not that hard, and the rewards absolutely outweigh the time commitment.

I think my first memory of bread baking was sitting on my grandma's counter. She had Fiesta nesting bowls, and she always made bread in the large, pale green one. I can smell the yeast as it expands in the warm water. Grandma never needed a recipe—yes, she was that kind of grandma—lucky me! My mom made homemade bread when I was young, too. What is finer that a piece of warm bread, straight out of the oven, with a pat of butter melting on it? Excuse me while I wipe the drool off my keyboard and go punch down the first raising.

OK, I'm back. I lived with my grandma for a while in my twenties. I decided I would make bread one day, so I reverently pulled out the green bowl; I boiled up some water and poured it over the yeast. It smelled exactly like I remembered, but nothing got foamy, and the bread never rose. I dutifully put it in two bread pans and baked it anyway because there is no single more exquisite smell than freshly made bread, and I secretly believed the bread fairy would save my first foray into the world of bread baking. Needless to say, I could have killed a robber with those bricks of bread. I didn’t see a difference between warm and boiling water. I killed all those poor little yeast…particles—I did try to call my biochemist husband for the correct word here, but he didn't answer, so I am sticking with particles!

Today, I am quite accomplished in the art of bread making. Because it is an art form. Each loaf of bread is slightly different, even if you make exactly the same recipe over and over again. Each step along the way feels like a bit of a gamble—too much flour, not enough kneading, too high a temperature, and it won't look or taste as good as it could. On the other hand, like art, there is never only one way to make a good loaf of bread.

I don't feel the need to follow a recipe to the letter. I have my own set of nesting bowls—gorgeous, tomato red, ceramic bowls that are perfect for every step of the process. I use bread pans that were Grandma's, and I try to channel her brilliance in the kitchen with each knead, rise, and punch.

I had a bread maker, which I used once and returned. I hated it! Part of the joy of homemade bread is the process. There's something amazingly visceral about the feel of working with bread dough. Adding flour until it's just right, kneading until it has a perfect elastic feel, forming loaves or rolls or buns. I am reminded of the generations of women who made bread out of necessity. I think about my grandma. I relish the pure joy my son has when he comes home from school and his eyes light up when his nose catches the scent. I feel proud and earthy and more like the kind of woman I want to be when I pull out those beautiful loaves of crusty bread. Not bad for an afternoon’s avoidance of work.

-Dayna Del Val

Winter Garden Tomatoes?

While much of the rest of the United States is enjoying the beginning of the long autumn season, here in the upper mid-west, I am watching light snow fall from the sky. I don't think it will stay, but it's pretty demoralizing anyway. My garden, which was not absolutely done growing, is now done. We have had a very hard frost, and everything is dead or dying quickly. Three weeks ago, my mother sent me this e-mail she got from a friend:

Stretching Tomato Growing Season

When the first frost comes, if you still have tomatoes coming
along, here's a very easy way to save them. No need to wrap
each one in newspaper (which I did for a few years before an
elderly neighbor told me what I'm about to tell you). If you
have a dry basement or other unused space that will not
freeze, simply pull up the tomato plants roots and all, shake
off the dirt and hang them upside down so that none of the
leaves touch the floor. The tomatoes continue to ripen very
slowly, they do not rot, and you can easily see which ones are
ripest without having to unwrap a bunch of newspaper. I have
had fresh tomato salsa (and fried green tomatoes) all the way
to Christmas this way!

I quizzed my plant cell wall biologist husband as to the likelihood of this being true, and he said, “Hard to say. Try it.” Not the ringing scientific endorsement I was looking for, but also not a “Don't be a fool!” one either.

I decided to try it because I had about 10 million tomatoes that were lovely but perfectly green. Unfortunately, the day that I planned to pull the tomato plants up, which was one of the last beautiful days we had this fall, I got busy with something else. I covered the plants that night and hoped for the best. That was the night of the first hard frost—the kind where my son was late to school the next morning because we couldn't get the car windows scraped in time—oh bleck!

The next day, the leaves were shriveled and damp. Many of the tomatoes seemed pretty fine, however, so I dutifully dug them up. The e-mail fails to recognize that tomato plants grow very long and intertwine with each other, so pulling them up was a bit of a struggle. I did manage to get one plant pulled out, however, and that is now hanging in my basement laundry room from a hanger and bungee cord.

I don't know if they will continue to ripen or not, but it was worth a little sweat equity to find out. I will keep you posted, and if you are still enjoying a growing season where you are, try this before the frost hits. Let me know how it works for you. Here's to fresh tomatoes in November!

-Dayna Del Val

The Joy of Fall Leaves

Some of my favorite memories are tied up with fall leaves. Walking through the crunchy, yellow and red puddles on the sidewalk with my childhood best friend. Gathering a big pile for my toddler to delightedly jump in over and over. Even raking and bagging them the first fall that I was finally a homeowner. All of these make me smile. I can smell the dust, hear the crunch and laughter, and feel the dry, papery leaves in my hands.

But here's the thing, I've never lived in any house that has a lot of trees. I am from a relatively treeless Northern plains state, and while there are places that planted trees one hundred years ago and neighborhoods do have oaks and maples and birch trees that shed their leaves in overabundance, that has not been my experience. Maybe that's why I still have a child-like delight in leaves.

I even like raking — I really do. I like that I can see the obvious progress. I like the large scope of looking at a yard that is covered in that gorgeous golden hue and finding the still-green underneath. I like to feel my back and arm muscles flexing with each pull of the rake. I like the collaboration and conversation with my somewhat disgruntled now-teenage son when he begins to enjoy himself with the project, despite his initial complaints.

The question becomes what to do with the few leaves we rake up? Some people bag them up and throw them away. I am interested in being as green as I can, so that is not an option for me.

Last fall, we started a compost pile—nothing too dramatic. We drilled 1/2” holes all over a large garbage can we weren't using and filled it up with layers of dirt, leaves and garden waste to maximize the breakdown. I have been really pleased with the results. I continue to put stuff in there, and it continues to break down. I can't wait for next spring when my first batch of homemade compost soil should be ready to use.

My leaves can go in there. Or, I can put them over my garden along with the pulled out plants. If I do that, I will need to add some lime or ash on top to assist in the breaking down.

Of course, the other option is to bag them and take them to a local recycling spot. I like this idea, too, because my city turns yard waste into free mulch that gets given away in the fall and spring. I find great satisfaction in standing over that mammoth pile of decomposing grass and adding my bags to it. There's something freeing about shaking the contents of a lawn and leaf bag out — it's messy and dusty and always makes me sneeze, but that's the fun of it.

No matter what I do with my leaves, I am looking forward to the sensory delights of getting out one of these last glorious days of fall and gathering the leaves together, remembering the past, sharing time with my son, and doing something good for my garden and the earth in the process.

-Dayna Del Val