Christmas Crafting

I got toys for Christmas!  It was strange to wake up Christmas morning and know that I wasn't going to see the family, but cell phones and video chat are magical things.  It was great to talk to everyone as they unwrapped presents and went to various holiday gatherings.  And me?  I was wearing new Christmas PJs, drinking coffee with egg nog, eating bacon, and enjoying a lazy quiet morning - playing with my new toys as enthusiastically as my nephew!  I got the most wonderful set of needles, and a new yarn swift (contraption pictured below, aids in the winding of balls from skeins of yarn), and new yarn, as well!

The yarn acquired previously, check the beautiful needles!

Lace always looks a jumble until you block it out...

Blocking is a feat of magic!

A birthday scarf for the almost-birthday girl!

For Daddo.

Daddo was unimpressed with my glee over the new knitting gadgetry - you'd think he'd have a greater appreciation for the implements needed to make his Christmas scarf.  Apparently not.  These babies were also under the tree with my name on them, and they're going to work a treat at the office - who can't hear you now?  That would be me - I tested them today at home, with the world's loudest dishwasher silenced for the gentle tones of Kate Rusby while I worked on the couch.  It was wondrous.  I'm a very lucky and spoiled girl.

Lessons in Food

There was a farmers' market in Boston - it was an hour's T ride away, and many of the vendors expected bulk purchases.  One girl does not need 5 lbs. of potatoes.  And oh, the number of potatoes, carrots, onions, and apples.

In my last year in DC a farmers' market opened in my neighborhood - it started at 9:30am, which in DC during August means you're already facing 80 degrees or more.  I did, however, discover garlic scapes:

They grow above the garlic bulb, can be used like tangy green onions, and then there are the blossoms:

If they're dried they last for ages, and you can use the seeds in your cooking, too.  I was very impressed with these discoveries - and after the Garlic Festival here in Gilroy, I have plans for growing my own garlic plant, complete with scapes and blooms!

In California, the farmers' market is a year-round affair.  Annie and I meet each Sunday in the wee hours, bribe her young son into the car, and head over to grab breakfast at a cafe on the same street as the market.  We take turns chasing the 2-year-old around as we make our way down the street.  And each week there's something new to try:

Lemon cucumbers!

Watermelon radishes!

English peas!

Squash blossoms!

The squash blossoms were my experiment in recreation - a favorite restaurant in DC had these on the menu, stuffed with goat cheese, battered and fried.  Annie dared me to recreate it, so I took a deep breath, picked out three promising blossoms, and returned to the Cowgirl Creamery booth for a creamy cheese to stuff inside those orange blooms.

I got home, and did a quick sweep online for suggestions, and that's where I learned that the blossoms I bought were male plants - the female plants are fertilized in order to grow the squash, which, ironically, leaves them with the appearance of male genitalia:

Female squash blossom

I have to say, I think I bested the DC restaurant.  I used a milder cheese that didn't over-power the squash blossoms, and made a beer batter with an English cider from Yorkshire's oldest brewery.

Cheesy Squash Blossoms

1 Tbsp. flour
1/2 Tbsp. corn starch
salt
black pepper w/ lavender (I keep these together in a second pepper mill)

Mix the above together well.  Whisk in cider until batter is both smooth and of the consistency you want (I made mine a little runnier than I probably would next time - it's a learning process).

Gently cram some Cowgirl Creamery Inverness cheese into the squash blossoms, roll them in the batter, and drop them in a hot pan with olive oil.  Cook until batter is golden.  Enjoy with the rest of the cider you didn't need to make the batter.  It's was wonderful.

Served with quinoa, rainbow greens tossed in a mustard vinaigrette, and spaghetti squash.

That's how I roll.

Love: a definition

My knitterly resurgence has brought about a lot of learning moments - challenging projects, the making of yarn, and perhaps the occasional leap without looking.  I've taken on a plethora of knitting projects for other people, and each one has taught me something about the measure of love.

Love, it turns out, can be measured.

Love looks a little like this:

• Five inches of mohair lace, ripped back because I found an error.  Mohair.  (And this project was finished a while ago, and given to it's intended recipient, but seriously - mohair.)
• Grey lace, knit at dusk.
• Two-at-a-time socks, converted to two magic-loop socks.
• 470 yards of laceweight, hand-wound into a ball, with the knowledge that there are three more skeins where that came from, and I still have to figure out this whole life line thing.
• A sweater, when I offered socks, and there's an owl sweater I want to make myself.  Owls!
• Double-pointed needles and complicated instructions, for something I don't know for sure that you'll wear.
• Sheer certainty that another someone will be getting a gift card, because the number of projects on the needles is approaching insanity.

