New Flash! I have my own radio show, called “In Tall Clover,” airing on the KVSH Voice of Vashon (VOV) at 101.9 FM locally.
An extension of my blog, with an infusion of local talk, happenings, a few songs and a couple characters, “In Tall Clover” is my first foray into radio. (Delilah Rene and Ryan Seacrest have nothing to worry about). I share some stories, gardening and cooking tips, a recipe or two, and pop in a couple of my favorite songs between ramblings. I’m learning as I go, and like most things, it’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Ah, but there are signs of improvement with each new show. 😉
Voice of Vashon (VOV) is the little radio station that could, growing from a wee public am station to a full-tilt FM dynamo enjoying a downtown Vashon storefront as it’s place of operation. Northern Exposure’s K-BHR would be proud. It’s been quite a learning curve, and a testament to the patience of my helpful engineer and friend, Jim. Thanks Jim! And Jim also has a radio show you should check out, “Sunday Morning With Java.”
If you’d like to listen to shows of mine, just click the following “In Tall Clover” link where I’m going on and on, around the clock and on demand. 😉
Patched, painted and sistered: My back porch in a weakened state
I keep a mental to-do list, a growing index of things I want to get done, or more importantly that need my attention, or better put, needed my attention yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before…. Well you get the idea. Some tasks have been on the list as long as I can remember, no doubt born in my consciousness the day I signed the mortgage papers.
Gracie and Boz had no objections to the derelict stoop.
Number one on the oft-ignored, albeit ever-present list, was repairing my back stoop, the most-used portal into and out of my house. The wood was meringue: soft, crunchy and crumbling. I believe there is more tensile strength in a Kit-Kat bar that in the floorboards under my feet. And yet it could still support the weight of one beefy farmer and his cadre of bulldogs, so why rush into things.
Day of reckoning: Darn you decay and gravity!
Over the years I sistered joists, bolstered newel posts, replaced a floorboard or two, and even (gasp) painted over rotten wood. My carpentry and DIY bandaids served me well, until last week. I was carrying two armfuls of groceries in, trying to manage both while opening my back door without having to set the bags down. Leaning heavily on the rail was mistake number one; it broke away from the house. In a move that would have made Gene Kelly jealous, I righted myself, and descended full force to the second step. Ah, but safe I was not. The risers decided they had had enough and broke away from the stoop. For my second dance move I tripped the light fantastic to the first step board where balance was returned. No injuries to report, other than to pride.
“And just how am I supposed to get from Point A to Point P?
The optimist in me chirped, “Well, I got an extra ten years out of it.” The pragmatist chimed in, “Well, I know what you’re doing for the next three days.” Buddy was incensed by the whole episode and the resulting inconvenience. In his mind, I had basically destroyed the only entrance and exit to the farmhouse. Distraught, and standing on the doorway cliff, he’d bark and whimper as if trapped in the house, never to touch the green green grass of home again. Of course, he could have used any of three remaining exterior doors available to him, which I might add are always open this time of year. Oh, Buddy.
Porch approval from Buddy, “Now that’s more like it!”
I went straight to the internet for help, searching for “How to build a small stoop” which later I changed to “porch” and then later to “deck” as it seems savvy carpenters on the Web have no use for the word “stoop.” Apparently that term is now fully-owned and co-opted by urban hipsters. Needless to say, there were more videos on the subject than I cared to watch, but I did find one that suited my attention span and ability to extrapolate.
Buddy, “You sure these stairs are safe?”
So 32 YouTube viewings, and 16 trips to the lumberyard and hardware store later, a wee porch is born, and Buddy can now leave the house without the discomfort of having to break a habit or a sweat, and I can sit my keister down without fear of crashing through a floorboard or two. Ah, all is right with the world, at least for the next ten minutes.
Tom and Buddy pondering the next selection on my to-do list.
Proud to serve his country, my father was a quiet man more prone to holding his patriotism and service in his heart than wearing it on his sleeve. Flash, pretense, and braggadocio had no place in his character, nor in his life. I can still hear him chiding my know-it-all teenage self, “Don’t let your alligator mouth out talk your tadpole butt.” He was good at getting straight to the point.
As I think of him daily and especially on this Memorial Day, I also embrace my family, my mother, sister and brother, who surrounded him with love and admiration, and allowed him to serve with distinction as he did. We were a team, his team.
