Marshmallows and Song

I've been waking up to marshmallows lately.  Well, if by lately I mean the last 3 days.  The inspiration for this has of course been December birthdays.  Not mine, mind, but if you're gonna turn a year older in the bleak midwinter, you might as well do it while inhaling slightly updated childish delights such as marshmallows as a vehicle for hot chocolate.

So when somebody wise (or possibly evil) posted a Smitten Kitchen recipe for homemade cocoa on Facebook, and I stupidly clicked the attached link for springy fluffy marshmallows, and I realized a friend and classmate would be turning 29 (oh, to be 29 again!) in an appropriate time frame to guinea pig said recipes, what else was I supposed to do?  Alas, there are no pictures of any of this stuff in production because (what else?) I cobbled everything together around 9PM on a work night and ain't nobody got time to clean marshmallow goo and chopped semisweet chocolate off hands to grab a camera after a long day at work.  Whether the chocolate mix was a success I cannot answer because I gave it all away.  As for the marshmallows...

One thing I need to remember to put on my wish list: an electric mixer.  Stand mixer would be ideal, but honestly after building up Popeye biceps in my right arm trying to get the sugar mix to turn "white and fluffy and almost tripled in volume" I started to long for my slightly crappy Kalorik multi-purpose that got lost somewhere in my last move.  That said, the 'mallows might've turned out a bit denser because of the hand mixing.  The egg white portion came out lovely and peaky though, 'cause that was easy by comparison.  And the grace note?  (Because I used to be a "singer" and there's always a grace note.)  Um...whiskey.

Why there is a bottle of nice whiskey on the bottom shelf of my fridge is a story for someone else's grandkids.  It's sort of not even my whiskey, unless adverse possession rules get shortened in the case of food products.  But if it's booze and I'm making desserts, the temptation is undeniable.  So remember that line about using your choice of flavorings?  Screw the vanilla, mate.  Reach for the Glenfiddich.

You know you've done a proper job when your friend sniffs the gift bag and breaks into a shit-eating grin.  Because you've just brought booze to work.  Yep.

And now I've got a Ziploc bag of leftover whiskey marshmallows to pop in my (Irish cream flavored) coffee in the mornings.  Which is a dangerous combination, as it makes me prone to nostalgia and poetry.  (It would be songs, but I'll spare you the husky morning voice.)  Which is why I'm leaving off with a poem from my last few months in North Myrtle Beach.  Enjoy while I go lick the marshmallow residue out of my mug.

Wanderlust

I.

It merely is: the call of the morning star

too late or early, empty cracked highway at sunup

and the fear to close your eyes at the bend

for memories lost, or promise of loss to come,

rootless since rooted in all, the unspooling rope

of cosmos and microcosms dangling on a hope,

a dream of undivided attention, a fleeting eternity:

Is that the blank these tires grind, an unbeaten path,

a worn and wearing groove worth longing for?

II.

My favorite cloud is cirrus, wisped harbinger of change,

favorite sound the seashell's roar, a shifting secret

mirrored from nautilus chambers, favorite color

the turning of leaves, taste salted caramel

burnt dregs lingering like the aftermath of passion

so much unrequited, disappointed, bauble trophy

that at its purest could shake the bowers of gods.

I tire of familiarity, once-beloved smug cold embers

that I would, of my own gnarled hands, rekindle

though it be immolation, staring bewildered, silent

forevermore, remains of lifetimes, now as then as always

inert, without even the dream of awakening.

III.

This is not a rejection, love, my polyglot song,

no recrimination but invitation, to you alone,

whose face, not features but essence, remains etched

among those migratory stars I never cease to fly to.

How will you find me? The little dark woman

with untamed hair picking a way through sea-debris,

eyes attuned to the dance of tides, already distant:

the sea, the sky, the morning star, the myriad paths

twining multitudinous that lead from me to you.

Come, my love, the partner in my peregrinations,

let us answer, alone, together, the urgency of universes

forming colliding consuming consigning to gaseous flames

our own desire unslaked, like the draw of twin stars,

gravitational, a transfer not of light but of lighter spirit

that, bigger than we can hold, drags us in its undertow.

The Girl Who Writes

Part two of my saga is not really a part 2.  I just needed an excuse to post a story.  Why, you ask?  Wait, do I know you yet, and/or do you know me?  At the moment I don't have a designated story blog (did I ever have a designated story blog?), seeing as I write them so infrequently as to make it not worth the work of maintaining yet another website thingy.  And so on occasion I post stories and poems here because they take up time that I would otherwise spend knitting.  Or doing legitimate work.  Because independently wealthy is a trait for other people.

In any case, if you do know me, this story is strictly fictional except for the setting.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, etc. etc. you get the drift.  And I will proofread this hashtag before posting this time:

#thegirlwhowrites

Wine Country

It had been too long since she felt a warmth like this. The beginnings of sunburn prickling on her bare shoulders. The first stars igniting over their heads as the Miata jostled its way over the weatherbeaten roads back into town. She ought to feel guilty, spending the day in wine country with a man who wasn't her husband. Instead, for a span of a few stolen hours, she felt free.

