The needle saves the day. And my sanity.

Sigh. 

That’s it. I’m done. Socks have defeated me. I’ve cast on, ripped back, reknit, reimagined—and still, they mock me. Ladders, gaps, twisted stitches, toes that look like turnips. I’ve tried every trick, every tutorial, every whispered promise of ‘easy’ patterns. And for what? A pile of yarn that once held hope and now just holds disappointment. 

I give up. I quit. Socks are not my thing. Time to walk away, thread a needle, and stitch something that doesn’t unravel my spirit. 

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So yesterday after work, determined to do something that wouldn’t destroy my crafty soul, I pulled out my neglected Christmas ornament box and threaded a needle. Yay! The colours greeted me like old friends—reds, golds, soft greens—and as I stitched, something shifted. Each piece fell gently and delightfully into place, the thread gliding through like it remembered the rhythm. I felt better. Not fixed, not triumphant—just better. Finally, I was back to something easy, joyful, and kind to my spirit. A project that doesn’t fight me. A reminder that creativity can still feel good.

It’s just in the nick of time, really. These ornaments need to be finished, wrapped, and whisked off in the post before the calendar turns over. I’ve got a very festive deadline. The kind that involves the quiet hope that someone will open a package and smile. So yes, I’m back to stitching with purpose. Sending love with every stitch. And it feels good. Like I’ve rejoined the rhythm of the season, just in time to make it matter.

Turns out, I had more finished than I thought—which was a relief. They’re reasonably quick to make too, which helps. And with two whole days off work—today and tomorrow—I’ve got a window. Between the chores and the grocery run, guess where you’ll find me? Needle in hand, ornaments in a cheerful pile, stitching away. If all goes well, I’ll have them all completed and the internationals in the post by tomorrow afternoon. That’s the plan. And unlike socks, it feels doable.

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A New Recipe… Well, Sort Of

I’m claiming this as this month’s recipe share, even if it’s more of a method than a recipe. In Britain, I grew up with canned corned beef. It wasn’t an everyday staple, but in summer it made a quick meal—sliced cold with salad. Later, in my own kitchen, it popped up now and then in the same way or transformed into a hearty corned beef hash during the winter months. Cheap, easy, comforting.

Then came a holiday to New Zealand—and a revelation. Real corned beef. Not the tinned stuff, but proper cuts of meat soaked in salt and spices: corned silverside. Back on the Isle of Man, I hunted down recipes to make my own, since the local butchers and supermarkets didn’t stock it. But now, living in New Zealand, it’s readily available. No need to brine my own—I just pop a piece into the slow cooker and let it do its thing.

Some folks boil theirs. Most here add a generous spoonful of golden syrup. I prefer black pepper and chilli—and so does Tony, of course. My usual method involves slow cooking the beef in water with peppercorns, whole chilli, and garlic cloves. But recently, I tried something different. No water.

Here’s how it goes: rinse your piece of corned beef and rub it all over with seasoning. I used crushed garlic and plenty of freshly ground black pepper. Then wrap it tightly in layers of kitchen paper, followed by a snug foil coat. Pop it into your slow cooker—no water, remember—and let it cook low and slow. Mine went in at 6am before work and had a full ten hours to transform.

When I lifted it out, still wrapped in its foil parcel, the bowl of the slow cooker was still dry and inside the foil the paper had mostly managed to contain the juices. And the meat? Falling apart. Tender, flavourful, utterly delicious. Tony declared the experiment a triumph and insists that all future corned beef will be cooked this way.

Photograph? No chance. We ate it all. LOL.

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The sock yarn? Oh, it’s still here. I haven’t banished it—just… paused. They’re such pretty yarns, full of colour and possibility, and I do love them. I might go hunting for a pattern that suits them better, something that doesn’t fight me quite so hard. But for now, they’ll be tucked away in Gran’s cupboard, the one that lives beside my quilting frame. (Something else that is sat, neglected while I attempted to wrangle a sock). A soft retreat, not a rejection. Maybe one day they’ll come out and become something beautiful. Maybe even socks. Or maybe something else entirely. Who knows? For now, they wait—quiet, patient, full of potential.

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