My first recollection of the seriousness of my father’s job came in first grade, a memory burned into my head as certain as an ember would do the same on my skin. A fellow pilot in my Dad’s squadron bailed out of his jet over the eastern Atlantic, closer to Africa and Europe than the shores of the United States. I knew to keep quiet, and I listened to adult conversations weighted in anguish and gravity never realized under our roof. It was the first time I really thought of a plane falling out of the sky and the pilot descending into the vastness of the open ocean. And fighter jets at that time were buckets of bolts—mechanical, streamlined and shiny, but basically a huge jet engine strapped to wing, a cockpit and a prayer. Standing on the flight line, I once thought my head would explode from the mere level of roar and vibration of a taxiing F-100.
Mortality introduced itself to me that day. I never had really thought about death, never visualized my father’s plane falling out of the sky. The conversations, speculation, door knocks, and phone calls never seemed to end—grief consumed everyone on the base. Finally, word came that a search plane had spotted the pilot, my mom and dad’s friend, on a life raft. It terrified me to think of this man I knew, drifting in a life raft, all alone in the middle of the ocean. I couldn’t sleep that night, my active imagination no friend to me at that time. The next morning sobering news came; the pilot had not survived the night at sea. That’s when my memory kind of goes blur. There was crying. There was anger. There was disbelief, and then I remember little else. Perhaps I didn’t want to believe this could ever be the outcome, that all lives could be saved and that flying a shell of metal at supersonic speeds was a safe as driving a car or walking to the playground. From that day on, I never stopped worrying about my father.
On this day, this Memorial Day, let’s remember the men and women who protect our freedoms, our lives and our loves, and the families who keep them strong. My father never glorified war, and it fact he once told me that the best war was the one prevented. He never talked about his time served in Vietnam, brushes with death, or the lost lives of his friends and fellow servicemen, but he never forgot them either. He honored them through example and through wearing the uniform, a uniform he wore the day I said goodbye to him for the very last time.
We love you, Dad, and thank you for your sacrifice and service to our nation.
Orange Peel Caviar: candied orange peels, chopped and infused with spirits, livens up any dish.
Orange peels and rinds are oft ignored flavor salvos just too good to toss or compost. These spongy fruit overcoats hold concentrated essential oils and chewy textures destined to brighten up any pallid palate or daily diet with a shot of orange-flavored sunshine. Hyperbole? I think not. Orange peels are not only tasty morsels, but good for you as well, promising more vitamins, fiber and flavonoids than the actual fruit it protects. And because orange flavor is a universally loved treat, I wanted to find a way to plop it by the spoonful in any batter, bowl or recipe I so chose to emboldened, enrich or imbue.
I came up with a recipe I call Orange Peel Caviar. It gets me and my kitchen conjurings through the misty grey winters of the Pacific Northwest, at least until local fruits and berries appear.
Tidbits of orange peel brightening up my black and blue berry pie
While making orange peel caviar is easy to make, I did feel I had some ‘splainin’ to do, so I made a little instructional video (homemade for sure) for clarity, and my basic need to belabor the subject. 😉
Update: I suggest using organic oranges, as even washing may not rid pesticide from the rinds (from what I read).
Tom’s Homemade Video: How to Make Orange Peel Caviar
I also wrote down the recipe, as seen below. So don’t toss those peels, save them for a bite of sunshine on a rainy day!
Orange Peel Caviar is my spoonable relish-like mixture of chopped candied orange rinds spiked with liqueur. A dollop or two of this preserve, adds solid orange flavor to any dish, batter, dough or ice cream base. I love it added to yogurt or steel cut oats or berry pies and cobblers.
Peel oranges, first cut "north pole" off, and then the "south pole" off
Step 2
Going lengthwise down the orange make five evenly spaced slits into the peel, to facilitate removal of peel from orange.
Step 3
Slice peel section into thick julienne widths, like the size of shoestring potatoes, or a little larger.
Step 4
Put peels in nonreactive pan, add sugar and water and stir to dissolve.
Step 5
Simmer slowly for about ten minutes and remove from heat.
Step 6
Let pan cool and reheat the pan at a later time and simmer gently, and shut off heat. Do this a couple more times in the days to come adding more orange peel is fine. The orange peel will candy that is look bright and shiny and firmer, and the runny liquid will become more of a syrup.
Step 7
Place orange peel in food processor. Add a tablespoon or two of Grand Marnier or Triple Sec or Patron Orange Liqueur and pulse until minced and chunky, and spreadable.
Step 8
Place orange peel mixture in jars, leaving 1/2 inch air space and add lid, tighten and place in simmering water bath for 10-15 minutes and then remove to cool. If you prefer not to can the mixture, you can freeze it and scoop the orange peel caviar as needed from a ziploc bag or sealed container.
