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My CSA this week included these adorable little caraflex cabbages.
Although cabbage is not new to me, these are, and I am excited to be able to try them. It is also wonderful that they are small enough that I can experiment in the kitchen without being tied to eating cabbage for a week.
There is also a bounty of 'slenderette' green beans. Summer salads beckon.
I am knitting. There are still days where I only manage a row or two, but there are also days where I knit quite a bit. I am torn between knitting and working upstairs, unpacking sewing and knitting stuff, and dreaming about more knitting and sewing. But I am knitting steadily, and hope to finish this sweater while the weather is still warm.
This photo was actually taken nearly 2 weeks ago. The piece is larger now, but doesn't really look any more like anything in particular than it does here. Basically I am knitting a summer tee, not particularly fitted, but not particularly loose either. The yarn is Habu Textiles, Tsumugi Silk, held double, in two shades of blue. The color numbers are 44 and 50.
I was basically inspired by this pattern, called Insouciant, by Julie Hoover, but I am not exactly following the pattern. I am using the same yarn, and I originally thought I would make the raglan sleeves, but my own mixed feelings about raglan sleeves are likely to mean that I am actually going to make it with set in sleeves, and a slightly less wide neckline. Because I can't therefore call my sweater insouciant, as I only used this pattern as a jumping off point, and because the colors remind me of the ocean, at least in some parts of the world, I am calling this sweater Stormy Seas. I suppose it is also a fitting name as my own feelings about exactly what I am making can also be called somewhat stormy.
As stated, I started with Julie Hoover's pattern, but I also took my yarn and gauge and my dream of how this sweater would fit and orderd a pattern through Amy Herzog's Custom Fit program. I figured it was worth a try as I needed to remeasure myself anyway, and I hoped that custom fit would give me a head start on the math that I knew would be necessary to before I could actually start knitting. I hoped I might learn something as well. In some ways the Custom Fit pattern, and what I would have done had I calculated the sweater myself, are very similar. I do have a few minor quibbles, a few things I would have done differently, but I am reserving my judgement until the sweater is finished. I think my quibbles are minor enough that the sweater will be lovely regardless, and as I said, I may learn something; those initial thoughts and reservations could be completely off base.
The original pattern (insouciant) calls for 4 to 6 inches of positive ease. That is more ease than I felt I wanted, and looking at the various photos of finished projects on Ravelry confirmed my bias. Therefore although I have a 38" bust, I am making a sweater that roughly corresponds to the 35" size, a size that yields a sweater measuring 39 1/2" at the bust. My final sweater will have slighty more ease through the waist and hips, again conforming to my own bias, that fit through the shoulders and upper torso is critical to the look of the sweater. The length of the sweater, and the armhole depth are the lengths I prefer, as calculated by the custom fit program, although I would have knit them to my own lengths regardless.
Custom Fit, which is designed to make the back smaller than the front, when ordered with my desired fit, produced a pattern that corresponds to making the smallest back (size 32) with a size 38 front, yielding a finished sweater that more or less conforms to the desired (35" size). This also corresponds to the sizes I would have chosen had I done the calculations myself. The methodology for the increases and decreases, and their spacing, is different for custom fit pattern than for Insouciant as written, which makes sense as they are aligned to my measurements.
Amy Herzog apparently does not believe raglan sleeve sweaters fit. I am inclined to agree. But as I stated earlier I am open to the idea of trying a raglan sleeve sweater eventually, and I therefore I diligently calculated how I would do the raglan shaping for my altered pattern. But the more I knit this sweater, the more I think I want a sweater with set in sleeves, a sweater I am more confident that I will like in the end. So it is becoming increasingly likely that my sweater will not look quite like the sweater pictured above. Of course the other advantage of following Amy Herzog's pattern is that I will actually have a better understanding of how her system works, how it differs from what I might have done, and whether I wish to use the service in the future. That sounds exciting. It also feels a little daring, given my recent history of producing less than thrilling knitted objects. But then again, I almost feel like every project is a gamble at the moment, and given the choice between knitting nothing or plowing ahead, I choose the latter.
