Clara's Window

The desk

2012-01-13T10:40:00.001-05:00

I have a thing about where I write. I'm always seeking the perfect table, the one with just the right surface and height, lighting, view, and surroundings to draw out the muse and inspire her to play. I'm the same way about pens and paper - I like laying out first drafts by hand - and make a ritual of buying a new pen every time I begin a new book.

I realize it's silly, and experience has taught me that I can write in pretty much any conditions. Once you do it for a living, you don't have the luxury of choosing when and where to have your pretty little word tea party.

But I have a particular thing for hotel room desks. They're usually so dreary, so poorly conceived and pathetically placed, that when I find one with the right window and the right surface and a chair that doesn't require at least two pillows to bring me to the proper height, I could stay there all day. It's a blank slate, totally devoid of distraction, and it makes me feel like anything is possible.

Which is why I shall remain happily perched here, 33 floors above the honking bustle of midtown Manhattan, for just a little while longer.

On January 1st

2012-01-02T14:29:00.001-05:00

On New Year's day I was walking in the East Village, just me and the dog walkers, when these trays of still-warm croissants beckoned me from the window of the Mille Feuille bakery. Naturally I went in.

"Good morning!" We exchanged greetings and well wishes for the new year, I paid and took my little white bag (its buttery contents already making dots in the paper). Then the man helping me paused.

"You're our first customer of the new year. Would you like a macaron?" He pointed to an impeccably shiny, tidy case filled with colorful little cookies.

"That is so nice of you," said I. "What's your favorite flavor?"

"Um..." he surveyed the case, "burnt caramel, pass.."

Before the words "passion fruit" left his mouth I nodded, "Burnt caramel! Ooo please!"

He took it out and handed it to me, and his co-worker jabbed his arm, "She needs a passion fruit too. Give her a passion fruit." Which he did.

"Here's to a really good new year for all of us, eh?" I said, raising my macaron in a toast. Smiles and nods, thanks and well-wishes abounded, and out I went into the day and into the new year.

Those guys probably have no idea just how much that simple gesture meant to me, but it did. I'd like to carry that same gentle kindness and civility with me into the new year.

And for the record? The burnt caramel was a really, really good choice.

Something to chew on

2011-12-28T17:59:00.000-05:00

As December draws to a close I still find myself a little low on words. It's been a beautiful month of resting and re-grounding.

It began with the ceremonial stowing of the suitcases after being on the road far too long. Laundry after laundry. Filing, sorting, tidying up my home and making my life mine again.

And then, somewhere mid-sip, I suddenly realized that Christmas was coming. Whoops. No time for nesting or relaxing after all.

Naturally, there had to be Claramels. You may recall I went a little overboard on these last year. But dozens of batches later, I still get just as much pleasure, if not more so, from making these things. There is something deeply satisfying in watching all the raw ingredients amalgamate into something so deep and murky and magical.

Dark-chocolate espresso, with optional tart Montmorency cherries on right.

To me, Claramels are like edible knitting. They give a similar kind of tactile satisfaction - that of taking simple materials and slowly, patiently transforming them into something else. You have to stay quite aware of your surroundings, since you're dealing with 250-degree sugar lava that will, given the opportunity, burn the hell out of your hand.

Your mind can still wander and dream, while the physicality of the work keeps pulling you back into the present. Exactly like knitting, right?

And when it's time to hand-cut that sheet of hardened goo and transform it into hundreds of even little nuggets (each of which gets wrapped in a little square of hand-cut parchment paper), my hidden obsessive-compulsive tendencies joyously spring into action. I may not be able to create order out of the world at large, but I can sure force a tray of candy into submission.

Right about now is when some people smile and gently ask, "You do know that you can buy those at a store? Already made?"

Any knitter will recognize that question. I give the same answer. It's all about self-expression. It's about taking slow, patient, meditative steps that produce even and deeply satisfying results. And at gift-giving season, it's about making something with your own hands that serves as a genuine expression of your love, care, or even simple fondness for someone else.

Only instead of wearing the results of this particular form of self-expression, you get to eat them. How great is that?

Faster and faster

2011-11-12T13:53:00.001-05:00

Ever feel like a passenger in a speeding car? Never stopping, always just passing through - eye darting between map and speedometer, mind already preoccupied with the next town?

I knew life would speed up after the book came out, but I forgot by just how much. There was a trip to New York, then Philadelphia, then San Francisco - fabulous journeys all. In between there have been conversations with bloggers and podcasters and radio personalities where I've tried my best to speak in complete sentences. And along the way I have met so many people - genuinely lovely souls - whose smiles and stories still echo in my mind.

I'm home for just long enough to do laundry, repack, turn another page in my calendar and pet the cat, toss more apples on the compost pile (sigh) and make a quick pit-stop at the dentist and optometrist. Then, vroom vroom, back on the road again. This time to the Finger Lakes region of New York for the 10th annual Knitter's Review Retreat. This marks the icing on an extremely large and beloved cake, and I've been so looking forward to it.

All this travel has given me a lot of time to think. To gaze out of windows and briefly pass through other people's worlds without ever settling in. It can be lonely, but also quite freeing. In her blog Orangette, Molly Wizenberg recently described this sensation as Bonus Time:

"You’re in the plane or the train, and you can see the world outside the window, and you’re hurtling through it, but it’s very far away, impossible to reach. Inside, your movements are limited, but time feels oddly expansive, as though you’re getting an extra minute for every three. You’ve escaped from normal time, and your reward is a chance to just sit and relax, or read, or listen to music, or sleep. Or maybe you’ll have to do some work, but it moves along with less friction than usual, because you’re in Bonus Time, and it’s roomy in there."

I really like that description. Once you've untied the ropes and pushed your little ship away from the dock, there is a peculiar sense of roominess that takes hold. I'll be enjoying more than 22 hours of Bonus Time in the coming week as I travel to and from the KR Retreat. I welcome the travel time to think and dream, process and scheme.

And then? Possibly the prettiest four-letter word ever spoken in the English language: home.

The art of the orchard, and of letting go

2011-10-01T13:15:00.000-04:00

The second apple shipment has arrived, and just in time for the weather to turn grey and rainy and nesty. The colors are pretty close to what I see outside my window now. Lots of trees beginning to turn, other branches already bare, the grass sprinkled with crisp leaves as if someone had emptied out a bag of potato chips on the lawn.

If I learned anything from the last shipment, it was not to judge an apple by its exterior. The prettiest apple of them all turned out to be somewhat disappointing in taste and texture. And the skankiest, most pockmarked runt of them all? Spectacular.

Thus I welcome this new shipment with open arms. All the apples were grown organically. They aren't the beefy Iceberg-lettuce apples we find in our grocery stores. They have spots and lumps and all those things that would naturally happen if we didn't intervene with chemical after chemical. They smell like fall, and carry names like Milden, Red Baron, Sweet Sixteen, and Chestnut.

There's an apple called Red Blaze, which originated from one branch of a tree Francis Fenton had growing on his property in Mercer, Maine. The sample here came from one of the only Red Blaze trees in the world. Apparently if I cut it open I'll see a small red stain by the flower end - hence the name Red Blaze.

Meanwhile, if I cut open the Sweet Sixteen and take a bite, I'm told I'll taste cherry lifesavers and a hint of licorice. [Updated upon sampling: It really does taste like cherry lifesavers and a hint of licorice. Amazing!] Also, the gigantic Wolf River longs to be sliced and dried.

I feel as if I've stumbled upon a parallel apple universe to the wool one that I know and love so well, with each variety bringing such varied results, and with so many being overlooked by the mainstream. Two shipments in and I'm already positively bored by the apple offerings at my grocery store.

What will these become? I'm open to any ideas you may have. I did not succeed in eating every single apple from the last shipment, but I did pretty well. Two batches of applesauce, an apple cake, and a particularly succulent tray of apple and candied pecan caramels that were handed out to sugar-cravers at Vogue Knitting Live in Los Angeles last week.

The apple/caramel connection definitely deserves more exploration. What do you think of drying some of those elephant-sized slices of Wolf River and then drizzling them with caramel, sprinkling them with a hint of fleur de sel, and wrapping each one in wax paper for safekeeping? If I time it right, I can give them away at the NY State Sheep & Wool Festival in Rhinebeck, where I'll be celebrating the launch of my third book. Yes, I think I'd like that.

The process of writing a book, and then having your little Word file become an actual three-dimensional book with a life and presence all its own... it's a surreal experience. Deeply challenging and immensely rewarding, but surreal. This last part, the final few weeks leading up to the release, are like the quiet before the storm. You know you should be doing things. Shooting clever promotional videos. Writing brilliant blog posts. Planning ingenious publicity stunts. Stir the pot! Keep the machine going! Productize on the wordification! Sell sell sell!

You also know that once this book is out there, you are exposed. Something very tender and personal is now up for public display. You knew that going into this, but now it's real. People await in the bushes, slingshots at the ready, eager to point out any and all shortcomings. Without realizing quite what's happened, your work has suddenly become an unwitting contestant on American Idol.

Thus I am savoring this last tender moment my book and I have alone together, just the two of us. As it enters the world, it will become something else. I have to let it go. For its sake, but also for my own so that I, too, can begin to move on.

But the least I can do is give it a proper send-off, make sure it has clean laundry, its cell phone is charged, it has a full tank of gas, all the tires are properly inflated.

"Call me when you get there," I'll say for the umpteenth time, knowing that, even then, the call will be rushed, distant, different.

At the last minute? I'll tuck a bag of homemade Claramels where it'll be discovered, perhaps, during a rest stop on the New York Thruway. In one bite, all the flavors, the depth and nuance and subtlety of layered spice and sweet and chew will come together to express all that I couldn't possibly find a way to say in words.

Going Out on a Limb

2011-09-14T14:52:00.000-04:00

I can't decide on which sentence to begin this post. The two top candidates are a) "Let the games begin!" or b) "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

I've never joined a CSA before. I'm usually never in one place long enough to enjoy it.* That, and whenever I am home I can't even eat all the produce that's sprung up in my own garden.

But this year, I found a CSA too good to pass up. It's called Out on a Limb, and it focuses exclusively on apples, glorious apples, in all sizes and shapes and tastes and textures, from modern graftings to ancient varieties people have been using to keep the ol' doctor away for hundreds of years.

The first pick-up was today, and it'll keep happening every other week until November. I'm so excited I can barely contain myself.

The kind folks at Rabelais Books offered up their space as Temporary Apple Depot, so there I went. All the apples are neatly bagged and labeled in a long row under the store's giant plate-glass window. You simply walk down the row, trick-or-treat style, and pop a bag of each variety into your own, far bigger tote bag. Some of the apple bags are big and heavy, a few are tiny and light with just one or two samples to whet your appetite.

While I was there chatting with Samantha, the bright and devilishly funny owner of Rabelais, people kept streaming in to pick up their bags, and everybody had the same sense of giddiness. Apples! All those apples! One woman had kept her son out of school for the day so he could join his younger sister and mother on their apple-picking expedition. He promptly unearthed the largest apple of their stash - nearly as big as his head - and bit into it. The last I saw of him, he was lying on the floor in a blissful apple stupor with just the core in his hand.

What to do with all these apples? That is the question du jour. They don't send you away clueless. We all received a newsletter - a vast and colorful piece of research and writing - explaining the backgrounds of each apple, the best ways to prepare it, recipes you may want to try, and even introducing you to the people who would be picking your apples over the coming weeks.

But the first order of business: Which one should I try first?

*I already think there may be at least one week when I won't be around to enjoy my shipment. If you're in the PWM area and interested, drop me a line at Clara AT knittersreview DOT com.

2011-08-19T14:20:00.000-04:00

This summer I was lucky enough to travel quite a bit. The opportunities were too fabulous to pass up. The people I met? Fantastic. Every single one. (Except the couple behind me in customs coming back from London. I'm hoping they've found a good divorce lawyer by now.)

But if I had to tell you what my favorite place has been? It'd still be right here at home.

Time Traveling

2011-07-23T10:23:00.000-04:00

What a blur. It feels like just a few weeks ago that I soaked my sweet pea seeds and tapped them into the ground. Yet when I returned from London and Knit Nation earlier this week, I discovered that they were already in full bloom. The peonies are done, the delphiniums are already forming seed pods, and even my hollyhocks, those glorious spikes of rich pink, were on their way out. Even the field is turning gold. What is happening?

Meanwhile my nieces - those wild and fearless young optimists who used to run out into the field barefoot and pluck wildflowers for me - have suddenly become subdued teenagers with far too much on their minds. All too quickly they've been pushed into a tricky world, and it pains me to watch them try to navigate it.

Yesterday we all went swimming in the same large freshwater pond where I learned to swim as a toddler and where my mother swam during summer camp when she was a child. And for a brief moment, as we bobbed around and made silly dives off the float, I felt time transcended. I felt their happy young firefly spirits, and I felt my own, and we were all right there, splashing and laughing together. It was as if an editor had gone in and erased all records of boyfriends and peer pressure and health insurance premiums and that strange noise that just started coming from the front wheel well that could mean a brake job or a leaky ball joint or good lord maybe the whole car is starting to go... Nope, all that was out of the picture.

Soon enough the inevitable "time for dinner!" call came from shore and we reluctantly got out, dried off, and returned to our respective roles as adults and teens. But how reassuring to know all was not actually lost. It was still right there, as if in suspended animation, just waiting for us. Sounds and smells can evoke visceral responses, but nothing beats putting on a dorky bathing suit and splashing around in a pond, reconnecting with the people you love.

13 Years and Counting

2011-06-18T10:37:00.000-04:00

Thirteen years ago last month, my beloved and I left California and headed east to start a new life in Maine. We'd given ourselves a month to get there, stopping along the way to visit people and places that had played important roles in our lives. In Michigan, the destination was Aunt Judy.

Over the decades and with the help of a plan drawn by her father, my Aunt Judy has transformed a flat, windswept plot of construction dirt into a magical garden. Tiny trees planted when her own children were young have become tall, majestic creatures that keep the outside world at bay and reach out to welcome you in. When I think of Frances Hodgson Burnett and her secret garden, I think of Aunt Judy's house.

I still remember opening the car door and being immediately hit with that intoxicating fragrance of earth and plants and life—a Michigan summer in full swing. I remember feeling ecstatic that I was finally moving back to a place whose climate would allow such a garden—and where, I hoped, I would actually have a home in which to create it.

Aunt Judy's garden contained "rooms" of different trees and bushes and plants, following traditional garden design principles. Behind her house was a tall, seemingly impenetrable hedge that concealed a circle of the most beautiful dogwoods I'd ever seen, also in full bloom.

I gasped, "Do you think these would grow in Maine?" She smiled and went back to the house for a trowel.

Two spindly dogwood seedlings rode to Maine with us, packed with their soil in a green paperboard box that'd originally held strawberries. They sat indoors on my only south-facing windowsill for over a year. One seedling survived. I planted it the following year, and it managed to take hold and grow a little more.

Then I moved again, this time to the place I now call home. On a brisk October afternoon I dug a hole for my spindly twig, tucked it in, and said a quiet prayer. For years, I have cosseted this tree, covering it with layers of straw for winter protection, creating a makeshift cage around it during the summer to make sure nobody stepped on it by mistake. I talked to it—I still do. And even now when the wind blows, I worry.

Slowly but surely, my little tree has grown. First a few inches, then a foot, then two, then three. Last year for the first time I noticed a bird sitting on one of its branches. Only one thing has baffled me: This tree has never, ever bloomed.

I tried all sorts of things, and I consulted with Aunt Judy, and we could only declare it a genetic mystery. Mine was a non-blooming dogwood. What was I to expect, considering its humble roots? While I've allowed myself the occasional glance at "normal" dogwoods at the garden store, I love my little non-blooming dogwood dearly and wouldn't have it any other way.

You'll imagine my worry when, last weekend, Clare yelled up from the garden, "Is this what I think it is?"

In the past, this question has meant bad news, like poison ivy, a woodchuck hole, or the beginning of some terrible plant virus. But this time, when I ran outside to see what she was talking about, I was greeted by this:

In the face of fast-fast-fast - the instant gratification, quick-knitting, no-knead, instant-download, replace-it-every-year world we've created - I love that this took 13 years. In the life lesson department, nature always wins.

Step aside

2011-05-14T11:32:00.000-04:00

Remember this? Back in October of last year I cracked each head open, peeled apart the individual cloves, and planted each one deep within a manure-rich soil. Down went a thick bed of hay, and then winter arrived, covering the whole garden with an even thicker blanket of snow that didn't fully melt until a month ago

Guess what happened?

Life.

Nature never ceases to impress me with its powerful desire to live and multiply. This drive is particularly evident in spring, when everything is racing to make up for lost time.

Some plants seem to want nothing more than good soil and a little protection. They don't need fussing, and in fact they get a little flustered if they sense that they're putting you out at all. Show them their room and they'll be fine. Don't bother trying to carry their bags for them, they'll wave your hand away with a "Just tuck me in here, love, I don't need anything else." Garlic is like that.

And then you have those dastardly little weeds, poking their heads through the soil, thumbing their noses at you as they take advantage of an earthy meal you prepared for another guest. Freeloaders.

As I welcome another season, I'm already reminded how much of gardening is a constant dance between detachment and attentiveness. You can never know for sure what the outcome will be, you can only do your best, learn from things that go wrong, and know that you gave it your best shot.

I'm a sucker for a cute face

2011-05-11T10:13:00.000-04:00

The Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival was last weekend. It's an occasion for joyous overwhelm, with tens of thousands of people within one single fairground. Fibers and textures and colors are everywhere. And people. At a certain point, wool blindness takes over and it's simply not possible to see anything clearly anymore. That's when I escape into the sheep barns.

This year I met and fell in love with a certain Lincoln yearling ram. Once his buddies realized I did not come bearing edible gifts, they lost interest. But this guy couldn't get enough love.

As a rule, sheep don't like to be confined in small spaces. They also don't like change, and they certainly don't take great comfort in being suddenly surrounded by crowds of people and other strange sheep. Which is to say that most sheep at these shows are pretty freaked out.

But this guy, for whatever reason, decided I was safe. Even the sweet young redhead responsible for his well-being was a little surprised. "They haven't even been worked with yet," she said, shaking her head. She went off to help her friend in the ring, and I remained.

The more I rubbed his cheek, the more I could feel him relaxing and calming down. So there I stood, rubbing his cheek, feeling those warm puffs of sheep breath on my hand, in what can only be described as a moment. That lasted many moments.

If I'd had room in my suitcase, I promise you I would've taken him home with me. Instead, as it turns out, he's due for a shearing this week. And in a few weeks, a very big box will arrive on my doorstep. Because really, what else could I do?

If you speak it, they will come

2011-05-05T20:30:00.000-04:00

Oh universe, you and your sense of humor.

Within 24 hours of my last optimistic post, the universe responded, "Oh really?" and tested me with a person I already know but whose energy can only be compared to a black hole.

I was struck by how not open I was. Where had the serenity gone? What about that sense of one-ness and the anthill? I felt totally guilty and fraudulent, and I took it as a personal failure.

Then I started to think about boundaries. I think a crucial component of openness is also maintaining one's ability not to be open. If that makes sense.

As true as it is what Lorilee said, how everyone is worth getting to know if only you spend enough time in conversation together to prove it out, with very few exceptions - there will always be those exceptions. As vital as it is to keep trying, it's also important to recognize those people with whom interactions are the equivalent of sitting in a closed garage with the engine running. Such moments, I'm happy to report, are extremely rare. But when they happen, put on your own oxygen mask first.

The pleasure of your company

2011-05-03T21:30:00.003-04:00

Lately I've been deriving particular pleasure from the company of others. Not that I'm normally a misanthrope, but...I do tend to spend a lot of time alone. But for the last few weeks, people - even random strangers with whom I have just a brief encounter - are feeling like gifts to me.

During my 6am SuperShuttle ride to the Minneapolis St. Paul airport, my only other shuttle companion began talking, and talking, and talking, telling me all about her job as an event planner, then about her son's upcoming wedding, about the bride, about the bride's family, about where the wedding will be, where the bachelorette party will be, where the reception will be, who will be catering the reception, the distance from the caterer's to her house...and instead of feeling trapped and resentful, I found myself feeling quite fond of this total stranger who'd popped into my life, and curious about what lesson or experience she might teach me.

Then on my flight I sat next to a large man whose cell phone rang ("Telephone" by Lady Gaga) as we were taxiing for take-off. Normally, between his sprawling into my personal space and the fact that he couldn't even be bothered to turn off his cell phone, I'd retreat to my corner and think grumpy, spiteful thoughts about him for the rest of the flight.

Instead, we began talking. Turns out was going home to Hyderabad, India, after being away for two years. He missed his family, he missed the food and the climate, he could not wait, could not WAIT to get back. We talked about temples and forts and trains, which cities to visit and which to avoid, all the types of mangoes that grow in India, how his very favorite meal of all is chicken biryani. We talked about all the places he'd visited in the U.S. (quite a good list) and how he adored getting in the car and just driving and driving and driving. He may have been homesick for India, but he wasn't letting that stop him from having a grand adventure while he was here.

Despite his bad head cold, which forced him to repeatedly excuse himself to cough into the collar of his jacket, he couldn't stop talking about home. The more he talked, the more excited he got - and the less I understood what he was saying. I asked him about the death of Sai Baba and he told me how baffled he was that any human being should claim to be god. From there, I really couldn't quite hear the words so I just smiled and nodded, figuring what the heck. The plane landed, I wished him luck, and off he went to get a glass of brandy before his 14-hour flight to India.

Such encounters make me feel a little bit better about the world as a whole. There's a lot to feel disheartened about. I see many people - mostly in the public eye - behaving in a way devoid of compassion or empathy and driven primarily by personal greed.

But the world is also populated with people like the ones I've just met, people who are going about their daily lives, holding open doors and saying "thank you," celebrating what (and whom) they love, and trying to make sense of what they don't understand. The small-town Minnesotan event planner and the uprooted Indian IT worker, the Ethiopian shuttle driver who refused to believe his GPS ("Shut up!" he kept telling it as we passed our turn), the smiling hotel clerk who didn't know what or where Maine was, or even me, the traveling yarn minstrel. We may be small ants, but together we make a beautiful hill.

