Falling into Fall

Wait, huh? September 3rd? Did you see that thing go by? What was it, anyway? A bird? A plane?

And so another summer appears to have drawn to a close. An utterly beautiful, whirlwind summer of family visitors, splashing in ponds, sailing in the ocean, pulling sweet-smelling things out of the oven, taking deep breaths and repeating, again and again, "It is just... so beautiful here." Few gifts are as precious as a full Maine summer.

My lovely little dogwood bloomed for me again. My cakes rose, my granola turned crispy and brown. The strawberries were succulent, peaches smaller but sweeter, the entire kale crop devoured overnight by a mysterious garden visitor. The tomatoes have never been more abundant or flavorful - these, along with the jalapeño plants, are the only ones that really enjoyed the hot dry weather.

Now, pitchfork after pitchfork of goat manure is being mixed into the soil in preparation for another long winter's nap. They say it's going to be a cold, wet one this year.

In August, I took a hard look at my calendar and realized that I needed to back away from my baking job. It was utterly sad on so many levels, but my grown-up self knew it needed to be done. I need baking to be my avocation, not my vocation. I wasn't doing anyone a service by drifting in and out of the kitchen, forcing their schedule to bend to my ever-tightening one.

They quickly absorbed my departure and hired two new bakers. The world goes on. But it was one of the best things I've ever done, and I am forever grateful to Cathy for saying "yes" to my improbable request, and for giving me a chance to try something new. We should all be so lucky.

And now, I'm taking a deep breath and preparing to dive under the giant wave that is fall. In one week, I travel to Cleveland to shoot the next season of Knitting Daily TV (pardon the annoying pop-up - their site, not mine). And in two weeks? Iceland. I can barely believe it.

From there, more and more awaits. Big things, woolly things, meaningful and vulnerable wordy things, all pulling us forward to the future.

Shall we dive?

Wanderlust

Last year at this time I was packing for Knit Nation - a week in London, comfortable shoes, a new camera, and an insatiable appetite to devour every moment of my precious time in that city.

Maine is at its most glorious right now. Stunning. The air almost knocks you over, so rich and thick and sweet is its fragrance. We've waited all year for this.

Yet in my fickle mind I'm back in London, taking pictures of wisteria-covered windows I wish were mine...

And people going about their daily lives, unaware...

I'm sipping a short cappuccino at Monmouth...

And I'm still enchanted by this little orange car that I spotted in a Notting Hill restaurant window.

You know how you can be in a room full of people and feel utterly alone? For me, that's how wanderlust works. It usually hits when I'm at my happiest and most settled, surrounded by the kind of beauty that is Maine in July. 

Does that ever happen to you? And where would you go? 

Seeking Stability

Your comments about lessons learned were so beautiful and inspiring. I am honored to think that such good people come here - voluntarily, no less - to read my own mutterings. Thank you.

I went to TNNA, that big trade show for fiber folks, and returned as I always do: inspired yet somewhat muddled. It's a challenge to be someplace where everyone's radio frequencies are turned up so high. I can't help but pick up lots of static where I'm used to getting a strong, clear signal all my own.  It's as if I came back with about six heads sticking out of my own. Removing them feels like thinning seedlings from the garden, but it must be done.

I've planted too many ideas for the future, and they simply cannot all grow in the space allotted to them. I always wish I could ask a neighbor to come over and thin my seedlings for me. Right now I rather wish some wise person could stare at the mess in my brain, say, "That one, that one, and that one," pluck out the rest and toss them on the compost pile before I can protest. Of course that's the absolute worst way to make decisions, so I'll continue to muddle my way through and trust rightness to prevail. Self-doubt is a mighty foe.

In the meantime, the strawberries are already done. How did July get here so quickly? I picked the last harvest and am making some ice cream for family that arrives this evening. It's always grounding to be around kids. You're too busy making fart noises and grabbing fragile things out of small, swift-moving hands to dwell on bigger questions like, "What should I do with my life?"

Plus I no longer need to dwell on that particular question, because the answer has come to me in the form of STABILIZED WHIPPED CREAM. I'm not a huge fan of regular buttercream frosting. It's always too thick and goopy and buttery for summer. Even for me, it's just too much butter. But whenever I try to do a simple whipped cream concoction, it always goes runny on me.

Well, my friends, professional bakeries have a trick. If you didn't know already, they stabilize their whipped cream with gelatin. I experimented a few days ago and am in love.