Not that he was her type, really. She knew full well what that was: tall, thin, gray-eyed and intellectual. Come to think of it, her husband wasn't her type either. And he hated wine: complained about the sourness and the booziness and couldn't tell a Chardonnay from a Riesling. Jim, on the other hand, was going through one of his phases and threw himself into the excursion with a natural ardor. Her bastard brother. Not by blood, of course, but the sort of fickle, just on the edge between screw-up and success life-lover you shook your head and couldn't help smiling at. The last thing she wanted from him was sex. But as a travel companion, he was ideal.

Neither one could quite remember whose idea it was. Although, “I didn't know there was wine country out here,” she admitted, looking out onto another gray winter day over the slovenly Mississippi. However it was, finally there came that weekend that dawned without a cloud and with that first capricious inkling promise of warmth, and Rob had to work, and next thing they knew they were following country highways into Hermann or Hannibal with the top down. She vaguely wished for a hairband. And a pair of shades. The latter more so as they passed the first party trolley and were promptly mooned.

It was the drive as much as anything, they agreed. God's country. Vast stretches of low-lying farmland you could see a lightning bolt clear on the other side of, and punctuated by short knobbly trees you could just imagine cowering and buckling from the heat of the full summer sun. Desolate as any English moor for all the flatness and promised fruitfulness. Here and there they passed a farmhouse with the paint peeling off in chunks, or a silent group of cows. It was like having Whistler in her brain to provide commentary. That was while sober.

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times,” she quipped as they found themselves in another crowded parking lot with loud music wafting sourly overhead from rented speakers. This time the “estate” grounds were littered with Viking hats. “I won't ask,” she said. “Better not to,” he agreed, turning the key in the ignition.

Then, just as they began to despair, there it sat on the rise of the next hill: quaint, unassuming, unsullied, with nary a trolley in sight. Like a revelation, she thought, and wondered if he thought it too.

And of course, inside, the wine beckoned. Hot and cold on the tongue, lingering on the palate, teasing her memory with not-quite-placeable aromas. He developed a yen for Vignoles. She grew misty-eyed over a tawny port and referenced mead-halls over an oak-matured ice wine. Once the spell was cast, she knew, it would be difficult to undo. She realized she didn't care.

A clatter at the door made them look up from their individual reveries. A shaggy golden retriever, still soaking from a run-in with a hose, dashed in one entrance, through the storefront, and back out the opposite door, followed by a trio of young men in various states of wet formalwear. She watched them and thought vaguely of Whitman's twenty-ninth bather, the young men still handsome with the flush of good health and spirits and someone else's wedding. The proprietor turned up a patrician nose, mortally offended at the intrusion. As for Jim, he laughed and went back to his wine.

They settled on the lawn for a few moments afterward, stretched out in the shade of a venerable oak just getting its leaves back. Her head swam with port and poetry. Not for the first time, she wished she could fly, or at least drift through the cosmos on the perfection of the moment, lie weightless with nothing but the unblemished blue of sky as a mattress and listen to the whispering of the cooling breeze through new leaves.

She knew his thoughts held a different color, that he was aware of the curves of her body through the thin shirt, the heave of her breasts with every half-contented, half-melancholy sigh. But she wasn't her body anymore, more Emerson's transparent eyeball, and the risk to her physical form didn't concern her. Besides, she sort of relished the danger of not knowing whether he had the control today not to do as he wished. He did: she always did bring out a protective impulse as well as the unexpected desire. It was why she trusted him.

The landing was always the hardest part, the slight jerk and thud of re-inhabiting her body, the realization of oak roots digging into her back muscles and the slight dryness to her mouth as the wine dissipated. He waited quietly for her return. “Ready?” he asked when she finally looked up. She nodded, pushing aside the sense of responsibility a little while longer. First she would savor the evening drive.

Alternate scenarios floated through her mind at intervals. What if the car went over a rickety guardrail on a lonely river and her last thought would be of the starry night? Nuit étoilée, her mind filled in automatically, wryly. Or what if she found herself actually attracted to Jim, proposed they run away together and escape the boredom ingrained into her soul by a cold winter and a bland marriage? Would he do it? Sometimes, she thought, watching him drive, his thoughts as occasionally visible as hers, it would be so much easier.

The house was dark as they pulled up. Or course, he'd gone to his sister's, realizing she wasn't home to help ponder the old dilemma of what should they do for dinner. She shrugged, settling the dullness back onto her shoulders like a ratty security blanket. Jim watched her do it, as he had on countless occasions before, and didn't comment. It sat among their many secrets, like wine country. One day, perhaps, it would become a tradition.

The Girl Who Reads

"So they wrote about literature, and used characters as codes.  At Cambridge, they had passed each other by in the street.  All those books, those happy or tragic couples they had never met to discuss!  Tristan and Isolde, the Duke Orsino and Olivia (and Malvolio too), Troilus and Criseyde, Mr. Knightley and Emma, Venus and Adonis.  Turner and Tallis.  Once, in despair, he referred to Prometheus, chained to a rock, his liver devoured daily by a vulture.  Sometimes she was patient Griselde.  Mention of 'a quiet corner in a library' was a code for sexual ecstasy...She never wrote that she loved him, though she would have if she thought it would get through.  But he knew it."