Early Planting

2011-04-27T10:38:00.000-04:00

It looks like the long winter may finally be on its way out. Kicking and screaming, but on its way nonetheless. I'm not sure why this was such a hard one - was it the usual lack of sunshine, or perhaps the endless pummelings of snow, made even more dreary by the constant drone of political craziness and economic doom? That's possible.

Last weekend I headed up to the farmhouse for my annual ritual in optimism: the planting of the sweet peas. I'd never really thought much about sweet peas until a few years ago when Sweet Pea Gardens set up shop just down the road. I tend to pick my flowers based on emotional memory - the petunias planted by the driveway of my childhood home in upstate New York, the wisteria cascading over a stone wall in the French Loire Valley, the intoxicating scent of orange blossoms that marked the arrival of spring in Tucson.

When I finally "grew up" (can we ever make that claim?) and got to create my own garden, my subconscious pushed me toward plants that would evoke those emotional memories. Maine's coastal climate isn't particularly friendly to orange trees, so I've had to look elsewhere for intoxicating fragrance. One winter, Sweet Pea Gardens owner Sue Keating gave a talk and mentioned that our particular climate may be lousy for lots of other plants, but it happened to be particularly perfect for sweet peas.

So I dutifully followed her instructions and planted sweet peas, putting them into the ground the very minute it had thawed, carefully tending them and waiting, waiting, waiting to see what happened. My patience paid off with a spectacular harvest of extraordinarily, delicate and fragrant blooms.

The first year I planted sweet peas was in 2006, the same year I was working on my first book. That summer I set up operations on the porch, working from a heavy old wooden table my great aunt had tucked away in the barn.

Sweet peas need to be picked very day in order to keep them from going to seed, so every morning before sitting down to write, I'd go out into the garden with my old enamel bucket and pick new flowers. The bucket would sit on my table and perfume my every thought for the duration of the day.

The next summer I was once again out on that porch working away on another book that, quite thankfully, got scrapped at the last minute in favor of my wool book -- which kept me out on the porch for another summer of sweet peas. More summers, more peas, more writing, the fruits of which you'll see this fall.

Without realizing it, I've created a rich new emotional memory around sweet peas. I can't imagine a summer without them -- and I can't imagine a bucket of sweet peas without feeling like I should be writing a book. Now that the seeds have been sown, I shall sit back and see what the summer brings.

Still Brewing

2011-04-06T20:12:00.003-04:00

Ever have a conversation with someone, and then a day or two passes, and then suddenly you actually hear what that person said? My friend had said, "I think sometimes we just need to throw something out there to create a distraction and get some space." I believe we were discussing relationships. But I suddenly realized that this is exactly what my subconscious has been doing around work. Throwing up distraction after distraction in a desperate attempt to find an empty room, lock the door, and take a breather.

But distractions do not a life make. Even Old Man Horoscope came knocking today, and he said:

"Your fantasies are important now as long as you don't let them get the upper hand. Dream about the future, but remember that you must live in the present."

Phooey. Does that mean I'll never be named Queen of Norwegia, or given a Nobulitzer Prize for Peaceful Writing? Fine, so be it. No real words of wisdom today, just that half-baked observation.

To make up for it, I offer you this pretty tulip that's been keeping me company all week.

What about you? Full steam ahead, or are you feeling any sort of malaise? Getting enough sleep? Eating your vegetables? Flossing regularly?

Another Window

2011-03-26T21:34:00.002-04:00

I'm still letting things ~~fester~~ rest in the hopes that my mental dough will soften and expand and grow without my constant prodding. Your comments encouraged and inspired and even amazed me. You are a very bright bunch.

While the dough is rising, I have another window to challenge your creative imaginations. Downtown Portland is losing yet another establishment. A real, genuine old-school photography store is closing its doors. First the used bookstore, now the photography store, what next? I hope they leave my beloved International House of Rotary Phones well enough alone.

The space is interesting. It's in the old Mechanics Hall building on Congress, sharing the bottom floor with an equally classic used clothing and consignment shop. To the right, a rather dreary and uninspired example of 1970s urban renewal. Foot traffic is a blend of professional, hipster, and drooler.

For me, the real appeal is the facade -- including that fabulous green sign -- and the deep display windows that run along either side of the entry. Inside is a deep space to house all your delights. The dropped ceiling and fluorescent lights could easily be ripped out and the taller ceiling restored.

For some reason I envision a really cool Japanese bookstore like Kinokuniya in New York City - most notably because of its basement jammed full of amazing Japanese knitting and felting and sewing and otherwise crafty books, plus reams of paper pads and notebooks of every imaginable size, pens, erasers, pencils, desk gadgets, stickers, tapes, staplers, and all those bizarre yet completely charming accessories you simply must have. Paper stores are my Kryptonite.

But that's just me. If I were to hand you a blank check and the world were truly your oyster, what would you put in there?

Letting it Rest

2011-03-22T10:38:00.001-04:00

I'm thinking about metaphors today. Sailing is full of them. Give me some leeway, set your course, show me the ropes, change tacks, go against the tide, give me a wide berth, get stuck in the doldrums, take the wind out of your sails, and, of course, keel over...from being forced to read too many sailing metaphors.

Over the weekend I snagged a copy of Beard On Bread at Rabelais, and I've been reading what James Beard had to say about baking the perfect loaf. It struck me, about three recipes into the book, just how much of bread-baking is about waiting. Not just waiting, but going about the rest of your life while the dough takes care of itself.

You proof the yeast and wait. You add the liquids to the flour and wait. You knead your dough and wait. You punch it down, knead it some more, and wait. And you may even punch it down, knead it some more, shape it, and wait yet again before putting it in a hot oven and, yup, waiting some more. It's an act of engagement, trust, and letting go.

We've created no-knead recipes and bread machines that do the work for us, but there is simply no way to shorten that waiting time. As much as dough needs to be kneaded (sorry, couldn't resist), it simply will not survive if you don't give it enough quiet time to rest, rebuild, and grow.

This morning, I was struck by how much of writing is like bread-baking. You hatch an idea and start kneading. But at a certain point, that idea will need to be left alone. And if you don't, it you just keep kneading and kneading, it'll ultimately die.

I have an idea for my next book, and each morning I take several hours to work on it. But this morning I opened my notebooks and couldn't connect. In a flash, my hands felt the dough from yesterday's bread-baking and I thought, "Let it rest." A collision of mental metaphors, but they did the trick.

Window dressing

2011-03-16T15:14:00.000-04:00

I see I'm not the only one who presses her nose to vacant storefront windows and lets her imagination go wild! OK fellow dreamers, here's another storefront for you.

For years it held a legendary used bookstore, but now it sits vacant. Its neighbors include an avant-garde-nouveau-hip-chic Japanese noodle bar with fancy lighting and uncomfortable chairs. Beyond that, soon to open, is a French bistro that replaces..wait for it...another French bistro that just closed. Parking is rather lousy, but the neighborhood is good, and you'd have a good amount of walk-in traffic from folks who walk to work. (Do people even walk to work anymore? Never mind. This is Claralandia. We get to make our own rules, remember?)

So, what would you put here? In my dreams, it's a greengrocer with fresh produce and flowers up front, tall shelves stocked with jams and jellies, pastes and condiments, staple foods and luxury yuppie foods that make you feel all sassy and worldly when you buy them. (Not to mention poorer.) And in the back, or perhaps along one side, you'd have a small and efficiently organized kitchen from which food-loving people create all your favorite comfort foods, which are then packaged and placed in a cooler so you can pick them up, take them home, heat them up, eat them, and feel like, well, ok, you didn't manage to make a meal for yourself, but you supported someone really good who did. Oh, and did I mention the apothecary jars of Claramels by the register?

How about you? What do you see?

Contingency Plan

2011-03-11T15:38:00.000-05:00

Can I tell you a secret?

I sometimes think about what I'd do if this knitting thing didn't work out. And lately it goes something like this: I'd open my own candy store. Featuring what else but Claramels, of course.

I'd spend my days stirring pot after pot of sweet gooey deliciousness, effortlessly transforming it into perfectly wrapped pieces of happiness that people would come from all corners of the globe to acquire, in copious quantities, with large wads of cash. I'd be in every gourmet grocery store in America. Martha and I would be on a first-name basis. Jacques Pepin would ask, "How on earth did you think to pair molasses with chevre?" I'd smile demurely and hand him another sample.

That's my dream, and I blame it on this Portland storefront. Sure, it may not look like much to you. But in it I see potential. I see freshly polished tile floors, marble counters and glass cabinets and mirrors galore, old-fashioned apothecary jars filled to the brim with fresh confections, and me, humming a tune as I unlock the door early in the morning, flip on the lights, crank up the tunes, and begin my day.

Suddenly I'm a morning person, I'm a brilliant and fearless businesswoman, I have boundless energy and oh, did I mention? Extraordinary management skills. Time, people, money, you name it. I'm a genius.

All I can conclude is that even when you're lucky enough to live your wildest dreams, you still end up dreaming.

Rolling rolling rolling

2011-03-10T09:30:00.003-05:00

Meet my new rolling pin. It is a handcrafted solid-maple work of beauty and I cannot wait...cannot wait I tell you...to put it to use. I want to hug it and squeeze it and name it George.

It comes from Herriott Grace, the Wollmeise of wood-based kitchen objects. (I'm only comfortable spreading the word now that I've secured my own rolling pin. Is that bad?)

Herriott Grace is a father/daughter duo in Canada. They live on opposite ends of the country, often sending packages to one another. A few years ago, the father began carving spoons out of wood. Amazing spoons, the kind that stop conversation and inspire poetry. Well, one day the daughter asked if perhaps he'd be interested in making more spoons for other people. He thought about it and finally said yes, but only if they went to people who really understood the time, care, and skill that he put into making each and every piece. Thus was born Herriott Grace.

He creates beautiful objects out of wood and she, with her exquisite photography and all-around Web retailing know-how, makes sure that these pieces find fittingly appreciative homes.

Site updates occur every few months, competition is capital-f fierce, and the prices reflect the slow, tender, handmade nature of each piece. I've been waiting for my rolling pin for many, many months. Last week it finally happened, I was the lucky one to hit "buy" before anyone else.

After my elation wore off, I got a little embarrassed by my behavior. I mean really people, it's just a rolling pin, right? How could a sanded stick possibly live up to all those expectations I'd built up in my mind? I was prepared for a disappointing but necessary reality check. But when the mailing tube arrived yesterday from Canada and I pulled out my package, lovingly wrapped in layer upon layer of paper and bubble wrap, and held this rolling pin in my hand for the first time, I was speechless. I knew then that this perfect tool and I would make many, many fine pastries together.

If you, too, go weak at the knees in the presence of a well-made spoon or rolling pin or, dare I suggest, cake pedestal, check out Herriott Grace. Join their mailing list or subscribe to their RSS feed, and you'll get a little advanced notice before the next update. Be patient, pay attention, start saving, and know when to be ready.

As for me? I think I have a pie in my future.

The Boulevard of Sunken Cakes

2011-03-06T21:50:00.000-05:00

When life gives you lemons and you make lemonade, only it's actually lemon cake, and the cake emerges from the oven with a deep ravine running down the middle...you eat it anyway.

Every time I make this cake, it starts out beautifully in the oven and then, just when I least expect it, the center takes a nose dive. I put up with the sunken center and ask no questions because it's a delicious cake, especially after you douse it in a dense syrup of lemon juice and sugar right after it comes out of the oven.

But over the years I'll confess that I've developed a bit of a complex about this. Because this particular lemon cake is one of the few cakes I bake in bread pans, I'd pretty much concluded that I carry some type of curse that will forever cause the center to plummet.

The person who gave me this doomed but delicious recipe so long ago happened to be visiting this evening. She heard me lamenting the belly flop and proudly insisted that her versions never did such a terrible thing--feeding my secret neurosis even further. So I pulled out the recipe and showed it to her. I pointed to the part where she wrote "1T baking powder" and "1/2T sugar." Very clearly a capital T, which, as we all know, means tablespoon.

In a voice that suggested I'd been putting rat poison or liquid Drano in my cake all these years, she blurted, "There's no way on earth you'd put a whole tablespoon of baking powder in that cake."

Well folks, mystery solved. Which would also explain the cake's strong salty tang, too. So, on behalf of sunken cakes and neurotic bakers everywhere, I'd like to make a little public service announcement. When writing down recipes for friends, would you please be a doll and remember that capital T means tablespoon, and lower-case t means teaspoon, and to form each letter verrrrrry carefully? Thanks ever so much.

Changing Fishbowls

2011-03-05T19:49:00.008-05:00

Gabrielle Hamilton was in town this week to promote her new book, Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef. A local restaurant hosted her with a dinner, reading, and book signing. Having declared this the year of stepping out of my comfort zone (or living as if the plate were already broken, so to speak), I decided to venture out on that chilly Thursday night and partake.

The event took place in a gorgeous old church that was recently converted into a quite dramatic restaurant called Grace. I've only eaten there once, and I was with a couple of women who ordered far too few appetizers that I only gazed at longingly after eating my one portioned sliver. But this evening, the menu had things that I'd never in a million years try--bone marrow and a whole lamb cooked in a smoldering wooden box, for example. I was excited.

Let me note that I really do not mind eating alone. Minus the crappy tables that some restaurants reserve for solo eaters, I adore everything about eating alone. But the minute I actually arrived at the restaurant, I was surprised to feel butterflies and a sense of being totally and completely lost. There were lots of people. All avid foodies, and all of whom seemed to know one another. (They didn't, but you know how it is when you're an outsider gazing at a group?) I felt an even deeper respect empathy for all those people who come to the KR Retreat or any knitting event completely alone for the first time.

I spotted a friend (Samantha, the co-owner of Rabelais Books and co-host of the event) and, well, I'm not proud to admit that I clung to her in a way that can only be described as desperate. She's an avid knitter, so talk soon turned to wool. Then she graciously introduced me to the chef and owner of Grace, telling him I was a knitting writer, very respected in my field. Even as the words were coming out of her mouth, like soap bubbles, I could see them reach his ears, pop, and cause his eyes to gloss over. As I babbled nervously ("Hey, we both work with fiber, am I right? haha...") I could see him gaze over my head to try and spot someone--anyone--to rescue him.

A glass clanged and we were brought to attention. Gabrielle was introduced, and she nervously read a brief passage from her book. It had only been released that week, and this was her first formal reading. By the light of someone's cell phone, she told of two years traveling around the world with just $2,000 to her name--how she learned to recognize every contour and nuance of hunger, and how this familiarity with hunger was, in fact, her strongest qualification for opening a restaurant. What a gift to hear an author read her words in public for the first time, and in a dimly lit church, no less. I liked her immediately.

When it came time to sit in the long, long row of tables, suddenly I was 12 and at Skate Country in Tucson, Arizona, for a friend's birthday party, frantically making my way to the women's room to escape the humiliation of not being asked for a slow skate. I find it amazing what can lurk under the surface, so many years later.

I snagged the last chair at a table with a group of women who did not try to pretend the chair was for some invisible friend. And, as happens all too often in Maine, we quickly drew connections. Two seats over was someone who used to live in my very same teeny tiny faraway town. Across the table was the captain of a beautiful schooner that often spends the night in my harbor--a person who also just happens to be a knitter with whom I've chatted by email in the past. And next to me, another woman who's written many books on herbs, gardening, and design; who was once the knitting editor of Seventeen Magazine; and who is well-remembered by one of my closest friends back on Long Island. I know the word "lovely" can have a tooth-rottingly sweet undertone to it, but that's exactly what the evening with those women turned out to be. Lovely.

After people started to leave, Samantha joined my table and we lingered. The serious foodies also lingered next to us. "Eating bone marrow is like eating sex," said one person. "No, no, eating sweetbreads is like eating sex," retorted another. I watched, the metaphor totally lost on me, and realized how I must look to a non-yarnie as I argue about, say, whether Koigu is superwash, or whether Chinese cashmere is as fine as cashmere from Outer Mongolia. Yup, I must look pretty strange.

By this point Gabrielle was sitting just a few chairs away, still signing a few final books and chatting with friends. But shyness got the better of me. I left the event, book unsigned, having not spoken a word to her, but still quite pleased at having dropped myself into someone else's fishbowl for a change.

2011-02-28T20:39:00.005-05:00

Have you noticed that white seems to be the new "it" theme in home decor? Many of the blogs I look to for inspiration, folks like Chez Larsson, Today I Love, and decor8, they all seem to be on a kick of painting walls and furniture and floors white, white, white. The bare look has a spartan beauty to it, an elegant simplicity that suggests infinite patience and total domination over clutter. Let's just say my own space will never, ever, ever be featured in any of those blogs. Except perhaps under the header “NOT.”

So instead I’d like to send a shout out to all those people who surround themselves with color and softness and textural chaos. On their furniture, their tables, their walls, their windows, wherever they damn well please. The more the merrier. I'm not talking an episode of Hoarders, just...not a size 2. Decorgenically speaking.

How about it? Is anyone with me?

2011-02-25T16:30:00.004-05:00

I'm becoming one of those East Coast people who constantly talks about snow.

When I lived in San Francisco, part of my job involved meeting with PR people to get briefed on their latest, greatest new product. The idea was that I'd run back to my desk and write a cover story about them. It took me a good year to get up to speed on what they were saying - and that first year was filled with terror and dread that someone, anyone really, would notice I didn't know what I was doing.

Gradually I got up to speed and stopped fearing those meetings so much. I started making lists of buzzwords ("architect" and "rearchitect" were just beginning their forays into verbland) and trying to memorize entire sentences for some script I've yet to write. But I also remember being astonished at how pasty and colorless the people from the East Coast were. They'd always exclaim - like jailbirds reaching the free side of the river - just how awful it was back home. "We're expected to get 18 inches over the weekend," one would say. "I told my husband he'd better shovel out the car before I get back," another would say. They'd all nod knowingly and I'd join in, pretending I knew what they were talking about. I was living in a place that had two seasons, brown and green. Their complaints became my sign that the seasons had changed.

Well, 12 years into this, another foot of snow falls outside and I'm realizing that I've become one of those snow-complainers. I suspect East Coasters talk incessantly about snow because, unlike rain or fog that come and go by themselves, snow is like the neighbor with the 12 inoperable cars in his driveway. Snow arrives, unpacks, settles in, and it won't move unless you move it - and it's a heavy adversary. Snow turns roads into skating rinks. Cars slide. People fall down. Branches get heavy and snap, taking out wires that bring us important things like electricity and the interwebs.

Mind you it's beautiful. Nothing else transforms the landscape as completely as snow. It muffles sound and softens angles, it enchants children and thrills puppies and compacts perfectly into little balls that like to be thrown. And I'll certainly miss it in May when the black flies arrive.

But today, as yet another foot of snow makes itself at home outside, I am a pasty person yammering on and on about the snow. If anyone has an island hideaway in Fiji they aren't using, could I borrow the keys for a few weeks?

2011-02-22T14:49:00.003-05:00

What's that you say? Indeed, I failed to mention the actual recipe about which I was waxing so poetic yesterday. Without further ado, meet the Busy Day Cake from The Taste of Country Cooking by Edna Lewis. Sweet yet substantial, this simple cake requires just one bowl, can be worked up in an hour, and is proven to cure any malaise. Except, perhaps a malaise from eating too much cake.

I found out about this cake from someone else's poetic waxings--namely Molly at Orangette. Here's her adaptation of the recipe.

Have fun, and let me know when the cake's ready.

Ode to Cake

2011-02-21T12:19:00.005-05:00

Some people meditate. Others go for a walk, or a jog, or a swim. I lack such virtue. When life gets overwhelming, I head to the kitchen to make something. If you've been reading this blog for more than, say, an hour, you'll know this to be true. When time is short and my need for comfort particularly great, I bake a cake. Nothing fancy, just a simple recipe that always works and is guaranteed to bring my life back into order.

How comforting to cream together that stick of butter with a cup of sugar. Already I can feel the chaos subside. Each egg I crack in and patiently mix, each cup of flour with baking soda and salt, each slosh of vanilla, each dash of nutmeg pulls me back to the present. With my hands, I amalgamate these humble ingredients into a dense, smooth, flavorful bowl of potential.

I pour the batter in my favorite cast-iron baking pan, give the top of a swirl for good luck, and slide it into a hot oven.

There. Like burping a baby, all those difficult emails, unclear decisions, and stressful thoughts have been temporarily released from my mind. I've put something in motion that will come to fruition in a matter of minutes. Not months or years, but minutes.

I take my time putting away the ingredients, washing the bowl, wiping the counter. Soon the kitchen fills with that comforting fragrance of butter, sugar, eggs, flour, vanilla, and nutmeg. I peek through the oven window and smile at the transformation of that yellow goo into a fully risen cake that's starting to brown on top. Success.

How civilized to sit down with a cup of tea and a little piece of cake still warm from the oven. I feel like I'm visiting with my grandma or with one of those characters you read about in books, you know, the ones who always had cake and tea at the ready for visitors.

The rest gets divvied up among friends or stored in the freezer for another rainy day. For me, it's not so much about eating the cake as it is about creating it. Kind of like spinning a pound of Shetland fleece or turning a perfect heel, only it takes less than an hour and you get to eat the results.

I hate to admit that such a simple thing can lift my spirits and bring comfort and order into my life, but it does. I've been extremely preoccupied lately as I prepare for some big changes to what my day-to-day life looks like. They're all good changes, but changes nonetheless. Yesterday afternoon I finally went on strike and made myself another little cake. For anyone who doubts the awesome and mysterious powers of cake, take heed -- they are real.

2011-01-12T17:23:00.002-05:00

Brrrrr! It's been doing this all day and there's no sign of stopping. It's a heavy, wet snow that gathers along the tops of tree branches and power lines, making the world look like an exquisite etching.

Having lived through 12 Maine winters, I know to have a candle lit, a flashlight handy, a stack of wood by the fireplace, and a tub of water ready.

All day I've been racing against the storm, trying to complete this week's yarn review for Knitter's Review before the lights—which have been flickering ominously—finally give out, taking out my Internet connection with them. I do have a backup, which lasts only as long as my laptop battery. Tick tock, tick tock.

For all its troubles, I must say I do enjoy living in a place where I am regularly reminded who's boss (nature) and who isn't (moi). You can forget it briefly when you go into bigger places that we've covered with concrete and big buildings, but here? Not a chance.

