Halfway House

I feel it important you all know that as I begin writing this blog post, the lyrics "Ooooh, we're halfway there, oh OH living on a prayer!" are blasting in my head. That's what I get for trying to tell you the story about my weekend and how I only got halfway along on everything I started.

I think the problem is the dogs. Yes, we should certainly blame it on the dogs.

For one whole fun-filled week, we are watching Camper's friend, Carl Barks (yes, that is his full name.) Camper and Carl spend most of their time chewing on each other's teeth. It makes a horrible clanking sound, but they seem to find it fun. These two have gotten into more trouble together in one week than Camper has ever gotten into on his own. The first night we had Carl, he pooped on the floor. So naturally Camper did, too. I think it was a solidarity thing. They have broken out of their barricades, slept on our heads, chased squirrels to an inch of their lives, whined, cried, been tied up together outside of the fabric shop like a two-headed monster, and together, they managed to get an avocado off of the kitchen counter and eat the entire ripe contents by the time we got home. An hour later, I got off the phone with animal poison control (who informed me they would be a little sick but just fine). Thanks a lot, internet, for telling me they might DIE.

So I was a little off my game.

There were these sunflower seeds that I roasted. Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to roast your own sunflower seeds? Well let me tell you! After you cut the head off the sunflower, you have to go through and extract each individual seed with your fingertips. After a thorough cleaning (and an inspection for worms--GROSS), you then soak the seeds in salt water for 24 hours, then roast them for 30 minutes or so at 350. When they came out of the oven, I put them into a cute little bowl and saucer I made in pottery class. Guess what? MOST of the sunflower pods didn't even have seeds. We were just sitting there, chewing on these salty little shells, and every now and then you'd find a thin little sliver of sunflower seed goodness. I kept thinking, this would be the perfect diet food! You do all that work and get like 5 calories, but the salt makes you feel like you ate something.

Seriously, why do people do this?

Next up were two botched dress upgrades. The first was an attempt to dye a cute little white dress I bought at a thrift store. I was thinking indigo ombre. Doesn't that sound fabulous? All in all, it was a $14, one-hour-long failed experiment, so not a big deal. But let me just give you this word of advice: You absolutely cannot dye synthetic fibers with RIT dye. The box tells you that, and you may be tempted to not believe the box. But seriously, the box means it. So this little polyester Grecian goddess number? Yeah, it turned a color I'm going to call "silvery cream." It's fine. It's whatever. It is NOT ombre. And it is certainly not indigo. I would show you a photo of the "after," but it's, um, sort of the same.

Next up, I decided to do a little surgery on a vintage dress I bought online. The dress is so cute, but the sleeves were hideous and made me look boxy and frump-a-dump, so I decided to do a little hem at the shoulder and lop them off. The first sleeve went off just fine. The second, I don't know what happened. I think an evil spirit lives in the bobbin of my sewing machine. When I got around the entire armhole, I looked on the underside of the fabric to see the most hideous knot nest looping its wicked way all around the inside of the sleeve. It was so nasty looking that I just set the dress down and backed away slowly. In fact, we might just pretend that never happened.

There was, however, one bright shimmering project that went beyond the halfway point today--I potted this succulent. I had intended this pot and saucer to be a little planter, but the holes in the pot had partially filled with glaze (see: amateur potter). So after we threw out the stupid sunflower seeds, Robb drilled holes in the bottom of the pot through the glaze and I popped this little succulent in place. It took about three minutes, but it was deeply satisfying. With the help of Bon Jovi, I lived on the prayer that I would finish a single project this weekend, and my prayers were answered.

A Little Tableau

When Robb and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to leave the confines of our Caribbean resort and go across the street to an establishment called Tequila Joe's. I donned a faux denim romper, Robb put on his nicest cargo shorts, and we sat in the shade of the patio, sipping terrible margaritas. It should be known that the logo for Tequila Joe's is a cactus (that looks not unlike a pickle) wearing a sombrero and playing a saxophone. Lucky for you, I attempted to ride the mechanical bull at Tequila Joe's later that evening and this photo managed to capture the sign in the background.