I am making progress in the future sewing room, and the transformation, although slow, is nonetheless exciting. It is true I had gotten a good start last summer, putting up shelves and a cutting table in one of the two rooms upstairs. I started unpacking fabric. I'd like to say I got too busy, and that is partially true, but actually I just got overwhelmed. I couldn't make decisions, so I put everything off until I was ready.
I am ready now. Tables have been set up, but sewing machines are not yet on them. More boxes are getting unapcked. It is wonderful to actually have furniture, to have places to put things as I unpack, and to have the presence of mind to organize everything as well as to discern what is important and what is not. These shelves will mostly contain books: sewing books, knitting books, and books about related things like needlework and fashion. Do not worry; I am not lifting boxes of books. I can, however, open the top box on a stack and proceed, moving books a few at a time to the proper shelf. Although I tire easily with this lifting and moving, I actually like going upstairs to my space again, and I find myself driven to do more than is actually wise. I am learning to pace myself however, to listen to the voice that cries for rest.
Alas, this section is not quite finished. I need to order one more cubitec kit to finish this last unit. I suspected I would need another kit when I placed the initial order. However I still had boxes in the way, and Ialso knew it would be close. Apparently it is very close. I am short three pieces.
In order to make space for the shelves, I had to unpack the boxes of sewing patterns I brought with me from New York. When we moved I knew I had too many patterns, but I had trouble deciding which patterns to keep and which to eliminate. Although I had weeded out patterns before, I stil packed patterns for clothes I made 30 years ago, many of which I now realize I will never make again. As I unpacked, I easily eliminated 25 to 30 percent of the patterns outright. The remaining patterns were sorted by category, which will allow me to sort through them again as I file them.
Even though I live in dresses in the summer, even though I preferred dresses to pants when I was younger, and might again, I was surprised to see that I have more patterns for dresses than anything else. I had so many dress patterns that it felt like I had 500 or more, but of course I do not. There are nowhere near 500 dress patterns in my collection, probably not even 100. But it is obvious that I could make, and probably wear, 500 dresses in my lifetime given the time to do so.
But why the surprise? I loved dresses in my younger decades. I wore skirts and dresses more than pants as a young adult, but gradually stopped. I'm not sure why although I suspect it was due to my own insecurities, and various forms of upheaval in my life over the last 10 to 15 years. I would have said I'm not a girly-girl, but to some extent I am in that I love pretty shoes, and dresses, and jewelry, although I really can't afford the kind of jewelry I love nor do I have the life for it. If I walk into a store however, I find very few dresses I like. Too many are over-designed, or too frilly or too overtly flirtatious. I am definitely not a frou-frou girl, and I when I do cross over to the ruffly-side, I tend to want to mix it with something more tailored and almost masculine in effect.
So apparently dress patterns are good. I have a collection it has taken me years to build, dresses that are definitely my style. And apparently, even when my inner life was in turmoil and I was not dealing well with the emotional stresses of my life, even when I was groping wildly to put my finger on that part of who I am and how I wanted to dress, there was some self-contained innner part who knew exactly what path I wanted to follow. Even as I was frustrated by my inability to find time and the mental peace needed to sew, I bought patterns. I bought patterns for the clothes I wanted to wear even though they weren't the clothes I was actually wearing. I did exactly what we are told not to do, I bought patterns for my fantasy life. But I wasn't buying patterns for evening clothes, or fancy clothes that would never suit my lifestyle and my personality, I was buying clothes for the person I truly was, for the person I had temporarily set aside. I didn't recognize it, as I was too busy keeping myself armed for battle, and my true self spent too much time in full retreat. But she was still there, in her cave, stockpiling inspiration.
Now I am seriously looking forward to sewing again. Some of this sewing will be mundane and analytical, along the lines of which of 5 sleeveless princess-seamed sheath patterns, each by a different company, is the best pattern for me as I am now. This kind of sewing definitely appeals to my analytical side. But there are plenty of creative options as well, and plenty of options for following the inpsiration of the moment.