2011-01-03T16:24:00.002-05:00

"For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning."
T.S. Eliot

I chose to begin my year with the world's greatest buttermilk biscuits, my tried and true comfort food that makes any morning an event. And I served them on a plate I found carefully wrapped up and stored away in my great aunt's barn - a barn that she filled with boxes from her parents' house after they died...a house that was, itself, filled with their parents' and in-laws' belongings. Which is to say it's an old plate.

My great grandmother most likely bought it (and its 7 companions) in Germany at some point in the late 1800s. The complete lack of any dings or scratches whatsoever suggests to me that she kept these plates stored away because they were simply too pretty to use. This tendency to squirrel away life's fineries is a family trait that I appear to have inherited, because there those plates have sat, hidden away in the back of my own china cabinet, for more than 10 years.

And that makes me wonder how much of life I'm squirreling away for fear of scratches or dents, heartbreak or failure. How much of life have I captured prematurely in a jar before it could reach its natural conclusion? While the natural conclusion of a plate, I assume, would involve gravity and a loud crash, life doesn't always follow suit. And you won't know unless you try.

So that, my friends, is my resolution for this year. To pull myself out of the cabinet a little more often, see the world for its possibilities, take risks, and try. How about you?

A decked-out door

2010-12-22T10:19:00.003-05:00

A decked-out door
Originally uploaded by norvegal

It's December 22nd and I'm all baked, boiled, and wrapped out. While the chickadees take turns swooping on and off the bird feeder, snow is falling - giant puffs as if someone's been emptying a down pillow from above the clouds.

The cat gave up on trying to get my attention and has resumed his post on the living room floor. I don't know what he appreciates more, the fact that his bowl is always full or that the house has radiant floor heating.

And in the background, after a weeklong Christmas music bender on Pandora, Johnny Cash sings "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." Somehow it all fits together.

I adore this time of year - the colors and lights and smells and decorations everywhere, the moody weather, and the nesting and introspection it inspires. Every year, I go into December feeling grateful for the opportunity to express my love and appreciation for those near and dear to me. I vow to do things differently, to give only things that are genuine to me, to resist the industrial shopping complex.

And then somehow I start to slip. I look at my tins of homemade cookies and bags of brightly wrapped caramels, all made with sincere love and goodwill, and I think..."This person wants an iPad and I'm sending honey bars?!" Usually by the second week I give in and start clicking away. Random crap starts to replace the sincere and heartfelt, I feel somehow cheapened by the whole experience, and then I spend the rest of the year paying off my Visa bill.

This year I didn't do it - I couldn't do it. With the exception of nieces and nephews for whom years of therapy would be necessary to treat the trauma of not getting one of the 20 items they meticulously detailed on their wish lists, everybody else got something from the heart. I'm sure disappointment abounds, but that's just the way it is. And I feel just a little bit better about the whole thing.

It's getting crazy. And you want to know what drives me the most nuts? Those car ads on TV. You know, the one where the husband surprises his beautiful and perfectly clad wife on Christmas day by leading her to the door, where she discovers a brand new Lexus with a big red bow parked out front?

My question: Who buys someone a CAR as a Christmas present? (And how can I become that person's friend?) Yet from the abundance of ads on TV, you'd think it was the most common thing in the world. What message does that send to the 99.9% of the populace that does not wake up and discover a new BMW 5-series wagon in the garage?

One of my favorite holiday movies is Mixed Nuts. It's a sweet little Nora Ephron film featuring a blonde Steve Martin, a gorgeous Madeline Kahn, a knitting Rita Wilson, a crossdressing Liev Schreiber, and a yet-unknown Jon Stewart on rollerblades - plus many cameos from other fine people. The plot itself is predictably goofy but welcome at this time of year.

Near the end, Steve Martin's character is trying to lure a gun-wielding Santa costume-wearing Anthony LaPaglia off the roof of a building (as I said, goofy plot) and he says something to the effect that Christmas is that time of year when we view our lives under a microscope, and everything we don't have feels that much bigger. I find that to be extremely true, and those car ads sure don't help the situation.

So I shut off the TV, preheat my oven, pull out the butter to soften, and bring the focus back home.

But in case you were wondering, there's plenty of room in the driveway for that BMW. And could I have the one with the heated steering wheel?

Channeling Grandma

2010-12-11T13:48:00.001-05:00

christmas_cake
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I've been busy baking and stirring and wrapping endless sweet concoctions in preparation for Christmas. Some of the recipes are welcome new arrivals, such as these Salted Chocolate Caramels and Luisa's version of Benne Wafers, two recipes upon which there is very little improvement (yet I shall still try).

But some recipes came from my grandma's kitchen, and her mother's kitchen before that, and one can hope, many more mothers' kitchens before that.

My grandparents lived during the Great Depression, which meant that Christmas was more about baked goods and handknit gifts than it was about plastic garbage for the landfill. Every year, they'd send us a huge box with countless tins - the same tins, year after year, taped shut with masking tape - packed with all of her best concoctions. One tin held the infamous Joe Froggers, hard molasses cookies the size of a human head. Another tin held her Honey Cakes. I can still feel the tin under my little fingers as I tried to pry it open and devour its contents.

At the bottom of the Christmas box was the real gold: Several foil-wrapped bricks the size of a short loaf of bread. Grandma's English Christmas cake.

You know how we each have one or two foods that we simply love to the point of distraction? Our version of Proust's Madeleine, that one thing that brings back so many vivid memories that you want to cry? For me, it's my grandma's Christmas cake.

This is NOT to be confused with gooey, alcohol-laden, oft-maligned fruicake. It is more of a dundee cake, or an English Christmas cake without the frosting. My grandma's cake was packed with raisins and currants and candied orange and lemon peel, all held within a minimal suspension of flour, eggs, milk, a hint of butter, and a sprinkling of nutmeg.

She would pack as many raisins and currants as she could stir, stopping when her wooden spoon stood up in the bowl and refused to move any further. The dough would be scooped into bread pans and baked for hours and hours at a very low temperature, causing the raisins and currants and orange and lemon peel to caramelize into a deep, moody, sugary perfection.

My grandma knew I adored her Christmas cake and would always pack the box with as many cakes as it would hold. As she began to lose her memory, the cake became a source of stress. She knew something wasn't quite right. She was forgetting things, really basic things she knew she should know. So she started taking notes and labeling everything - and when we packed up their house after both my grandparents died, I found card after card after card containing the Christmas cake recipe with "SAVE" marked across the top in big letters. I hope she knows, from whichever cloud she's sitting, that the recipe is, indeed, safe and sound for another generation.

Every December, I bake this cake. It fills my kitchen with a smell I associate with my grandma, with those ancient childhood visions of love and comfort and security. Lots of things remind me of my grandma - she was, after all, the one who taught me how to knit - but this cake brings her back the most vividly.

Do you have such a thing in your own food repertoire?

2010-11-29T18:18:00.003-05:00

Just one more day of deer hunting season left, and then there's muzzle-loader season that extends into mid-December. We're not even going to talk about the ruffled grouse, pheasant, bobwhite quail, rabbit, fox, and bobcat, whose demise comes next.

But never mind that. Last week I took a nice long road trip to visit family for the Thanksgiving holiday. It's always good to get away and remind yourself how many people are out there just waiting to be met. Because believe me, there are many.

During my 18 hours on the road, I passed countless people on their way somewhere. Some were alone in their cars and trucks, others had company. I played peekaboo with a dog in the back of a Subaru along the Massachusetts Turnpike, and somewhere near Albany I admired a brave little black cat whose kingdom had been reduced to a pile of clothes in the back window of a Nissan. I sympathized with a hotel desk clerk whose pants were producing a most unflattering static cling, and I held the elevator door open for a distinguished-looking man who was towing his granddaughter's bright purple Power Puff Girls suitcase. I enjoyed peeking into back yards, glancing at porches and balconies, and repeatedly wondering to myself, "What would it be like if my entire life had been spent in that house?"

Behind the wheel, people seemed distracted and stressed, driving aggressively, using the bulk of their giant fenders to bully and intimidate one another. But once stripped of their vehicular shells, people softened back into human beings.

Thanksgiving itself was a gluttonous feast. Trays and platters and heaps of food, succulent turkeys and hams (yes, in the plural), dishes that have long been staples of the gathering. Culinary delights whose recipes inevitably feature a can of something, a can of another thing, a bag of frozen something else, loads of cream and at least one stick of butter. But once a year and for just a few brief bites, oh my goodness do they taste good.

There were babies and newlyweds and wise elders, there was a roaring fire, and there was an abundance of tiny dogs in sparkly dresses providing welcome entertainment when conversation lagged. "So how's life in Maine?" people would ask, or perhaps, "You still doing the knitting thing?" or, for the brave humorists, "So, did you knit that yourself?" pointing to my impossibly fine machine-knit sweater. (That one never gets old.) At the end of the day, we all swore we'd never eat again.

And yet here I am tonight with a chicken roasting in the oven, potatoes and Brussels sprouts on the stove, fire in the fireplace, snoring cat on the couch, and blaze-orange please-don't-shoot-me vest by the front door. Grateful for the recent journey and yet so happy to be home.

On avoiding getting shot

2010-11-22T16:26:00.004-05:00

It's hunting season, which means the return of the sudden "blam" somewhere disconcertingly close to my house...followed by one or two more shots as I envision a panicked animal trying desperately to flee the inevitable. I understand why we hunt, and I appreciate those who have the courage to source their food while I whimper in line at the grocery store meat counter, buying anonymous flesh that's been tidied up by an equally anonymous stranger. I get it.

But still, every time I hear one of the shots, chills run down my spine.

November is also the return of what's called "blaze orange," a near-fluorescent incarnation of orange that could not possibly exist in nature. We clothe ourselves in this ghastly hue from head to toe in an attempt not to get shot. Where I live, we wear blaze orange when taking walks in the woods, when walking our dogs, when getting the mail, and even when walking out to the car in the morning.

It baffles me, but here people here are allowed to shoot at things on other people's land. What makes sense in theory becomes far more upsetting when you hear tales of women shot dead while hanging their laundry - and the hunter being dismissed with an understanding nod because, well, she sure did look like a deer to him. (In case you were wondering, there's always an abundance of empty beer cans in the woods after hunting season.)

Besides pinning blaze orange fabric all over your body, the only other way to avoid getting shot in your own yard is to post your land, which instead involves stapling signs every few feet around the entire perimeter of your property. An added benefit of posting your land is that you will also alienate yourself from pretty much everybody in town - the guys who plow the road, deliver your oil, and volunteer for the fire department. People with whom it's wise to stay on friendly terms.

So, since the woods are stocked with semi-intoxicated men with loaded guns who are really quite eager to fire at something, I tend to spend my November nesting inside. I find the orange of these maple pumpkin Claramels with ginger cinnamon pecans far more attractive than blaze orange. And if I eat enough of them, I'll be too full to leave the house at all - thus keeping me safe from hunters for another year.

It's an idea, right?

On distraction

2010-10-22T11:30:00.004-04:00

In a recent post on his blog, Alain de Botton wrote about the incessant distractions of contemporary life. I was thinking about it last weekend when I was in Rhinebeck, New York, for the NYS Sheep & Wool Festival. I was there as an observer, author, collector of wooly things, and reporter for Knitter's Review.

Having written up the event several years already, I was at a loss for how to bring a fresh eye to a familiar event. Video, I decided, would be the medium this year. I got a Flip video camera and started playing with it. I wasn't entirely sure I could pull it together, so I also brought my regular digital camera for backup. And because I wanted to share updates throughout the weekend, I also brought my cell phone. Mac users, don't get started—yes, I realize an iPhone would've served all those purposes, but I needed far better resolution.

Anyway, that is how I found myself at the festival last weekend, navigating tens of thousands of people, juggling from camera to video camera, back to camera, then to phone, then to video camera, then back to camera, for nearly two solid days. I'm proud of the results, but the process was so deeply fractured and distracting that I kept gravitating back to the sheep. They, it seemed, had the answer. They knew no better than to live in the present. Whereas even during dinner with four friends one night, I noticed that all but one had their cell phone at the table.

Which brings me back to Alain de Botton. He writes, "The obsession with current events is relentless. We are made to feel that at any point, somewhere on the globe, something may occur to sweep away old certainties—-something that, if we failed to learn about it instantaneously, could leave us wholly unable to comprehend ourselves or our fellows. We are continuously challenged to discover new works of culture—-and, in the process, we don’t allow any one of them to assume a weight in our minds."

I do sometimes wonder just how much simultaneous experience our minds can hold before we start to shut down. And I also see how, in our insatiable quest to feed on more and more, we are not giving each experience its own deep and meaningful consideration. Like jam, the less we have the thinner we spread it.

I have no grand declarations to make, no promise to live my life differently from this day forward, but this is where my thoughts are today. I'm watching the natural world around me go dormant for the winter and thinking I'd be well advised to follow Alain de Botton's suggestion: "Our minds, no less than our bodies, require periods of fasting."

On Optimism

2010-10-09T12:18:00.003-04:00

The radiator by the front door was warm this morning. The leaves are turning quickly now, accompanied by cruel winds that are doing their best to knock all the leaves down.

There's no lingering this year, winter is nipping at our heels. The Old Farmer's Almanac says it's going to be a brutal one, and most Mainers agree. People around here have an interesting relationship with weather. When someone dares complain about the rain or the cold or whatever might be bothersome at the time, the complaint is almost always met with "at least it's not X." Don't like the rain? "At least it's not snow." Don't like the snow? "At least it's not ice." Don't like the ice? "At least it's not snow and ice like we had in '76."

Don't like the snow and ice? Tough, because you probably can't get out of your house to complain to anybody.

Conversely, the nicer it is, the more nervous people become. They believe in their heart of hearts that we shall be punished for it later - and after 12 winters here, this attitude has definitely rubbed off on me. We had an extraordinary summer, so you can only imagine the doomsday preparations that are being made now for winter.

For my part, the wood is stacked, the onions are cured, the chiles roasted, the furnace cleaned, screens put away, and slowly the garden is being put to bed. Except in one bed, where a few dozen cloves of garlic are going to be planted as soon as I finish writing this. Garlic, like most bulbs, is an exercise in the ultimate optimism. You tuck them deep in the soil and then you let go, hoping that you'll still be around when it comes time to harvest your beautiful and flavorful little time capsules.

It reminds me of a beautiful E.B. White essay about watching his wife look through the bulb catalogs when her age and health issues gave her a 50/50 chance of never seeing them bloom. And yet she plowed on with hope and optimism, which seems to be at the core of what life is about. Or what it should be about. Letting go, plowing ahead, hoping for the best, and leaving a little beauty behind for the next person.

Pondering the cosmos

2010-09-27T11:54:00.002-04:00

cosmos
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I was wandering around the garden this morning, checking to see if I'd caught the woodchuck that's been wreaking havoc on my vegetables. I always feel bad about relocating an animal from its chosen habitat. Just because I'm bigger and have opposable thumbs and know how to fix a leaky toilet, who am I to dictate where another living creature should live? That's just not right.

But all noble thoughts end the moment there's an incursion into the garden. Which happened this week. First it was the kale - tender, perfect, beautiful little leaves of kale that were planted from seed and finally ripe. I planned to harvest them for dinner the next night, but when I woke up? Poof. Gone. But the worst part was when it got the tomatoes. It didn't just pluck a few and discretely take them away, no, it sloppily bit into them right on the vine, leaving a perfectly ripe and beautiful but slobber-covered uneaten half right there. As if a frat boy had been using my garden as its kitchen.

So, out came the Havahart trap. I first baited it with cabbage, but no dice. So I went to the grocery store and got Mr. Woodchuck an especially plump head of broccoli. Did he take the bait? Nope.

Fall produce aside, the garden is getting ready for its long winter nap. But this morning I came upon this cluster of cosmos, so perky and happy, finally entering is prime (cosmos is, after all, part of the aster family). Lucky for me, it appears that woodchucks don't like cosmos. At least not yet.

2010-09-26T12:39:00.004-04:00

Ever notice that you seem to be surrounding yourself with a particular color? My friends joke about my fondness for oranges and pinks, but today's accidental palette seemed decidedly autumnal.

I spotted it while I was sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling over a bind-off for an upcoming editorial project. I can't say more about the yarns just yet, but I can tell you that the book is delightful.

2010-09-24T18:20:00.001-04:00

2010-09-23T18:12:00.002-04:00

And if you thought I was kidding about the marshmallows in my last post, I wasn't.

Delicious, insanely easy, and very, very satisfying. I urge you to grab your candy thermometer and give them a try.

2010-09-23T09:38:00.003-04:00

Boy that went fast. I'm staring across the pond at a band of trees that have already turned deep red. The ferns in the field have all died back, even the goldenrod is done. The summer visitors are long, long gone. And my onions - the few that managed to grow during what was a very dry summer - have all been cured and stored away.

I'm feeling rather like the garden these days, a bit spent and overrun, tired from a full summer of bloom and ready for a spell of restorative dormancy. Just a week ago, I bundled up my new baby book - of which I'm extremely proud, but aren't we always? - and sent it off to my editor in New York. This step marks the beginning of a whole new flurry of activity of a different editorial nature, but the core birthing process is complete.

Time has become mine again, but it'll take a while to replenish my creative well. Taking time to walk, knit for myself, bake beautiful treats, and be with friends, that will get me there.

I don't know about you, but there's much to look forward to this fall. My father and his wife are coming for a long-overdue visit, then I get to spend time in Rhinebeck with some of my very favorite people (and fiber-bearing animals) in the world. Then, dear friends from San Francisco come for a celebratory birthday visit (not mine), and finally, the piece de resistance, the KR Retreat. I feel lucky and grateful.

And as for today? It's Thursday, traditionally my day of rest. Would anybody like to join me in making some homemade marshmallows?

Blowing off steam

2010-07-01T16:17:00.002-04:00

strawberry cake
Originally uploaded by norvegal

The most recent TNNA took place in Columbus a few weeks ago, and I decided it was time to bring a little gift for people. Not a clever button or pen or notepad with my logo emblazoned across the front, but something almost everybody at TNNA actually needs: sugar and caffeine. So I prepared a huge batch of my chocolate espresso caramels. Or "Claramels," as I called them.

It was fascinating to see people's reactions when I handed them out. Some were thrilled, or intrigued, others temporarily confused ("where's your logo?"), and two people were visibly horrified, as if I'd handed them individually wrapped cat turds.

But one person - a prominent knitwear designer - stared at me for a long time before saying, "You're very... domestic." Was that a sneer on her face? A confused smile? I couldn't quite catch it. Coming from a knitwear designer at a needlearts trade show, accusing someone of being "domestic" was laughable. But also telling.

My first reaction was total rejection of the concept, "Heck no, I just like making things, what's wrong with that? Hey, gimme back that caramel." Then I got angry about thinking "domestic" was a bad word. And it's true, I did slave over a pot of bubbling caramel, pouring it into a special pan, cutting it into 120 little squares, and then wrapping each caramel in individually cut pieces of parchment paper. I do this at home, so I guess that does, by some strange literal definition, make me "domestic." But I'm still noodling over what the hell she meant, and I'm annoyed that I'm still noodling over it.

For me, I bake or make candies to blow off steam when my mind simply cannot process one more serious work-related thought. When I can't decide which yarns to swatch for Twist Collective, or when someone has asked me a very difficult question for Knitter's Review, or when my publisher needs a definitive list of which yarns I'm going to use for my next book... when I smell smoke and feel the overwhelm take over, I know it's time to step away from the computer and do something with my hands.

Since most days' overwhelm usually involves yarn, you may understand why I don't reach for a skein when I need a break. No, I need to do something totally different yet equally satisfying. So I head to the kitchen.

You know the pleasure of casting on the first few stitches of a new project? I find similar bliss in leveling off the first cup (or two) of flour into an empty bowl. The bliss of a blank slate and new adventure.

Baking also offers far more instant gratification than knitting. Unless you're making croissants, you'll have something to show for your work within just a few hours - not a few days, weeks or months. But here's the perverse part of the deal: Food must be eaten. You spend all that time making a masterpiece, only to pull out a knife, hack it up, and make it disappear. How much more Zen can you get?

The most recently disappeared culinary adventure is shown up top, a golden lemon cake with fresh strawberry filling and a white meringue frosting. (And yes, that's an un-ironed tablecloth.) Two very dear friends were returning to town for the summer after spending their winter back home. They aren't getting any younger, and they matter a great deal to me.

After an admittedly splendid dinner of homemade chicken pot pie and salad from the garden, when they were expecting me to pull out a pint or two of ice cream from the freezer, I instead pulled out this cake from the fridge. Surprise, disbelief, delight. Suddenly we're all 8 years old again, staring at a birthday cake our mother produced as if by magic. We gazed, we sighed, we agreed it was too beautiful to eat... and then I cut each person a generous slice.

I love the sound of friends enjoying a really good cake. By the time you reach dessert, you've cut through the small talk, you've touched all the normal conversational bases, and now you're really talking about things. Your guard is down, you feel safe and comfortable, and then - what ho - cake!

Over the years I've discovered that people will actually hum while eating a really, really good slice of cake. (I'm serious, it's true. Try it sometime.) It's a perfect sound, rather like running your finger around the wet rim of a crystal glass. I loved bringing that experience to the tense and sterile TNNA show floor, and I loved bringing it to my kitchen last week. It's a sensory place that yarn - no matter how hard I've tried - cannot take us.

I bring this up now because July marks the beginning of an extremely busy and tense 10 weeks. My schedule is scary, but it's all part of the process and I know I can do it. If I continue to stay on track, at the end of those 10 weeks I will have finished birthing a new book.

But I'll have quite a bit of steam to blow off along the way. Which means more caramels and more cakes. Any favorite recipes I should try?

lupine

2010-06-05T19:14:00.002-04:00

lupine
Originally uploaded by norvegal

At long last, I have lupine!

Considered by many old-timey Mainers to be a weed, lupine is one of those gorgeous early summer flowers I've been trying to cultivate for years. I've spread seeds and planted seedlings to no avail. I figured it was Mother Nature's way of telling me to lay off, so I stopped trying a few years ago.

Lo and behold, look what sprouted from beneath where the wood pile was in my driveway last fall! Probably the least hospitable soil on earth, that's where the lupine decided to grow.

I should note that the old-timey Maine farmers (and those who wish to be perceived as old-timey Maine farmers although they moved here from Connecticut 22 years ago after taking early retirement from a lucrative career in investment banking) will call it "goddamned lupine" or, quite simply, "that goddamned weed." They use the word "goddamned" like California surfers use the word "dude," for both good and bad, in nearly every sentence. They say it very slowly, more lyric than malicious or angry, rolling the letters around in their mouths and putting lots of awe into the god part.