While we were sitting on the porch of Tequila Joe's, a man by the name of Pierre approached us and asked if we wanted to buy any of his art. He had many pieces of art, this Pierre, most of which were painted with tempera paints in primary colors. I'm afraid Pierre didn't have much finesse. But then, as we were about to turn him away, he showed us this painting of an epic waterfall splashing down into a cool lagoon. There were the twin Pitons peeking above the clouds, actual palm trees with real color blending, and everything rendered to scale. That is, except for the two little primary color sailboats floating through the water. (Were they un-manned toy boats? Or was it just a very large jungle?) Pierre, I'm afraid, had taken someone else's work and painted his little boats over it, which was just pathetic enough that we gave him a twenty and declared it our first marital art acquisition. (It even came with a real plastic frame!)

Pierre's fine artwork now hangs in our living room against a dramatic red wall. Beneath the art is one of my great grandmother's Spanish dolls, and to the left is an old photograph of my great grandmother's brother, Pauly, who I learned recently had his heart broken as a young man in the 1930s. (He was a Protestant, but he married a Catholic woman and they had a child together. Their families, however, were not happy with the intermingling of the religions, so her parents convinced her to take the child and leave him; he never saw them again.)

Right in the middle of it all is a bowl I made in pottery class. It has no other purpose than to catch the errant pocket change and leftover skeins of yarn that pile up on the coffee table, but I like the way that it ties the corner together. The ridiculous painting, the stoic doll, the sadness of Pauly, and a little something I made.

So often these days I see little tableaus arranged in people's homes, and I know they mean something--at least I'd like to think they mean something--but I'm not sure what. In my home, anyway, every little thing has a story. And this was one of them.

Six Yards

About two months ago, I spontaneously ordered six yards of wool/silk jersey online. The package arrived and inside was a small, tight mound of fabric. I was at first taken aback by how little fabric six yards seemed to be...the bundle was so small! But the package itself had a nice heft to it. Oh, I realized...this is one of those fabrics that has drape. And bounce. That clings and flows. This, I thought, will be interesting.

I bought the fabric intending to make myself an Alabama Chanin dress. Nothing fancy. Just a sweet little thing in gray that I could slip into and feel like a lady on weekends. (Over the years, I'm sorry to say, I've found that I barely try at all on the weekends, typically wearing clothing that is just a notch nicer than pajamas. Showers are optional and hair-dos involve a rubber band and no mirror.) The dress is supposed to be entirely hand-sewn, but since summer was already waning by the time I began, I opted to machine-sew it...despite the fact that wool/silk jersey is delicate and slippery and requires some wrangling. I'm a "just get it done" kind of girl, after all, and this dress needed to be done already.

By Saturday afternoon, I finished the dress! And as I went to put away the remaining three or so yards of fabric, an idea crawled up into my brain: A high-waisted skirt, something super drapey, a little bit full, and a little bit long. Before I knew it, I had wrapped and pinned several swaths of fabric around my waist and was hunting for some sort of cotton to use as a built-in belt. Boom! Five yards later, I had two new articles of clothing...both made from charcoal gray silk/wool jersey. 

With just one last, long section of the jersey left, I had an idea (and here is where I probably should have gone to bed). I decided to make a scarf with the jersey fabric on one side, and a bright orange-and-white gingham on the other. Why did I pick orange, you wonder? I'm not quite sure (see also: I probably should have gone to bed). I think it had something to do with a lust for color in winter, the way we all need a pop of something vibrant here and there. A reminder that clothing can be fun.

Speaking of fun, this final yard was probably where I finally lost my mind: when I wrapped the scarf around my head and turned it into some sort of vaguely ethnic headdress. (I think I was going for a Girl with the Pearl Earring kind of look?) After sending the "can I pull off this turban?" photo text to Julie, I finally turned off the sewing machine. It was 2am on Saturday night (yes I am a total party animal). Six yards later, I finally went to bed. I dreamt of sewing, of course.

Frida's Ensemble

In early June, Megan had a baby, and though I didn't get to meet little Miss Frida until early August, I already knew how much I would love watching her grow up. And how much I would love watching Megan grow up, too.

When I first met Megan, she was 27-years-old and had just returned from a many-months-long trip to Europe. Both wordly and world-worn, she came home to San Francisco to find that her best friend Mark had started dating a 23-year-old SoCal transplant (me). The first time Megan and I met, we huddled together in Mark's bedroom amidst a thick layer of cigarette smoke, surely listening to whatever the newest release from Bloodshoot Records was that day. We instantly became very good friends, not unlike the easy way that children make friends when they are young. Without overthinking, without wondering if the enthusiasm is shared, without wondering if you can trust your secrets, or if you're oversharing. The joy of making a lifelong friend is an instantaneous thrill, and ten years later, I'm not surprised to see the bond is still going strong.