And since there are people reading this who will, come Christmastime, know the lowest point of a project, I'll also add that there is the giddiness that comes with each one:

• Beauty.  And the pride that comes with both the first lace and the first serious repair.
• A delightful fabric, and a lace pattern finally memorized that's become a blues night regular.
• Two new tricks learned at once, and one discarded as less practical.
• The pure joy that comes with knowing I've found the right yarn, the right color, and the right pattern for the recipient, even if the timeline is less clear.  You won't mind if I wrap it still on the needles?
• Appreciation for blind faith in my talents.
• Hope that I've finally picked something that this someone will wear...
• Hope that another someone will like their gift card.

I'm a little stressed with the sudden advent of October, which comes with the knowledge that December isn't really that far away.  I went a whole week without knitting last week, and just think about all that wasted knitting time!  But I've been excited about the prospect of giving these gifts since I conceived of them, and the low points in each project makes each one that much more special at the end.  Each project represents a new lesson learned, and who doesn't love learning new things?

But a swift, ball winder, and set of interchangeable needles are all on my Christmas list.  And perhaps a lace chart magnet reader, since an iPad just for the knitting apps seems excessive. 

The Second First Sweater

My very second knitting project, after a very simple scarf, was a sweater.  I've always been an over-achiever.  However, I had not yet learned that patterns should be altered for the individual, and copious measurements should be made throughout the process.  Instead, I followed the instructions...  and ended up with this:

I apparently had a short-waisted, broad-shouldered, long-armed being in mind.

For years this sweater was stored in with my yarn stash - never worn, just occasionally pulled out to be examined and admired.  From the get-go I was a ridiculously OCD knitter, so my stitches were even, and the fabric wonderful, if I do say so myself.

Finally, after my knitterly re-emergence, with lace, stitch designs, and baby sweaters under my belt, I found myself looking longingly at sweater patterns.  I bookmarked them on the web, I pored through all my knitting books and magazines, and kept coming back to the same pattern over and over.  I loved the drape, the style, and the creative simplicity in the design.  I realized that it needed the same yarn weight I'd used in the ape-human sweater, and I still loved the blue - I could picture the sweater in that blue over a shirt and my favorite jeans.  In this land of above-freezing temperatures, the short sleeves would be a good way to offset the warm wool.

Finally, I was in.  I pulled out the never-worn, much-labored-over First Sweater, and with complete abandon, and growing excitement, painstakingly pulled out the seams.  I discovered that the arms were big enough around to be the torso to a sweater that actually fit me.  What was I thinking all those years ago?  I gleefully pulled out stitches to create loops of yarn hopelessly kinked by all that time spent in knitted form, like this! ------>

So each skein pulled was soaked, squeezed (NOT wrung!), and hung to dry.  Never more than one at a time, because that kind of foresight is just asking too much for a person so thoroughly convinced that she can accomplish this knitting project.  Instead, as each skein dried I wound it into a ball and sat on the couch with my needles and growing swath of sweater.

(If you're wondering, then yes, it took longer this way, because I continually misjudged the speed of my needles and found myself with no more yarn, and a two-day drying process to wait for.)

Finally, however, and in reality, just under two short months later, I cast off the last stitch.  I researched better ways to work in the ends, despite the fact that I decided on a method that took longer than my usual (but looks so much better).  I soaked the sweater and laid it flat to "block" - a process which helps the fabric conform to the shape it needs, and in this case gave me a chance to obsessively measure the folds that defined the look of this pattern.  It took forever to dry, and of course reached a suitable state on a weekday morning.  Despite being in a late heat spell, I raced home from work that evening to sit in a sunny room on the floor, where the still air made the inside of my apartment unusually stuffy.  I sat in a t-shirted, pants-less state, with a cold beer handy to bear the warmth of the wool on my legs as I sewed up the folds and then slowly picked up the collar stitches required to add that final something.  I impatiently created the i-cord loop and attached it with buttons selected in a panic the previous weekend, when I realized that crucial step had been forgotten.  I drank deeply from the fast-warming beer, and smiled even as my face glistened with sweat, because I was done done done, and my second first sweater was everything I thought it would be.

It's really not wool weather yet, though the northern California nights are obligingly cool, and we even had a dreary, not-quite-rainy Sunday, when I could wear my sweater all day long.  I've only suddenly burst out with, "I made this sweater!" to my co-workers.  I even resisted when I found myself wearing it in a yarn shop.  It's ok, because the I-made-this-sweater! song plays in my head the whole time it's on.

That's the same smile my nephew wears when he accomplishes a challenging task.

Buttons without buttonholes were a big win.