And if I do say so myself, it's a goddamned trait I find quite endearing.

Mango bliss

2010-06-01T10:17:00.001-04:00

Mango bliss
Originally uploaded by norvegal

One of my favorite things about this time of year - besides the warmth and the lush green of new foliage and the rustling of leaves and the sweet moist smell of the air and the tweet-tweet-tweeting of the birds and the blooming of the lilacs and rugosas and peonies and the return of morning sun to the far corner of my porch... let's see, where was I?

Oh yes, BESIDES all those other things (and in addition to anything else I failed to mention), I positively adore this time of year because it brings the return of the really good mangoes. You know the ones I'm talking about? Not the big red stringy ones that cost a fortune and never really taste like anything, but those slim, oblong, deep yellow ones with an irresistibly sweet, velvety, juicy flesh. Heaven.

Around here they usually appear at Whole Foods in mid-May, and if I'm lucky they stick around until mid-June. Why is this? If they come from a tropical climate, how on earth can they only be available for one month a year?

The ones I covet are called Champagne mangoes. I don't like fruit with a brand name, but I'll make exception for my mangoes. Technically, they're called ataulfo mangoes, but some company seems to have a monopoly on the whole thing. Which may be why they're only available for a month each year.

Anyway, if you see those mangoes and are feeling adventurous, please do give them a try. I usually remove the skin with a vegetable peeler and cut off the flesh in chunks. And then, sleeves rolled up and bent over the sink, I proceed to suck the rest of the fruit off the pit. It doesn't look all that glamorous but oh... what bliss!

2010-05-13T13:15:00.004-04:00

"Gee, someone could have had a baby since you last posted."

Mady left that comment at 10:20pm on some random day between August 25, 2009 and today, and I do appreciate the gentle kick in the pants. Plus she's right, someone did have a baby since I last posted. No no no, not me... but a friend did, and the above sweater is on its way to her now.

A lot can happen in nine months. Wars, assassinations, divorces, marriages, sex-change operations, bankruptcies... when I think about it, I realize that my own life is quite tame in comparison. I have baked an extraordinary number of cakes. I have made more caramels than is probably healthy. I have acquired yarn, oh the yarn, all in the name of scholarly pursuit.

Just around the time of my last post, I was still basking in the glow of having chatted casually with Barbara Walker about who does the dishes in her house (her husband does), sat under a shady plum tree with Meg Swansen, received an impromptu toe tutorial from Anna Zilboorg, and sipped beer with Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, letting myself briefly savor that foreign, fleeting feeling of fitting in. (Which I'm not sure I did, but we'll brush over that for now.)

Then I gave birth to a beautiful book and went many places to share it with many people. I wrote countless articles, columns, and reviews. I answered emails, emails, and more emails. With about 1200 more to go. I hosted a retreat and planned another one. I swatched and swatched until my fingers were little bloody stumps. I boarded planes and trains for faraway (and not so faraway) destinations. I decided to write another book. And then I pulled out the candy thermometer and made yet more caramels.

Which pretty much brings you up to date. Life continues to be an adventure, and I am grateful that I get to be a part of it.

Anyway, the pink sweater at the very tip-top of this post is for a baby that was, indeed, quite possibly both conceived and born between my last post and this on. (My math is bad, so if I'm wrong, just pretend along with me.) It is Elizabeth Zimmermann's clever little February Baby Sweater from the Knitter's Almanac, knit in String Theory Yarn's Caper Sock with vintage mother-of-pearl buttons. The baby's name is Lydia, and from everything I've seen and heard, she is one lucky little girl who is off to a fabulous start.

As is, perchance, another season of this blog?

Summertime

2009-08-25T10:41:00.001-04:00

A back-porch fizz
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I don't know about you, but here in Maine we're desperately clinging to every ounce of sunshine that has finally arrived after the rainiest summer on record. (Ever. Since, like, the beginning of time.)

The arrival of what I can nervously call "summer" (and yes, I realize it is August 25th) has inspired a new drink. I created it last week and have been perfecting in daily doses ever since. I'm sure many others have created it before me, but I call my version a Back-Porch Fizz. Here's how it goes.

First, put on the tea kettle. Yup, you heard me right.

Next, go to the door, don your flip-flops, and head out into the garden to pick a few sprigs of mint. Not a huge number, just five or six nice healthy leaves. Don't have a mint patch? Plant one. Every house needs to have a mint patch. Just be aware that mint is to gardens what telemarketers are to phone lines. It persists and spreads.

Come back inside and toss those sprigs into a cocktail shaker. Pour a healthy little scoop of sugar over it. (More if you love sweet, less if you don't. This is not a highly scientific recipe.)

Take out a mug and put some tea in it -- either two tea bags or a few scoops of leaves. Something dark and meaty, like Assam. Pour a small amount of boiling water from your kettle into the mug. We're talking...half a cup maximum. You're making espresso tea.

While the tea is steeping, squeeze one lime and pour that juice into your shaker. Slosh it around a few times to get things mixed.

Now pour most -- but not all -- of that tea into the shaker. Slosh it around a little more. You want to dissolve the sugar.

Fill the shaker with ice, and fill two glasses with ice while you're at it.

Now shake, shake, shake that little shaker until it gets so cold that your hand starts to hurt. You're mixing things up and bruising the mint so that it releases all its magnificent essence without actually falling apart.

Next, pour that rich, honey-colored liquid into the two glasses. Top each off with however much soda water is required to make them almost fizz over the top of the glass. Stir and enjoy -- preferably while sitting barefoot on a chair in the grass or, in the case of this year's summer, on your back porch.

Ahhhh, Columbus

2009-06-22T11:10:00.003-04:00

Some days
Originally uploaded by norvegal

The much-twittered-about TNNA was a great success. After hours, the Hyatt lobby took on the look of a summer camp with pajama-clad knitters flopped on every chair, chatting and giggling and taking pictures and Twittering until the early hours of the morning.

I have learned the hard way that the later you stay up at these events, the weirder and potentially more unsettling the conversation can become. You tend to wake up the next morning thinking things like, "Did everybody realize I was being ironic when I said I hated all knitters??!" or, "Was she really being ironic when she said I was stupid and obsolete?" Either way, it can unsettle you, especially if you have to mingle among those very same people the following day.

Better to take a bubble bath and turn in early.

In parallel to the summer camp side of things we had some true, serious, well-contemplated commerce taking place on the show floor. Yarn stores were buying. They weren't just stocking more from existing vendors, they were picking up new ones, investing in entirely new companies and lines. And that's a very, very good sign that our ecosystem is on its way to recovery.

When not connecting and reconnecting with a slew of smart, lovely, hard-working people who are trying to make a living as shop owners, designers, yarn company owners, and even publishers, I consumed far too much Jeni's Ice Cream, played barefoot in a big splashy fountain, and watched a gorgeous blue heron slowly wander along the banks of this occasionally septic river in search of fish.

All in all a good trip, but I'm mighty glad to be home.

The Not-so-grand View

2009-06-09T16:39:00.002-04:00

Not so grand
Originally uploaded by norvegal

A few months ago, we had quite a stir when a fellow named Donald Crabtree decided to open a coffee shop in Vassalboro. One one of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it towns in the middle of nowhere, Vasalboro's big claim to fame is being in a Bert & I joke. The tourist wheels through town and asks, "Which way to East Vassalboro?" The local replies, "Don'tcha move a goddamn inch." (I don't know, but it's a classic.)

Anyway, the concept of any business opening up in Vassalboro is a great thing, especially something like a coffee shop. But that wasn't the source of the controversy. No, the problem was that this coffee shop, my friend, would be staffed by topless women.

The local reaction was mixed. Apparently 150 people applied for 10 positions (that's job positions), while the more vocal locals insisted it was a moral outrage. It caught national media attention and sparked my favorite new term, "Bare-istas."

Well, last week Donald met with the town fathers/mothers and shared his intention to expand business to be more like a strip club. At which point all patience evaporated and Maine justice, of you can call it that, clicked into action. By 1am, the coffee shop had been burned to the ground. What you see is all that's left.

(Photo blurry because it was taken while driving past at 55mph this morning on my way to Portland. Taking pictures in a moving car is a nasty habit of mine. Don't do it at home, kids.)

Fortunately nobody was hurt (so much for my original post title, "Toasted Titties"), but folks won't be able to get their morning coffee-and-boob fix for a while yet. Donald had no insurance but insists he will rebuild and continue with his strip club plans. The newspapers are gently noting, "Arson has not yet been ruled out," to which I can only say, "Well DUH."

I'm wondering if a milk-your-own coffee bar, with a cow in back, would be better received? You still get your coffee and you'd even get to TOUCH the boobs. As long as the cow consents.

Columbus Beckons

2009-06-05T10:27:00.004-04:00

Right now all around the country folks in the knitting biz are looking at their calendars and saying, "Holy crap, TNNA is next week?!" Closets are being overturned, new outfits purchased, suitcases pulled from the attic, emails sent out, press releases finalized, patterns finished, samples darned, materials packed and crated for the journey.

I love the summer TNNA because it takes place in Columbus, Ohio. Those of you who've never been to Columbus or who've only spent times in the drearier parts may smirk or roll your eyes, but I love this city. I love its midwestern vibe, I love its architecturally extravagant convention center, and I love to the point of near distraction its North Market and, specifically, Jeni's Ice Creams.

TNNA also gives me a chance to spend a week among some of my favorite people in the world -- my peers and the sources of so much motivation, inspiration, and support. Most of us work in near solitude the rest of the year, so this is a rare opportunity for us to come together and be goofy.

The only dark side to TNNA, for me anyway, is being the reviewer among many of my reviewees. Not because of anything that I've written, because I never write anything in a review that I wouldn't feel fully comfortable saying to that person face to face. But because it can, on occasion, present an awkward dynamic. And being around folks whose products I have intentionally (or for mere logistical reasons) not reviewed, but who may have expected something, can cause knots in the ole stomach.

Of course none of this would matter if I were more of a prickish, arrogant figure, like Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. I'd wheel through the hall, ordering people about, issuing witty and cutting retorts, and swishing out of the room to the laughter and applause of the audience.

Thankfully I'm not that character, but I do feel genuinely bad when I'm not able to bring another person's high hopes to fruition. That doesn't stop me from doing it all the time, since editorial trumps codependency any day of the week. But TNNA does put a human face on each of those decisions.

Now, a bigger question: What should I pack?

P.S.--Hey Columbus knitters! Won'tcha play hookey with me on Wednesday, June 17th? I'm teaching a course about yarn at Knitters Connection and I understand we still have room for a few more people. I haaaaaave swwaaaaaatches.....

2009-05-31T23:13:00.002-04:00

Has it really been 31 days already? Indeed, if my calendar is correct, today is the last day of my self-imposed post-a-day challenge. Sound the trumpets! Toss the confetti! Bring cupcakes!

It’s been quite a month, and I am so grateful to those of you who bravely rode the blogwagon with me. Honestly, I think it’s far too much to ask of people, this posting every day business. You’re busy. I feel a bit guilty about routinely pulling you away from more important things just so I can wax poetic about a biscuit recipe, blooming lilacs, a grandfather you never knew, or an MRI machine that looks remarkably similar to a tanning bed I’ve never seen.

Still, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you again. I appreciate the experience of sitting back and reflecting on each day, which became a meditation of sorts. I am happy that the “blog clog” has been undone and that my words are flowing quickly and more comfortably again. And I really enjoyed this chance to share a little more of my world with you.

Generally speaking I’m not the kind of gal who likes to put a giant sign on her head that says, “Look at me!” (I’d much rather hold up a sign that says, “Look at the yarn!”) But this month has shown me that it is possible to share elements of yourself in a way that helps connect others to themselves, if that makes sense.

So much is interconnected. Rho and her clam pie, Melanie and her grandma’s song about white lilacs, Sue and her artichokes with lemon garlic mayo, Rosi and her paper take-out box of fried clams, Thanh and her Vietnamese chicken porridge, Amy nursing her family with homemade miso porridge, Abby and her Penn Station artichoke sandwiches, Minh and her tarte a la moutarde, and Cat and her complete love of digging her hands into dark loamy soil in search of the magical potatoes that lie hidden beneath.

(Hmmmmm, I guess you could say I’ve written a bit about food this month?)

Please know that, though perhaps not daily, our journey shall continue. And if you need to reach me, you can always find me here.

Thank you, my friends!

catching up

2009-05-30T23:06:00.002-04:00

lilacs
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Spring isn't an easy time in Maine. While the rest of you are bragging about your daffodils and tulips, we're still shoveling out from the latest snow storm. By the time we finally catch up with the rest of the country, you're already in your bathing suits headed to the beach. When the lilacs finally bloom, which is happening right now, most folks can only reply distractedly, "Lilacs? Huh? Oh yeah, I remember those."

The lilacs represent a particularly special time here because they take hold of my life for one intoxicating week. My house is bordered by two enormous lilac hedges. By "enormous," I mean that each hedge is literally the size of a small house -- in fact one hedge surrounds a cellar pit where an old cape used to stand.

When these lilacs bloom, which they're in the midst of doing right now, everything smells of lilacs. If I walk out onto the porch, I am engulfed in that warm sweet powdery fragrance. Not a stenchy, headache-inducing synthetic perfume but the real deal. I can't see a single lilac from there, but I can smell them as clearly and intensely as if a huge bouquet were right beneath my nose.

And it's all happening right now. At this very moment, as I type these words, everything smells of lilac. Fresh flowers are, for me, the absolute epitome of luxury. (Well, that and freshly squeezed orange juice, clean sheets, and sweaters that never pill.)

So this is my favorite brief and enchanting period of time. It feels almost magic, as if fairies have been allowed to take over the world for a week. It is decadence and abundance, the floral version of suddenly having a machine that spouts $100 bills, or a faucet that offers up hot chocolate and fresh chilled lemonade. I only wish this blog had smell-o-vision so that you could enjoy it with me.

creative tides

2009-05-29T22:27:00.002-04:00

by the sea
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Remember that little window of space I mentioned at the beginning of this month? Sadly, it is beginning to draw to a close. External commitments once again are starting to lay claim to my creative energy. Not Knitter's Review, which is such a near and dear part of my life that I almost forget it is a commitment. But other projects that I've been lucky enough to snag. Most of them were anticipated and scheduled well ahead of time, but a few came on as last-minute surprises, which upped the tension sooner than expected.

Having had a remission from my chronic overcommitmentitis for the last few weeks, I'm fascinated to feel -- actually literally feel -- how the return of tension and deadlines impacts my inner ecosystem. I'm not talking "boo hoo vacation's over" stuff. But rather, and this may sound hokey, I can almost feel where those creative commitments pull their energy, and what other creative pursuits can no longer manifest themselves as a result.

No matter what we'd like to think, we humans are not eternal fountains. Our energy is not limitless. Tug on a wire and some lights will flicker. Push that button and a toilet flushes somewhere in Singapore. Add two unexpected but welcome writing deadlines within the next week and the home-made bread and fully decorated cupcakes must go. Not just because there's no time, but because there's no juice in that creative well -- it's being used for other things.

I have no answer to this quandary, I can only offer it as an observation. Everything really is interconnected. All we can do is try and tend our inner gardens as best we can.

Speaking of which, guess what just sprouted?

the world's greatest buttermilk biscuits

2009-05-28T22:16:00.002-04:00

on this weekend's menu
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Seeing as we've become the bestest of friends, and seeing as another weekend is almost upon us, I thought it my duty to share with you The World's Greatest Buttermilk Biscuit Recipe.

I've made it several times already. The first time was so good I was stunned and convinced that it had to be a fluke. But the second time was even better. And from then on, I knew that this would become that secret recipe I pull out when I have a last-minute culinary emergency and want to look like one of those women who knows what she's doing.

This recipe comes from Susan Wyler's Cooking from a Country Farmhouse, an out-of-print collection of recipes that looks at first like it'll be one of those gratuitous "I moved to the country and learned to cook" books but is actually very good. I like Susan because she, too, lives in a restored farmhouse. We crazies need to stick together.

Anyway, you start by preheating your oven to a toasty 450 degrees and smearing a small amount of butter onto your favorite cookie sheet.

Now, sift together 1 cup flour (all-purpose is fine), 1 tsp baking powder, 1/4 tsp baking soda, and a wee pinch of salt.

Cut a mere 3 tablespoons of unsalted butter into the mix. Three tablespoons! In the baking world, that's nothing. When the butter feels like little flakes of oatmeal in the flour, pour in 2/3 of a cup of buttermilk. The first time, I put in 3/4 of a cup by mistake and it was fine.

Mix just to the point where everything is blended, and then STOP. Put the spoon down! Resist temptation! This does not want to be mixed any more than absolutely necessary.

Finally, take your favorite soup spoon and scoop out a moderate sized dollop of batter (dough? batter?) and drop it on the cookie sheet. These guys like to spread, so give each one a few inches of personal space. If you need a second sheet, go for it.

Slide in the oven and bake for 12 minutes. Or 14 minutes if you have my oven. You want them to be nicely gold with a little crust on the bottom.

Oh, and if you want a little extra excitement in your life? Grate 1/4 cup parmesan into the flour mix before you add the buttermilk. Your life will never be the same.

And that, my friends, is absolutely it. This recipe is almost criminal in its speed, simplicity, and deliciousness.

Bon appetit!

only in Maine

2009-05-27T20:59:00.005-04:00

So I showed up for my MRI and was whisked away to an elegant little seating room. There we all sat, other patients reading about Tom Cruise in the latest issue of People magazine while I knit away on a grape-colored fingerless mitt.

They call my name and off I go, past an equally elegant dressing area ("All you have is that belt? Just take it off and bring it with you."), down another hallway, around a corner, and to...um, excuse me, the fire exit?

Yes.

We go through the fire exit and out into the back parking lot, under a blue tarp and over to a series of metal steps leading up into the side of a TRACTOR TRAILER.

That's right, my big fancy state-of-the-art high-tech MRI was administered in the back of a tractor trailer. As I said, only in Maine.

A while back I decided that if this knitting and writing business totally flops and I need to get a "real" job, I could get trained as an MRI machine technician. I love machines, I love technology, and I love the challenge of keeping people calm and grounded throughout what is, for many, a scary process.

And today's excursion has taught me another potential benefit of my new career: travel! You never know where that truck will be parked. One day, Kittery. The next, Fort Kent.

Maybe they'd even let me get a truck driver's license so I could drive the trailer myself?

Just a thought. It's always good to keep your options open.

And in totally unrelated news, today my friend Jenny Makofsky would've turned 40. We met my first week of college, walking back to our dorm together after we both tested out of Freshman English. We soon became fast friends. We worked in food service together, doing our best to liven up people's dull mornings with song, dance, pantomime, poetry and foreign language games. ("Just give me my fucking eggs," I believe one crew tream member said. Ahhh, good times, good times.) I visited her in London when she studied there, and she visited me when I was studying in Paris. Back at school, our dorm rooms were never more than a few doors apart. She could always drop by for one of my elicit toast parties (toasters were verboten - shhhhh) and I could always hear strains of the David Bowie records (yes, records) that she played over and over again.

Jenny was a force. Strong and powerful, Wagnerian on the outside; but tender and kind and vulnerable on the inside. I loved her dearly. When she laughed, the world filled with color and everything became good. And by some stroke of luck, I was able to make her laugh. Her laughing made ME laugh, so that by the end of an evening with Jen I would be sore and hoarse (and Jen would usually be needing a new inhaler). But I'd feel so happy.

In 2004, a traffic accident pulled Jen from this world and delivered her, well, I don't know where it delivered her. But I hope it was someplace good. A heaven styled in the manner of Barcelona but with a dusting of Oaxaca, a place where Jonathan Richman performs nightly, where her fountain pen never runs low on ink, and where she can always, always keep a close eye on her dear sister Serena. Happy 40th birthday, Jen. From my vast 7 days of experience on the subject, I can tell you that it'll be your best decade yet.

dear diary

2009-05-26T20:31:00.004-04:00

Welcome to day 26 of my 31-day blogstravaganza! For those just joining, let me reassure you that I do not make a regular practice of posting every day. In fact, it was my tendency not to post that finally prompted me to take the post-a-day challenge.

We're on the home stretch and I find myself facing new obstacles. Having shared so many frequent updates about the minutiae of my life, I feel like we're on much closer terms now. To the point where it almost seems normal to tell you what I had for breakfast and whether or not my toenails need clipping. Neither of which you need to know.

However, I will tell you about tomorrow's adventure, when I have my very first (and hopefully only) MRI. They want to see the contents of my brain and make sure all is as it should be. No monster truck rallies or tiny dancing babies or anything.

It will be absolutely fine, and I'm not sharing this to solicit any concern or sympathy. But I do have a wee fear of confined spaces that may or may not date back to the time my brothers rolled me up in a carpet and stuck a chair on top of me. (I think I even asked them to do it. Why? I have no idea.)

Anyway, tomorrow morning I shall be drugged to a happy babbling oblivion, and I shall remember the wise advice that Melissa shared with me here. "Just think of it like a giant tanning bed," I believe she said.

What I really like about this advice is that neither Melissa nor I has actually ever used a tanning bed. I've never even seen one in person. This vision is completely foreign to us both, yet comforting. So if you read this before Wednesday morning, think of me happily snoozing away in my little tanning bed, will you?

sibling rivalry

2009-05-25T21:56:00.002-04:00

peachy
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Back when I thought yesterday's toppled apple tree was dead, I went ahead and planted a peach tree where the apple tree's two main branches split and fell. I liked the way it looked like the old tree was giving the new one a hug of support.

Well, now that the old apple tree is actually still an apple tree, we have a little bit of an issue. Namely, two trees where there should be one.

I'm not a huge fan of killing things, so my plan is to let the two trees come to some sort of an agreement. And in the meantime, just in case the peach tree resented all the attention its neighbor got yesterday, I'm posting this picture of its beautiful blossoms for you to enjoy.

Today was a garden day and I am now typing with only one eye, so I'll keep this short. The other eye is fine, it's just concealed beneath a red, blotchy, swollen lid where a certain ex-black fly decided to have its dinner. But the rugosas were successfully transplanted out of the lawn mower's path, so my sacrifice was worth it.