---Ian McEwan, "Atonement"

Today, Cecilia sweater looks like this:

And I'm re-familiarizing myself with the original novel that inspired the sweater because there's something to be said for text and language that of necessity can't really make the jump to the screen.  Especially for a story about language and storytelling, that can be a little...limiting?  Then take out language altogether (well, unless you count knitting charts and instructions) and you have quite the challenge.  Still, she looks rather more like I intended now that I've revamped the lace pattern.  And I have the added benefit of waxing philosophical on reading and literature.

There's an essay/short story I found online this morning while nursing a coffee (and the after-effects of two espresso martinis from the night before) that stuck with me more than it should have precisely because of its glorious literary snobbery.  The original can be found here.  Don't worry: it ties all my yarns together about as well as my trusty circulars are doing at the moment.  How well that may be is debatable.

The point is I relate more than I really have a right to relate to the "girl who reads" of the title.  I see patterns when I probably shouldn't, empathize more than is strictly good for me, and live vicarious happily ever afters that likely will never exist.  I think I have been in love precisely once with a real flesh and blood human being, precisely because he saw me as the girl who reads...at the time...and wasn't afraid...at the time.  Because he saw my funny voracious little mind with its need for poetry and stories as an asset, something that turned our tawdry little relationship into a LOVE STORY in big city lights.  And like all stories, this one couldn't possibly translate to real life, at least not directly and without losing some of the inherent beautiful textual and contextual complexities.  Sometimes, knitting patterns are so much more satisfying, aren't they?

Still, I think I'm doomed to associate Cecilia sweater, not with my usual thecraftydoctor tagline, but with the slightly ironic hashtag #thegirlwhoreads.  Which means future posts about said pattern will likely feature said hashtag.  Anyone who can relate is also welcome to beg borrow and steal.  It would be...interesting, in any case, to start a trend.

Really glad I wasn't assigned the turkey...

Not that a lot of knitting went into Thanksgiving, but still.  Of all the times of year when you find yourself staring at the embarrassment of riches known as way the crap too many leftovers, Thanksgiving definitely ranks among the top offenders.  And all I had to deal with was dessert.

I admit, I come from a long tradition of too-much-fooders.  My ancestors would've seen a spread that didn't dwarf everybody seated at the table as a disgrace.  And as for the friend whose family I spent the holiday with, well, to quote "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" on this one, she could pluck me like a chicken.  There was turkey, juicy and done to perfection; stuffing drowned in turkey au jus; mashed potatoes with bacon and Gorgonzola; brussel sprouts with bacon; enough cranberry sauce to eat up with spoons.  I'm probably forgetting something, but you get the idea.  And then there was pie.

Now, I've only done sweet potato pie once before in my life, and that was completely off the cuff and without a recipe and came out a bit heavy on the sweet potato.  So I was perfectly willing to try the version suggested to me, which comes from Smitten Kitchen.  Add a sprinkling of ADHD and a lack of buttermilk (let's mix Greek yogurt and 1% milk and see what happens!), and voila new go-to pie recipe.  I even did the homemade flaky crust...sort of.

Trouble is, as a "dinner for one" sort of person, normally, I know what fits into a standard 9-inch pie crust.  2 medium sweet potatoes, 3 eggs, and 3/4 of a cup of buttermilk...won't.  Even after I ate the evidence that I'd come out with way more than 1-1/4 cup of sweet potato mash.  The pie turned out lovely:

Unfortunately I still had a bowl full of (quite yummy) leftover pie filling.

And that was when it hit me: thanks to the whole egg (including whipped egg whites), I had mixed together all the ingredients necessary for a souffle, mousse, or pot de creme.  Honestly I wish I'd come to that realization Thursday afternoon when the oven was still hot and the filling still completely fresh.  Still, no harm done.  This morning, out came the ramekins and the hot water bath, pre-heat oven to 300 degrees, fill the ramekins, place in pan of hot water, and pop these babies in for 40 minutes.  It comes out about the consistency of (slightly chunky thanks to the damn sweet potato) creme brulee, so really you should resist the urge to gobble up immediately and instead break out the sugar and blowtorch.  Just sayin'.

Yeah, really glad I didn't have to deal with the turkey....

99 Reasons

Hello and welcome to my 100th post.  How about that?  I finally got this blog to register properly on my Ravelry page.  Appropriate, no?  This calls for a celebration.

Actually this blog is about a neglected project from the days of yore.  It centers around a picture, and the picture is this one:

This is a story of Cecilia sweater, and a story of piecing things together from the remaining fragments of this year.  It seems only fitting that the items shown here are my trusty experiment yarn, large needles, mechanical pencil, graph paper, headphones, and...Pablo Neruda?

So, first, Cecilia.  Cecilia began as a concept project for 4 largeish skeins of green wool laceweight from a specialty shop in New York.  I knew said yarn had to be a sweater-dress-tunic thingy of some sort, but couldn't come up with a good reason for using laceweight until, on a whim, I rented "Atonement" on Amazon instant video sometime after my first boyfriend and I broke up (well we hardly would've watched it together...), before I left St. Louis, and fell in love with the ethereal, floaty lines of 1930s fashion.  Unfortunately, at the time I was an almost complete novice at lace, and every pattern I looked up and/or tried to adapt to my requirements fell short.  Badly.  My last attempt was a pair of bell sleeves using the Aeolian shawl from Knitty as a base, but the sleeves turned out enormous and this was my South Carolina country doctor phase and I had other things to do like figure out how to change career paths and move someplace a bit less...restrictive?  So Cecilia ended up in my unfinished projects stash during the big move to the Big Apple, never again to see the light of day until I had the time, energy, and inspiration to frog her and start back at the drafting board.