Is there a doctor in the house?

Growing up, I didn't know that mac'n'cheese even came in a box.  Momola wouldn't say that she made the cheesy goodness from scratch; there are some people who can do rue, and they make gravy - others, not so much.  Momola would start with a can of cheddar cheese soup and throw in shredded cheese, spices, hamburger or ham or veggies to suit her mood.  Mac'n'cheese was never the same twice, but it was always delicious.

I confess that in grad school I learned to appreciate the pure speed of mac'n'cheese in a box, though after the very first time, I never made it according to the instructions.  Instead, I stole a page from Momola's book, and let whimsy guide my doctoring spirit.  I make Annie's mac'n'cheese with greek yogurt, sour cream, freshly shredded cheese, and additions.  Tonight it was left-over sauteed onions and spicy peppers from last night's fish tacos - an excellent call, if I do say so myself.

So while the rue-bility may have skipped Momola and landed on me (come to my house on Thanksgiving for my gravy skills), I appreciate the lessons my Momola taught me, and on a weeknight in my kitchen, there's a doctor in the house.

A spectator for the destruction.

Today was the first day in a two-day construction project in my house.  They came to poke holes in my walls, through which they could tighten springs attached to metal rods in there, and that this metal rod/spring combo will increase the resilience of the building in case of an earthquake.  So this project is something to welcome.  Except for the hassle.


Thank goodness I don't have any furniture in the front room yet!  I spent the weekend emptying out what had become a catch-all storage closet, moving living room furniture, and convincing that cat that we were moving again.  She was not impressed.  This morning, having transferred all her needs to my bathroom, I shut the door to my bedroom, relieved that at least she could have the run of some familiar territory.  Imagine my surprise when one of the guys on the crew started to open the door to my room - after a quick shout, he explained that they'd mislabeled the floor plan, and that they needed to get in there after all.  I shut the fur in my bathroom, and opened the door to my closet for them - my closet where all my clothes were and nothing had been moved.  A scurried half hour spent shuttling clothes out of the closet, and we were back on track.  I sat down at the dining room table to work, and a little later and turned around to see this:

They weren't kidding about those six-inch holes...

We're going to be able to match that green, right?

Up close - wowsers...

They did patch up all the holes - painting commences tomorrow morning.  And the crew chief had to visit the local hardware store for another can of that paint - good thing I still had the name buried in my email.

Seriously, though, they moved fast, and there's only one layer of plastic on the floor tonight.  The biggest problem today (other than the closet), was that while I was moving clothes, they wrapped the kitchen in plastic and pulled the washer/dryer out to block the fridge.  I hadn't gotten breakfast before they came, and other than snatching my cheddar bunnies out of a cupboard when they went on their coffee break, and snagging a spoonful of peanut butter between phone calls later in the day, I didn't have anything to eat until they left at the end of the day - you've never seen a girl race to the fridge faster than I did when the door closed!

I don't see why you don't keep your clothes here every day.

An evolving relationship with transportation

In college, I drove a Honda Civic too fast, laughing with joy at the freedom my little Mephistopheles (Phil for short) afforded me.

In Boston, having passed Phil on to another young soul, I walked endless miles, and found constant entertainment on the T.  I broke my own rules (never run for public transportation) and learned to plead with my eyes for space in a crowd.

In DC, I learned how miserable and dirty public spaces can be - even if there are bans on food and drink to keep things clean.  I bought a new car, Iphegenia (Genie for short), and learned to view her as guaranteed personal space.

In California, with the sun shining and windows open, having learned the route home that involves the least time stopped at lights, and with the satellite radio tuned to baseball games, my car has become a place of calm and recovery.  A moving meditation, if you will.

Tomorrow, I'd better remember to buy my meditation space some gas.

Mortification is...

Mortification is finding that you only have three dollars in your wallet when your pint cost four and the credit card minimum is ten. Mortification is a busted ATM in the bar. Mortification is the bartender say, "get us back next time!" when you'd pretty much decided that this wasn't going to be a regular spot for you.

Guess I'll be back at least once more.


-- Posted via iPhone.

In which I let down my food-adventuring friends.

The spice of life is garlic, apparently.

Back in February, as we drove north up Hwy 101, Lady and I passed through a particularly pungent province.  Gilroy, California is a self-proclaimed garlic capital of the world, that member of the onion family being a large part of the local farming product.  Even in the chilly damp air of California's "winter" we could smell the garlic in the air.  Lady mentioned that every summer they held a festival celebrating the tangy condiment.  I was in.

