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?