What I hadn't counted on in moving to New York was that it would be both exactly and nothing like what I expected.  I fell in love with my new job (though I still complain about it being my abusive husband, but that's the workaholic way) and with the frenetic tough romantic undefinable energy of my new home.  And somehow, in the middle of that crazy hot ridiculous summer, I found myself in a relationship that never should have happened.  It began inauspiciously, it ended with a whimper, and in the middle there were passion and friendship and laughter and adventure that make it hard to regret even in hindsight.  And then it was done, and because I couldn't torture myself with how my replacement is actually a better match (steadier, more studious and discreet, has her life together even though she's younger than me), I frogged Cecilia instead and set out to make her better.  Well, how else does one get through the bleak November?  More wine?

A green tunic sweater knit under such circumstances must necessarily evoke a little bit of rebirth, aka plants.  So the center of the lace panel pattern is based on rose leaves:

And the edges are based on flowering vines:

In the green laceweight, these will become the lace panels of the skirt, moving into a slightly fitted sleeveless bodice with V neck and back, and topped with short lace cap sleeves of the same pattern.  If I have leftover yarn (which is rather ambitious), I'll make a ribbon tie for the waist, trimmed with the leaf lace at both ends.

This, friends, and the trusty poetry that I love will be the fragments I shore up against my ruins.  Because if there are second chances to be found anywhere, I'll probably find them here in this goddamn crazy city in the absolute last place I look (egads, not Coffee Meets Bagel, please!).  It is the knitter's way.  And, as it turns out, the only proper way for me to celebrate the 100th.

The trouble with patterns...

Somebody wise once said, "No good deed goes unpunished."  It was a quote that resounded enough with people to get incorporated into a song from "Wicked," which I have a tendency to belt out unsolicited at random points in my life anyway.  Musicals aside, I get reminded of that old dictum plenty in my daily life, but today I encountered a--well, not glaring, but moderately annoying--reminder in my knitting life.  In the process, I think I may have broken the Blogger platform.  Just a teeny tiny bit.  Temporarily.

I tried to post a pattern to my blog.  Not just any pattern, but a lace scarf complete with really big charts that had to be converted from spreadsheet to image to PDF before it could be uploaded into the bowels of Ravelry.  I then proceeded to try to make it available to the Ravelry-averse, aka me up until 3 months ago.  Um...no.

So, the problem with including a link to a pattern in Ravelry is it deletes/inactivates your uploaded PDF.  Oops.

The problem with Blogger is it doesn't like reams of spreadsheet charts.  Or PDFs.  Yeah.

Basically, I spent the afternoon wondering why nobody could download my pattern on Ravelry and why I couldn't simply delete my blog link and reactivate the PDF.  Somebody computer-savvy understands why this is the case.  I, on the other hand, who had to type up said pattern and painstakingly convert my hand-charted lace into an acceptable spreadsheet equivalent, then input all the steps involved in submitting it to Ravelry, and all for the reward of zero dollars every time somebody uses my pattern, had a few choice words with my computer.

Alas, the result is that in order to access "Let It Go" (pictured to the right), you will have to follow this link.  That is, until Blogger gives me the ability to import knitting charts and PDFs.  Anybody want to work on that?  It's a good deed that won't go punished, at least not by me.

Updates?

There haven't been many.  By which I mean life has been going by quite in its normal haphazard fashion and I haven't had the time or the brain cells to blog about it.  But one thing I've added to my bucket list since moving up here: make it to New York Choral Society auditions.  One of these days.  I scheduled a time and everything, and what was I doing on Wednesday evening?  Um...looking at microscope slides.  'Cause I'm cool like that.  To be fair, there are probably other developments in my life besides the not-exactly-9-to-5 work schedule of a resident in any field whatsoever in New York City, but we don't talk about that.  Do we?

Meanwhile I'm taking a break from CLEANING ALL OF THE THINGS!!!  By which I mean, of course, scrubbing the bathroom.  The air outside today has all the charm of a wet gym sock, so frankly the ring in the bathtub had more appeal.  And while I was attacking said ring with a generous amount of bleach spray and elbow grease, it occurred to me I haven't shown off any of my knitting "conquests" since Smaller on the Outside.

So, anyhoo, Foreign Correspondent scarf is done.  No longer in a fingering weight, it looks a bit more geek than chic, which is exactly how I like it.  I'm quite looking forward to wearing it with tees and Chucks this fall.  If it ever gets to be fall and not sweaty gym sock.

Yep.  EXTERMINATE.  Still life with Dalek.  Awesome.

 As for this little number pictured to the right, this was from my English Lit geek rearing its ugly head during baby things knitting.  Because now that my friends are having babies, there must necessarily be baby things knitting.  I gawked at the surprisingly quick Girl's Pinafore on Ravelry (free pattern, by the way, don't everybody jump on it at once now...), knit it up during a particularly procrastinatory weekend, and came up with a matching bonnet with the leftover yarn.  I now have 2 fewer skeins of Lionbrand Jiffy.  When I've depleted 2 more, it will be time to purchase more yarn of better quality.  Ha, who am I kidding?