But first I need to do more unpacking. I need to get a sewing machine set up. I need to find that last box of patterns. How do I know there is a box of patterns missing? I know it because there are dress patterns I know I own that I do not remember seeing as I went through my initial pattern sort. Perhaps I simply missed them, overwhelmed as I was by the overwhelming bounty. Perhaps there really is another box somewhere. I know I saw those patterns in this house. I will find them. Perhaps I should start by sorting through those dress patterns again more thoroughly.
Increasingly it seems that joy comes from celebrating the little things and gradually letting fears and worries go. Of course that isn't completely possible, but it is a good goal. I hope I remember it a year from now.
Today, these are the things that make me happy:
1. Stepping off a curb and not feeling a small jolt of pain. The ease of stepping down and walking on without pause, as if stepping off a curb was a normal part of life, which of course it is, was pure pleasure. Later, I intentinally stepped up over another curb, intentionally striding across a tree root, just to prove to myself that the world will soon enough be mine to amble across at will. It is the pure mundanity of it that thrills me.
2. This chocolate. It is really a little sweeter than I usually prefer, and it is not silky smooth,. The stone-ground grainyness of it is pleasing however, almost enhancing the intensity of the chocolate as it melts on the tongue. The texture brings a new dimension to the chocolate, a dimension I didn't realize I was missing.
3. My mousepad. A simple collage of photos of clothes gathered from the web a few years ago. It inspired me anew each and every day.
4. Driving over a speed bump, no matter how slowly, and not feeling that deadly settling thump of the rear tires coming down with the accompanying leaden jolt of my back against the seat. It is a pleasure not to dread the next speed bump.
5. The reproduction sun mirror in my entry hall. Massive and yet delicate, reflective and yet cloudy, it makes me smile every day and reminds me that promise and art are all a state of mind. I also just realized that I have no idea what is reflected in the mirror in the above photo. Somehow that makes me very happy.
6. The large painting in the entry hall, also seen in the above photo. I knew that painting would go on that wall the moment we agreed to buy the house. It is nothing fancy, a student painting, a painting George and I both saw lying on the floor waiting to be hung for a student exhibition at Vassar College, a painting we instantly knew we wanted in our living room. Now, surrounded by the sun mirror and a few smaller prints it is no longer lonely, my entry hall is no longer bare, and as my life is becomes full with the things that are important to me, these objects provide a background of comfort and familiarity and joy. Not really significant in and of themselves, they are artifacts of a life well lived, and yet open to all the life that is yet ahead.
This morning I went to a fascinating workshop/seminar on based on the Social Styles model for working with other people in a community leadership setting. The talk was thought provoking, and at times uncomfortably close to home. I agree that we all have our own personalities, and we have dominant modes of thinking and relating, but I also think we all have aspects of the other types, and we can learn to channel them, or perhaps life has taught us to channel them (or not). There are other systems as well, and although they are all useful, I always want to be careful about over simplification. But smart people don't oversimplify their persepctives on other people, do they? Anyway it was interesting and I gained insight into myself and the way I relate to others. I could clearly see how there have been occasions where my own particular defensive responses have been absolutely the worst approach with particular people. I could have done better; I can do better.
Then I went to McKay's, the local second-hand book store, to sell a big box of books and, yes, come home with a bag of books as well. I did not come home with nearly as many books as I sold which is a good thing. There are days I can walk around McKays and find nothing that interests me, and then there are days, like today, where books seem to be jumping into the cart. The only solution is simply to stop looking.
Now I am tired, not quite mind-numbingly tired, but close, so this will hopefully be a short post. Since I was at a bookstore and since I also bought books, it seemed like an appropriate time for another book update. Luckily, I've only read three books since my last post.
Final Gifts is a book about communicating with the dying. It was recommended to me and lent to me, and I put off reading it longer than I should have before passing it on to the next person. It is a good book, and I wish more people who are faced with the loss of a loved one could and would read it before finding themselves in that situation. Many times we are frustrated by a sense of helplessness and loss of control when faced with the loss of someone we love, and we fear for ourselves and for them. This book helps one in learning to listen to what the dying person is saying, not just hearing them, but actually listening, and as such it is warm and wise and uplifting.