And no, I didn't slip in the shower.

blooms again

2009-05-24T20:01:00.001-04:00

the old apple tree
Originally uploaded by norvegal

A few years ago, one of the old apple trees in my garden finally gave up the ghost and tipped over. I saw it coming--it was teetering closer and closer to the ground--but I failed to go out there and prop it up in time. One heavy rainstorm and down it went.

I didn't have the heart (nor the implements) to cut the tree down and finish the job, so I just let it sit there.

Well, guess what came back to life this spring? One entire side of the toppled tree is now covered with these glorious pink blossoms. Walk towards it and you'll hear a loud hum of bees ecstatically rolling in the pollen of each flower.

There's a lesson in here somewhere, I'm sure.

I've been caked!

2009-05-23T20:49:00.002-04:00

I've been caked!
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I went to my LYS today and came home with cashmere and this cake. I tell you, turning 40 is proving to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Having a friend who also runs your LYS is a knitter's dream. And I'm not just friends with Karen because she controls my yarn supply, either. Although my admiration for her has grown tenfold since she opened String Theory. We were actually friends even before she became my dealer. Er.... LYS owner.

So, when she found out it was my birthday, Karen decided to surprise me with a cake. No Betty Crocker just-add-oil-and-an-egg concoction, but this beautiful masterpiece. Her plans for a drive-by cakeing went awry when she discovered I wasn't there, but she refused to be thwarted. She sent me an email with the subject line, "You've got cake!"

Which was enough to make me jump in the car and head to Blue Hill pronto. (Seriously, yarn and cake. What a combination. Would you like crack with that? Yes please.)

As gifted a dyer as Karen is, she is equally talented in the kitchen. This cake is a masterpiece of construction and flavor. Imagine a moist yellow cake with hints of almond extract, layered with smooth WHITE CHOCOLATE frosting and a fine layer of raspberry sauce. The top is adorned with sweet little blue violets that are the only things to suffer from the time lapse. This is one fine cake.

It makes me marvel at how many other excellent--and I mean truly excellent--cooks must be out there, quietly going about their lives, conjuring up magic in in their home kitchens. Delighting themselves and those around them, not seeking any greater acclaim or public glory than the simple pleasure of making good food.

And now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my hourly cake feeding.

fryolator season

2009-05-22T22:01:00.001-04:00

fish season
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Maine is a state of seasons. We have, of course, summer, fall, winter, and spring. We have mosquito season, black fly season, and mud season. We have tourist season, hunting season, and leaf peeper season.

And we have another season too: Fryolator season. To be exact, fryolator-fried fish season.

The best fried fish in Maine--in the whole country, I believe--comes from small the family-owned "shacky" places that dot the Maine countryside. They open Memorial Day weekend and close some time in October before the first hard frost.

Seating is usually outdoors at sticky picnic tables, and facilities tend to be of the port-a-potty variety. Credit cards are rarely if ever accepted. Perhaps at the yuppie places in Kittery and Wells, but not up the coast where I am.

The menu at these places usually consists of fried haddock, scallops, or clams. Some will also have lobster rolls or crab rolls, both of which are served on toasted hotdog buns. And all these establishments will offer French fries and onion rings, cole slaw, and the staple condiment, tartar sauce.

(Some places will also offer the lesser hamburger, hotdog, grilled cheese sandwich, or--for ungrateful kids who don't deserve the investment of a haddock basket--fried chicken fingers.)

Dessert falls into one of two camps: soft-serve and hard scoop. A few places, like the one I frequent, dare to serve both. But most stick with one type of ice cream, and their loyal followers insist it's the very best on earth. Whatever it may be.

The fish place of my childhood closed a few years back, so I am still wandering in fryolator limbo while I decide where to place my allegiances now.

The top contender is pictured above, and it overlooks one of the most beautiful tidal inlets along the entire coast. The owner is a hoot. He does things like grow tomatoes upside-down in recycled kitty litter containers that are suspended from an old swing set with a hand-lettered sign above it that says, "Just hangin' around." When people ask him what tomato variety he is growing, he likes to say, "Ripe."

Anyway, fryolator season is my personal undoing. I approach its arrival with both glee and dread, because I am powerless over a good haddock basket. But thanks to Maine's notoriously short summer, fryolator season will be over before we know it.

In the meantime, anyone want some of my fries?

happiness in a skein

2009-05-21T15:39:00.002-04:00

happiness in a skein
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Seriously. Does it get any better than this?

Yesterday morning I walked down to the farmer's market, which takes place every Wednesday in Portland's Monument Square. It was truly a propaganda day, bright and warm, the air smelled sweet, everybody was in a good mood, everything looked pretty, and it was the kind of morning when people visiting from elsewhere suddenly declare, "That's it, I'm moving here."

(I speak from experience and can only advise you NOT TO CALL THE MOVER until you've thought about it a little longer.)

Anyway, the market was overflowing with big healthy seedlings--vegetables, fruits, herbs, flowers, and random ornamental stuff. One vendor had local cheese, another had pork in a big ice chest, and yet another had amber-colored jars filled with honey. Yum, yum.

But what made me happiest of all was the sight of this yarn, white and clean and bright and lofty and freshly spun and full of opportunity and potential, like a big empty sheet of paper. It came from the vendor's own sheep. (When I asked what kind, he shrugged and said, "they're just mutts.") His wife hadn't had any time to dye it yet because she was busy with their newborn. "I don't even know, like..." he said, shrugging and shaking his head, "how much yarn is in there or anything."

Dude, like, Yarn Whisperer here, reporting for duty!

So of course I grabbed a hank, popped it open, pull it taut, and give him a mini-tutorial on hank construction, showing how it was most likely a two-yard loop and that he could count the strands in the loop, multiply them by two, and have a pretty close idea of how many yards were in there (approximately 180).

I think I was probably much more excited about it than he was. In fact I'm plotting to go back and offer to buy up his entire clip for the season. For what purpose I do not know, but when has that ever stopped a knitter before?

Thank you

2009-05-20T22:39:00.004-04:00

wisteria
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I'm full of feelings and low on words tonight, so I'll keep this short. I do want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the outpouring of well-wishes and generous words of wisdom that you've shared with me in relation to this day I have dreaded and feared for so long. I feel extraordinarily lucky, and I thank you for the collective hug that made this day so meaningful.

For me, birthdays tend to bring up memories of past birthdays, which inevitably leads to a sense of loss and sadness about what is no more. Missing people who are no longer here, spaces that are long gone, times that have passed. And realizing how short our remaining time here really is. Which is why, when my mother and brother drove away, I stood on the sidewalk with quite a heavy lump in my throat.

There is much to celebrate, and much for which to be grateful. So we shall not end this day on a sad note. Instead, we will reflect upon the wise and inspirational words that my niece Emma wrote in her card to me. "You better have a good b-day," she said, "or the FBI will surround your house and you will be fired from your job and you will run out of money...So happy b-day."

Oh, to be 10 again.

Actually no. On second thought, I'm quite happy to be right here, right now, swilling my Metamucil and stocking up on Depends and thinking about how to make the very most out of every minute I'm given.

I'm in my thirties

2009-05-19T12:39:00.004-04:00

It is a bright sunny day here, with more puffy clouds and a strong, warm sunshine that makes my skin feel warm and happy. I'm down in Portland for the next few days.

Today my mantra is, "I'm in my thirties." Sometimes it alternates with, "I'm thirty nine." I repeat it again and again and again, trying to savor every single syllable one last time, because when the clock strikes midnight it will no longer true. I know it's ridiculous to go on like this, but there you have it. Earlier today my brother called and asked to speak with the "decrepit old hag," then excused himself, "Oh wait, that's tomorrow."

So I'm comforting myself at my favorite coffee place, with a good cappuccino and a piece of toast by my side, knitting away on a Top-Secret project while fussing with the pattern on the world's smallest laptop (more on that later). They're playing a steady stream of the most magnificent and moving early Aretha Franklin ever recorded. The sweet, soulful, emotional stuff that makes you want to weep and rejoice simultaneously.

My mother flew east from Arizona a few days ago and is due to arrive here in less than an hour. It'll be nice to ring in this big birthday with the person who did most of the heavy lifting some 40...er...THIRTY NINE years ago. She turns 70 this summer and is grappling a little, so we'll be good company.

Thanks for listening. May your day be beautiful, wherever you are.

2009-05-18T18:35:00.004-04:00

In keeping with this blog's apparent "I see dead people" theme, today is my grandfather's birthday. He was a very big part of my development as a person, and I was by his side when he took his last breath in 1997, so I can't let this day go by without a few words on his behalf.

My grandfather was a brilliant man who was passionate about his work and famous in his field. I spent much of my early life seeking his approval and usually failing—I mean heck, it's hard to compete with a member of the National Academy of Sciences when you're 9 and your biggest accomplishment is being able to fry an egg without setting off the smoke alarm.

Just by existing, he set the bar higher than any reasonable human could jump, but I kept trying. He had a brain that wouldn't stop, and he approached everything with a steady, methodical eye that sometimes drove me (the impetuous pre-teen) nuts.

In that regard I feel extremely lucky that he lived long enough to see me become an adult and start to find my way in the world. We were able to connect on a much more genuine and enduring level then.

I know he was proud of me, though I have no idea what he would've made of this whole knitting business. (I think he would've snorted, but the fact that I wrote two books would've redeemed me.)

Still, I take great pleasure in knowing that I helped give something back to him in his later years, that he had a better sense of who I was as a person (and I him), and that he left this world knowing that I would be ok.

Happy birthday, grandpa.

small-town burial

2009-05-17T20:14:00.002-04:00

a gratuitous shot of this morning's buttermilk biscuits
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Speaking of Wayne and his full-fingered mittens, his memorial service was yesterday. Grace wanted to wait until the worst of winter had passed. At 2pm sharp we all gathered at the Lakeview Cemetery, which overlooks—you guessed it—a lake. A big gorgeous freshwater lake called Walker Pond, where my mother attended summer camp as a kid and where I first learned how to capsize a boat.

On this day, the sky was filled with puffy white clouds, and a stiff wind kept the black flies at bay. As Wayne’s great grand-nephew squirmed in his father’s arms and Grace periodically sniffed the sprigs of rosemary she was holding, two ministers (one retiring, the other taking his place) navigated the nuanced waters of Wayne’s agnosticisim with a surprising dose of respect.

A man sang “No Man is an Island,” and several people read Wayne’s poems. One, called “Next,” spoke to the fact that he was the last remaining sibling of 13 and that, indeed, he knew his turn was next. We all said the Lord’s Prayer and departed, driving in a long caravan to the town hall for a reception. Tables had been set up in the same room where we all cast our votes each November.

At the front of the room, a long row of tables had been laden with a feast fitting of Wayne’s memory: trays of meatballs, lasagna, and ziti pasta, hand-sized sandwich rolls filled with crab salad, tuna salad, and chicken salad, potato chips, miniature cupcakes, various tea cakes, and a particularly tasty cottage cheese Jell-O salad with multicolored marshmallows on top. Washed down with sparkling fruit punch and giant cauldrons of weak coffee. The food was a loving and genuine expression of this little community, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

As is usually the case, seating followed the unspoken custom. Locals sat together in clumps, and PFAs (my term for “people from away”) sat together in other clumps, and very, very few felt comfortable crossing party lines and injecting themselves upon the other group. These two groups will never become fully amalgamated. (I straddle somewhere in the middle, being from away but related to a much-beloved semi-local character.) The fact that both sides were in attendance was a testament to Wayne who, although married to a local for 50+ years, was born in Ohio and thus never quite fit in here either. Maine is funny that way.

One table was dedicated to mementos. We saw his dashing military portrait (he was a spitting image of Val Kilmer circa Real Genius) and his college diploma. We saw a picture of him gracefully skating on the pond. (“He was 80 there,” Grace told us. “He finally gave up his skates when he turned 85.”) We leafed through a small photo album showing his later years. But most of the table was taken up with huge grainy laminated Polaroids of their yard, taken by their neighbor after he clearcut the beautiful woods immediately behind their house.

The clearcutting was actually a horrible moment for a lot of us, and those pictures seemed a strange thing to display in his memory. And the neighbor didn’t even show up for the funeral or the reception—but he did send those pictures. (I knew they were from him because he has a serious, serious lamination obsession.)

This is the same neighbor who put some odious campaign signs in my front yard and then had his wife come over and yell at me for taking them down. (Apparently putting them in his own yard wasn’t in the strategy, but my yard was? Strange people.)

As cruel a blow as the clearcutting was to Grace and Wayne, they faced it with remarkable dignity. I would’ve busied myself with evil, dark, and barely legal revenge plots, but Wayne—already well into his 90s—went over and helped this neighbor chop and stack the wood properly.

So actually, on second thought, those ugly pictures of barren woods and blurry woodpiles were a fitting tribute to Wayne’s gentle spirit and even temperament. And they were a gentle reminder of that oh-so-useful universal truth: You can’t always control what happens around you, but you can control how you respond to it.

gangbusters

2009-05-16T18:42:00.001-04:00

chives
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Are anyone else's chives growing like crazy? Mine are. In fact I suspect they're plotting to overthrow the rest of the garden, and I am powerless to stop them.

They're so healthy, so happy, so perky and reliable. They tell me Mother Nature might stick around for another year. And they hint at what's to come, weeks of being able to walk out to the garden with a bowl and a pair of scissors and return to the house with the fixings for an entire meal--and an indescribably tender and delicious one at that.

I snipped a big handful today, slicing them very fine and tossing them in my salad. It was delicious.

Does anyone have any other good suggestions for chives? Chive butter, chive soup, chive pate, chive ice cream, chive toothpaste, perhaps even a chive facial mask? I'm open.

Stalking the stove

2009-05-15T21:59:00.004-04:00

All this nostalgia about my grandma made me curious about that stove. Not the big electric Titanic with the built-in pot in which she allegedly used to cook things to oblivion, but the second one I remember best, with that amazing broiling contraption.

I started hunting on the ole interwebs and lo, I actually found it. A Chambers range, I don't know the year or model but this is pretty close.

Turns out it, too, had a built-in pot—although I never recall it being used. The cute salt and pepper shakers were a figment of my imagination. It breaks my heart to know that this stove went with the house when it was sold in 1992, and that the new owner most likely had it hauled to the dump ASAP so that he could put in a Wolf behemoth instead.

But even more to my dismay was the discovery that this is the same stove a certain Rachael Ray uses on her show. So please let it go on the record, right here and now, that my grandma had hers first.

I don’t mean to malign Rachael Ray, although she does make an easy target for folks who believe in making real stuffing for the turkey instead of crumbling a store-bought cranberry muffin into a sauce pan with a box of Swanson’s chicken broth. (I’m sorry but I still tremble at that one.)

Since she and I share the same publisher, I am bound by the Author Code of Loyalty to defend her every move. I’m quite sure that she is an extraordinarily hard-working person who is grateful to have found success in this niche, and to have been able to parlay that success into broader things like a talk show and an appearance at Bryant Park. We should all be so lucky.

As many times as I’ve cringed at her shortcuts, I do appreciate her efforts to encourage more people to skip Applebee’s one night a week, stay at home, and cook delicious meals. And even Anthony Bourdain has started to warm to her.

So I guess it’s ok that she has my grandma’s stove. But has anybody ever seen her use it?

In defense of glop

2009-05-14T22:07:00.002-04:00

My father wishes to interject a little of what he calls "reality" as it relates to yesterday's nostalgic look back at my grandma's cooking. Keep in mind that she was his mother-in-law, and that his marriage to my mother ultimately failed. (Not that this should, ahem, bias your opinion or in any way discredit the legitimacy of his claims.)

Anyway, my father seems to have a very different memory of my grandma's cooking. He alleges that she cooked all her meals to oblivion, slowly simmering them for six hours or more in her stove's built-in cooker. (She had a huge electric range and one of the burners was literally a recessed pot, like an integrated crock pot.)

I offer two points in her defense. First, they later replaced that stove with a beautiful Wedgewood gas range that had a pop-up broiler and an adorable matching salt and pepper shakers. More often than not, she would bake or broil a big piece of fish for dinner. Fish does not take nine hours to cook, therefore it was not possible for her to cook it to oblivion.

Second, the one dish that she did insist on slowly cooking for days on end was ratatouille, and hers happened to be splendid. Therefore on those occasions when she did feel moved to cook something to oblivion, she chose an appropriate dish for the occasion.

And third, assuming she may have cooked other items to oblivion in that giant electric pot from time to time, however rare that may have been, I am confident she had a very good reason for doing so. Like, for example, she wanted to use as few dishes as possible since her lousy son-in-law and lazy daughter never offered to help with the clean-up. Just projecting.

I hereby rest my case and shall now return to my nostalgia. Everything always looks so much better in rose, don't you think?

more fun

2009-05-13T20:45:00.002-04:00

more fun
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I've just rediscovered another reason to love my grandma.

Not only did she instill the knitting bug in me, which is a pretty big thing since that has since become my passion and my career. But she also taught me the pleasures of cooking well. When I'd visit her in the summer, every single day we'd go to the fish market to see what was fresh (how I loved making those "scrod" jokes), and then we'd stop at the vegetable stand and pick up whatever looked ripe. Her salad dressing was always homemade, whisked together in the bottom of a big, perfectly seasoned wooden salad bowl. In her later years she pretty much gave up on desserts, so we resorted to boxed ice cream and Pepperidge Farm cookies. But the rest of the meal would be fantastic.

She is still with me in my kitchen -- in my baking sheets, my measuring cups and spoons, my cast-iron frying pan, my rolling pin, my dishes, my spoons, and most definitely in my cookbooks. She liked to have duplicates of things, "just in case," which is how I ended up with two copies of Larousse Gastronomique (one in French, one in English), two copies of Craig Claiborne's NY Times Cookbook, three dog-eared copies of Fannie Farmer, and two, count 'em two entire sets of the Time Life Foods of the World series (which is actually a great read--did you know MFK Fisher co-wrote the Cooking of Provincial France volume?).

Today I glanced over at one of my shelves and rediscovered this gem lurking in the shadows. Curnonsky was apparently the pen name for French writer Maurice Edmund Sailland, aka the Prince of Gastronomy. He was a prolific writer (including as a ghostwriter for Colette's husband) with a penchant for food -- writing about it and EATING it. He was a large, large man who, rumor has it, needed to be carried by six friends when he went out to restaurants. His gastronomic exploits were cut short when, at the age of 84, he leaned too far out a window and became a victim of gravity.

But anyway, the book is a great big time capsule with wonderful old black and white pictures and recipes for improbable and not-entirely-appetizing concoctions that require strange organs encased in gelatin, fish that don't exist here, and fresh bunny rabbit flesh. Other recipes use more familiar ingredients and are remarkably simple, many taking only five or six sentences to explain.

I spot a recipe for Les Sables de Caen (those irresistibly delicious butter cookies) and shall stock up on extra butter for the weekend just in case.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

2009-05-12T21:10:00.002-04:00

roses
Originally uploaded by norvegal

In honor of having reached Day 12 of my 31-day barnstorming blog extravaganza, and to give you a breather from all those "word" things I've been throwing at you, today I present this bouquet of luscious roses. Courtesy of Whole Foods, $10.

I'm more of a rumpled farmhousey flower person, but these called to me. They have such a regal presence that I keep doing a double-take when I see them. It feels like this woman is sitting at my table patiently waiting for me to serve tea. Or perhaps it's this woman, whose patience is clearly growing thin. Wait! No! If I'm lucky, my guest is this woman who is too in love with my silver candelabra to notice that I haven't served tea yet. Crikey! I'd better run put on the kettle now.

wayne reknit

2009-05-11T18:43:00.002-04:00

wayne reknit
Originally uploaded by norvegal

What a pleasure to spend the afternoon holding Wayne's hand and saying a personal farewell. While the results aren't completely perfect, I'm pleased enough.

And I think...I hope...that he would've approved.

reknitting wayne

2009-05-10T22:59:00.002-04:00

wayne
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I have been given an extraordinary task.

About three years ago, I waxed poetic here about Wayne, my elderly neighbor with a penchant for exquisite woodpiles. He and his wife Grace live just up the road from me in a tiny trailer that feels like Snow White should pop out from around a corner and start singing with the animals. It's a magic little place.

Grace is a living embodiment of her name, and Wayne was a lovely man, strong and smart but with a wonderfully mischievious glint in his eye. I didn't know him well, but he was a benevolent presence. I'd see him outside, tending his wood piles, raking blueberries, or keeping his driveway meticulously clear of snow and ice. We'd nod, smile, and wave.

Wayne passed away this spring, and I still feel a lump in my throat when I drive past their little house. He'd been sick for many months, during which time Grace never left his side. Now, after a quiet period of seclusion, she is back out in the world. She is getting her kitchen repainted and her deck repaired, signing up for more satellite TV channels, and basically filling me with awe and appreciation for the lessons she is teaching me just by living.

While not a knitter, Grace is a fixture at my knit-in. She brings her embroidery and sewing projects, and we all hang on her every word.

Well, last week she presented me with a whopper.

Wayne had a funny middle finger that was shorter than the others. Grace's aunt had knit two pairs of special gloves for him, tailoring that middle finger to fit his hand perfectly. He wore them faithfully all these years.

Grace handed me two of those special gloves and asked if I could reknit the shorter finger in each so that it extended the length of a normal finger. She is sentimental and practical -- she wanted a nephew to have Wayne's gloves, but she wanted him to actually be able to wear them.

So I shall unravel those stitches that were so carefully placed there some 40 years ago by another knitter. And in the reknitting of those stitches, I shall miraculously heal Wayne's funny finger.

I wonder if he's sitting up in the blueberry field watching over this and smiling? I dearly hope so.

planting potatoes

2009-05-09T22:41:00.003-04:00

planting potatoes
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Did you know that potatoes grow from potatoes? Not innocent little seeds but actual fully grown potatoes?

It seems sort of strange to me, a little cannibalistic, but there you have it. To grow a potato plant, you take another potato -- a particularly healthy, "pathogen-free nuclear stock" potato but basically a potato -- and if it's large you take a sharp knife and ruthlessly hack it apart. Usually only into two pieces, but still. You do this right there in front of its friends and family. They can hear the screams. They know their own fate. It's awful.

My own potato massacre took place yesterday. I set the pieces out to dry overnight, and I gave them a proper burial this afternoon.

But their martyrdom shall not be for naught, my friends. With any luck, from their dark tombs shall sprout healthy green leafy plants with lovely blossoms. And while those plants shall themselves shrivel and die in 13 to 17 weeks, do not despair.