You think I'm kidding, but for months I've been sporadically checking the dates, and this past weekend was it.  I popped into Genie (the Prius) and drove south for the annual Gilroy Garlic Festival (32 years and counting).  It was an amazing array of garlic bread, garlic fries, garlic sausage, pasta con garlic pesto, garlic shrimp scampi, garlic pepper steak sandwiches, garlic stuffed mushrooms, garlic calamari, garlic kettle corn, and ...

Garlic. Ice. Cream.

I won't hold you in suspense, I didn't try it.  If you know me, you know I meant to.  I was in such a tizzy about the impending spicy smorgasbord that I skipped breakfast in order to maximize my appetite.  And I was hungry.  I had a garlic sausage with peppers sauteed in garlic for brunch in the sunshine, and it was delicious.  And then I thought about garlic fries... and realized I was stuffed.  OK, ok, I thought, let's wander the vendor stalls, pop into the wine garden, try some local wines, wait for the hunger to return.

I wandered.  The wine garden promised shade, and - was that a breeze?  I was in.  I tried a mediocre champagne, a decent syrah, and then I made a friend, who recognized my final ticket punch and indecision.  He poured a sip of zinfandel and told me to down it so he could pour a sip of the cabernet.  Both were lovely, but I opted for the light and spicy zin, talked about where the grapes were grown, and by the time I left booth had a card and a plan to visit the tasting room in San Jose.  Soon.

I got in line for the garlic ice cream.  It was a long line.  I moved forwards the space of a few people, and my stomach whispered to me, "I'm still stuffed, and it's hot out - overeating in the heat isn't fun.  Or pretty."  Word.

The vendors were the usual faire fare - some interesting, some gaudy, some downright bizarre.  For the record, I don't understand the appeal of flat bottles.  I bought the ceramic garlic grater that I'd seen earlier this summer (at another festival, this time of the Sunset magazine variety) - I tried it this evening and it works a treat.  It ought to, because Giada De Laurentiis says so.  Seriously, go google it.  I listened to the blues rock band, and the country band on the other stage - I love watching people lose themselves in live music.  I picked bulbs of free garlic to fill a small sack, and received instructions on growing garlic myself (oh yes, I'm going to).

Again I got in line for the garlic ice cream - still long.  It was pretty hot out, and by now I was tired of the crush of people, and starting to ponder the longevity of my sunscreen.  I realized that more than garlic ice cream, which my stomach was still not convinced we had room for, I wanted water, and that hat I'd tried on a few rows back, because it looked more whimsical and fun than then hat I'd worn for solar protection.

Contemplating the glory of the spicy bulb, while wearing the hat I came with.  My head is blocking the giant oven shaped like a bulb of garlic.  I'm not entirely sure what the message was meant to be, but it was some big garlic.

I got out of line.  Again.  I bought the hat.  I bought the $3 water.  I headed for the shuttle back to the parking lot.  It was a good day, even without the garlic ice cream.  And if it makes you feel better, I did come away with garlic-roasted pistachios, and they were wonderful.

The new hat.  I'm a fickle girl.

Picture Me

Picture me sitting on my balcony, with a rum drink on the table next to me, with my knitting bag on the floor beside me, and the not-so-quiet sound of a train passing by.  That's how I spend my time immediately after coming home on a stressful day.  I can do this, because even if the temperature gets into the 80s during the day, it's not humid here, so the balcony isn't too hot to enjoy.  On the flipside, if I want to sit on the balcony in the morning, socks and a wool sweater are involved, but since I've resumed my knitting career, both of those are going to be replenishing resources.

Why is this peaceful spot so clutch?  I thought this week would be downright quiet when I went to organize myself Monday morning.  Note to self, the Universe likes to laugh at people who think they have things under control.  Let's all try to keep that in mind for the future, shall we?

Is the week over yet?

It's already tomorrow for most of the folks who will read this - I left the office after 9pm tonight.  I did sojourn out for dinner with an out-of-town colleague, but still.  I have to be back at the office by 8am for a conference call with the east coast.  So I've come into the house, bypassed the turning on of lights in the living room, and am sitting on the couch in the dark, making one last spin through email and internets before collapsing into sleep.  I'm already thinking about the special coffee I intend to stop for on the way to the office tomorrow...

Pleased as punch!

It worked!  I enter this last day of the holiday weekend extremely satisfied.  I have been extremely busy, but the end results will keep me happy for a long time to come.  See what I mean?

Dear Ikea, I would like to amend all previous curses - you are not the most ridiculous do-it-yourself furniture in the world.  That honor goes to World Market.  I apologize for the slander, and will in future only curse you when you do not succeed in drilling holes of the proper length (I was absolutely correct in my curses that day). 

Note to self, apartment fire extinguishers are a must.

