This year for thanksgiving, the Jennings clan came up to visit Chez Osborn.
The food was grooood. I learned the following things about hostessing: (1) Having seven people in a tiny apartment at any given time is sort of exhausting. (2) Doing all your meat in the crockpot is a great way to cut out a lot of work when you have other things that need to get done, like say, making the floors not sticky. (3) “Roasting hen” always means chicken, even when you figure it MUST mean turkey. (4) Most people will accept a metaphorical, representative turkey. They only want the cranberry sauce anyway.
It was a whirlwind, but it was great. The fair isle sweaters of doom got to meet for the first time:
And even though mum’s has a good deal more stitches in it than mine, she having made headway out of the border and done twice as much ribbing… it appears that my gauge is a bit bigger than hers. Hm. This is further evidence that I have some sort of weirdly elongated row gauge.
Kirby came to visit as well.
And as glad as I was to see him, I am also glad he is not my dog. He reeeeally likes wool. Which I appreciate, of course, but I’m not so good at sharing with someone whose adventures with fiber leave yarn sort of slimy and irrevocably mangled.
We spent a good chunk of Friday at the Carnegie museum complex place in Pittsburgh, which included natural history and art and anthropology and all sorts of neat things. The only knitwear I found was in the art section, and clueless me managed to get yelled at by not one but two security guards but did not get a picture. It’s okay; I don’t it was handknit.
Instead, I give you a few examples of the impressive taxidermic legacy housed at the museum. There was taxidermy as education, of course:
I give you the “Least Weasel.” It seemed an animal worth emulating, along with a bird we saw called the “Least Bittern.”
There was taxidermy as art – a man (not taxidermied) riding a camel being attacked by two lions. It was violent and quite amazing, through slightly dulled by the big sign next to it, which directed museum goers to the gift shop to get that very same scene in a snow globe!!! …what? Let’s count the levels on which that is wrong…
And hiding in the crevices, there was taxidermy as satire.
I always liked Toucan Sam. But now he’s dead.
I leave you with my own personal addition: taxidermy as meme. Or, more concisely, lolnocerus.