You need only look under the surface for hope. Literally underneath the surface where those plants were growing. Pull away the soil and you'll discover a whole new batch of young, healthy potatoes ready for harvesting. Like panning for gold, sift through the soil and you'll find one, two, three, four, five, a dozen or more beautiful healthy babies just waiting to be baked, dotted with butter, and eaten alive.

Ahhhhh, nature.

delightful dough

2009-05-08T18:46:00.006-04:00

delightful dough
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Can I tell you how much fun I've been having with Michael Ruhlman's new book, Ratio?

Well I HAVE.

This novel-sized, black-and-white book—nothing glossy or four-color about it—has transformed my relationship to pie crust. And it's only May!

Back story: Every New Year's Eve I sit down with my journal and write about the year that has passed, and I try to think about what I'd like to accomplish in the coming year. I usually like to keep things vague, like "Become a better person" or "Get more organized," but this year I added a special note to the list: "Master pie crust."

I've never been very fond of pie. It's the crust I don't like, so dense and greasy. As a kid I'd scrape out the guts and leave the crust behind, driving my mom nuts. Most of my feeble attempts to replicate pie dough as an adult have fallen apart before I could even get them into the pie plate.

But I live in Maine now, and Maine is the land of blueberry pie. Every summer, a steady stream of visitors passes through my house, asking for steamed lobster, rides in the sailboat, and endless helpings of blueberry pie. I want to be a skilled, confident cook who isn't afraid of that word, "pie." Which is why I put that on my list of things to accomplish this year.

Enter Michael Ruhlman and his book Ratio, which is based on the notion of using culinary ratios, or fixed proportions of ingredients in relation to one another, to prepare many common foods. These could include breads, stocks and sauces, custards, batters, and doughs, including—ding ding ding—pie dough!

The ratio for pie dough is super easy to remember, too: 3-2-1. Three parts flour, two parts fat, one part water, all parts figured by weight. That's it. My first attempt at the 3-2-1 pie dough was so wildly, astonishingly, life-transformingly successful that I had to try it again because I was convinced it was a fluke and all future attempts would be dreadful, therefore dashing my hopes for culinary excellence before they ever managed to get off the ground, leaving me a shattered, dense and greasy shell of my former self. But the results were just as good the second time around. Delicate, flavorful, flaky, buttery, delicious. Yes ma'am, there's a new sheriff in pie town.

The coolest part? You don't even need to use this dough for your standard gloppy sweet pie, either. No sirree. A few weeks ago I sauteed myself up some onions and mushrooms, blanched a pound of spinach, and mixed it all in a bowl of ricotta with an egg yolk and a dash of nutmeg. I scooped it into individual squares of dough, folded them over, pinched the edges, and put them in the freezer for a rainy day.

It's not raining today, but want to guess what's for dinner?

sweet spring

2009-05-07T15:12:00.004-04:00

sweet spring
Originally uploaded by norvegal

On my walk this morning I discovered this beautiful sweet-smelling harbinger of spring. It shares the side of a building with an ancient wisteria vine that, too, was showing signs of renewal. I stood there and greedily sniffed this magical fragrance over and over and over again until I started to get dizzy.

Today had an odd vibe in Portland, though. A very tense, aggressive vibe. It was raining, which isn't at all unusual. But the traffic was bad. Backed up beyond anything normal for this little town. Stopped, in fact. People were honking. Yelling. Swerving. Doing stupid things they don't normally do.

And on the sidewalk, people with stern faces and big umbrellas kept pushing past me. People with Somewhere to Go, if you know what I mean. A giant Portland police "Special Situations Unit" van drove by slowly, packed with policemen in full garb. Have we been invaded? Attacked? Where was the protest?

Well, it turns out they were all in town to experience the so-called world-famous motivational mega-show called Get Motivated. It features, among others, America's #1 Motivator, Ameria's Best Inspirational Speaker, America's #1 Health and Fitness Expert, the President and CEO of Forbes, Inc. (hint: his name rhymes with Steve Forbes), and America's #1 Mayor (hint: he and a famous reindeer share the same first name).

For a mere $19, you could send your entire office to spend the day being told, among other things, how to get everything you want, how to reach goals you never thought possible, how to maximize your sales potential, how to get ahead and stay ahead, how to unlock the secrets of anti-aging, and how to provide leadership for New York City after a terrorist attack.

Not to belittle the people who were coming to this show. I think it's noble and good to strive to become a better person, to push ourselves to excel, to move beyond our comfort zones and dwell in that daring, scary place where miracles can happen.

But the vibe leading to this event was not open and uplifting, people were not looking one another in the eye, smiling, and being kind. They were in that aggressive "me-first" mode that I always find just a little bit worrisome (the police in riot gear certainly didn't help). And I found the idea of 5,000 me-firsters jammed in one space, breathing the same air, listening to the same messages, equally worrisome. Call me old-fashioned. Bottom line: I didn't want to be anywhere near town when their 8 hours and 45 minutes of lectures by America's #1 [insert title here] came to a close. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe they will leave uplifted and kinder and better people. I hope so.

But just in case, I'm loading up the ole jalopy and heading north to the country once again, where Casey the cat and a good E.B. White essay (or two) await.

Passing prime

2009-05-06T19:41:00.002-04:00

Past its prime?
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I went to the doctor yesterday to see if there have been any advents in migraine therapy since the last time we talked. (Nope, there haven't been any.) While I was waiting, I overheard an elderly woman talking with the receptionist. "She gave me a pneumonia shot and a tetanus shot," she said. "And she said this was the last tetanus shot I'd ever need!"

Mind you she was speaking in the happy voice of someone bragging, look how lucky I am, neener neener, I'll never need a tetanus shot again. But I heard, "The doctor said I only have 5 to 10 years left to live." Although she clearly had no problems with what she'd been told, it made me feel strange and sad and thoughtful.

So I went and talked with my doctor, a lovely smart woman who has freckles and curly hair and a fantastic way of really hearing what you say—or at least putting up a convincing front. We talked about migraines and she explained how women tend to get them when they reach puberty, and that they can get particularly bad on the other end of the journey as our ovaries reach their expiration date.

I turn 40 this month, so that expiration date is still a little while off. But I'm sensitive to it. Once women hit 40 in this country, it seems as if the prevailing culture really wishes they'd sorta...just quietly disappear. Please don't be so visible, thank you very much. It's not good for PR.

Anyway, my doc did give me something for the nausea. Among its various side effects are dizziness, fever, drooling, mask-like face, protruding tongue, rigid arms, rotation of eyeballs, shuffling gait, tremors, increased psychotic symptoms, heels bent back on legs, heart attack, and—particularly welcome in a drug to prevent nausea—nausea. My friend Jane noted that the heel thing could make for a very effective ice-breaker at parties. Always look on the bright side.

On my way out, they had me schedule blood work, an MRI, and my very first mammogram. It felt strangely like I was scheduling my car's 60,000-mile service and saying, "What the hell, can you toss in a new timing belt and some tires while you're in there?" Only it's a body, not a car. I asked if I'd get any discount for preordering a walker and my first case of Depends now, but they said no.

Sometimes I find life almost too surreal to fathom on a cerebral level. So much is happening simultaneously, from bliss to utter despair, from youth to, well, you know, anti-youth. It seems to me that if you spent too much time thinking about it, you'd go batty. And, considering the alternatives, I think I'll just go with it.

If I take good care of myself and if I'm very lucky and if the shuffling gait, tremors, and increased psychotic symptoms don't get me first, I, too, may become that happy 90-something-year-old bragging that she never needs another tetanus shot again.

Mayo Clinic

2009-05-05T20:12:00.003-04:00

May Mayo
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Ever wonder what you must look like to the outside world?

I pondered that question today as I found myself walking down the street carrying nothing but this jar of mayonnaise.

It just seemed lewd, seedy. Not wholesome and optimistic, like milk or peanut butter. Not embarrassing but necessary, like toilet paper. But just plain weird. Mayonnaise.

I imagined a tidy elderly couple driving by me on the road, the woman spotting me, looking closer, furrowing her brow. She turns back to her beloved Henry (behind the wheel, wearing freshly ironed khakis and a turtleneck) and asks, "Now what could that strange girl be doing with that jar of mayonnaise?"

He turns to see what she's talking about, spotting me. He just shakes his head sadly. "I just don't know, Myrtle. I just don't know." The car speeds off to safety.

The reason was obvious enough to me: Steamed artichokes. I'm down in Portland today and have come into possession of beautiful artichokes. I went to steam them and discovered - horrors - that I had no mayonnaise. All the corner market offered was this jar of dubious brand-I've-never-heard-of-before stuff, so that's what I got.

How do you eat your artichokes? Do you steam and dip them in mayo? Squeeze a little lemon over them? Perhaps add a dab of horseradish? Yogurt? An oil-and-vinegar marinade? Anything else I should try?

p.s.-Speaking of which, happy Cinco de Mayo!

Today's post is brought to you by the letter C

2009-05-04T14:57:00.003-04:00

edna's cake
Originally uploaded by norvegal

So many good things start with the letter C. Cashmere, chocolate, cat (both the four-legged and two-legged kind, especially if your last name is Bordhi), Clara (of course), and CAKE.

Cake has been on my mind after I read a particularly poignant piece by Orangette. She wrote,

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about cake. This is not an unusual condition for me, but it happens particularly often when I’m feeling frazzled or tired or harried, right around the same time that I start listening to the easy listening station on the car radio and feeling genuinely soothed by it. It’s pretty clear that you need a good night’s sleep when “Peaceful Easy Feeling” comes on the stereo and you almost choke up, sitting there behind the wheel of your Honda with its missing hubcaps, singing a mournful duet with Glenn Frey as you thump-thump over the speed bumps of residential Seattle. It is also pretty clear that you need cake.

After yesterday's episode, it's pretty clear that I need cake. Not a thick gunky tower of sweetness, but something simple, pillowy, and soothing that will ground my body and make things ok again.

I pulled out my copy of Edna Lewis's The Taste of Country Cooking and turned to page 86 for the cake that had inspired Orangette to wax poetic. It's called the Busy-Day Cake, and it's an extremely simple recipe - just your usual flour, butter, milk, sugar, eggs, baking powder, vanilla, and nutmeg. I swapped buttermilk for the milk, but otherwise kept to the script.

And yet there is something magic in the precise combination of those ingredients. What came out of my oven 40 minutes later was not only beautiful, it was calming and healing. Lofty and moist, not too sweet, and with a fine and perfectly crunchy layer on the outside. In the comfort food repertoire, this is the cake equivalent of homemade chicken broth. And, since I can't take Thanh up on her offer of homemade Vietnamese chicken porridge (which I do believe would make everything better again), I'll just eat cake.

A lost day

2009-05-03T20:38:00.002-04:00

angelique tulips
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Today I write to you from my couch, where I'm semi-recumbent and wrapped up in a red plaid blanket. Casey is napping at my feet, an empty bowl of chicken broth is on a little tray on the floor, and Book Two of the Complete Calvin and Hobbes is by my side.

This has been an ironic day. Part of why I decided to skip the Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival this year is because it seems to bring bad migraines - I blame the pollen. Normally I'm a perfectly healthy person, mind you. But I spent an entire Saturday evening one year curled up on the bathroom floor of a rather sleazy hotel room that smelled like cigarettes. The next year I spent most of Sunday lying in my rental car, parked around the back of the fairgrounds where all the vendors come and go. Even last year I woke with a headache despite taking every precaution possible, keeping myself medicated all 48 hours of the event.

So you may find it rather ironic that, the year I decided to stay home, the ghosts of festivals past paid me a visit anyway. Without being too graphic, I'll just say that I spent eight solid hours being sicker than I've ever been before, at 20 minute intervals, and by the end, even the Russian judges gave me a 10 for my performance. I traded the gold medal for a cold washcloth and, 12 hours later, a bowl of homemade chicken broth. (Word to the wise: If you want to love yourself even more than I hope you already do, always, always, always keep some homemade chicken broth in the freezer. You never know when you may need it.)

I'm wiped out. But instead of boring you with any more of this gruesome woe, I'll share a picture of the angelique tulips that grow by my front door. This year's tulips are still humble green lollypops at this point, so this picture is from last year. But it's a nice reminder of things to come.

Thanks for listening.

Mending fences

2009-05-02T18:06:00.002-04:00

Mending fences
Originally uploaded by norvegal

Today is my brother Eric's birthday. I wish I could drive down to Boston and surprise him with a giant chocolate cake. But Boston is five hours from here, and he has his hands full with two energetic little kids - and the last thing they need is their loopy aunt Clara showing up on the doorstep, getting the kids all riled up right before dinnertime. So I'm here instead, wishing him a most marvelous birthday.

It is also the first day of the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival, and for the first time in several years I am not there. This was intentional. I decided that I needed to be home. And it feels good.

I spent the day outside weeding and getting the garden fences in working order. These fences run around each of my two gardens. The one closest to the house has mostly kitchen things - lots of different herbs, including a spectacular bed of chives, plus lots and lots of lettuces, carrots, radishes, spinach, beets, and Swiss chard. The bigger one is down in the field, measures about 20 x 60, and has more stable things like strawberries, asparagus, raspberries, and sorrel, and that's where the onions, potatoes, peas, beans, kale, and tomatoes go.

The onions went in last week, and ever since I've had a low-grade anxiety about getting the fences fixed up so that my babies are fully protected. Nobody seems to go for the onions, but still I worry. I love my onions.

The gardens are protected with a plastic mesh fence that I secure with green metal posts. Pretty much any kind of fence would be better than this, but I've grown fond of it over the years. It is unobtrusive, relatively inexpensive, and it gets the job done. And I like the sound the wind makes as it blows through all those fine holes, a kind of whoooooooosh that magnifies the feeling of the wind.

Over time, though, this plastic mesh tends to break down and develop holes. Any sane person would tear the stuff down each fall and just replace it with brand spanking new plastic every spring, but I come from hearty New England stock. So, instead, each spring I take my giant ball of twine down into the gardens and slowly, patiently, some might say crazily patch all the little tears and holes. My fence is a veritable crazy quilt of patches and knots, and I'm just fine with that.

I like the concept of mending fences. Both literally and metaphorically. Fences protect you. Fences normally take quite a bit of time and care to create. They deserve to be tended, mended, and thanked for the noble task they perform so valiantly.

Having mended my own fences, I'm now off to bake a cherry pie.

May: An Experiment in 31 Days

2009-05-01T15:27:00.002-04:00

Tap tap tap... Is this thing still on?

When I meet fellow knitters and they find out that I'm that Clara, they may say, "I read your... your... your..." and they pause, not quite sure what to call Knitter's Review. So they usually end their sentences with, "your... BLOG... every week!"

Which is extraordinarily sweet. I'm always tickled and very honored to hear that anyone bothers to read what I write, much less enjoys it. But it always makes me feel a little like an impostor, because I don't consider Knitter's Review a blog. It is a weekly publication. Online magazine. Newsletter. Whatever. It's a business, it's a publication.

But I consider this more personal. This is my blog.

You may laugh at this news, since I have let this blog lie fallow so dreadfully for the last six or so months. How did this happen? I can only blame word overload. I had too many words spilling forth from every orifice -- words for Knitter's Review, words for my second book (which is now in the can and on its way to China), and words for the various columns and articles that I have been fortunate enough to be able to write. It was just too much, and I had no more left for here. I do not believe in blathering for blathering's sake, so I kept quiet.

Well, time has passed and a little more space is opening up in my life again. It's been interesting to watch what I choose to put in that space. This is a very specific kind of space I'm talking about. Not random life storage, not "gee I have more time for bowling" space, but like a sacred little box in which important things are conceived, fostered, slowly grown, and finally born. A creative womb or greenhouse of sorts.

There's room in that womb, if you'll pardon the pun. I've been having a blast slowly emerging from the thaw and picking up things I haven't had time to do in a long time. Things like cooking. Baking. Decorating absurdly ornate cupcakes. Things that don't directly relate to yarn or knitting, necessarily, because I still feel like I need to cleanse my palette a little more.

And yet I miss this place and I miss talking to you. So I have decided to embark upon a personal adventure this month. I'm going to open my window to you and share all 31 days of my May, day by day, with you. Consider it a sort of daily twitter but with more words.

Wait, didn't I just say I am not a fan of blather for blathering's sake? I am not. I promise, I shall not blather.

And with that promise, I shall send this missive out into the blogosphere. If you'd rather find out what I had for breakfast and the last time I flossed my teeth, you can still follow me on Twitter.

Talk to you again soon!

2008-10-08T14:44:00.002-04:00

Time to roast the chiles
Originally uploaded by norvegal

"The smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us...." - Marcel Proust

A new and welcome tradition has been the arrival of green chiles on my doorstep each fall. They come straight from northern New Mexico courtesy of a generous and understanding sister in law.

If you've ever been to New Mexico in the fall, I think you'll agree that few smells in this world evoke such a sense of place as the scent of roasted green chiles. The minute that box arrives, I check my charcoal supply and get out the Ziplock bags. The clock is ticking, and I don't want to lose one single green chile before it has a chance to be roasted.

I love this ritual as much for the surprise factor as for the culinary treat it provides for an entire winter. Here in Maine you expect certain fragrances - woodsmoke and rotting leaves, primarily. But you do not expect the smell of roasting chiles.

The roasting itself is an exquisite moment. When you place these seemingly inanimate objects on a grill over extremely hot coals, they come to life. They hiss and puff, they breathe in and out, they willingly absorb the heat as they roast from the inside.

Once they're roasted, I pull them off the fire and let them continue cooking under a wet towel. There's always a sense of satisfaction when I finally close the grill lid and bring my heaping trays back inside. Once they've cooled, the chiles go into plastic bags that are dated and then set in the freezer for safekeeping.

Soon enough it will be 14 degrees outside and I will have looked at nothing but snow and grey skies for days. I'll long to get away, to go somewhere warm, somewhere...different. When that moment comes, I can pull out a bag of chiles and put them in a special dish - a chicken stew, or perhaps an omelette. And as soon as I take a bite and close my eyes, I can feel the airplane of my imagination taking off and heading west.

And so we begin again

2008-09-30T11:13:00.002-04:00

The book
Originally uploaded by norvegal

"The only real thing to leave in the world is one's spirit . . . the leavings of me, murking up the atmosphere, smogging the air, sprinkling a sort of mist over things so perhaps they will twinkle a bit."
- M.F.K. Fisher

And so we begin again, as I attempt to sprinkle just a little more mist over things so perhaps they will twinkle a bit.

Books are strange creatures. They begin as an idea in one's mind. If you're lucky, someone agrees that it's a good idea and supports you in turning it into a book. Someone like, say, a publisher.

They give you constraints (writers need deadlines), they help you focus and fine-tune the idea, and then they send you off into your quiet corner to slowly, patiently, painstakingly transform this idea into a manuscript. You may talk to a lot of people, you may read a lot of other people's thoughts on the topic, you may take in a lot of input and information from a variety of sources, but at the end of the day, most of what writing entails is sitting still, staring at a screen, and thinking.

To the casual observer, we're just daydreaming. But in reality our little minds are furiously churning through a swirling mass of thoughts, trying into transform them into something cohesive, clear, and useful to a reader we hope exists. Doubts intrude upon the process with the annoying frequency of telemarketers. We toil for quite a long time in this scary yet exciting place of creation and the unknown. Sometimes we don't even know for sure what this book's title will be, what the book will look like, or how our publisher will choose to market it. We just don't know.

And yet we keep plowing straight ahead, because that's what writers do, holding worry in one hand and faith in the other.

Now the manuscript is in the fine hands of my publisher, where it shall undoubtedly undergo many more transformations over the next eight to ten months before it goes to the printer. And then comes the terrifying and exhilarating moment when a thick FedEx envelope arrives and I know it's all real.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. For now, I thank you for celebrating this small milestone with me.

Cleansing

2008-07-02T10:41:00.004-04:00

Fuchsia
Originally uploaded by norvegal

I feel the need to wipe that last post away and start anew. Whoever stole the shawl deserves no more attention - except one day, I hope, from a patient therapist who can help unravel the brokenness that prompted him or her to do such a thing.

I've moved on.

It is now officially summer. The combination of TNNA, Knitter's Connection, and a terrifyingly close book deadline (still looming) have set me back several weeks in terms of the garden.

They say around here that you really shouldn't plant your garden until July 4th, and I never believe them. But this year I tried it, because I had no choice, and things are going gangbusters.

All sorts of lettuces, radishes and carrots and peppers and zucchinis and cucumbers and tomatoes and herbs and fresh peas and oh, my goodness, the strawberries. So many strawberries.

What an unspeakable luxury to be able to walk out one's door, stroll down a grassy path, and pluck fresh berries from your own soil -- and pop the still-warm-from-the-sun berries right into your mouth.

It's almost as exquisite as I imagine it must be to shear, wash, card, spin, knit, and wear the fibers from an animal you lovingly raised in your own field. Some day, perhaps.

The peonies waited until I returned from TNNA to bloom, bless their giant sweet-smelling hearts.

These days it seems easier than ever to get drawn away from those things that make you happy. Sometimes it's just a matter of stopping for a moment and recalibrating your compass. A quick self-check tells me the following truths. Strawberries and peonies make me happy. Watching my cat sleep, relaxed and trusting in my presence, makes me happy. Yarn and fibers make me happy. Kindness and optimism and honesty make me happy. Organizations like this and this make me happy. Hearing my new baby nephew cry for the first time, just two weeks, ago made me very happy. And watching this guy renews my hope and also makes me happy.

What makes you happy?

2008-05-07T12:01:00.004-04:00

An open letter to the person who stole my shawl

On Friday morning before the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival was officially open, you happened to be next to the Brooks Farm Yarn booth as they were finishing setting up. The booth was full of yarns and samples, but for some reason your eye fell on the Optic Waves Shawl, which Sherry Brooks was carefully putting on a hanger for display. I had loaned it to her expressly for this occasion.

Suddenly, you were overcome with the desire to have this shawl. Not by making it, which is what knitters do, but by taking it. A minute later, pulse racing, you made your move. You snatched the shawl off its hanger, stuffed it in your bag, and left.

Did you hear the announcement over the PA system minutes later? Were you there when the police came? Did you see just how upset Sherry Brooks was? Were you there when I arrived and she agonized over how to break the news to me? Did you see the anger and the tears?

