Passing It On

I've been spring cleaning.  Not with any particular gusto (I hate housework), but certainly with more thoroughness than usual.  This year, I'm doing some serious purging of excess clutter, stuff, clothes, etc -- trying to lighten the load, literally and figuratively.  Everything's fair game for the trash bin or Goodwill bag.  There's only one item I'm a bit sad to divest myself of, and that is this:

My briefcase.  It's a really nice case, but I no longer have any current need for it, and if all goes according to plan, I never will.  It doesn't suit my style, and those aren't even my initials any more.  But this briefcase has a long history.  It was a farewell gift from my coworkers, given to me long ago (in fact, 25 years this month) when I quit my job, sold most of my belongs, packed the rest into a hatchback Mustang and left New England to drive clear across the country to Southern California.  I had no job waiting for me, knew no one, and had no place to live.  For a quiet, shy, unassuming young woman, man I had some balls, eh?

This briefcase moved across country with me, accompanied me to many interviews, functioned as a file draw when I lived in a tiny studio, followed me from apartment to apartment and house to house, and served me well for many years throughout my career at a certain academic institution.  This briefcase stayed the course with me as I followed a sometimes uncertain path, gradually feeling my way until I found myself and came to be where I am now.

It's time to pass it on.  I rather hope it finds it way to some young woman out there starting out on her own path.  But whoever it finds its way to, I'm sure it will serve them well.

Camp Jabberwonky 2011

What goes on in Sock Camp, stays in Sock Camp.  So I don't have much to tell you.  I don't have much to show you, either, in large part owing to me neglecting to take many pictures.  But here's a few snippets.

Sock Camp is, of course, all about socks.  And there were many.  Among my favorite (and not just because I made them) are the most awesome Northampton Beat Socks, designed by the most awesomer Marcy Vandale.  She does a mean dragon dance, and that's all I'll say about that.

Northampton Beat Socks, in STR Lightweight, colorway Pepe La Plume.  See the row of Lucy Neatby holes?  I just love these. 

Sock Camp is all about learning and sharing, and there was much of that.  Anna Zilboorg showed us how to spin.

Being in the presence of Anna was worth the price of admission alone.  What a remarkable woman.

Camp Counselor extraordinaire Debbi Stone demonstrated spindling. 

A whole lotta concentration goin' on at this table.

JC Briar and Anne Hanson led some very excellent classes, and did a bit of spinning of their own.  And that's all I have to say about that. 

Stephanie Pearl-McPhee did some interesting things with silk hankies.

I do believe there was a run on silk hankies at the camp store that afternoon.

Sock Camp.  I learned a lot.  I laughed a lot.  I ate a lot.  It was awesome.

Oh, and this year's pony tail dip was magenta. 

Cooking by the Book

I remarked to a friend the other night that my evening plans involved a hot bath and turning in to bed early with a stack of cookbooks to read.  She exclaimed, "You read cookbooks?"  I was rather taken aback, until I realized that of course most folks do not, in fact, read cookbooks.  For them, cookbooks are merely recipe repositories, lists of ingredients for specific dishes or menus to make.  For me, they are so much more, for from the pages of books and magazines did I learn to cook.

My mother was a good cook in her way, and fed us well.  But she did not, thankfully, teach me to cook.  In my mind I think of her as a "'50's cook," although that may not be a good description.  Our meals mostly involved foods from cans and boxes, and many one-pot wonders.  There was Minute Rice with Campbell's Cream of Celery Soup "gravy," fried Spam and Egg sandwiches, hamburger pie (featuring Minute Rice and Campbell's soup), Hungarian Goulash (which was neither Hungarian nor goulash).  Vegetables came out of a can and were boiled until mushy, that is until frozen vegetables in boiling bags came along.  Then we had frozen vegetables boiled until mushy.  At least the Green Giant Cheese Sauce for the most part hid the vegetables.  It wasn't all bad; she could roast meats beautifully, and from my Italian grandmother (her MIL) she learned to make spaghetti sauce and meatballs.  She made great spaghetti sauce (since my grandmother made great spaghetti sauce), and it's probably the one recipe she handed down to me.