 

In the month leading up to Frida's birth, I knit furiously and thought about who Megan would be now, what her life would look like with a child in tow, and how lucky Frida was to be born into the world of such a strong, interesting woman. I guess you could say I knit my good intentions into it, though Megan reports that they keep finding strands of my long blonde hair knitted into the fabric, so I guess you could say I knitted more than just my intentions into it? (For those with hair phobias, sorry...I know that's sort of gross. We find it funny.)

Because Megan is passionate about hot pink (and most bright colors for that matter), I figured that Frida would not be a pastel baby. But she also would not be a carbon copy of her mother...it just couldn't be so. For Frida, I chose this deeper pink, a vibrant fuchsia...let's go ahead and call it hot plum. And because she will be a San Franciscan and a German (her father is from Berlin), she will need a hood to get her through the damp winters, and she might as well start getting used to wool now. (Superwash, of course...I'm not insane.)

Soon enough I realized that it had to become an outfit, and so I whipped up this amazingly fast and satisfying baby kimono from Heather Ross's Weekend Sewing. An old tablecloth and a few yards of bias tape and we had ourselves a matching set. (For those crafty types who need a last-minute killer baby shower gift, I highly recommend.)

Before I mailed the package off to a yet-to-be-born Frida, I did what I always do with baby clothes: modeled them on my old teddy bear. (The effect is a bit creepy, but you get the point.)

Personally, I think Frida is a far cuter model. And in Megan's always excellent fashion opinion, red and hot plum do go together. I'm so glad that I made the sweater in the bigger size, so she can wear it with the super long sleeves rolled up now and still be wearing it this winter as she grows. (For those who are interested, the sweater pattern is called the Audrey Hoodie, and it's from the fabulous book Vintage Baby Knits by Kristen Rengren!)

As for meeting Frida? Words sort of can't explain. It's funny how when you meet the baby of an acquaintance, you might feel tentative and not exactly melt into a puddle from the cuteness. Hell, you might even think the child looks like a squirming alien. But when you meet your best friend's baby, you go straight over to her and grab her little hands. You find yourself holding her and bouncing around and singing a little song that you just made up, and you stare and wonder and catch glimpses of your friends' expressions in her furrowed brow. Honestly, it felt like I was meeting a person who  already knows the punchline, who already knows the stories, who is already in the club, even though she has yet to learn any of it. She will. After all, she's one of us girls now.

Last Sunday

Last Sunday started off all wrong. We woke up in the morning and decided to go to the "dog beach" in New Jersey, so from a sleepy state in bed, Robb reserved a zipcar on his phone, and I set about making some iced coffee. We left the house in a rush, took the subway two stops to the most unfortunately named subway stop (Flushing), and then when we got above ground, Robb received a voicemail saying that the people who had our zipcar were going to be late. Real late.

We decided to cancel.

On the way back home--no dog beach, no ocean--I got terribly cranky. I wanted to swim, damn it! And here I was, locked in this ugly Brooklyn jail, all stupid concrete and asphalt. On the way back to our house, Robb noticed some people walking by us with towels over their shoulders on their way back from the McCarren Pool. He made me go ask them if the line was long, and they said, no, there's no line at all. We knew right then that we would go swimming...at the giant public pool that we had never been to! All this time, we had thought that it would suck, figuring it would be crowded, gross, with dirty kids running around everywhere. Not so...it was pretty and blue and big and open, and we swam some laps and snoozed on our towels. From that point on, the day looked up.

And as inspiration for this coming weekend--nay, the last weekend of what truly feels like summer--I wanted to post some inspirational photos from my last Sunday. It is my sincerest wish, dear friends, that your weekend will deliver.

This is a lettuce plant that bolted. Like, beyond bolted. I think it's pretty. It's also probably pretty bitter.

This is a supersteak tomato that soon enough will be ready for eating. 

And these are our wet towels and bathing suits, hanging up after a day of swimming. (The Ciroc towel, by the way, was my prize for winning the Michael McDonald singing competition one night at NitaNita...proud memory, for sure.) 