In any case, bonnet pattern, rechristened "Bennet" (named after, oddly enough, Lydia Bennet from Pride and Prejudice because of a dialogue/monologue nobody but me is likely to remember), is also up on Ravelry for hours of "entertainment."  By which I mean creative swearing.  Not to worry, I indulge in plenty of it while knitting: keeps the brain cells working during lace sections.





When shall we meet again, you ask?  Or probably don't, really.  Oh, I don't know.  There's bound to be another CLEAN ALL OF THE THINGS and then procrastinate on real work weekend coming up between now and vacation...right?

Hello, world!

I've maintained radio silence long enough, haven't I?  Long enough to pay rent (twice), take call (third time this month), and rack up a sizeable sleep debt.  And possibly actual debt, but we won't think about that.  In other words, welcome to New York.

Funny how little time it takes for a new place to become something like home.  South Carolina seems like a misty memory now, and my brain is stuffed full of histologic patterns, subway routes, and GrubHub orders.  Unfortunately, this new glut of information seems to have crowded out most attempts at serious knitting.

One thing I did manage to do (sort of) properly before the onslaught: Smaller on the Outside.  Geeks of the world, rejoice.  Well, maybe just smile a little, indulgently.  I'd take that.

Otherwise, it's slow going on Foreign Correspondent.  I'm on skein #2 and somewhat more than halfway done.  How long to all the way, you ask?  Check back in a week or two and we'll see if I've actually made any progress.  You be the judge:

Windows to the...

...well, you know.  Mine are a bit tired at the moment.  Because I just frogged an entire hat to free up yarn for something more likely to become a completed project.  I also spent the earlier part of the afternoon trying to translate TARDIS washcloth into a spreadsheet chart.  After which I realized worsted-plus yarn and size 7 needles would make an absolute monstrosity on the pattern I charted, and therefore decided to free up the sock weight and fish out some size 4s.  If it's still enormous I may have some editing to do.

After all that stress and strain my workspace sort of looked like this:

I'm not convinced it doesn't always look that way, come to think of it.

But my workspace does bring up the point of "WTF is she working on now???"  That yellow blob happens to be Foreign Correspondent's Scarf from Ravelry.  You may find the *free* pattern here.

One obvious change I made to the pattern was using DK instead of fingering weight yarn.  Which also meant upsizing the needles to size 6.  After all, I loved the designer's comment on gauge: "meh."  Scaling up lends a little extra weight, yes, but it doesn't mess with the latticework.  (Yes, it does make me think of windows, for some odd reason.)  It also eases the difficulty a bit, since DKs tend to be in reasonably low-maintenance materials such as cotton and don't break apart or produce little fuzzy nubbins that glue your yarn strands together (at least not often).  Maybe it was a tad too easy, because I found myself knitting during House Staff orientation.  And spending an awful lot of time on YouTube. 

(Disclaimer: I promise I did not set out to follow Tom Hiddleston's early career on YouTube, but I definitely do not take back Albert Finney's master class as Winston Churchill in "The Gathering Storm" or Chiwetel Ejiofor's heartbreaking Othello, so there.  Nor do I entirely blame my Facebook friends for posting audio clip of "May I Feel Said He" by E. E. Cummings in status comments, except that I always need a cold shower after I listen and I will insist on listening, and I pity the man who tries to use this to his advantage because for all I know it'll only work if you actually are Tom Hiddleston reading poetry.  Eyes are the windows to the soul?  Try ears.  Dammit.)







But we were speaking of knitting projects.  In future, I shall avoid upsizing a lace pattern.  It seems I could use the distraction.

Being Patriotic

Truth be told I meant to do this at least a year ago.

The dress, not being patriotic.  Although the latter is debatable.  Let's just say I'm not normally someone who goes around wearing flags.  I am, however, as female as the next chick.  So when a friend of mine sent me a couple yards of this little number and dared me to make a dress out of it, I was happy to comply.  You know, eventually.

As the hunk in the center says, "I want YOU to love your country."  Okey doke.  Will strapless do?

By the way, this is not based on any pattern (sorry, folks!).  I just cut out front bodice, 2 halves of back bodice, and front and back skirt panels based on my own measurements and worked from there.  The zipper goes up the back and extends a few inches into the skirt.

Feeling a bit exposed?  No worries.  Have a halter collar.  It attaches to the bodice seam with snaps, because I hate commitment.

You know how long this dress actually took me to make?  That's right: approximately 10 hours from start to finish.  So why didn't I actually do it when the bet was fresh in people's minds?  Because my sewing machine was way over in the office...

So, advantage to a studio apartment: no more out of sight, out of mind.  Sewing machine was promptly unpacked, cleaned, doused in liberal amounts of WD40, and put to its intended use.  The bed being in full view from every angle might be a problem though.  To sleep, to sew.  Aye, there's the rub.

At least this year I don't have to worry about what to wear for the 4th.

Moving day(ish)

I'm typing this on my very beat-up (externally) ThinkPad while sitting on the hardwood floor of my new apartment in Long Island City and waiting for the movers to make it in through the New York traffic.  Why?  Because I preceded the cable guy who installed my internet by about 3 hours, and he in turn outstripped the movers.  It's a long story.  At the end of which the only thing I can be sure of is I know where my towel is.  I am a hoopy frood.

