438: a baby shower, a farewell

This is Bailey. She lives next door. Her auntie had a baby shower yesterday for an impending son, and Bailey's mama enlisted me (or I volunteered; I can't really remember what happened) in helping with the cake. This cake, complete with fondant, makes me appreciate that favorite show of mine and my husband's, so much, much more.


Bailey enjoyed helping. (What she doesn't enjoy? Wearing clothes. In case you couldn't tell.) You can see where she helped us decorate the dining room with flour below. Whoops.


And the homemade fondant? Didn't really work out. But we tried--it tasted better than the store-bought, but it stuck to just about everything, a gluey, bluey mess.


We baked the main cake in a nine inch pan, and then made a set of cupcakes, which we had to stack. I took a bread knife and sculpted the belly. Frosting it was so difficult, since the harder crust was gone, and Ryan told me he learned from Ace of Cakes that they let it chill for a day before frosting it, which keeps the crumbs from mixing in with the buttercream.


I painted on polka dots for the dress when the ribbon Melissa wanted didn't quite work.


And another neighbor came over to paint on: "Good-bye belly, hello Mommy!" along the sides of the tinfoiled cardboard stand. She added a little ruffle to the top of the dress too.


(I didn't taste the cake though. Sugar sensitivity, remember? Boo.)


And then there was the baby shower itself, which had little ones running rampant, little princess costumes and presents spilling over into the next room. This was Heather's first baby shower, though it's her second child. Below is a picture I snapped of the family: top row is Heather and Melissa's mother, then Heather the mama-to-be in the center, with my neighbor Melissa next to her; Emma is in grandma's lap, and Melissa is holding Bailey.


And, of course, I took many combinations of photographs, which I won't share here, but I loved the moments that were especially chaotic. By the end, I was beginning to feel like a photobooth!


A week from today, Brandon and Melissa and Bailey are moving three and a half hours away, due to economic pressures. Both lost their jobs over a year ago and haven't found work since; they're moving in with Brandon's father until things begin to smooth out. I understand and respect that decision, though I'm a bit sad: I'm a shy neighbor, who will be dragged along to block parties by her husband, but prefers hibernation above anything else. It takes a long time for me to feel comfortable, but once I do, well, you'll find me in the kitchen making cakes and leaving knit washcloths on the porch and trading peony roots for strawberry plants.

So long to the Evans family; I wish you much luck in your future, and I do hope you return to our sweet town. I'm going to miss that little Bailey, who says my name in such a squealing happy voice, who willingly jumps into my arms from the little stone walk that separates our yards.

When we were driving somewhere, Melissa said, "You know? We really like you guys. We like that you aren't nosey and don't judge and bring us beer..." Yup. That's how we are.

377

Something about the neighborhood: there have been so many fires since the temperatures have turned to the negatives, one of which was just one, two, three houses away from our own (ah, when Ryan and I discussed it, the how-much-to-donate to the neighbors' fund, and he flicked those fingers up slowly: one-two-three).

In the winter, we do dangerous things: space heaters to keep us from last year on this day, and the bathtub is now covered in mouse poo (oh, darnitall with my stupid squishy heart!).

All I can say is: Thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness.

Three houses away and I'm aware of our home-ness, our meager bedrooms and my stupidity in checking the smoke detectors. It's enough to keep me rooted to that sofa, which brought about the Emily Dickinson-Elizabeth Bishop collection, which kicked me into some poems, and all I can say to you is this: STAY WARM.

327: more neighbors

Our neighbor two doors down brought a box of kittens home from some get-together: the story apparently is that the mama kitty was hit by a car, and this elderly couple had the kittens and were just going to let them be, let them die. So my neighbor two doors down collected the kittens, bought some formula, and worked on nursing them herself. These polydactyl kitties (so adorable with their six-toed feet) were desperately mewling one day on the porch of our shared neighbors when Ryan and I came home from errands: Melissa, mama of Bailey, called us over and I spent the afternoon cooing over the brown tabby, which I attempted to adopt, but Ryan, being logical, pointed out that we have two older cats and two younger dogs and our house is fairly full and covered in fur as it is. I didn't need an adorably needy kitten whose feeding schedule was that of an infant--especially just before I left for Bread Loaf and couldn't simply skip home and feed it every two hours. But mostly, when I took the kitten inside, Libby and Gatsby, who adore one another and sleep twined quite often, hissed and spat and battered at my hand and made it clear that, unless I was willing to introduce the kitten the way I'm supposed to, there will be more more furballs in the house.