When I was older and out the house, I became interested in food and cooking for some reason (perhaps it was all those years of Minute Rice).  I first turned to Gourmet magazine (rest in peace, Gourmet).  This was back in the day when it was a truly great magazine, appealing to everyday cooks, gourmands, and armchair travelers alike.  From Gourmet's pages I tried many many recipes, discovering what I liked and what I didn't.  There were some spectacular failures, but I learned to cook in the process, and determined that complicated recipes with long lists of exotic ingredients were not necessarily good, and that in fact a few fresh ingredients prepared simply could result in something excellent.  I learned not only about cooking but about eating, through incredible essays from the likes of M.F.K. Fisher and Barbara Kafka.  There were articles about artisanal cheese makers, and bread makers, and vintners.  And there were travel stories that transported me to far-flung destinations, where I walked cobble-stone streets and ate in tiny tucked-away trattorias.  These stories expanded my horizons and gave my dreams a more international flair.

Then there came the cookery books.  Basic cookbooks for sure, those recipe repositories turned to for dinner inspiration.  But there were so much more.  Books more about how and why to cook, books about specific cuisines in a historical context, such as Waverly Root's The Food of Italy, books about daily life and cooking according to seasons, such as Elizabeth Romer's The Tuscan Year, and books about family cooking traditions such as In Nonna's Kitchen (why yes, there is an Italian theme here).  There were the books about cooking with ingredients fresh out of your own garden, such as Georgeanne Brennan's Potager.  There were the books about the art of eating, such as the classic The Physiology of Taste by Brillat-Savarin (translated and with comments by M.F.K. Fisher), social and cultural histories including Food in History, Why We Eat What We Eat, and Much Depends Upon Dinner.  There were topical books such as the wonderful Olives by Mort Rosenblum, and travel essays such as Her Fork in the Road, edited by Lisa Bach.  There was even the brief foray into the scientific and technical aspects of food through Harold McGee's On Food and Cooking. 

Lately I've been drawn to cookery books with evocative names and gorgeous pictures, such as Long Nights and Log Fires.  Yes, I did buy a cookbook because of its name!  There are actually some good recipes in here, but this is the type of book for inspiration.  This is the type of book to dream by.  

Tonight, my plans involve a hot bath and turning in to bed early with my latest cookbook to read.  It's called Lazy Days and Beach Blankets.  Sweet Dreams. 

Connections

I'm wearing my grandmother's mother's ring today.  I always feel so connected to her and my mother when I wear it.

I don't remember Nana ever wearing it, although I do remember Mom wearing it when it passed to her.  I wonder if she felt connected too?  I'll never know now; she's been gone for a long time.

The sapphire stone on the left is my mother, Jane.  She was the youngest of Nana's three children.  The peridot in the middle is my uncle, Robert, whom I never met.  He died in the Korean war, long before I was born.  All I have of him is a single black and white photograph, and my mother's stories.  He was incredibly handsome, with blue eyes and black hair -- "Black Irish" as my mother referred to him.  The ruby stone on the right is my uncle, Jim.  They called him Junior for some reason; he was neither a Jr. nor small.  Another one of those family mysteries I'll never know now. 

Funny how a tiny little object can evoke so many memories and connect three generations.  Miss you, Nana and Mom.

Post Show Apocalypse

The week or two leading up to a big show can be rather frenzied.  Despite this, I'm not quite sure how I managed to wreak such havoc on my little storage area, where I keep raw fibers, displays, packaging materials, and the like.  I'm usually reasonably neat and organized.

See?  Told you.  It's a mess.

And, despite really needing to clean this up so I can start production again, I just can't bring myself to yet.  Besides, it's cold and dark and raining.  There's only one thing to do on a day like this.

BMFA Woobu in colourway TumbleScum.   

Okay, two things.

Cornmeal Plum Cake.    

A New Blend is Born

There's nothing unusual about a merino-cashmere blend.  But take an exceptional moorit merino fleece, add a healthy helping of cream cashmere, and .... Well.  Meet Moora:  60% merino, 40% cashmere, 100% heaven.

Fresh

Brown bread, fresh from the oven.  Oranges, fresh off the tree.  Cream cheese, fresh out of the supermarket.  Life is good.