I'm also, incidentally, extremely impressed at Blogger's recognition of Hitchhiker's Guide terminology, as there is currently no squiggly line below the phrase "hoopy frood."  Or at least it disappears once I move on to the next paragraph.

Now, we all know the most important thing about my move was that I was headed to New York to start my new career as a pathologist.  We also know that's only partly true.  Since I'm also a yarn addict, the most important part of this move was ensuring the continuation of my rich knitting life.  Well, "rich" is a relative term.  But packing up the crafting closet and the prospect of unpacking it into the confines of a(n admittedly generous-sized, 3-closeted) studio apartment are...daunting to say the least.

Once unpacked, however, it's off to the races.  Or rather, the Ravelry.  Anybody remember the geektastic washcloths of my first residency?  Charts and patterns await just beyond these doors.  Well, this one door.  If the movers ever get here.  With all my stuff.  Relatively intact.

Incidentally, the towel is in the bathroom.  Eventually I shall require a shower curtain.  Right?

Joining the Dark Side

I'm writing this on the fly while an adorable baby takes an incredibly amazingly long after-dinner nap.  Admittedly, since she's a child of the Big Apple and used to traffic noise and loud neighbors since she was a fetus, it probably takes quite a lot to disturb her dreams of eating and snuggling.  Still, not to be an obnoxious hovering fill-in babysitter, I've taken to joining the dark side and finally setting up a Ravelry account.  It was that or, you know, re-enacting "Waiting for Godot."  Cast of one adult plus possibly one hungry/wet/stinky infant.

So in the process of setting up my Ravelry account, I decided to see if I could post a test pattern.  Test pattern in question being newly rejected from Knitty Sand Dollar Cap.  Goodness knows I have no idea if the link works properly or not, so let's give it a go.  Forgive the lack of handy PDF file for download, as that takes a few extra brain cells which I seem to be lacking at the moment.  You might still be able to copy and paste to your favorite word processing document at will, so don't despair.

I leave you this image as a teaser/peace offering.  It's a free pattern, since I'm still working out the kinks of both designing and posting to Ravelry.  Try it at your own risk.  I'm actually quite curious if anybody else can decipher my ramblings.

And now, perhaps, back to the task at hand.

Starstuff

There's a famous quote involving that word; I just don't happen to feel like looking it up right now.  "We are all starstuff," or something like that.  I love the word.  And I definitely feel like a star of a different persuasion strutting my stuff in the following completed projects.  Have a little look-see, why don't you?

Shown to the right is completed (but not blocked) Path of Flowers stole.  When Knit 'n Purl finally re-opens, the pattern will be available for purchase, and my handiwork will be on display.  (Pumps fist in air.)  I feel a certain pride in finishing it, even if it isn't my original work.  Because it was hard, dammit.  Remember the pattern stitches every row and the sewing thread lifeline?

May I also point out that one reason I'm a bit loath to let go of it is that the colorway matches my phone?  To quote Anne Shirley a little bit on this one, "Mineshaft?  Oh, no, this is far too lovely to be called mineshaft."  That and you don't get hand-dyed silk/wool Helen's Laces down a mineshaft.  Except maybe in Minecraft?  There I suppose it could happen.

After that behemoth, naturally, Project Mozart suddenly seemed easy.  Even the nupps, which led me to warp my needles as I was doing them and almost consider switching to newly freed circulars.  Papagena scarf fairly flew to completion after the tribulations of true knitted lace.

I did worry just a little about the effect the self-striping Crazy Zauberball sock yarn was going to have on the join.  Actually the exact seam seems to have escaped this photo session, but as it turns out I needn't have worried.  I joined it between a purple section and a white, and those occur so randomly in the yarn itself that it actually looks almost like a natural transition.  Certainly not something you'd be looking for while "reading" the lace at the opera house.

By the way, for those of you who, like me, tend to forget how to do kitchener stitch grafting and have to look it up again when needed:
1. Place pieces WS facing (or RS outward).
2. Thread needle through first stitch in front purlwise, then first stitch in back knitwise, pull through but don't drop stitches from needles.  This is your setup.
3. Thread needle knitwise through first front stitch and drop it, then purlwise through 2nd front stitch but don't drop, then purlwise through 1st back stitch and drop it, then knitwise through 2nd back stitch but don't drop.  Pull yarn to tighten.
4.  Repeat step 3 until last stitch on each needle.  Thread needle knitwise through front stitch and drop, then purlwise through back stitch and drop.  All stitches are now cast off.
5.  Pull to tighten, weave in ends.

Speaking of opera, KAL shawl made its debut in dress rehearsals for the CMC Gershwin concert.  Pictures (lots of) are attached because it's a very photogenic little number.

I anticipate wearing this a lot.  The weight of it is just enough to provide a little warmth without being smothering.  And the color is just gorgeous.

Sure, knitting it felt like knitting a road map, but when the result is this good, who am I to complain?

Oh, just one more shot for good measure.













And one day, when I'm done with Knit 'n Purl homework assignment #2 aka Sandpiper scarf, there will be more pretty pictures.  And possibly a scrap of a scarf of my own invention to use up the extra yarn.  I hate to waste.  Also I despair of storage space when I get to New York.  Gulp!