That's the only corner of the balcony that gets sun, and only for 3 hours in the morning during the summer months.

 Lest you think I'd only succeeded in creating a giant pile of cardboard in my living room, I spent time on my other weekend goal, as well:

You have no idea, do you?

It's a pair of socks!  Or it will be one day soon.  Do you see that?  (I hear Daddo saying, 'no, what is she talking about?')  And unless you really zoom in on the text above the chart, you won't see it.  It says "right chart" - or something like that.  Yes, indeed, not only am I knitting socks from the toe up for the first time (and that took some figuring out), I'm knitting socks toe up two at a time for the first time (again, a thinking job).  And it's worse than that, because not only am I knitting lace socks toe up two at a time, I'm knitting lace socks with a mirror pattern (different on left and right socks) toe up two at a time.  No simple stitch repetition lace for me, no sir.  I never was one for baby steps - or even a logical progression of complexity, apparently.  I'd curse myself and my own ambition, if I weren't so absolutely charmed with this:

Seriously, how wonderful is that?

I'm only five rows into the lace pattern, so it doesn't show up, yet, but it will.  The shade of purple convinced me by the time I'd finished (successfully) casting on the first toe that these babies were headed to my grandmother, who will wear purple every day till the end of time, just because she can.  So my plan to take a breather from all the baby knitting in order to make something for myself is a bust, but I'm tempted to wear flip-flops every day of the week here, anyway.

I know the cure...

I'm a little bit homesick lately.  Not for the humidity of DC - perish the thought!  But I miss having my folks and brothers so close.  On a long weekend I'd invite myself over to their house, make Bubba marinate some flank steak and open the good wine, and curl up in a giant chair and bask in their A/C.  Lady and I might venture out on a shopping excursion or disgust Bubba with some sort of glutinous t.v. marathon.  It was pretty wonderful.

With my friends out of town for the weekend, I find myself facing a three-day weekend on my lonesome.  And lonesome is an apt description.  I'm going through a little lonely spell, anyway, without friends who are free to join me for blues night, or grab a spontaneous drink.  So I've delved back into knitting, which I'd gotten back into last winter, but now I think I qualify as somewhat obsessed.  (Fortunate in timing, since the world is currently breeding.)  I haven't been to blues night lately, but I'm requiring my own attendance this week.

And this weekend?  The prescription is projects.  This morning I made a trip for outdoor furniture, and I'm about to pull the boxes in from the car for construction.  I'm creating a space that I'll actually use on the balcony, and since it stays light here past 8pm, odds are good that it will get used often.  Especially, since I intend to buy a neon orange grill.  Additionally, I'm teaching myself to knit socks from the toe up.  Two at a time.

If these two activities don't keep me content, I don't know what will.

A universal language

Friday was a beautiful day, and I was ... well, a little frazzled from the week.  So I played hooky.  I drove away to explore, and then I put on shorts (gasp! the girl's legs are white!) and took a walk around the neighborhood.  The walk included a stop by a nail salon that I'd gotten a recommendation for, and I sank into that massage chair with a sigh, since it's been entirely too long.  You know it's been too long when the girl looks at your toes and says, "you cut nails yourself?"  Yeah, so ignore the mangled mess.


I pulled out my knitting, which is infinitely preferable to the inane magazines that the woman next to me was analyzing in depth with her daughter.  I'm used to a few odd looks when I pull out knitting in public, but the nail stylist at the chair next to mine was out and out staring.  To the point I was uncomfortable.  To the point I was glad she wasn't doing my nails, she was so distracted.  She said a quiet, "me likey" when our eyes met, but didn't know much English, and that was the extent of the conversation.  Finally she finished the nails of the woman sitting next to me, smiled at me, and disappeared.  I heaved a sigh of relief, and settled into the pampering and the rhythm of the stitches.  A few minutes later, however, she reappeared, with a handful of yarn and a pair of knitting needles.  She came over to stand beside me and look over my shoulder, went away to sit and try a few stitches, and came back with her yarn and a pad of paper, on which I wrote the simple lace pattern I was working, and demonstrated a couple of iterations.  We didn't speak a common language, but we did - I finished the scarf this week, and will be mailing it to its recipient this week.  I'm curious to see if she's started something along those lines next time I go in for a pedicure.  It was a really magic pedicure.

The wispy scarf.

My first lace project.

Things that move...

Not quite a year later, and I find it incredibly ironic that my last post in DC was about an earthquake I didn't feel. In the time since, I've driven myself and that cat across country, to northern California, where I live on a fault line, and have felt quite a few earthquakes in the past four months.

The past year life has moved pretty fast.