Dissolve 1 teaspoon of gelatin in about 4 teaspoons of water, let it sit until it gets goopy, then heat it on the stove just until dissolved. Whip 1 cup of cream like you normally would, but just as the cream starts to thicken, drizzle the cooled gelatin into the cream. If you're really gluttonous, add a dollop of lemon curd.

With stabilized whipped cream you can do things like this, and it won't instantly topple:

I was so fascinated the process that I over-whipped the cream (you can see it's a little globby) but HOLY COW, between the extra texture and the lemon curd I was ready to bathe in this thing.

I think I'll set aside some strawberries and try pureeing them and folding them into some stabilized whipped cream. Ohhh, maybe alternate lemon and strawberry creams in a trifle? Oy, my arteries are hardening just imagining the possibilities.

What about you? Were you hit by the horrible storms earlier this week? Is your power back on? What's on your stove, in your oven, or chilling in the fridge? And how do you thin your own mental garden? Please, I'd love to know.

Lessons Learned?

It's a chilly Monday morning and June is already half over. Am I the only one feeling sideswiped by the speeding-up of time? I long for the days when I was 12 and summer vacation lasted f-o-r-e-v-e-r. Actually, no. You couldn't pay me to go back to life when I was 12. Except maybe for a day, just so I could take back all the power I'd handed over to undeserving people.

Lately I've been trying to view my life through a lens of "lessons learned." Pausing mid-stream, looking around at where I am, and asking myself what I've learned from this experience, or what I may be in the process of learning. Sometimes there's an answer, sometimes just a blank cartoon bubble and that frustratingly aimless feeling.

Already I can tell you I've learned a lot from my days off as an impostor-baker. I've learned how to make granola - a really, really good granola that gets me out of bed every morning - which has, in turn, taught me that I actually like granola.

I got to be on TV and share my buttermilk drop biscuits, where I learned that if your pre-measured baking powder sticks to its little cup, just pretend it didn't and keep going. Well, I also learned - re-learned, let's say - the importance of laughing at myself and moving on.

I've learned that it's one thing to serve beautiful baked things to friends and family at home, quite another to serve them to customers at a coffee shop. At home, I can coerce people into eating and enjoying what I make. They can claim, "Oh that's too pretty to eat," to which I can reply, "I know! And I'm cutting you a piece right now. Dig in!"

But at the coffee shop I have to watch people pass these things by, enviously declaring them "too pretty to eat." As if we weren't worthy of beauty. I can't protest, cut a slice, and shove it in their face. By the end of the week, I end up dumping my masterpiece in the compost bucket. People seem more comfortable with slightly sloppy sweets, the irregular cookie, the simple cupcake, and I've adjusted my menu accordingly.

I've had a lot of firsts already. I've cooked with rhubarb, made quiche and blanched almonds and whipped egg yolks into a frosting that was so good, I literally had to ask one of the staff to dispose of the leftovers. I've enjoyed the company of young people who are still gazing into the world with fresh, optimistic eyes. And I was called "chef" by a man who'd worked at a restaurant I reviewed in San Francisco 20 years ago. He gave me his resume. I nearly imploded from mortification.

The pretty stuff? I'm already looking forward to releasing all that pent-up creative energy on family when they all visit next month. They'll be hit with so much pretty they won't know what to do. "Worldwide Gluten Usage Quadruples," the headlines will read. "Sources cite Maine baker as cause."

What have gone over well are the Claramels. I love making them - I especially love the luxury of being able to wander over to the giant shiny La Marzocco machine, previously off-limits to me as a customer, and pour my own steaming shots of espresso. I love hearing people come in and ask if the Claramels are ready yet.

How refreshing to communicate with people in a primal, nonverbal way. Don't get me wrong, I'm a writer, I love words. But I also love seeing someone take a bite, pause, close her eyes, and go somewhere you can't possibly lead with words alone.

And the book? Weirdly enough, the very day I asked myself what I was learning from the writing process was the the day I finished the manuscript.

It's still a teenager barely out of high school. Much work remains. This is the Knitter's Book of Clara*, by far the most meaningful and personal thing I've done to date. I'm proud of it and terrified at the same time. I've made something that's very real in my mind, but just a handful of trusted people have even seen it or reacted to it yet. The road is still long. I don't even know what the book will look like or when it will be published, and lord knows I have no idea if you'll like it or not. I so hope you will.

For now, it's in the best possible hands, so I'll try to let go and keep moving forward. I'm noodling on something big and exciting to do with wool, which I hope to be able to announce in the coming months. With it? I imagine a slew of lessons ahead, just waiting to be learned.



What about you? Has life taught you any lessons lately?

*No that's not the real title