Addendums, Errata, and other Footnotey Goodness

Today I vow to complete my knitting patterns.  Ish.  You know that saying "the devil is in the details"?  I am very much a forest-over-trees kind of person.  However, there's something to be said for being able to work one's patterns in a reasonable fashion, without having to click on links to someone else's (possibly defunct) website.  So for those of you trying to locate such colorfully named laces as "Arrowhead" and "Wheat in the Wind," here's my attempt to grab some of this stuff and put it into a single blog post.  Apologies in advance for the slight bit of plagiarism.

1. Wheat in the Wind

 Last seen in Amy Pond scarf, this is a 12-stitch by 12-row repeat.  Cast on multiple of 12 stitches plus desired number per edge.  Use edge stitch of your own desiring (slip-stitch, garter, whatever will keep it from curling too badly).  Lace repeat is as follows:

Rows 1 & 3: edge st, * p1, k11; repeat from * to last 2 sts, p1, edge st
Row 2 & all other wrong side rows: edge st, purl across to last st, edge st
Row 5: edge st, * p1, k1, yo, k1, yo, k2tog, k1, sl1kw, k1, psso, k4; repeat from * to last 2 sts, p1, edge st
Row 7: edge st, * p1, k2, yo, k1, yo, k2tog, k1, sl1kw, k1, psso, k3; repeat from * to last 2 sts, p1, edge st
Row 9: edge st, * p1, k3, yo, k1, yo, k2tog, k1, sl1kw, k1, psso, k2; repeat from * to last 2 sts, p1, edge st
Row 11: edge st, * p1, k4, yo, k1, yo, k2tog, k1, sl1kw, k1, psso, k1; repeat from * to last 2 sts, p1, edge st
Repeat rows 1 through 12.

Stitch abbreviations are as follows:
sl1kw = slip 1 knitwise
psso = pass slipped stitch over


The rest should hopefully be self-explanatory.


Acknowledgements go to www.craftcookie.com and their knitting stitch directory.


To turn this gorgeous lace into a scarf, work pattern repeat over desired multiple of 12 stitches plus edge, to desired length, add fringe, and enjoy.  Goes especially well with...








2. Reverse Wheat in the Wind

 Last seen in Amy Pond gloves (well, left glove, perhaps, or was it right?), lace repeat in the round is as follows:

For all even rows, knit entire round.
Rows 1+3: *p1, k11, rpt from * to end of round.
Row 5: *p1, k4, k2tog, k1, sl1 k1 psso, yo, k1, yo, k1, rpt from * to end of round.
Row 7: *p1, k3, k2tog, k1, sl1 k1 psso, yo, k1, yo, k2, rpt from * to end of round.
Row 9: *p1, k2, k2tog, k1, sl1 k1 psso, yo, k1, yo, k3, rpt from * to end of round.
Row 11: *p1, k1, k2tog, k1, sl1 k1 psso, yo, k1, yo, k4, rpt from * to end of round.

Of course, if you wanted to do Reverse Wheat in the Wind as a flat pattern, you simply purl the even rows and do your edge stitches again.  Not sure why you'd want to, but hey, I won't judge.
























3. Arrowhead

 Last seen in Blackberrying, this is a 4-row pattern repeat as follows:

Row 1 (WS): purl across
Row 2 (RS): k1, *(yo, ssk) twice, k1, (k2tog, yo) twice, k1*, repeat section between *s to end of row
Row 3 (WS): purl across
Row 4 (RS): k2, *yo, ssk, yo, sl 2 knitwise-k1-p2sso, yo, k2 tog, yo, k3*, repeat section between *s to last 2 sts, k2

Acknowledgment goes to knittingfool.com.  If you have time, surf their exhaustive list of lace stitches.

To adapt this into the round, simply, um, knit your even rows/rounds and omit the edge stitches, i.e. the stuff around the asterisks.  It's actually easier than it sounds.  Promise.

The good thing about Blackberrying is that you can adjust the number of increase and decrease rows to turn it into a lace snood rather than a top-down beret.  Pictured to right and below.  Here's how you would do that:

Cast on 5 stitches and begin working in round.
Increase in the round by knitting 1 into the front and back of each stitch (10 sts total).
Work 1 repeat of Arrowhead.

Increase by a factor of 10 stitches every "Row 1" until you reach a desired diameter (for size 8s and worsted weight, knit into front and back of every stitch on Row 1, and work Rows 2-4 as written).  Continue in Arrowhead, doing kfb increases in Row 1 until you reach 60-80 sts total depending on desired circumference.
Repeat Arrowhead pattern 2-4 times without increases until you reach desired fullness.
Decrease by a factor of 10 stitches every 4th round aka "Row 1" (k2tog around) until you get to a reasonable circumference (about 30 sts).
Finish Arrowhead repeat for that number of stitches
Knit 1-2 rows even.
Bind off, weave in ends, and block as desired.

To finish off this confection, weave a length of ribbon through the last row of yarnovers ("eyelets").

To wear, pull hair into loose bun, loop snood over bun, pull on ribbon ends to tighten, and tie.  For extra security, pin in place with bobby or u-shaped pins.  For Ren-Faire I used enough pins to set off local MRI magnets and still considered stapling the thing to my head, but most normal people's hair is slightly more cooperative.










And I think that's enough due diligence to call it a day.  In other news, Path of Flowers stole is off the needles and turned in just in time for Knit 'n Purl's big move.  With any luck, it will adorn one of the mannequins in the new store, so stay tuned!  And next time, there may even be pictures of new projects.  Maybe...