I don't know. By then, the deed was done and the police were on alert. There was no easy way to undo the damage.

I'm guessing you've discovered by now that having this shawl in your possession doesn't make you feel as good as you thought it would. In fact, it carries a heavy weight of sadness from all the people whose hearts you've broken. This is not yours, nor was it made for you.

The Howard County Sheriff's Department has circulated color images of this shawl, and the knitting community is on high alert. The shawl has several distinct features that make it completely unique and easy to identify as the stolen item—which means that you'll never comfortably be able to wear it out and about.

In your heart of hearts, I know you know you did something very wrong.

And it's only going to get worse.

So I ask you do to the right thing. When you're ready, put that shawl in a USPS box and send it back to me, COD. There will be no questions asked, and I know—as I think you know—that you'll feel much better as soon as you've done this.

You can send the shawl to:

Knitter's Review
P.O. Box 1617
Blue Hill, ME 04614

Thank you.

2008-04-17T13:25:00.011-04:00

Ending Hibernation

It's April 17th and time to come out of hibernation. While the crocuses have yet to show their faces at home, they're out in full force down in Portland, and that's enough for me.

Those of you in warmer climates may not quite understand the significance of the crocuses. Imagine every time you looked out your window, you saw this.

It's nice for a few weeks, a few months even. But for FIVE MONTHS, and without respite? It can be a bit much.

I had extra super-duper insulation added when I renovated my house, and I even upgraded to super-duper insulating double-pane windows and all sorts of other things, but there really was no reckoning with the cost of heating fuel this winter. And it meant that my indoor-outdoor thermometer usually read something like this:

If you don't have your glasses on, that says it's 8 degrees outside and 55 degrees inside. See the little unhappy face next to the indoor temperature? That's called my "comfort indicator." And that little guy rarely smiled this wintah.

Nor did this guy.

Indoors, I had a lot of these. I went through two cords of wood and enjoyed every log of it.

Casey tended to do this a lot.

(That's another failed handknitted sweater from the '90s that he has since claimed.)

In early January I visited Laurie at Sticks 'n' Strings in Scarsdale, New York, for a lovely weekend of book signing and talking and playing with yarn. People were very polite and didn't comment on my bronchitis. Now I wonder if they just thought I always sounded like Kathleen Turner?

A week later I flew west for TNNA, enjoying perhaps this country's only outdoor luggage carousel located at the Long Beach Airport.

And when not signing books or doing sometimes stressful TNNA things, I blew off steam by playing a few dozen rounds of skee-ball.

I came back home and spent an entire weekend making a dozen of these:

Recipe courtesy of Julia Child. Time stood still with each and every bite, and I was genuinely amazed to discover it is possible to make a decent croissant. It just takes a lot of time. Likewise, it takes time to recover from eating four croissant in one sitting. (Don't try this at home.)

A quick jaunt to the Pacific Northwest gave me a week on this island surrounded by an inspiring group of people.

And then not too soon after that I drove down the coast to Halcyon Yarn to teach a group of intrepid knitters all about yarn. While I brought my mobile petting zoo, alas, I forgot the camera. But a good time was had by all.

And then I hopped a flight for Philly where I finally got to experience Loop. I warned Craig that his stock of Alchemy was not safe, and ended up with a bulging suitcase packed with fluffy goodness.

And that pretty much brings us up to date, at least on the "external" physicalities of this winter. Internally, it really has been a bit of a hibernation.

It'll be ten years this summer since I left San Francisco and moved to Maine. My goal was to slow down the pace of my life, which felt like it was careening out of control.

Since then, I have found my footing in ways I didn't even dream of back in California. I now work in a field I love, and I am deeply creatively fulfilled. But there's no overlooking the fact that I have also - irony of ironies - re-created the very same frenzied work pace that caused me to cut and run 10 years ago. Or is it perhaps that the fast pace from which I escaped has caught up with my once-sacred knitting world?

Regardless, that's where I am today as I emerge from my long winter hibernation, pondering if it's possible to slow down the pace once again.

And how are you?

2008-02-02T22:14:00.000-05:00

What better way to break one's blog silence than by participating in this year's Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading?

Morning

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning

Billy Collins
from Sailing Alone Around the Room

Mind you at the moment, the idea of throwing off light covers and touching my feet to the floor isn't all that appealing since it's 14 degrees out and my furnace is struggling to keep the house at 62. But besides appreciating the notion of a fresh new day and of a typewriter and atlas awaiting their adventure, the poem reminds me of summer mornings at my grandparents' house. I'd come downstairs to the smell of toasted English muffins and familiar NPR voices coming from the small radio on the breakfast table. Even within the framework of my teenage angst, I loved the momentary feeling of safety and comfort and continuity that those mornings gave me.

Happy Groundhog Day.

2007-12-17T11:48:00.000-05:00

Well folks, I've decided that there is hope for humanity after all. (Warning: You'll find no yarn in the following story.)

Last Thursday I went down to Boston for a business meeting. I took the bus, which is every Mainer's friend when going to Boston. The trip down was smooth and uneventful. I had my meeting, met my brother for a nice lunch, and then...wham. Snow arrived. By the time I made it back to South Station, the city had shut down and there was a mass exodus out of town. I stood in line waiting to board the 2:15 bus. And then the ticket guy came out and said, "I have room for four more." I counted ahead of me... one... two... three... four... and then me.

Fifth in line. So I stood as the 2:15 left and waited for the 3:15, not wanting to abandon my prime spot in line. Around us, chaos reigned. All buses heading south were canceled. Angry New York-bound passengers steamed to and fro, yelling, huffing, puffing, and generally Not Helping Things. But the line of folks headed to Maine stayed calm and philosophical. "These things happen," said the guy behind me, smiling.

So the 3:15 arrived. Joy! We boarded. We got comfortable. I took out my iPod and settled in. And then the driver climbed on board and announced that they'd had an emergency at Logan and needed the bus. "You'll have to disembark and wait for the next bus, which should be here in about 30 minutes." We all got off and massed back inside -- my pristine spot in line lost forever. Not something to be fought, I told myself. I just want to get home. It's ok.

Finally the next bus finally arrived. I prepared for a jostle, and I hoped for a seat this time around. And then the crowd ahead of me parted. People looked back in the crowd until they spotted me, and then someone said, "That's her -- she's been waiting here the longest, she should board first." The others agreed and parted so that I could walk up front.

Quite frankly, this blew my mind. And this simple act of human kindness kept my heart warm and hopeful even as we proceeded to get caught in the most astounding Boston gridlock I've ever experienced. The streets were a snowy chaos, cars in every direction, no lanes, nobody paying any attention to the traffic signals, and nobody moving.

We watched our first movie.

We watched our second movie.

I napped as they started to replay the first movie again.

And during this time we barely reached the outskirts of Boston. (The same town from which we'd left, if I need remind you.)

We were all together in this bus with nothing to do but be together. Nobody was fighting it. I listened to people tell their life stories to one another. I listened to them offer advice, jokes, laughter, compassion. I listened to people call home and say goodnight to their children. And as we pulled into the Portland bus station SEVEN hours after we'd left (it's a two-hour ride normally), we all applauded the driver. If our butts hadn't fused with our seats by that point I'm sure we would've given him a standing ovation.

Did I mention I hadn't brought any knitting with me? As I said, there's no yarn in this post.

2007-12-04T17:21:00.000-05:00

The allure of a "room of one's own" seems to be timeless and universal. My heartfelt thanks to everybody for your well-wishes as I begin moving into my room of my own.

So far I've made just two significant discoveries about my space.

First discovery: There's a reason they sell double-paned windows.
When it's 12 degrees outside and the wind is blowing at 35 miles per hour, a sparkly winter wonderland spreads across all my windows. I knew there'd be insulation issues with the single-paned windows but was not in a position to fork out four times the cost for the fancier double-paned ones. So, well, this is the result. (Note to self: Keep towels handy on warmer days. All that water has to go somewhere.)

Second discovery: Despite these single-paned windows, the space is snug as a bug in a rug. The heater heats both floors like nobody's business, and it's warm enough for this little scene to play itself out on my windowsill.
See? She's wearing a skirt, that's how warm it is.

And third (ok I've made three discoveries about the space): My most prized knitterly possession has nowhere to go.
It's a cherry umbrella swift I purchased years ago. I love this swift. I use this swift. It needs a place to go. The place where it was supposed to go is too thick. Ken will be summonsed.

In the meantime, I'm loving spending time in this new space and simply looking out the windows. Every 10 minutes the view changes. The light shifts, the clouds move, the pond freezes and thaws and freezes. And, for the last two days, the snow has fallen.

Maine's yearly cycle has, for me, two magic moments: The first time you hear the peepers in the spring, and the first snowfall. It is exquisite, pure, and beautiful.

2007-11-26T10:25:00.000-05:00

The problem with posting so infrequently is that it magnifies the significance of every post I do make. (Maybe not to you, dear reader, but to me.) It's a vicious circle from which there is no easy escape except biting the bullet and jumping back in. Which I'm doing now.

Am I the only one who composes endless brilliant blog entries in her mind? I even take great pictures and write pithy captions. But something about the actual execution...it just never happens.

Anyway, here we are at the end of November. I usually fight the arrival of fall tooth and nail. Each leaf that turns brown and falls is cause for grief as I know the long period of bleakness that follows. But the whirlwind of this year has been so intense that I welcome a little bit of silence and solace right now so I can regroup, reground, and refocus my life.

I'm as prepared for winter as you can be in these parts. The onions are in, the wood has been piled, the screens are off and the windows have been washed, the snow tires are on, the water and batteries and lamp oil and extra food have been stashed, the basket of scarves and hats and mittens has returned to the front entry.

And just as the last leaf fell, the last coat of polyurethane was drying on my new workspace. I'm calling it the Knitter's Review International Inc. West Campus. Otherwise known as the Place for Things to Accumulate.

It's located inside the barn that is attached to my house. The only real way to describe the magic transformation of this space is through pictures, because words alone just won't do it. A solitary craftsman named Ken did all the work. While others rolled their eyes and doubted the project had any aesthetic or functional merit whatsoever, Ken got it. We began scheming almost three years ago. He finally tore out the first old rotten board in August. What you see here was completed by one person in three months.

This is the beginnings of the space. Years ago it used to house a cow who, I'm assuming, lived a pretty unhappy life. I felt I owed it to the spirit of that cow to create a place of beauty.

The next step was simple: Put down a new floor and remove the so-called "ceiling" between the cow's unhappy home and the upstairs loft.

Presto, double the space!

The goal was to create a two-storied space with many windows and built-in bookcases upstairs. The barn has three more bays that I didn't touch, so there's still plenty of room for the lawnmower and potting table and snow tires and other stuff that tends to accumulate in barns here in Maine.

Next came the openings for the windows, which was part of the whole reason for creating this space. I love, love, love having windows.

In my infinite enthusiasm, however, I forgot that the windows would need priming and two coats of paint before they could actually be put in.

A firm believer in sweat equity, I grabbed the brushes and began my work.

Ten windows in all. Don't look too closely. My mantra was, "I'm doing the best I can." The razor blade was my friend.

One day in August I was outside painting the windows and a tourist stopped to ask for directions. She glanced at the windows, and at the construction mess in the barn, and asked me, "So... do you make windows?"

It was such a baffling question that I couldn't really answer. So she repeated the question louder and more slowly, "Dooo youuu make winnndows?"

Of course I had all sorts of smart comebacks but only 10 minutes after she'd pulled away. I mean really...

ANYWAY, finally the windows were done and set in their masterful frames. Then came the downstairs ceiling, and then the insulation, and then the wall panels and the upstairs ceiling, and then the actual stairs, and then the trim, and then the built-in bookcases upstairs, and endless calls to the electrician and the heating guy and the painter (I gave up and had someone else seal the floors and wals), but before I knew it, and exactly three months after the first board was removed, the space was done.

Remember that initial view of our sad, lonely cow's old home? Well, here's a new picture from almost the same exact spot.

There are three tall windows on each floor, concealed here by the stairs.

And upstairs, facing away from the tall windows, you have BOOKSHELVES in all their spacious, organized glory. Capped with three little south-facing windows that shall keep my overwintered geraniums happy and healthy until next summer.

After hearing me say, "I really need more shelves" one too many times, Ken had the brilliant idea to surround the staircase opening not with your standard banister or low wall, but with even more bookcases. It's pure heaven.

So this is my new writing home. I'm only sharing pictures of the blank slate -- far more interesting than a space filled with my personal garbage -- but I trust you'll be able to fill it with your own imaginary books and yarns and dreams.

In May I'll be handing over the keys to my old store / warehouse space and moving everything back home. I feel in many ways like I've gone full circle from the early days of filling orders at my kitchen table to needing a separate space away from home to do work and maintain my own life, to finally reaching a happy compromise with a space that's at home but that has a door that I can firmly close at the end of the day. When making your passion your profession, I think it's even more crucial to maintain those boundaries. Otherwise it's too easy and tempting to let your passion overtake your life. Which is fine for a time, but not forever.

2007-10-16T20:24:00.000-04:00

Well, it's finally here.

After at least two years and - oh who am I kidding - a lifetime of dreams, my book is on the shelves. I feel as if I've grown and learned and aged significantly as I've walked through this whole experience. I made light of it in KR, but really, it's been astoundingly profound. Probably as close as I'll ever get to the experience of childbirth and parenthood combined. Intensely personal stuff that just doesn't belong in a blog. A blend of excitement, clarity, strength, joy, passion, anticipation, doubt, grief, exhaustion, and a nearly perpetual terror that I somehow wouldn't see this day, all those feelings kept me almost constant company.

And yet here we are. I just wonder when it'll actually feel real.

But where does Bob's Big Boy come into all of this? Well, for the first year I called this my big boy, because it was initially supposed to be called the Big Book of Yarn. About nine months after I submitted the manuscript, the greatest minds in publishing got together and decreed that the book wasn't physically big enough to be called "big." Suddenly my big boy was just...boy. After a brief period of actually thinking I'd let them change the name to the Knitter's Little Big Book of Yarn, we settled on the final title, my dearly beloved Knitter's Book of Yarn. Big boy became kboy.

But I have not forgotten.

Last week, when I was driving back down the Michigan peninsula from SOAR I spotted a real in-the-flesh Bob's Big Boy. I felt I had somehow come full circle, so I stopped to honor this unwitting landmark of my literary career.

But here's what the book really looks like now, in its ideal native habitat, courtesy of the lovely and thoughtful Jane.

What Jane didn't know was that, at the precise moment she was taking this picture in her own bookstore, I was furtively pulling out my cellphone to snap a picture of the book in my favorite bookstore, where I'd just spotted one precious copy on the shelf. (I plan on visiting that copy every day until it finds a home.)

I guess I need to explain that the bookstore, as an institution, has always been my most sacred place. When I was little, my father would take me there and we'd walk the aisles, him pulling out a book here, another book there, telling me all about it as we started a pile that I'd take home and devour. After my parents divorced, those bookstore visits grew less frequent, but I cherished each visit even more. To this day, no holiday or birthday is complete in my family without the gift of a book.

So, with this background, perhaps you'll understand how profoundly moving it was to enter a bookstore -- actually the same bookstore where I took my father when he last visited -- and find my own work on the shelf. The Pulitzer Prize committee may not have a category for knitting books, and the wider literary audience may snort at the subject, but for me it's very real, and very special.

Thank you for sharing this moment with me.

2007-07-27T10:30:00.000-04:00

Forgive me bloggers, for I continue to sin.

You see, I just got this email from Jessie announcing that her infamously impossible-to-obtain Yarntini yarns were now going to be available on her own online store.

I sat and waited and refreshed and took notes of my prey and waited, waited, waited until the second it was marked as available and then SNATCHED IT. Three skeins each of two fantastic semi-solid colorways.

I couldn't help myself. This yarn needed to be mine. I have enough Yarntini to put socks on all the school children in my town, but this is different. This will be shawl yarn. Very different.

Meanwhile I've also been doing some therapeutic spinning. The fibers are blue-faced leicester and alpaca, which I got at the New Hampshire Sheep and Wool Festival. I've been working so crazily that I haven't had much time for fiber pleasure, so when I finally did come back to this, it was absolute bliss. There's something about giving yourself a break that helps you see what you love about things even more clearly. Just touching it, smelling it, rubbing it against my face, and dreaming endlessly of what it could become makes me very happy. The spinning is hardly perfect, but to me, it's wonderful.

I love these moments.

Mary had asked about the delphiniums, which you may have noticed were absent from the last picture. That's because this year's delphiniums and hollyhocks have a serious case of short-flower syndrome. Anyone know what causes this? The delphiniums were only about three feet tall this year. The hollyholcks, three feet or shorter (although there's still time for them to magically grow more before they really bloom). I can't figure it out.

So this year, the front flower garden looks like this.

I miss that enclosed, protected sense you get from having a background of tall delphiniums and hollyhocks, but...whatever. I still love these flowers and marvel at how all this grows up from NOTHING every spring.

Nature is amazing.

I've also been expanding my book horizon beyond knitting. (NO, not Harry Potter - still crafty things but ones that don't necessarily entail yarn and needles.) And in those pursuits I came across this incredible little book.

You just wouldn't believe what you can do with a simple pair of socks or gloves from Target. It's called Sock and Glove, and the author, Miyako Kanamori, is a genius. At first I tried to figure out how you could use knitted leftovers for these projects, but I realized that no self-respecting knitter would cut apart her old handknit socks. I know I wouldn't. Just go to Target and get a bag of white cotton gym socks and have at it.

Nothing is lost in translation in this book because it is based on incredibly, insanely, unbelievably clear illustrations. Tiny snippets are transformed into soft ears, funny noses, even ruffly hair. I could get in serious trouble with this book.

The other book I'm loving is called the Crafter's Companion. There isn't an ounce of knitting in here, it's about those "other" folks who call themselves crafters. Creative, curious, inspired folks who work miracles with fabric, felt, colors, and textures.

What I love is that the book isn't just a collection of ideas, it's a collection of people. Each featured "crafter" talks about her background, what inspires her, and—this one I really love—her workspace. With pictures, and then each person also contributes a project. It's well done and doesn't delve into that "look at us, we're super hip 'n' crafty!" thing, which I personally find a bit tiresome. This is another book that may cause me serious trouble, especially considering that rapidly growing fabric stash I mentioned earlier. (And thanks for letting me know I'm not alone with that one!)

2007-07-19T10:44:00.000-04:00

(Any idea why Blogger puts this vast, vast space between this and the beginning of my post, which I've put in a table so that the image layout doesn't drive me completely nutso? I don't know. Let's pretend it's intentional. Please use the following white space to meditate on world peace.)

	Allow me to explain this one. My brother and I began a bit of an odd tradition a few years ago when we happened to both purchase the same model digital camera. He came for the weekend, and after he left I scrolled through my pictures and discovered several, um, "surprises." Pictures of my kitchen garbage, to be precise. Of course this meant war. With each visit, each of us has tried to up the ante. We've had some failures -- for example, I discovered that when you write someone's name in your cat's litter pan, it doesn't photograph well. And we've had some successes -- like the art shot he took of a beautiful skein of my yarn with a dirty diaper sitting next to it. But this most recent photo has topped the charts. I'd like to think that even Julia (that's Saint Julia to you) would have enjoyed seeing herself with a pasta moustache.
	Summer is progressing along nicely here in Maine. I've had the nearly undescribable delight of eating like a queen straight from the garden for many weeks now. Asparagus galore, salads upon salads, sorrel soup, fresh pesto, delicate turnips, crisp radishes, but of course the piece de resistance remains, so far, the strawberries. For two weeks solid, I had some version of this every morning for breakfast. (And in case you were curious, yes, it is possible to get tired of strawberries. But it's a wonderful "tired.")
	The onions continue their steady march toward full, sweet ripeness. This year's onion harvest will be a bit of a challenge because it turns out I won't be home much in October, which is when you usually pull them out, let them cure outside for several days, and then carefully braid the long backs and put them in the cellar for storage. The reason I won't be home much is a good one. First, I'm treating myself to SOAR in Michigan—rather like taking summer school at MIT, only it's in the fall. And the following weekend I'll be launching my book at Rhinebeck. What's that you say? Yes, you heard me right. Apparently the kind and generous knitting souls out in the universe were so receptive to the book that the Pottorians decided to push up its launch from December 4th to October 16th. It's a miracle that's also a smart and logical move, and I am absolutely thrilled. Not to mention terribly anxious and nervous, but that goes with the territory.
	Last weekend I cut my first vase of sweet peas for the season. Their fragrance is intoxicating. I bring the vase with me throughout the house so I can maximize on their incredibly brief state of perfection.
	This year in addition to the regular bed of tall sweet peas, I also planted some shorter, more ornamental sweet peas to climb up bamboo frames in the front garden. I had no faith that the seeds would even germinate, since I've been on the road so much. But they did. The flowers are too short and little for cutting, but they sure are beautiful.
	Speaking of peas, I've been eating them too. Not the sweet peas, of course, but some delicious snap peas. My favorite meal so far had to be the salad with blanched peas, fresh thin radish slices, crumbled feta cheese, and a lemon vinaigrette. YUM.
	Lest we forget, my darling peonies did return for another season. I almost missed them because I foolishly planned a trip to San Francisco during their bloom time. That's the problem with living and gardening in Maine -- you can't go anywhere in the summer without missing something that you've waited 51 weeks to see again. Oh, how we suffer.
	Casey has resumed his residence on the porch, right next to the table where I've been writing for weeks on end. It's funny how he's "just a cat" but he has such a distinct personality and such fierce behavioral habits. In the winter, he insists on curling up under a thick fleece blanket on the couch. In the summer, he won't have anything to do with that blanket (for obvious heat-related reasons) and prefers the thin flannel sheet that covers the daybed on the porch. His needs are simple: If that sheet is there, and if I lift it up so he can go underneath, he is happy. Period. Wouldn't it be great if our own lives were like that?
	And finally, I've decided that the fabric bug is catching. I wasn't going to say anything about my latest PurlSoho.com fabric purchase and then I noticed that Kay Gardiner did the same thing last week after she and Mason-Dixon cohort Ann Shayne sent their second book to their publisher (bravo!!). It's nice to know I'm not alone. Any other fabric hoarders out there?