The great part of this recipe is not only the taste but how easy it is to set up and make. Any time you eat an orange, save and cut the peel and plop it in a pan of sugar water, simmer and remove from heat and repeat the process every time you add a peel to the pot. When the pan is full, plop orange rinds in food processor, chop into a chunky paste and can or freeze to have on hand when you need some seriously good orange flavor in a recipe or dish. Oh, and it’s good by the spoonful, too.
Little Update…
Despite his rigorous and indispensable role here on the farm, buddy finds time to send you his love.
Buddy, just tugging at my heart strings and a taxed shoulder socket.
I love it when a familiar place surprises me, when I discover something that has been right under my nose, in plain sight as they say, doing handstands, waving its arms, flashing its veritable pearly whites at me, in hopes of catching my eye, attention, and curiosity. The Vashon Sheepdog Classic is one such event. Years ago, when I first started seeing plywood cutouts of crouching sheepdogs dotting the island as event signs, I didn’t know what to think. Well, actually, I must admit I had a preconceived idea, that watching dogs chase sheep was the animal channel equivalent of watching paint dry.
Event organizer Maggi McClure explaining how she and the dog work as a team.
I am here to publicly admit that I was so wrong, hugely wrong, make that woefully wrong. After spending my first day at the Vashon Sheepdog Classic helping a friend at his vendor booth, I found myself turning my back on customers to see what the spectators were oohing and ahhing about. And then I became a bad recruit, trading in my interest for caesar salad and onion ring orders for the winsome athleticism of a sheepdog in motion with a job at hand.
Lamb butchery: Brandon Sheard of Farmstead Meatsmith shares his knowledge and knife skills.
For the uninitiated, the sheep dog trials are not about a chase, in fact there is no chase. The sheepdogs, guided through whistles and commands gingerly move, almost choreograph, the sheep to desired places and paddocks on one of the loveliest stretches of rolling pasture on the island. Spectators are treated to bucolic vistas worthy of an opera backdrop. If Downton Abbey had an official sport, this would be it — white linen suits and shady valets optional.
Recently I was treated to Island chefs Lauren Garaventa and Molly Biehn special lamb and spring vegetable soup in honor of the Vashon Sheepdog Classic. It was the best bowl of soup I’ve ever had, truly. Rumor has it they are opening up shop in Vashon town. I’ll keep you posted — slurp!
Tom’s Top Ten Reasons for Attending the Vashon Sheepdog Classic, June 9 -12, 2016
Amazing dogs
Dreamy Vashon Island setting at Misty Isle Farms
Local food, spirits & craft booths
Most attended herding event on the West Coast
Educational exhibits: “The Story of Wool” & Lamb Butchery
Brown Betty scoffs at my deer fence protecting my greenhouse.
I don’t keep chickens, they keep me. My healthy flock of 15 hens, one rooster and a clutch of nestbox eggs keep me busy. I don’t begrudge the ladies, gent and soon-to-be downy toddlers my daily attention and efforts, from opening and closing the coop, to keeping it clean, to enabling free-range forays, but I never thought I’d be out maneuvered, outwitted, and outplayed by a chicken.
Brown Betty in search of fine dining
Her name is Brown Betty. On the outside, she’s a fetching Buff Orpington of comely proportion, but on the inside, my plucky friend is a Thelma without a Louise, a Mae West sashaying unapologetically as the barnyard bombshell with a brain, needing neither man nor rooster to make her complete. And while I’m mixing metaphors, I’d have to say she’s a regular Harriet Houdini who can escape any pen, hen house, or chicken yard this chump farmer cares to erect. Electric fence? Ha, chicksplay. I bet I could tie Brown Betty’s feet together, drop her in a burlap bag, box it up, cover the whole concern in concrete, and drop her off the north-end ferry dock, only to return home and find her sunning herself on my front porch. Disturbed by my presence, she’d no doubt cluck, “Oh, you again.”
At the beginning of her escaping exploits she played it cool, finding her way out of the chicken yard, casually scratching my emerging seedlings into coleslaw. I’d dopily say, “Brown Betty, how’d you get out?” Nonplussed, she’d refuse to answer and let me return her to the pen, where I’m sure the other hens cracked, “Get a load of her.” Back in the pen, all was well or so I thought.
Buddy encourages her to move along, nothing to see here.
