Sally Jackson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluebirthdaycakes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
starhuevalley2018-11-26 07:37 pm
bluebirthdaycakes) wrote in starhuevalley2018-11-26 07:37 pm
Entry tags:
oo1 | video
[Well, this has certainly been an interesting morning.
A year. A year, she'd been under the impression that her oldest was somewhere in Greece saving humanity, as usual; then out of the blue, she wakes up in a little farmhouse with her husband and infant daughter and right next door--in what is definitely not somewhere in Greece--is Percy, who at some point sprouted feathers.
It's still not the weirdest day she's ever had, but when your child is not only the son of a god, but of godly royalty, that's not saying very much.
As weird as it is, though, there's nothing she can really do about it. At least there don't seem to be any mercurial deities meddling in everyday affairs--there's something in Percy's face that scares her every time the subject turns to what made him this way, and if from nothing else but that look, she knows that it could be much, much worse.
He's not ready to talk about it yet, so for the moment, Sally puts it from the front of her mind. She can, however, cook, and that's how the network will find her--hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, flour on her nose and a blueberry pie in the oven, smiling warmly.]
I suppose baking my feelings is one of the better ways of coping with them, right? [Her smile goes a little self-deprecating.] In that vein, I'm Sally and I'm taking requests. Pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, meringues, puddings...you name it, I've probably made some version of it, and I could use something to keep my hands busy while my kids are otherwise occupied.
[It's been difficult to get Percy to put Estelle down at all, actually--and, yeah, it's bizarre to see him like this, but he's still her sweet, effusive son under all the feathers.]
I would also love to learn how to spin wool--it's something I've always wanted to do, but I'm from Manhattan, which isn't exactly sheep country. I do, however, knit just about anything, and wouldn't mind an opportunity to channel my crafty impulses. I think there are only so many sweaters a woman can foist on her eighteen-year-old before the embarrassment gets to be too much for him.
A year. A year, she'd been under the impression that her oldest was somewhere in Greece saving humanity, as usual; then out of the blue, she wakes up in a little farmhouse with her husband and infant daughter and right next door--in what is definitely not somewhere in Greece--is Percy, who at some point sprouted feathers.
It's still not the weirdest day she's ever had, but when your child is not only the son of a god, but of godly royalty, that's not saying very much.
As weird as it is, though, there's nothing she can really do about it. At least there don't seem to be any mercurial deities meddling in everyday affairs--there's something in Percy's face that scares her every time the subject turns to what made him this way, and if from nothing else but that look, she knows that it could be much, much worse.
He's not ready to talk about it yet, so for the moment, Sally puts it from the front of her mind. She can, however, cook, and that's how the network will find her--hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, flour on her nose and a blueberry pie in the oven, smiling warmly.]
I suppose baking my feelings is one of the better ways of coping with them, right? [Her smile goes a little self-deprecating.] In that vein, I'm Sally and I'm taking requests. Pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, meringues, puddings...you name it, I've probably made some version of it, and I could use something to keep my hands busy while my kids are otherwise occupied.
[It's been difficult to get Percy to put Estelle down at all, actually--and, yeah, it's bizarre to see him like this, but he's still her sweet, effusive son under all the feathers.]
I would also love to learn how to spin wool--it's something I've always wanted to do, but I'm from Manhattan, which isn't exactly sheep country. I do, however, knit just about anything, and wouldn't mind an opportunity to channel my crafty impulses. I think there are only so many sweaters a woman can foist on her eighteen-year-old before the embarrassment gets to be too much for him.
no subject
I'm not what I would particularly call the talkative type, so I don't mind.
I was... I went from a very sheltered childhood to a very rough "adulthood," I suppose? My grandmother lived somewhere rural enough that most of our food was local, and the cherry trees native to that area were the kind that flowered but didn't bear fruit. I might have been able to try them after I moved to the city, but... keeping myself fed at all was more of a priority. I'm still playing catch-up as far as a lot of food goes.
[ she keeps her tone very carefully unbothered as she speaks; she's not fishing for sympathy as far as that aspect of her circumstances went, and doesn't really want to pull what's otherwise a perfectly lovely conversation onto that topic, anyway. ]
There are a number of fruiting cherry trees here, though, so I doubt you'll have any problems. Someone probably has some saved from last spring's harvest.
As far as the knitting goes— "meditative" is exactly what I'm looking for, so that works well. Though‐ I don't actually have any experience with textiles aside from sewing. When I said weaving, I meant— ah, here, actually—
[ there are a few fumbling noises, the sounds of shifting cloth and footsteps, and then a few more fumbles as she gets the camera turned on. the video feed cuts on to show a table covered with an assortment of blooms and other greenery in an equal variety of different holders: buckets, vases, even a bowl or two. there are a few flower crowns and wreaths on the table, but the camera is focused on an elaborately woven garland clearly meant for the upcoming holidays. ]
no subject
The nurturing part of her wants nothing more than to reach out and pull the young woman into a hug, to feed her something hearty and wrap her in a handknitted sweater, but she remembers enough of Annabeth and Nico and even this new boy--though not so much of a boy anymore, and neither is Percy, and it still makes her chest hurt to look at him and realize how much she's missed--to know that pushing people to open up usually makes them shut down even more.
As much as she wants to, she forces herself not to react any more than blinking away the slight moisture in her eyes.]
They're beautiful. [She manages to bring some warmth to it, a hint of a smile to chase away the pang of sympathetic sorrow.] I couldn't say for sure, but I wouldn't think it'd be too different.
[A pause, then with just a shade of humor:] Then again, you are talking to the woman who can barely crochet a hat strap. Sometimes it's better if the process isn't too similar--it's harder to get confused.