2007-06-05T09:48:00.000-04:00

I'm home from yet another TNNA and thought I'd check in with my four loyal blog readers. It's funny, I post with abysmal infrequency and yet I'm constantly spotting things, taking pictures of things, and composing blog entries about them in my mind. It's just that final, oh how do you say, "doing it" thing that doesn't happen. I feel the need to talk about Columbus in a way that does not belong in KR. I'll be talking about the products and people and my class with the marvelous Lucy Neatby in KR, but I hope you don't mind if I bend your ear a little right now.

Now that I'm safely home and my luggage arrived intact, I can say that the skies were tremendously friendly this time.

My flights were the most miraculously smooth, pleasant, comfortable, and timely that I've experienced in the last... what... decade? It was incredible.

At one point I looked out the window and saw this incredible cloud formation. Like a Monument Valley within the clouds.

My rule when traveling to TNNA is that I try to stay somewhat separate from the event. It's such an intense experience, a place where you know almost everybody and almost everybody knows you, I need to have real separation at the end of the day.

I like to leave the convention center, go to my hotel, and absorb what I've seen, heard, and touched. I don't like to be in the elevator with the same shiny-suit salesguy I just spent 20 minutes trying to avoid on the show floor. Or being seated at breakfast next to a yarn manufacturer that has hated me ever since I told the truth about its product. It's just...profoundly awkward.

So, while everybody else was staying in mega-hotels such as this one...

I had a room in this little place called The Lofts. I thought hey, cute brick building, interesting architectural history, not just another 1,000-room megaplex, it'll be fun, right?

Well sorta. Here's my dude lair.

I had a faux leather armchair that was cold and made fart noises every time I tried to sit in it. The huge gorgeous windows were concealed behind silver metalic blinds. No sheers, no curtains.

And it was directly across from the convention center. To maintain any degree of privacy I had to close the blinds and sit in a grey, cold, echo-ridden dude lair.

The walls were paper thin, allowing me to hear every word of my neighbor's conversations. (One word: earplugs.) On the other side I had a neighbor who seemed constitutionally incapable of existing in an awakened state without the television. (We are such a weird species, I tell you.)

But I didn't go to Columbus just to sit in a stark hotel room, now did I?

No, I went to Columbus...

To go to the North Market!

Oh my. Only one block from the convention center, this place was truly a gift from the gods. Go inside and you'll discover dozens of stalls where people sell everything from soy candles and cookware to wine, cheese, baked goods, coffees, smoothees, sushi, Vietnamese pho soup, you name it.

Including Jeni's Ice Creams.

This is not just any ordinary ice cream. This is ice cream that makes you gaze into the distance and remember things from your past. Mango. Passion fruit. Cassis. Violet cream. Chocolate infused with cayenne and cinnamon. Lime and cardamom. Bartlett pear and riesling.

Culinary artistry.

Flavors that slip in, expand, and wander around in your mouth before finally reluctantly letting go. It is incredible ice cream. Cat Bordhi and I made it our personal mission to convert as many TNNA-goers as possible. And here's the best part: They ship.

So did I go to Columbus to stay in a weird hotel and eat food all day long? No, I went for TNNA. And that's where I need to get something off my chest. It's bothering me and I need to tell the truth but I know I can't say it in KR.

When I went into this business I made an intentional choice to lift up the magic curtain and to walk behind it and see what's really there. I knew this was risky. I knew that in any industry, the closer you get to the real heart of it, the more gruesome the sights can be. Even in knitting.

First, I need to stress very strongly that fundamentally, 99.99999% of the TNNA experience is fantastic. It's one weekend-long "pinch me, can I really have made a career out of this?" moment. I see genuine people putting heart and soul and integrity into things of beauty -- yarns, tools, books, DVDs, accessories, you name it. I see generous, hard-working store owners coming to learn and to scout out the perfect blend of offerings for their dear customers back home. I see gifted teachers sharing their knowledge with the goal of enriching our knitting experience. I see friends, people who are in this boat with me, who inspire me and whom I trust. It's incredible. Absolutely incredible.

AND...

I also see the dark side. Just .00001%, but it's there. And for some reason I really felt it this time. I saw people taking pictures of the new products with their cell phones and emailing them back to their mills in China. (I don't make this claim lightly -- it's an ongoing concern and many people are aware of it.) I saw posturing, I saw intentional deception, I saw misaligned integrity, I saw anti-online-vendorism and I saw anti-brick-and-mortarism, I saw people feigning compatriotism while simultaneously conspiring to destruct one another. (Note: If you're reading this and thinking, "Oh dear, I hope I wasn't one of those people," you weren't. Those people usually lack enough self-awareness to even think, for a moment, that they're doing anything wrong.)

And this is why I believe that many knitters are best served by staying on the sunny side of the curtain. When I say "don't quit your day job," it's not out of disrespect or a lack of belief in you or some sort of smug "newcomers not welcome" attitude. It's because I want you to stay inspired and in love with the creative process. And big business is the #1 creativity killer.

There were some high points, though.

Besides consuming vast quantities of ice cream with Cat, on Saturday night she and I crashed the Vogue Knitting party celebrating the magazine's 25th anniversary. (I'd just taken part in a conference call interview with them about the state of the knitting industry, so I chose to believe my invitation simply got lost in the mail. And that everybody on staff avoided my glance because they were too busy being overjoyed by the success of the party.)

There I ran into Laurie Thomas, owner of Sticks and Strings in Scarsdale, New York. She had been at the fall 06 Knitter's Review Retreat, and my eyes immediately stopped at her shawl.

I knew those colors. I have those colors. They're Jen's colors. By golly it's Jen's yarn! Yarn she purchased at the retreat, and a shawl she began on Sunday morning during the New Beginnings session.

Not only had she finished it, but she was wearing it to TNNA. I couldn't have been more proud and thrilled to have played any part in the facilitation of that gorgeous shawl.

Here's the other thing that made me profoundly proud and excited. Although general photography on the show floor is (at least among honest folk) strictly forbidden, vendors can take photographs of their own booths and their own products. With the express permission of a certain vendor with whom I now have a professional affiliation, I did take this picture of my product.

I'll confess I walked by the booth several times during the show just to prove it was all real, not just some cruel hoax.

My baby, The Knitter's Book of Yarn, took her first steps at this show. (Despite the fact that they only had black and white uncorrected galleys for people to see. Which we won't talk about.) The enthusiasm with which it was received, the trust that store owners are putting in my work, left me humbled to the point where I almost didn't know what to do with myself. And to be displayed right there along my color hero Mr. Kaffe himself, well, my heart did skip a beat. And it definitely helped up for that .00001% darkness ever lurking in the background.

And here's the other thing that no amount of lurking darkness could possibly penetrate.

As I said, there are good people and not so good people in any industry. If you think that knitting is any different, well, it isn't. We don't live in Hello Kitty land, no matter how much I wish we did. But we still have people who approach their work with integrity, honesty, inspiration, and pride -- and that's where I choose to focus my editorial attention. We have our dark corners, but I sort of figure (or hope) that they'll grow moldy and shrivel up after a while.

And if they don't? Well... too bad. I've got the qiviut.

Startitis

2007-05-10T09:43:00.000-04:00

It's official. Two weeks ago we were shoveling snow, today it's 70 and everyone is in shorts. Welcome to spring in Maine. These miniature irises ("iri" is just too pretentious, I'm sorry) came and went a while ago but aren't they pretty?

Now we're on to the daffodils. I began planting this bed about five years ago. I love the sight of huge masses of daffodils that have been allowed to naturalize and take over a spot in the garden. They seem to yell "hello spring!" to the world. I put this patch under a healthy group of maple trees that turn spectacular shades of red in the fall--but right now they are still bare, and the daffs reign supreme. So we have a patch of yellow in spring, healthy greens in summer, and then we go out in fall with a glorious red "ka-pow!" Nice.

Last weekend I put in the onions, which is one of my very favorite garden rituals. They're like little soil-based savings accounts that I can watch grow and fatten and fill with sugar throughout the summer, until they're plump and ready for harvest. The harvest itself is a challenge--when the tops have dried and tipped over, will there be 10 days in which there's no rain but also no hard frost? They become vulnerable once I pluck them from their beds and lay them out to cure. And then there's the real agonizing question--will this new variety keep as well as the Copras did last year? Or will I be forced to find a use for 72 onions within a matter of two months? (Mind you I'm ready to accept the challenge. Julia has a fantastic recipe for French Onion Soup...)

My knitting seems to mimick the startitis that's going on in nature right now. A newly arrived and oh-so-tantalizing skein of Sea Wool from Fleece Artist begged to be worked immediately, so I thought I'd try out the pattern on the label. It's a fitting way to exploit the waves of color that you get with this hand-dyed yarn, and I'm enjoying it.

The only problem is that I seem constitutionally incapable of accepting the fact that my feet aren't small. So this pair will not fit. (Sorry, a recipient has already been determined, but I will take a waiting list.) So after I turned the first heel on this sock, I decided to pull out another pair of needles and tap into a hank of Yarntini that I've been hoarding for easily a year now. These pups are for me.

Needless to say, progress wasn't so swift. This yarn is pure deliciousness, very succulent and stretchy. But it kinks up on itself a little, and it doesn't cling to my hands very readily. I keep having to stop and re-tension it on my left hand. But the bigger problem are those sharp-tipped KnitPicks DPNs, which are simply too sharp for this yarn. They are, and it pains me to say this, injuring the yarn. So I'll move this off to a pair of duller-tipped bamboos and see how it does. (J, does this pattern look at all familiar?)

The startitis is bound to continue as I head down to the New Hampshire Sheep & Wool Festival this weekend. I hear it's the perfect antidote to the Maryland and Rhinebeck insanity, and I'm looking forward to it. Perhaps I'll see some of you there?

2007-04-10T10:15:00.000-04:00

Allow me to explain how spring works in Maine.

One day, you admire the tulips that are just forcing their way through the recently thawed soil. The sun is bright, the robins are hopping around in the grass, and spring feels entirely within your grasp.

You go to bed, and when you wake up the next morning, you have this.

One day forward, two months back.

Before the snow came, I went over to Farmer Dan's house to see the new arrivals: two baby goats and two adorable little Jacob lambs. Now if I had a farm with animals, I know full well that it'd be called Clara's Soft-Hearted Home for the Limping, Infirm, Barren, and Disagreeable Creatures Nobody Else Wants. But Dan is the complete opposite. He understands the cycle of life and isn't afraid to roll up his sleeves and take an active part.

I'm still recovering from last year when he arrived at my knit-in (Dan also knits, as well as paints and makes marvelous scones) and announced that one of his most notoriously disagreeable Jacobs was now in the freezer. Never mind that this particular animal had a truly gorgeous fleece. He was, quite frankly, a bit of a jerk.

"One shot right between the ears," as Dan put it, pointing to the back of his head in case we didn't have a clear enough picture already, and the fight was over.

This time I pretended not to hear his comments about which of the contented sheep in our midst would eventually become someone's dinner. (And yes, I eat meat. I realize what a total hypocrite I am.)

I took dozens of pictures and made countless "coo" noises to these animals before finally prying myself away and returning home to face...

The Final Dummy. Casey, as always, took his turn with the red pen. It's amazing how, with each round, you see things in a new and slightly different light. You catch things that somehow you and six other people didn't see before. You notice inconsistencies in the content. You see where you didn't go quite far enough. And best of all, you get to fix those spots and make it better and better. It's very exciting.

On a knitting front, besides swatching various projects from the book for the sixth time, just in case I've also been playing with the "one-skein wonder" theory, using Artyarns Silk Rhapsody as my testing ground. I publish the results, in pattern form, in this week's newsletter. But here's a sneak peek. It's basically the essential shawl skeleton form with very simple trim along the bottom edges. The idea is to help people get familiar with the shawl structure using a yarn that "does all the work for you," and using larger needles so that you get to the finish line relatively quickly.

After you've finished your first one, the training wheels are off -- you can switch to a smaller needle, buy two skeins, experiment with additional patterning, etc.

(And those are rabbit tracks in the snow, by the way. It seemed fitting, since I took the picture on Easter Sunday.)

2007-03-23T18:00:00.000-04:00

And so it was, $1,756.95 later, I drove home in my newly quiet car, came inside, logged back in, made myself a cup of tea, and discovered this. Have you ever been so excited that you couldn't even scream? I mean yes, I opened my mouth but the exclamation that came out was more of a gaspy exhale with the facial expressions of a scream. I am so excited I can't even come up with words to say how excited I am.

I had to share it somewhere. My mother isn't answering her phone and the cat's asleep, so you're it!

2007-03-23T10:16:00.000-04:00

Bad blogger!

And not the product, Blogger, but the person. Moi.

I'm currently being held captive at the mechanic in Bangor getting my catalytic converter replaced and I forgot my knitting.

(I'll pause to let that sink in.)

But I did bring my laptop, because of course I'm supposed to be working. And they happen to have free wireless. So here we are. The only problem is that I've been forced to listen to bad TV news programs all morning and am starting to fear that our civilization is teetering on the verge of collapse. A new refrigerator that throws you a can of beer. A 7% increase in cosmetic surgeries in 2006 (top 3 procedures: boob jobs, nose jobs, and liposuction). A new Jailhouse "Idol" contest in Arizona that features actual prison inmates competing on video. (Which I've been told about six times this morning, and still counting.)

What is happening to us?!?

Speaking of Arizona, I was there earlier this month to visit my mother. I missed the singing convicts, but I did get a little of this.

Mexican food! I mean real, edible Mexican food. Any West Coast expat living in the East will understand how much this means to me.

Sunshine and relaxation, a change of scenery, a little warmth.

And of course, a little knitting.

I discovered a new (to me) yarn store called KiwiKnitting Company. This really was a delightful example of what a yarn store could be, and proof that you don't have to have wall-to-wall multi-million-dollar yarn inventory to be special. They had just enough of everything, thoughtfully selected and presented in a way that makes sense. Well managed by people who care. And they even had a kid-friendly yarn room and spinning supplies. Very nice!

So, of course, I was morally obliged to purchase yarn for a project. Some Noro for a Falling Leaves shawl. I wasn't entirely crazy about the Noro. At some points it felt like they'd taken the floor sweepings from various clothes manufacturers and tossed them in a giant drum carder with some fibers. I spotted no short curly black hairs, although you know I was thinking about it.

Thanks to the seemingly perpetual delays of air travel these days (including sitting in a sealed, unventilated aircraft for three hours until the flight attendant "timed out" and needed to be replaced), I was on my last pattern repeat as the plane finally landed back in Portland.

Spring is showing faint signs of returning to Maine. Unfortunately this tends to be a pretty ugly period where pretty puffy white snow gives way to brown mud everywhere. But if you look closely, you can see a pink tinge to the tree landscape. And the birds! Ah, the birds have returned in full force. Their song gives me renewed hope.

Now if we can only do something about the crappy daytime news programs...

2007-01-24T12:53:00.000-05:00

I'm back from sunny San Diego and the winter TNNA show. I always forget how small an industry it is until I go to one of these shows where you can't walk more than 30 feet without stopping to talk with someone you know. Which makes trying to maintain any sort of meeting schedule impossible.

When I go to these shows I like to stay in hotels that are a wee bit removed from the fracas. What can I say, I don't want my colleagues to see me traipsing down the hall at midnight to get ice for my tea milk (how I mourn the loss of the mini-bar, not for the drinks but for the refrigeration).

So, while everyone else was downtown, cheek to jowl at the convention center hotels, I got to look out at the harbor and this quiet marina. The gross national product for at least three countries was floating there in boats I'm sure only get used twice a year.

Anyway, TNNA was interesting. The industry is clearly pulling back after a totally unsustainable period of growth, so things are a bit more tense. You know how it is when the pie starts to shrink, people become a little more competitive about getting their piece of it. I felt for the yarn store owners that were clearly struggling to make prudent buying decisions in the midst of it all.

While last year's TNNA shared the convention center with 20,000 skateboarders, this year we had 7,500 Mary Kay represenatives attending their leadership conference. Which is no big deal except that they all wear the same thing. Black suits (mostly knee-length flared skirts) with dark stockings and decidedly uncomfortable-looking black high-heeled shoes with pointy toes. Which probably wouldn't have stood out as much if they were meeting in some somber city, but this was San Diego. The land of palm trees and pink flamingoes. At one point I watched a marching band (MLK Jr. parade just finished) cross the street while a whole stream of Mary Kayers were crossing in the other direction. Superbowl halftime show choreographers take note.

At the convention center they even had a lifesize photo form of a Mary Kay representative behind which you could stand and have your picture taken. I didn't have the nerve to have my picture taken, but I did take pictures of others. (I now have good blackmail material for Tara Jon Manning and Amy Singer, should I ever need it.)

Probably the funniest moment was when Cat Bordhi and I were eating a delicious Indian meal and the woman next to us turned and asked, "Have you ever considered having a Mary Kay facial?" Cat brilliantly diffused her request and, within a matter of minutes, had sold the woman on going back to the lunch buffet for a bowl of the mango pudding even though she'd already paid her bill and was preparing to leave. Now that's an engaging personality.

Anybody who travels to Portland, Maine, will know that the slightest amount of weather anywhere will cause all flights to be cancelled. So when I woke up Monday and heard that a massive ice and snow front was hitting the entire East Coast, I called the airline and postponed my return. (And yes, the flight was cancelled and I would've had to sleep in Chicago.)

What a joy to have a free play day. I decided to spend it at the San Diego Zoo, the one place I'd choose were I forced to be an animal in captivity. While the "human beings" were probably my favorite exhibit, I couldn't get over the primates. I bet you anything if they were given yarn and needles, they'd be churning out Fair Isle sweaters in no time.

And what ho, knitters, look what we have here. Guanaco!

(Guanacoes? Guanaci?)

All that separated me from one of the softest, warmest fibers on earth was a wall, a deep ditch, and nearly certain jail time. Sigh...

And then it was time to return home and to the reality that winter has finally hit Maine.

Finally, a big thank you to everyone who responded to my inner-struggle post about the nature of this blog and blogging in general. I promise to keep trying to walk the line.

Ooops, I almost forgot! Several of you have asked me how the book is doing. I'm finally seeing the first real dummies. I can tell you two things. First, I'm absolutely in love with this book. And second, Casey is a fantastic editor. See the dedication?

I can only compare this whole book experience to sending your baby off to boarding school. You hand the baby over after spending nearly a year lovingly assembling every cell of its body. And then, a year later, this handsome, smartly dressed little kid shows up on your doorstep calling you "mumsy." That's my kid? I made that? You feel astonishment, a hint of alienation, and a healthy dose of cautious optimism and pride.

So that's where it is now.

2007-01-09T21:02:00.000-05:00

Wow.

I didn't mean to post again so soon. After all, that last post took nearly three months. I really should pace myself.

But today I received the most astonishing thing in the mail, and I had to share it with people who would understand why I'm still nearly speechless.

First, there was an express mail envelope from Japan with all sorts of official-looking boxes and checkmarks and forms and stamps that even baffled my postmistress briefly. And inside, a touching card and exquisitely perfect pair of handknit socks. Made from a wool/cashmere Posh Yarn blend I've been dying to try.

No, this was not a manufacturer's sample and it wasn't something I'd ordered online... this was a totally unexpected gift from someone who lives halfway around the world and has never met me in person.

We met through KR and have emailed over the years, sharing our love of yarn and our desires to turn this love into a career. She was a huge help to me when I edited Knitscene, and apparently I did something to keep her from disliking me immensely because she actually took the time and thought and care to make this lovely, lovely pair of socks, just for me.

For years I've given away handknitted gifts and preached the power of the handknitted gift to anyone who'll listen (or who can't get away fast enough), so you'd think I'd be ready to accept such a gift with composure and grace. But truth be told, this has left me a babbling mess of awe and gratitude and humility. Somehow a simple thank-you card to my friend doesn't possibly do enough honor to the gift. Her beautiful stitches deserve public celebration here.

Thank you, Jun.

2007-01-07T15:22:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

This is Bunny, a Christmas gift for my niece. She refers to it as "he" even though he happens to be sporting a skirt—knit at her request, no less. So Bunny is a cross-dresser. Which is just fine by me.

I'm actually quite pleased with Bunny. Not because of any specific technical excellence (or lack thereof), but for the simple fact that I actually finished it. Last year was perhaps the busiest, most frenzied year of my life. In the midst of writing the book, coordinating the retreat, writing the newsletter, managing the boutique, running the forum, keeping the site functioning, flossing my teeth and desperately trying to maintain a reasonable degree of hygeine, I managed to create something truly special for someone I adore.

But one cannot give a handknit to one niece and leave the other unadorned, so I also knit this purple capelet for her older sister. Niece #2 is teetering on the brink of adolescence, so I wanted her to have something elegant but that would also somehow nurture or protect her as she enters a period of tumult, emotion, and moodiness.

And on another note, I've decided to share an existential blog crisis with you that I've been fostering for quite a while now. Specifically, what this blog is, what it isn't, what purpose it serves, what it should contain, and what should remain private.

I began this blog in 2002 as a place to share other aspects of my daily life that don't quite fit within my weekly writings for Knitter's Review. And that remains the ultimate purpose of this blog. Not to promote my business or create a falsely inflated online persona, not to improve my search-engine rankings, generate clicks or even adhere to any "I'll post every day even if it's just my grocery list!" resolution... but simply to share things with you that, I hope, you may enjoy reading.

Unfortunately there's quite a bit of knitting-related stuff I can't share with you - some particularly strong opinions, frustrations, hasty judgments, likes and dislikes, and of course projects that are still in the works. It's just no longer appropriate, no matter how much I long to do so. And I confess that this sense of restraint in what I can and cannot say sometimes keeps me from saying anything at all, which I regret.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. To the six people who haven't given up on this blog, I thank you.

2006-10-26T12:54:00.000-04:00

Have you seen this?!

Nobody can say we knitters are without determination.

2006-10-25T12:59:00.000-04:00

Just a quick update with two sources of inspiration. The first comes from a snippet I saw in Deborah Robson's blog. Check out this picture. Apparently Latvia is giving 4,500 pairs of these mittens, each handknit and each different, to every single NATO Summit visitor next month. Is that not the most incredible thing you've ever seen?!

And second, a snippet from Kristin Nicholas's blog. She and I share a deep respect for Julia Child. While I have my Julia Child rose in the front yard, she has a Julia Child cornmaze growing about 25 minutes from her farm in Western Massachusetts. I'd like to think Julia would've gotten a great laugh, and delight, from this one.