Moving Day is a thriller, a psychological thriller, about a theif who likes to annihilate his victims and what happens when he accidently choses as his next victim a man who refuses to accept his fate, a man psychologically driven by forces he himself can't fully comprehend, to fight annihilation with all of his being. This was the book I should have chosen as my Kindle First choice for May. It is a good book, as it explores the way the theft of all his worldy goods sends Stanley Peke, a man who literally arrived in this country as a boy with nothing after losing everything to the Nazis, a man who made a very successful life for himself, on a path into his past and parts of his psyche that he has suppressed for decades. I thought it was compelling and for the most part well-done. I am not informed enough about psychology to know how accurately Peek is portrayed, but many parts of his story resonated with me in a way that I could see as true, at least for some people. The use of sentence fragments could at times be moving, as Peek came to terms with bits or fragments, of memory, but the author fell back on this technique far too often, so that over time, what seemed filled with meaning became simply annoying. Still I enjoyed the book, and was driven to finish. I would be surprised however if this book stood up to a second reading.
Freud's Mistress is a novel about an affair between Sigmund Freud and his wife's sister, Minna, who lived with the Freuds for 42 years. The main characters actually existed. Minna actually lived with her sister's family, and there is a large archive of letters between Sigmund and Minna which seem to indicate that she was highly intelligent and progressive for her time. However there is no concrete evidence that an affair took place although there have been speculations. There is also a five year period where there are no letters between the two. The novel uses the general speculation about the affair, and the absense of letters, in order to explore the possibility of an affair, an opportunity to explore an idea of the lives of these characters. I found it entertaining and well-written, and I think Minna was very well drawn. The author did a good job exploring Minna's conflicting emotions, and also with placing Minna thoroughly in her time and constrained by her class and the mores of her upbringing and the society in which she lived. In short she was a smart and enlightened woman for her time, but she is not portrayed as an entirely modern woman, and this may in some ways make her a little more difficult to understand today.
One of the things I particularly liked about the book were the conversations between Freud and Minna, not just about Freud's ideas, but also about literature and philosophy. These conversatons are brimming with that excitement I recall from my own youth: of the joy of intellectual discovery and new ideas, sometimes brash, sometimes completely wrong-headed but brimming with confidence, with the seductions of the mind and the world of ideas as an escape from mundane reality. And of course, the seductions of the mind, of feeling needed and wanted, can lead to other seductions as well as disappointments.
social style matrix from here.
All book cover photos from Amazon.
The blue toenails felt a little wild at first.
That was before I noticed how nice they looked with these pretty sandals. Actually they were last year's sandals but so far, I've worn them more this year. The truth is I'm just happy that I can see my toes.
I am happy for a lot of things. Materfamilias commented on the offhand way that I mentioned a walk. The truth is that I am grateful to be walking; I am grateful that walking grows easier each week. This past week was filled with walking firsts: it was the first week that walking actually made my muscles feel better, the first week I was able to increase my walk from 1/2 mile to a mile, the first week I could walk uphill without pain, the first time I could actually look up and admire the view while walking down the hill without risking an inadvertent misstep and back pain. In short it was a good week. I was able to walk a mile at least once 5 out of the past 7 days.
Yesterday I took my walk at the downtown farmer's market. Uneven pavement -- no problem. Curbs -- no problem. Stopping and starting and dodging other walkers -- no problem. I didn't buy a lot but I had a wonderful time looking around. It was so nice being able to go out and on my own to explore again.
Near the end of my walk, on the way back to my car, I stopped at Cruze Dairy Farm Stand and bought a small prepacked icecream single: buttermilk lime cardamom. The flavor caught my fancy. And it was good, very good. Even the act of eating ice cream while walking, something that a few months ago would not have even caused me a moment's thought, seemed like a special treat. After all, it was only a month ago that standing at all was a challenge, a calculation, a risk: could I stand long enough for a shower? Could I go to the bathroom? If I did, how long would I need to rest before I could get up long enough to brush my teeth? Could I stand up long enough to get something to eat, or to drink, or even to turn out the lights?
