Summer Itch

Now that summer's here, Ty and I will be spending a lot of time with my parents, who have a house that's in not the city, meaning that the temperature there occasionally feels cooler than the inside of a pizza oven.

Here's the thing, though: I'm just itching to make stuff these days. I want to sew and dip candles and saponify fats and make jam and pretend that I'm a pioneer woman, but with yuppie trappings like silk ribbons and essential oils. And air conditioning. While sipping a mojito with a pretty straw.

And my parents are the two cleanest people in the universe. My dad has been known to say, only half-jokingly, "I don't think she was being so unreasonable," while watching Mommie Dearest (referring, of course, to the obsessive cleaning, and NOT the beatings). If you leave a glass with a trace amount of liquid in it on a table, my mother will make it disappear in 15 seconds flat. These are not people who would appreciate loose threads flying all over their living room, and hot molten soap getting baked into their shiny new stovetop (and elsewhere, as the level of mojito within the glass falls). The whole benefit of having a daughter old enough to sprout her own gray hairs is that they are free to live in a spotless sanctuary.

So far, they've been very tolerant--even encouraging--of my sewing. They are very nice people. So, I'm wondering, mom and dad...if I promise to clean up...AND bring the rum...AND bring my own equipment so that I don't have to soil your flatware or bowls or anything, may I please whip shea butter in your kitchen?