Don’t look for me selling wares at any craft bazaars this season. I have trouble making golden brown toast.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the urge to create. Many people snap into a crafting mood before Christmas. My latest whim is making candles. Did I take a class? No. Did I buy a how-to book? No. I am as stubborn as a 2-year-old who wants to put on her own socks.
I decided I would build beautiful candle gifts designed off the top of my little brain. Let’s just say no one has asked me to be their phone-a-friend on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" I don’t have any homemade gifts ready for anyone yet. I’m having a little trouble getting a workable prototype. My craft project has been sent back to the drawing board so many times I’ve worn a hole in the wood.
Here is how I operate: My husband, Chuck, can’t come to bed because I have a tablecloth covering the bedspread. I surround myself with old candles, matches, pliers, empty tuna cans and scissors. The cats curl on the remaining teensy bit of space to watch Mom master the flame while we watch "Survivor." For my first attempt at candle making, I used empty plastic water bottles as molds.
Slowly melting wax over a regular candle flame, I mixed and poured my potion into empty bottles. The only professional equipment I purchased was a spool of candle wick. By using old wax from other mostly burned candles, my first works were from what I described as my dark period. I ended up with a bunch of ugly black stumps.
Chuck urged me to take a candle-making class, but he is out of work and we are being thrifty. I found a big tub of crayons buried in a closet. Crayons, wax, crayons, wax. I began adding crayon wax to my old candles to create colorful globs. I entered my artistic free-form era and plopped hot wax inside crumpled tin foil forms.
Chuck picked up one of the wrinkled balls — I called them candleblobbras — that came out of the foil and asked how I was going to finish it.
Couldn’t he just go watch a football game or something?
Besides figuring I could make a killing selling candles, my mind clicked on another financial idea. I dug through the couple of hundred Crayolas but didn’t find one "Flesh" or "Indian Red." Crayola discontinued those colors years ago, and I thought if I found nondiversity models, they might be worth a couple of bucks. My daughter, Kati, said they always used up the flesh color.
By the way, Kati came over to the house, looked at my candle-making arrangement and asked if I wanted her to show me how to make candles. I hate to be pitied.
In memory of my children’s drawings from 20 years ago, I made them each a candle with melted, layered, crayons. There was a slight problem: They didn’t melt.
What’s up with that crummy crayon wax not melting? I probably used too many crayons trying to get a good color. Chuck encouraged me to buy some real wax, and I admitted he had a point. I bought a slab with a 40 percent off coupon from Michael’s in Everett. Some of my candles made from real wax actually flame. What a concept.
Experimenting with different molds, I tried an empty pudding cup, but it melted when I poured in the hot wax. Empty gelatin cups made a nice little candle that didn’t fold like a lily. On a roll with my slight success, my friend Stephanie brought me a treat — a Baskin-Robbins ice cream sundae. Forget the ice cream. I spied the lid on the container.
After a quick rinse, I filled the lid. When it cooled, the candle popped right out. It read "31" on the top, the Baskin-Robbins logo, so I will probably be sued. On a corporate hunt, a yogurt shop gave me a couple of plastic lids. The sundae cup at McDonald’s made a cute style. I needed to go to Dairy Queen because I heard they had a tall lid on their to-go ice cream. Hold the hot fudge, just give me the lid.
Lucky friends and family may still receive a Kandle by Kristi at Khristmas. When I solve nagging problems, like layers of wax falling apart when I unmold, candles that drip down the table and gruesome colors, I’ll wrap up your burnable presents.
Next, I might weave rugs from old neckties. Any 2-year-old could figure that out.
Kristi O’Harran’s column appears Tuesdays and Fridays. If you have an idea for her, call 425-339-3451 or e-mail oharran@heraldnet.com.
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