Then, escaping every once in awhile turned into busting out of the pen everyday and every time I returned her to her confines. She’d slowly strut before me, defiant, scratching, ignoring my presence altogether. What I perceived as the hen equivalent of, “Oh, are you still here?” I could just see her leaning on the barn door, clutching a cigarette, taking a drag and and spouting a line from the Maltese Falcon, “Keep on riding me and they’re going to be picking pecking iron out of your liver.”
Perhaps, I’m being a little dramatic, but Brown Betty wasn’t like the other hens, nope. Most recently she managed to spend the day in my greenhouse after passing through, by and under an electric mesh fence and two deer fences. She dined on, well just about anything with foliage and flowers, and then chased it all with tin of alfalfa pellets reserved for my roses.
Ten minutes after reentry into the chicken yard, she was back in my garden, slipping under the gate and in hot pursuit of the worms in my flower beds. Buddy was no help. He just looked at her with one eyelid open. Now if she were a hoofed quadruped, Buddy would have mustered a modicum of interest.
Not to be bamboozled by this feathered femme fatale, I re-stretched the electric fence and patched any and all holes in the perimeter fence. A day went by, and no escapes. Success was mine. Ah, at last, I’d bettered an animal with a brain the size of a lentil. Darn tootin’ I did.
So this morning, sitting at the kitchen table, with Buddy sawing logs before his busy day of chewing, chasing and chomping, I could see the tall grass rustling outside my window. One eyeroll later, I’m watching Brown Betty dine on my strawberries indifferent to their level of ripeness. She sees me, and I see her, at which point she turns in a most purposeful way, not pecking, just standing with her tail feathers pointed in my direction. Her body language no doubt the chicken equivalent of “You can just kiss my big downy butt.”
Betty make her position clear on returning to the coop.
May Flowers: Thank You October-Through-April Showers
In the shade and embrace of the Big Leaf Maple
Each month yields its own little surprises in my garden. In May, I welcome visitors in bloom, bough, petal and seedpod, returning from a season of rest, only to burst on the scene like waving flags, sprite sparklers, lavish crowns and pulpy jewelry. And since it’s one more cup of coffee before I hit the flower fields, greenhouse and orchard, let me wax on about some of my May garden beauties and a few of their attributes. Who knows, you may be so inclined to invite them into your garden.
This particular lilac is a late bloomer, bursting on the scene as the grand finale of the lilac season. The compact bush is a reliable bloomer, well-mannered grower and impressive producer of floral perfume. Planted near my front door, “Miss Kim” welcomes guests (and this host) with a kiss of fragrance and beauty.
Byzantine gladiolus (Gladiolus communis subsp. byzantinus)
This sweet little guy is a hardier form of gladiola and one who whispers rather than shouts in the garden. While not particularly long blooming, its appearance still brightens and dots the garden with wands of pink for at least two weeks. The bulbs tend to naturalize and spread in a noninvasive way here in the Pacific Northwest.
Woodbine or Honeysuckle (Lonicera periclymenum ‘Serotina’ )
Honeysuckle vines sometimes get a bad rap, often labeled as aggressive growers. This particular honeysuckle, Serotina, seems to be very well behaved and a favorite of my local hummingbirds. I think the red exterior petals are the hummer equivalent of a stop sign. The vines can be easily managed and trimmed into a shrub of sorts or maintained on a trellis or pillar; and the fragrance is heady and wonderful on a warm summer night. In the fall, red berries form and attract songbirds to the vine for a quick snack.
David Austin Rose “Jubilee Celebration”
I like big blooms, there’s no denyin’ (Tom’s garden rap). Roses are such a treasure: gorgeous to look at and fragrant to boot, at least the ones I select to plant here. As a practitioner of rose tough love, I remove any rose bushes that don’t thrive, since I don’t spray a drop of anything on them. I go for the pretty and the tough, it’s a combo that keeps pesticides out of my garden and soil. Jubilee Celebration, a new addition, pulls out all the stops: big blooms, fragrance, disease resistance, great cut flower, and repeat blooming. What’s not to like?
Lewisia Cotyledon
Northwest native Lewisia boasts a floral color range almost other worldly. The diminutive rock plant goes unnoticed until the blooms appear, and then it has your full and undivided attention. It needs a sunny location and excellent drainage to thrive, but other than that Meriwether Lewis’ namesake is a keeper.
