On Sunday I polished several pairs of boots. Given the extraordinary length of time that I keep most of my clothes, I have to take good care of them. Despite my love of well-made clothes and Fluevog shoes, I HATE to spend money on stuff to wear (I’d rather travel, even if naked). It helps to keep things a long time so the prices amortize out.

For example: one of the pairs of shoes I polished was my Doc Martens. I bought them in early 1991 at Hanig’s Slipper Box at the corner of Clark & Diversey in Chicago, so they are old enough to drive, vote, and join the Army but not quite old enough to drink. I was horrified at the time to spend $110 on a pair of shoes, but I still wear them regularly. I need to get them re-soled.

Polishing shoes always reminds me of my father. He’s the one who taught me how to do it. When I was very little he would polish his shoes regularly, usually on a Saturday afternoon. He even had a little electric shoe-buffer in his room for quick touch-ups: one side was furry red and the other furry blue, like puppets from Sesame Street. The toggle switch made a satisfying click, and the hum of the motor was a sound I particularly liked, as I did the puff of cold air from the spinning buffers, smelling of shoe polish.

He had two wooden boxes full of shoe-shine supplies. On each there was an angled shoe stand on the top that also served as a carrying handle. Would I LOVE to get my hands on one of those! They were filled with nice-smelling, smudged cloths, stiff brushes, tins and bottles. I had to remember carefully which brush was the suede brush, because it was never to be used on polished shoes.

He would set out all the shoes in a line, on top of newspaper, laces removed, and move across, black to brown to cordovan. (Cordovan leather is so beautiful, don’t you think?) First the tack-room-scented saddle soap to clean any dirty shoes, a damp cloth to rinse the soap away. Then he would open the polish cans – I liked when he would let me twist the little metal catch to make the top pop open (almost as fun as when Grandmom would let me open a sardine tin, with a little key that held a flap of aluminum – turn the key around and around, and a little line would open across the top of the tin). He would pat the little round, stiff brushes on the sharp-smelling cake of polish and brush the polish on in circles, toe to heel and around again, until all the shoes were dull.

Then the brushes – first a very stiff one, then the soft brush. Up and forward quickly over the top of the shoe, then down and back, thuck and shush, around the shoe, changing the angle often so there were never any brush marks in the polish, just a clean and shiny shoe.

Those were always quiet times, sitting with my Dadda while he polished his shoes. So it’s a cozy, pleasant chore to me. I have been missing him very much lately, so it was good to sit with this memory, good to take care of my self while I took care of my things.

This was my Christmas present from my mother:

Tiny pie!

This is just the sort of present I love: slightly ridiculous and very wonderful, and something I would NEVER buy for myself.

I wish I’d made them while my mom and sister were here – especially given that when we went to the store to get the New Year’s ham, Mama turned around and went back when I realized I hadn’t bought pie crust.

(I am a good cook. I have made many complicated and delicious things. I am made very nervous by pie crust and biscuits. [The key is practice.])

But I had it in my mind that the tiny pies were not QUITE so tiny, that they were the size of large pot pies. No:

My hands are not very big! (I wear a 7 1/4 size glove!) (Also you can see that I often don’t wear my wedding ring when I’m at home. Saucy!)

Once I opened it up and saw how small they are, I had to squeak.

Now. I am not much of a dessert eater. Not too long ago, Dingo asked me what my favorite dessert is, and I said, “Another glass of wine.”  So my plan for Tiny Pies is to make them stuffed full of savory things. Preferably vegetables, as one cannot eat too many veg.

For this experiment, I thawed out some beef stew:

That is one batch of Pillsbury pie crust. I re-rolled the leftovers and got six bottoms out of one sheet. Frugal! The directions say to use puff pastry for the tops and not pie crust. I  did it, but I’m skeptical and will experiment and report back.

It took about 3 minutes:

Aren’t they beautiful? They are by far the prettiest pies I’ve ever made.

Here’s the inside:

Kind of blown out (as usual: clearly I need to lean to modify the flash on my camera), but YUM. Totally delicious!

NOTE:

I call this Heretical Beef Stew. Late in the summer, I was up in the guest room puttering around in my craft supplies when the doorbell rang. After much running up and down the stairs and in and out the door, Dingo Dingo ended up with A Giant Box of Beef. Part of the Giant Box was a  big pile of bacon-wrapped filet mignons.

I think filet mignon is stupid. It’s mushy and too thick to easily cook to proper medium rare. And bacon wrapped! Geez louise! You want the bacon to be done enough to not be greasy rubber but still have the steaks not be overcooked. Who needs that kind of trouble? I took the bacon off, chopped up the filet, and used them both to make beef stew. Tremendous. But heretical.

I’m trying a new thing this year: instead of large, vague sorts of goals, I’m making two each month: one writing, one not.

My January not-writing goal was to reorganize the coat closet, which I did this afternoon. !!!

I received a bunch of Fiesta ware for Christmas, which prompted me to reorganize the entire kitchen on New Year’s Eve. I had to give Dingo a tour so he’d be able to find anything. From there I moved on to the linen closet, my bedside table, the table on “my” side of the sofa, and my bathroom cabinet. Now that I’ve done the coat closet,  the only big organization job is the guest room, where all my craft supplies and books live. My stepdaughter and I did a superficial reorg up there … er, last year? The year before? Anyhow, being superficial, it didn’t take. That job will not be completed in one weekend afternoon, for sure.

I like to end and begin the calendar year with things clean and tidy: it sets a good tone. In that spirit, all the laundry is done, the cat box is clean, I am clean, the sheets have been changed, and I sharpened all the knives. I am Prepared. For something, anyhow.

If only I could keep it up.

Last year I had two goals:

1. Write more. I did this.

2. Channel Dad and do things as soon as I notice they need to be done, without waiting. I fell of this wagon quickly, but it crops up in my head now and again, so there’s a chance this habit will eventually get ingrained