Today I didn't take my walk. I realized I needed rest, that I have been doing too much. It s not the walking. I am not lifting, working hard, pushing too hard, except that I am. I want to do everything and miss nothing, and although my days are filled with simple tasks, common errands, I am finally realizing that all these simple activities require using muscles I didn't use for a while. In fact they all require relearning muscle movements that I've probably not used for for years. It shocked me to discover that movements my therapist tried to teach me, are easier now, that I can stand straight now, with some effort, and I've not really been able to stand straight, withoug leaning forward, for years. A world of possibility is opening up, if only I can give myself time and patience to learn to move properly.
Today has been a day of rest, of recovery, and yes a little bit of blog writing. In fact I've written, and lost, this post three times. I blame it on physical and mental exhaustion. I spent the afternoon watching movies and knitting. I spent the afternoon in necessary rest. There is more than enough time in the world for rest, for revitalization. There is no benefit in pushing to do more and more; the benefit is in giving oneself time. For the first time in a days I don't feel numb with exhaustion. Out of rest will come even greater progress.
Remember a few weeks ago, when I posted pictures of my newly-filled planters? Do you remember how thrilled I was at just having been able to make this small outside effort, as if by marking some territory, much like posting a flag, I was claiming that I was back in the world? I remember.
It seems sometimes that I am still there, simply marking my territory. It is true that much of the world, and our acknowledgement of our place in the world, hinges on maintaining a complex web of appearances. After we have no way of knowing someone's inner life, or the shape of other's private lives, nor should we. In much the same way, no one really cares that I am managing to clean out my closets, and that decisions I could not make months ago, decisions about truly insignificant things, like what to keep and what to discard, are easier now. Nor can I really share the immense sense of satisfaction that comes with clearing off a shelf, or a drawer, or the accomplishment that I feel when I discover that I don't need to hold on to things for someday, that they would benefit others more, and I simply let go.
But sometimes, lurking on the surface, there are hints of the depths within. Some of my neighbors have beautifully laid out and maintained front yards, artfully decorated front porches. I don't think I have a gift for decor, although sometimes things go together well. I'm not good at design for design's sake. Everything has to mean something to me or I see no point to it. As a result, far too often things are left undone.
This spring however my front porch offers a little more insight into the resident within than had previously been the case, at least for those who are inclined to notice. In the process of downsizing to her own smaller house, my mother shipped me these planters. I hadn't remembered them specifically, and once I might have claimed they were not to my taste, but now I adore their Texas stars, their graceful beauty, the fact that they were made by my paternal grandfather. These planters are part of my history and a reminder of how I became the person I am today.
Every morning, when I take the pots out of the planters and rotate them to insure that all the plants get adequate sun and water, I think of my grandfather. I called him Papoo. I think of the beautiful things he would make, of his big heart, of the way he would take time to tell stories, and examine rocks, and bugs and plants with wee grandchildren, and tell us about the world. I am grateful to have this reminder of him, this beloved grandfather, my step-grandfather actually, who was not so beloved by his step-sons, of whom my father was one. But my father's animosity couldn't stop me from loving Pappoo all the more fiercely, and now the planters he made grace my entry, battered and dinged though they may be just as we all become battered dinged by a life well lived.
But the planters themselves are important only to me. It is the flowers, and the attention needed to maintain them, that signals invitation and well-being to friends and neighbors and even to oneself. I suppose that making an effort, not to be fancy, not to be something one is not, is also a way of reminding ourselves that we too are capable and organized and not overwhelmed. Perhaps keeping up appearances is something like smiling. Research seems to show that smiling, and having those smiles returned, actually seems to make people happier. Paying attention to the front we present to the world shows not only the world, but inner self, that we are paying attention.
And yet, we are always a bit rough around the edges, although some of us prefer to put forth a more manicured front. Obviously I did not bother, here, to sweep the walk. My front porch is no better groomed than the rest of my life. The photo was taken between thunderstorms, before my evening walk, and I saw no point in straightening what would only become wind-blown once again within an hour's time, if the forcast was too be trusted. It was. I was drenched. The rain began when I was still 250 yards from my house, on the last leg of my loop. I can't run yet, but luckily I don't melt either. And I found a welcoming place to stop and take off my sneakers and pad gently through the house.