Of Mice and Men

It started with a skein of yarn.  It's been a Whitman kind of week and I'm more full of "multitudes" than even my normal wont, so bear with me.  The yarn: a laceweight of course, to be ordered for the new location when my home base yarn shop moves down a few roads.  Soft, a mohair and silk blend, I think, ridiculously luxe with its scatter of glittering "stars," the kind one goes into a specialty shop to feel up and covet but never actually--gasp!--buy and knit.  Mentally smacking myself upside the head, I set my eyes on a dusky rose.  Even though I had no business thinking about another lace shawl with Project Mozart grinding to a halt and shop samples churning away in baby alpacas and hand-dyed wool/silks and me already far behind on mystery shawl KAL.  I couldn't help it.  My silly lace-obsessed brain started designing.

I wanted to call it "Night Blooming" as a play on the dusky rose with stars colorway.  Like jasmine and other sweet-smelling nocturnal blossoms, and in keeping with a pattern consisting of a flowery Estonian lace border and a body that's essentially yarn-over/k2tog/ssk "stars."  Also in keeping with the fact that, since it starts with the border and works its way up, you get the hard part over with and then start flying by night since your homework is much easier than your classwork.  Speaking as a frequenter of a yarn shop that does classes.

And that was that.  Except, unfortunately, for the poetry.  It's the end of National Poetry Month, and I spent yesterday evening reading Whitman and this morning walking the beach for inspiration and performing something of a brain dump.  But while I love poetry and poets and all that jazz, it occurs to me that if you were to moor me on a desert island with the essentials but nothing but books of poetry for company, when someone finally came to retrieve me I'd have accomplished nothing.  Or close to nothing.  It has to do with literary choices.  I need my stories.

Anybody who knows me or my bookshelves knows I gravitate toward sci-fi and fantasy.  Probably always have and always will.  My favorite movies and TV shows reflect that, as does my list of favorite authors, which includes among them Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, and, yes, in spite of the heat he's gotten lately for his sociopolitical rantings, Orson Scott Card.  Ender's Game struck a chord.  I can't help it.  It (and, yes, Speaker for the Dead too), for lack of a better word, spoke to me.  Spoke to the plight of the gifted child who was always bound to be a little bit different, who had the potential to be the loneliest being in the universe.

Oh, don't get me wrong.  I'm no Ender Wiggin.  Everybody knows that.  I was your standard gifted classes socially awkward physically weird nerd kid.  But sometimes I wish I were a bit more like Valentine.  That's right: Valentine.  The turned-over, soft-spoken middle child, the anonymous mover of worlds and peoples, storyteller of an entire species, and above all, even when pressed into service as the mouthpiece of hate, an agent of love.  The character who, I sometimes wonder, might after all be the one her creator identifies with most.  Demosthenes.  Think about it.

Valentine.  My little 18-stitch-repeat lace border naturally wanted to form itself into hearts.  Valentine Wiggin, blooming and coming into her own among the stars.  How could I resist?  And so, if I ever manage to get this shawl designing scheme off the ground, Valentine, this is for you.

Penance

It occurs to me I put a lot of words into my last post.  Not all funny happy ones either.  There was a--well, not really an incident--back in college after my poem "Cinderella Revisited" appeared in the school literary rag when people actually asked (often second-hand) whether I was depressed.  Yep, I was an opera singer, and Anne Rice is a vampire.  By the way, if the latter is true, I'm checking in with my psychiatrist friends, but I still never sang for an audience unless you count middle school parents back in eighth grade.

So, anyways, because I subjected my handful of robot readers to a crap-ton of text, I think it's high time for some picture updates to make up for it.  Think of it as my Easter observance.

For instance, finally seeing the pattern taking shape in Path of Flowers stole now that I'm approximately close to halfway through...maybe?  Wishful thinking?  The yarn ball feels smaller?  That's what she said?

Also, Raiden has come round to Sandpiper scarf.   It does look gorgeous in person, though, and is pettably soft in that impossibly light gossamer made-of-nothingness way baby alpaca laceweight has.  If it weren't for the blueness, this might be confused for a spiderweb.  Raiden likes spiderwebs.  And spiders.  They're her favorite snack.  Crawly is the new tasty?

I really couldn't resist the headbanging pic.

Or the close-up, where if you hallucinate a little you might actually make out the sandpiper tracks.

Of course, all that laceweight took time away from KAL shawl, which is progressing more or less according to pattern.  In fact, I may have been taking out my tension on this particular project because I have a little more yarn left over than predicted.  We'll see if that keeps up.  Better tension in my yarn than tension in my back muscles?

An up-close at the "lacy wasp" section, where the holes were made up of double yarnovers, a traditionally Estonian lace type technique that I've usually done in finer-gauge yarn.  It's weird actually being able to see the texture of one's stitches.  I feel like I'm knitting a road map.  Totally see myself traveling/lounging in this baby when it's done.  Because as I pointed out at Knit 'n Purl while the boys were lamenting the lack of occasion for a shawl, I'll wear one whenever and wherever dammit.  Shawls are cool.  Gotta be at least fez territory.









There.  Picture penance.  We'll work on designing again when I have needles and brain cells free.