Now that the bee is dead. Papa Jacob has returned to a workplace free of freak out texts from his wife. And Jake and I have returned to our riveting pre-bee-catastrophe routine.

On the porch.

Like so.

 Ingredients:

Neighbor's dog

Tennis ball thoroughly dog-slobbered

Empty laundry basket

Hose nozzle
Mother (optional)

Mix them all together and you have Jake's Idea of a Rockin Good Time

Bee Saga IV.2

I awoke this morning excited that the bees might have settled down enough that the baby and I could venture onto the porch. But, alas, within five minutes of making noise in the kitchen the bee was buzzing outside the window again. Un-be-lievable.

So I called to Jacob who came groggily out of the bedroom. I told him she was back, and I insisted that he kill her immediately.

"I think I'm going to kill her in just my boxers." He said. "For the thrill of it."

By the time he came over to the window, she was gone, and he asked if I was the only one who'd ever seen her... So I spent the rest of breakfast indignantly convincing him that she existed. 

After Jake went down for a nap, we finished our tea on the porch waiting for the attack. The minutes ticked by and the little swarmer didn't show up. The time for Jacob to leave for work was fast approaching (Hollywood hours = 10am start time). He was making polite conversation and enjoying the fact that my eyes darted suspiciously toward anything that moved. I got plenty of lip ("That's a fly, Katie, and that's a bird...") But this bee hated me. And I knew she would come. And she did. 

She flew straight at me. 

Jacob was swatting at her with a dishtowel, and I was running in circles around him convinced she was trying to crawl into my ears. He grabbed my arm and smashed the dishtowel against my head. "I've got her."

Voila. The little dead diva. 

You can even see her stinger coming out...the little *%#*

And did I get any sympathy from my loving husband despite having just been attacked? Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Instead he raised his eyebrows, glanced at my new uniform (matted ponytail and yesterday's almost-running attire) and said, "Well, they emit a sort of pheromone when they die which attracts other bees....So you might want to take a shower."

Hmph.

The best news of the event - which Jacob was sure to point out before leaving for work: the infamous AHB only attack in herds. Never alone.

So we've merely domesticated regular old European Honey Bees with personal vendettas.

Bee Saga IV: Why is AHB a problem?

Yesterday Jacob decided to harvest some honey. I thought this was a lovely idea. It was a lovely day. Honey is lovely.

He came back half an hour later sans honey. He informed me that they were building their comb "weird." He said they were extra aggressive, and that he'd been stung three times through his cowhide gloves. (He reported this as if he were proud of the little buzzers for achieving such a feat.)

These bees have been generally more aggressive than our last hive. After Jacob pokes around in either of the hives, it usually takes them a day or two before the bees completely settle back down. If we go outside on these volatile days it's not unusual to get chased by a rogue scout. So I wouldn't have thought much of this affair except that I later found this tab open on my laptop:

What is AHB you ask?  AHB is apparently the nice way of saying AFRICANIZED Honey Bee...which is the nice way of saying KILLER BEE.

I've never been stung, so as far as I know I'm deathly allergic. And we have a fourteen month old. And he's never been stung, so he's probably deathly allergic too. And Jacob's researching whether or not they're KILLER BEES???? 

Perfect.

Where in Los Angeles County can AHB be found? Thirty feet from my front door. 

All day today one of them has been buzzing outside our windows. The whole front of our apartment is windows, so it's easy to see her.  Wherever we are, she buzzes outside the corresponding window. She's terrorizing us. It's like she's our pet dog that's gone rabid or something. I decided I should probably go kill her since she'd obviously figured us out and the last thing I needed was for her to go back, do her little wing dance, and tell all her sisters where we live.

Let me just interrupt to say: I'm not a scaredy cat when it comes to these things. At all. Remember this post. I thought that picture was funny. On the spectrum of typical female fear of rodents, bugs, and creepy crawlers, I definitely fall under "butch."

So out I went, armed with the cliche magazine ready to end her life. As soon as I got close to her she abandoned her post by the window and hurled herself right at me. I swatted the air a couple times, and then my mission devolved into a tribalish freak out dance as I jetted back inside and slammed the door. Inside my dance continued as I swung my hair around and shrieked, convinced that the bee was stuck in my ponytail. Jake was giggling in his highchair, apparently finding my derangement delightful.

Now that my heart rate has gone down, I can safely say I'm mortified. A royal basket case. I e-mailed Jacob and said I'm not letting him in the house unless he makes me an offering of that bee's carcass.

Sigh.

Worst of all, baby and I are 100% housebound. Jake can't play on the porch at all, and it's making both of us crazy. Even the balance-the-ball-on-the-yoga-mat game can only last so long.

If you want to read more about our beekeeping adventures (from back when we were all friends) you can go here or here or here.

Otherwise I hope you have a happy Monday that is free of vengeful stinging insects.

7 Quick Takes Friday Morning

 - 1 -

Jake in an act of heretofore unprecedented generosity slept until 7:45 this morning.

 
Indeed he was the last one in bed because:

 - 2 -

Jacob and I have been trying to stick to a (not that) heroic wake time of 7am. When we face and conquer the heroic wake time, we get to refer to one another as heroes for the rest of the morning.

 - 3 -

Jacob is fixing his bike right now, so he can start riding it to work. He just asked through the window if I would get the air pump from the closet, the largish closet in our tinyish apartment which smells like a mixture of mold and ammonia with a dash of industrial strength cleaner. And I got it for him. Because I'm a hero. 

 - 4 -

He is using the old pump now and it sounds remarkably like a woman in labor. Raspy inhale, guttural exhale. Weird. Weird weird.