Rose “Madame Alfred Carriere”
Another one of my favorite roses, Madame Alfred Carriere sets the standard for the perfect garden rose: vigorous, nearly thornless, fragrant, repeat growing and a lovely cut flower. It does get black spot and mildew but in time seems to brush it off and reach for the sky. This noisette rose is lovely rambling up through the branches of small trees .
Medlar (Mespilus germanica) flowerMedlar fruit
Medlar is a fruit you won’t likely see in the produce aisle of your local grocery. A mainstay of medieval French and English gardens, the medlar’s mere appearance suggests (and rightfully so) that it is something special. I was smitten the first time I saw the tree in bloom on a walk through the University of Washington Arboretum in Seattle. A well-behaved tree of small to moderate size, it delivers on all counts: flowers, fruit and fall foliage, much like another favorite of mine, the fruiting quince. The fruit hangs on the tree like nodding caramels, remaining well after leaf drop.
Clematis “Starry Night”
I’m a recent devotee of the vines called Clematis. Known for their dramatic blooms and distinctive characteristics, clematis seem the perfect partner for the garden fence, pergola or arbor. Starry Night is a cultivar that will put stars in your eyes (and garden).
Calla Lily (Zantedeschia aethiopica)
Large white Calla lilies are a mainstay in many a coastal northwest garden. The flowers tower regally above the tropical-looking foliage, and are exemplary cut flowers. I’ve tried other varieties, but Zantedeschia aethiopica is the only one really hardy in our zone 8 climate.
Bulldog Zen
Buddy would say, “hi,” but I hate to disturb his morning meditation and quiet time.
He certainly looks familiar, but I don’t have an older brother.
Each new season can be a quirky, moody little affair, that at times falls out of synch with my resident disposition, though I venture to say most seasons would argue it’s the other way around. Whatever the case, certainly spring has done its part to awaken nature, feverishly showing off with record-breaking temperatures, burgeoning boughs and halcyon days once reserved for August, but its emergence has also heralded a reflective time for me regarding the place I call home and the face the stares back at me in the selfie or mirror, as the case may be.
I hear the greenhouse calling, “water me, Tom, water me!”
I’ve found myself doing less talking and just plain doing less, not sure what that’s about, though I suspect some would welcome the change in my first lament. And dare I say in the mojo department, my “mo” is not speaking to my “jo” as of late. Perhaps spring is the wake-up call that the next six months will be very busy, that my time will be filled from sun-up to sundown. I like that projection, but for now I have to gather my thoughts about how to approach it. In my head, I’m 26, but in my ankles, feet, hips, knees and back, I’m entering the unfamiliar territory of aches and pains. I never thought a few more years around the sun would ever play a limiting role in my life (said the man standing on the precipice of geezerdom).
My favorite garden space, because it’s pretty and very self sufficient.
Now please don’t worry; I’m fine, my health is fine, but now it just takes some serious conversations with myself to convince my lazy-boy-lounging tuckus that weeding is worthwhile; coop cleaning, necessary; orchard pruning, mandatory; and watering, a therapeutic gift. The beginning of the farming season is always overwhelming. There are seeds to plant, fields to prepare and winter cleanup to tackle, oh yes, and bulldog butt rubs to administer. Blackberry brambles grow at breakneck speed, while Scotch broom and thistles stake claims wherever their seeds come to rest. Moss prefers my roof as a place to roost, and winter’s winds have downed a few trees teasing me with the possibility of some serious BTUs, should I ever restart my chainsaw. My greenhouse needs a thorough cleaning and some of its contents need pitching and composting. The inside of the house cries, “Remember me, and that time-saving tool called a vacuum?” (I answer, “Vaguely.”)
Not sure how many times a day I say, “Oh, Buddy.” This is his hint to me, that it’s dinner time, which is also the reminder that it’s time to play or get a belly rub.
So do I have a point here? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to complain, nor do I wish to whine, but when did the guy with the white hair and bald spot move into my house? He’s gets distracted easily and sure takes a lot of breaks. Just sayin’…
The first day of spring couldn’t have come soon enough, although winter’s waning days were nothing short of halcyon — those teaser days when waterlogged memories of drenching, consuming rain evaporate from my consciousness merely by a rise in temperature, an extension of daylight, and the welcome return of blue skies and fluffy clouds. Rain? What Rain?
Buddy: Defender of Daffodils, Knight of the Narcissus, poised to give the deer the what-for should the occasion arise.