I have to say that during the two months that I was mostly flat on my back I was extremely lucky. People brought me food. People brought groceries. Some people cooked, others brought prepared meals, and still others would come by and see that food actually travelled from my refrigerator to me so that I was able to eat. There were some surprising advantages to this ad hoc system. I learned which stores have a good rotisserie chicken, and conversly, which ones I will never buy. Granted I usually prefer to roast my own; it is not difficult and I have found a network of local farmers who provide organic pasture-raised chickens which are much healthier and better tasting than the average grocery-store chicken. That said, there are times where instant gratification is the orderof the day, and now I know where best to satisfy that particular craving, as well as where to find the best and freshest salad on those occasions it is inconvenient to assemble my own.
Still, I cannot deny that as soon as I was up and about following surgery, I was in the kitchen. I was truly eager to be able to cook for myself. I was ready to eat just what I wanted, just the way I wanted it prepared. This is the curse of being a cook I suppose, that I like my own cooking. It has certainly been one of the letdowns of Knoxville; that I have found precious little in the local dining establishments that I couldn't make better myself, and the two restaurants that seemed to have potential both closed....so that although I love to meet friends over a meal, the draw is the fellowship more than the food, and I am not likely to eat out for convenience. Of course that could change, although, as I've said before, I recognize that when it comes to food, I am terribly spoiled. Spoiled and blessed, because although although I love to cook something special and occasionally even complex, I can also be completely satisfied with simple, very simple. Food doesn't need to be complex to be good, but it needs to be good to nourish body and soul.
That first day in the kitchen I was so happy to be cooking, so eager to make something, and yet also so easily tired. I made a stew and a stir-fry. The stew was excellent but a bit of a mistake. I learned very quickly that I needed more balance. The freezer was full, and I wanted to use up the contents, but I couldn't bear eating stew every day. I needed fresh foods, easily cooked foods, but also a few good standbys that I could cook on a good day and have available to heat up on those days I was just so tired that if it weren't for leftovers I wouldn't eat.
It has been fun to explore cooking again: a simple roast chicken, a steak, a curry, or yes, even a roast or a stew. Happiness is in variety even though I can happily eat a monster salad every day, or even a simple plate of cold vegetables with chicken, hardboiled eggs or a bit of salmon. So the trick seems to be balance. Balance has never come easily to me, but it is the challenge I set for myself now. It is worth repeating: Balance. I need to balance my cravings for simple and fresh, for kitchen play and cooking, and for sharing food with friends, both out at local establishments, and eventually, when I don't tire out so easily, at home.
In the meantime, I've made this stir-fry a couple of times, usually in smaller quantities than here. Really it is best freshly made. It is not as complex as it seems. I've made it with coconut oil and lard, although I like the hint of sweetness in the coconut oil. You can use whatever fat you prefer.
Stir-Fried Shrimp with Bok Choy
I finished knitting the perfect scarf. I'm sure I've said something like this before, but at the moment, this scarf seems to fulfill the perfect essence of scarfness, at least warm woolley winter scarfness.
Too bad it is not winter.
Although I've finished perfectly nice projects: scarves, socks, sweaters, a baby blanket, nothing has given me the sense of satisfaction I find in this scarf. In fact, nothing I have knit has thrilled me so since a cardigan I finished in January 2012. That is far too long. In retropsect, I can see why I have been so ambivalent about knitting for the last couple of years. Although I love the process of knitting, process alone is not enough.
Th finished scarf is 7 1/2 feet long, long enough to wrap twice around my neck without being tight and still hang well below my waist, although my finished gauge is slightly smaller than the gauge called for in the pattern. This is mostly because I used a much smaller yarn, a fingering weight, which, even though I held two strands together knit to a smaller gauge than the original DK yarn. It doesn't matter. MY scarf, in my colors, is perfect for me.
Suddenly I'm excited about knitting again, and I've started another project. Who knows, perhaps I will be daring and even knit raglan sleeves.