 - 5 -

I'm wearing a neglected shirt this morning. I've been on a laundry strike because it's summer and the machine's been glitchy and, well, it's summer. This neglected shirt has a very wide neck which falls scandalously off one shoulder if I'm not paying attention. Anyhow, I caught a glimpse of myself just now and thought with my blousey shirt and my high ponytail, I resembled something from an old John Hughes movie.

Well. Ok. Not nearly that cool. And can you say haircut time? It's only been _ _ months since my last visit to any type of hair professional. (Lily, my dear little sister, I do love you. But you don't count. And you're in London where you can drink legally, so no one is feeling sorry for you.) and (Pretty effective blackout curtains we got going on in the corner there, huh?)

 - 6 -

Jacob just came in from the porch after finishing his bike tune up. He took one look at me lying on my stomach on the bed typing this and said: "Ah. Mothering. It's tireless, thankless work."

 - 7 -

So now I must go embrace my vocation...who is currently clawing at my ankles.

And you have me to thank for the superior photography exhibited today.

Happy Friday! And go see Jen for more Quick Takes!

Back from Teethingville and Looking for Answers

I'm emerging from the darkness of Jake's nightmare of a teething week to ask for parenting advice.

Last week Jake's teeth made his life and my life hell. His first eight teeth came in without too much fuss, and so I thought we were in the Teething Not So Bad Camp. A little drool. A fussy night or two. Boom. Teeth.

But last week..last week...we had the fever, the rashes, the sleepless nights, the fire-hydrant saliva left in puddles all over the house. I kid you not. I literally slipped Mario Kart-banana-peel-style on one of these drool pools.

For days Jake went off like a switch into a royal tantrum whenever he was slightly provoked, and then I followed suit. He didn't eat; I overate. I banished him to the porch diaperless to air out his rashy tush, and I holed myself up on the couch to find solace in the blogosphere while I parented through the window. 

But we seem to be past it now. And Jake has returned to more typical routines. Like carrying a pillow onto the porch and laying on it. And picking it up. And moving it. And laying on it again.

So now that we're out of sickville and I've stopped letting Jake do whatever he jolly well pleases (like watch Netflix while playing with my iPhone) I find myself thinking a lot about getting on the actual parenting wagon. You know...teaching him stuff. (I'm also thinking a lot about kefir grains, and very impatiently waiting for my sourdough starter to arrive in the mail...but let's be honest, like any of you really come here to read about lacto-fermentation.)

Jacob thinks I'm a softie...and he's probably right. So I want to bring some questions to my mom-readers.  

I would ask my own mother, but she's cagey about these things. She's so elusive whenever I ask her for parenting advice. Once I asked her wisdom because I was worried about royally screwing up my kids. She laughed and replied:

"You don't have to worry about that. You will screw up your kids."

Thanks, mom.

And on top of her always helpful one-liners, she's out of the country with my little sister and a dear family friend, and with the three of them gone, my blog traffic has gone down by 75%.

Oh, yes, the questions:
How do you teach things to a one year old? When will he learn the word 'no'? When will he heed the word 'no'? What battles do you think are worth fighting?

I should probably go to the library and check out a parenting book or something. But instead I will ask you all.

And then google it.

Almond Milk

I know I just posted on my stellar kitchen practices but I felt the need to update you: my sourdough starter has gone flat. 

I'd read to be wary of Day 4. Curse Day 4 when all the life fizzled out of my lovely dough. Now I'm toying with the idea of buying an established starter. I just can't take the emotional roller coaster a second time.

But to cheer myself up, I the Dud Dud Duderson Kitchen Lady, made fresh raw almond milk (from my way overpriced "truly raw" organic almonds.) 

...and it was delicious. So delicious that I'm memorializing it on the family blog: the first ever recipe to be posted on the Log Blog. Food photography? Check.

Super Complicated Raw Almond Milk

1/2 c. raw almonds (soaked in water overnight)

1 1/2 c. water

2-3 dates

1. Put all ingredients in blender and blend (a lot) and then strain. 

I strained it through some cheesecloth (old Ikea curtains). You really have to squeeze it to get the milk out. The thickness of the milk will be affected by how fine the weave of your cloth is. (You could probably also strain it through a mesh strainer but you'd have to press it hard and long to make sure you're extracting all the milk. But you should really go the cheesecloth route. It's way cooler because you get a semi-authentic milking experience and who could pass that up?)

I've now made this twice, so I feel like an expert.

In the end you are left with a slightly sweet almond meal, that I forbid you to throw away, but don't worry. Once I do one more practice run, I'll post a raw cookie recipe and won't you love me then? 

If you have no interest in my culinary meanderings then I shall tell you a story about Jake. Who after playing angelically and independently on the porch yesterday came waddling into the house and brought me two sticks. He handed them to me and smiled, and I about died a happy mother's death. My baby had given me a present.

Well, so I thought. But based on his behavior since then I think he was bartering for something. Something big since sticks are a precious in Jakeland.  Probably an airplane. 

Excuse me while I check on him because he hasn't made a peep in about 5 minutes which means he's probably eating flakes of concrete on the porch.

Update: he's fine. He's holding a stick and waving at an airplane.

On Friday's Post

I published the gushy-I-love-my-husband post yesterday, and I furiously gchatted Jacob to get him to read it. 

Afterwards he told me he was a little self-conscious about it. He said it felt a little like PDA, like making out in public. I told him if it was PDA it was definitely of the appropriate and expected hand-holding variety. He said OK. Then I asked him if he liked it. And he responded.

Also, he came home insisting that I'd exaggerated about his arm length.

Well the indisputable tape of measure confirmed otherwise. The official number from fingertip to finger tip is:

6'10''