The crocus petals have melted back into the earth like wet tissue, as the daffodils and narcissi rise to the occasion of spring, trumpeting the new life, color and vigor in the garden. Narcissi (daffodils) are strong performers this time of year, naturalizing well in the landscape and requiring little if any maintenance. Allow them to die back naturally, that is don’t cut their leaves back as they are the photosynthetic engines that fuel next year’s blooms. Oh and did I mention, daffodils are completely deer-proof. Yep, deer don’t touch them, ever. (Actually, each generation may nibble one or two buds, but that will be their last time of doing that.)
Leucojum Aestivum is an uncommon beauty right out of an Art Nouveau sketchbook.
Leucojum Aestivum, or giant snowflake as it’s also known, is another dreamy naturalizer that deer don’t seem to savor. Unlike its mini-me version, galanthus or snowdrop, Leucojum towers anywhere from 18 – 24 inches, displaying nodding little bell flowers with distinct green dots at the end of each petal. I love them.
Narcissus “Replete”
Narcissi come in all shapes and sizes, in fact bulb purveyor John Scheepers and the Daffodil Society designate 13 classifications. The narcissus “Replete” shown above is a showgirl in bloom, with double ruffles and a can-can kick of color.
Narcissi “Tazetta” dressing up the back of my truck.
Narcissi “Tazetta,” delicate little wands of light, offer a dreamy fragrance for anyone wishing to dip a nose in their direction.
Fritillaria persica “ivory bells”
Fritillaria persica, or Persian Lily as some call it, rises above the garden mulch, tall and proud, green and showy. This is my first year of growing them, so I’m a bit weary of how well they’ll grow here in the Pacific Northwest. Winter rot is always a problem with delicate bulbs. Of six bulbs I planted only one bloomed, so I will mulch with extra rich compost to help bring them to bloom next year.
Peach Blossoms “Honeybabe”
Growing peaches in the Pacific Northwest is a real challenge due to our cool days, dry summers and heavy spring rains. I’m trying a few dwarf varieties in my greenhouse to thwart our climatic shortcomings (at least for the peach). Even without fruit production, these trees are beautifully ornamental.
Camellia “Apple Blossom”
As a boy growing up in South Carolina, I marveled at the variety and bombastic nature of camellia blossoms, so pretty and floriferous, they almost look fake. So glad camellias thrive in the Pacific Northwest.
Mystery camellia
The candy-cane-splash of a camellia above arrived as an accidental (albeit welcomed) seedling in my garden. It tagged along in a pot of a named variety of camellia called Debutante. If anyone recognizes the variety above, do tell, do tell.
Poetic garden paths: “I took the one less traveled…”Hope your enjoyed the first day of spring at my house; today, of course, the rain is back.
In a weak moment, I was lured by the siren song of Ikea, by the promise of attractive, low-cost furniture flaunting itself (assembled, no less) in an endless maze of options and distractions. I succumbed, packed a parcel of patience and a PB and J, and headed to the ferry for my all-day, off-island excursion to lovely Renton, Washington, home to Seattle’s Ikea.
Why the need to leave the bucolic bliss of island life for the tangled mess of Seattle’s traffic and congestion? Ah grasshopper, that is a question I still ask myself today. At that moment, I was a wee bit delusional, thinking if I bought two dressers for my kitchen nook, I could repurpose them as attractive storage units for the times I actually wanted to enjoy the room for its intended use. That is, by stuffing any and all things littering the table into awaiting drawers, I could stake a claim on the bare surface as a nice place to a eat a meal. Imagine that.
By mid-maze, my blood sugar was low, and I felt my body lumbering, and teetering toward the folds of a futon sofa. And then, the waft of Swedish meatballs gave me the will to push on. Just a few more steps and lingonberries would be on my lips and gravy on my plate. Satiated, and still determined determined to find the dresser of my organizational dreams, I pressed on.
Not intending to make this story as convoluted and lengthy as the shopping aisles of Ikea, let me just say, I found my dandy dresser and his name was Hemnes.
Back on the island in the time it takes to fly cross-country, I stared at the two boxes, and thought, “A trip to Ikea, and furniture assembly should not take place on the same day. I’ll get a good night’s sleep.” The next morning the sun was out, the pups available for consultation, and the meatballs a distant digestive memory.
After making the first dresser, I felt some good had to come out of this entire exercise, so I made a video when I assembled the second dresser. So hopefully, my experience and how-to guide will keep you somewhat sane should you decide you too may need a dresser from Ikea, an assembled one.
Tom Demonstrates How to Build an Ikea Dresser
My eating nook before my laptop, books and papers annexed the room.Look, a clear surface! I won’t tell you how long that lasted. 😉
Print recipe