Here are two rising loafs of bread that I decided to make on a whim. They were very salty. Which is great if you like salty bread (I do).

Here are the almonds that I accidentally spilled in my purse. I had to dump them on the counter, which always feels classy.

And here is the binding on my newest Alabama Chanin dress. It's sloppy and it looks like straw, an aesthetic choice that I feel okay about.

The Art of Endurance

I meant to write this post about two months ago. It was while I was on my stomach, sweating buckets in a Bikram yoga class, wanting to murder the instructor who held us in Eagle just a moment longer than usual. It was during the week that Robb came with me to class to see what this Bikram yoga thing was all about. (Though he had never done yoga before, and he was awfully shaky in the balancing sequence, he participated in every posture and never once sat down, which I found incredible). It was also during the time when Megan was about to have her baby, and we talked on the phone about what delivery would be like. Could she do natural child birth? She knew she would try. She knew she would insist. She knew that her mother and her grandmother, and every mom on the planet before not so long ago, had had natural childbirth (and many, in fact, lived to tell the tale), but no one--not even her mother or grandmother--could tell her what it felt like. No one could tell her what type of resources she would need to tap into to prepare, to endure. It seemed that will was the main factor, as it seems to be in just about all of life. 

I don't know that anyone is born with more will or internal strength than another, but I do think that some of us are lucky to have been given an opportunity to test our strength (and win) at an early age. My first memory of this was on a backpacking trip when I was eight years old. That summer (and for the next several that followed), my parents would pull down backpacking gear from the rafters and spread it about on the garage floor, making lists, checking and double-checking that each of us had one canteen, one sierra cup, one fork, one knife, one spoon, a flashlight, a pocket knife, enough clothes to stay cool and warm (but not too many clothes). There were ropes to tie the food in the trees away from the bears, tiny futuristic stoves that weighed about a pound, and filters to turn stream water into drinkable water. And when it was all in good order, they would start to pack, seeing what would fit. I can't recall how much Erin and I carried (I'd guess between 20 and 30 pounds), but I do believe my dad carried a 50-pound pack, which is insane. Once we were all set, off we would drive to the Sierras to meet three or four other families, where we would pick up the next leg of the John Muir trail, hiking 40 or so miles in about a week.

To pass the time on particularly grueling switchbacks (those are trails on mountains so steep they traverse the hillside horizontally, going back and forth in a zigzag up the mountain), us kids would often talk about fast food, dreaming about how many taco supremes we were going to get from Taco Bell once we got the hell off this mountain. One time we crossed paths with a guy riding a pack mule and he handed us a warm Coke to share...I will never forget the delicious burning sting of my two sips of hot soda.

Around day four of one of these trips, we left our tents and our packs and took a day trip--our goal was to climb to the top of Half Dome in Yosemite. This was supposed to be a great day...what we had all been looking forward to the entire hike. We had all gazed upon Half Dome from the floor of Yosemite valley, but not one of us had ever stood on top of it (and with good reason...it's a pain in the ass and a motherfucker of a hike). That's the part I didn't know. When I heard "day trip" and "leave your pack at camp," I was filled with glee, but upon realizing that this side trip was an 11 mile hike with a wildly steep incline...well, something in me snapped. First, I stopped talking. With every step I was filled with a wild rage, wondering why the hell we would be walking anywhere that did not take us closer to the cars. I do believe there were words exchanged with my mom. There was a long sulky sit-down on a boulder where I decided that nothing would change my foul mood. EVER. AGAIN. But seeing as turning around was not an option, something not unlike an ignition turned over inside of me, and suddenly I was off. Fuck this mountain, fuck this trail, fuck all of you who made me come here, I will get to the top of this mountain and I will get there faster than you. 

My mom told me later that she was worried I was going to hyperventilate, I was walking so fast. But I didn't. Instead, the most miraculous thing happened. During my solitary hike up that mountain, my footsteps turned into some sort of meditation, and by the time I reached the final rocky switchbacks leading up to the plateau at the foot of Half Dome, I didn't feel angry anymore. 

This is my first memory of endurance. 

And this is what I find so interesting. I don't think endurance is a physical thing. I think it is the story we tell ourselves when we are in an uncomfortable moment--no matter how big or small. It's how we talk ourselves through it. It's how we distract ourselves. Or how we allow ourselves to stomp our feet, and how we eventually listen to an inner-voice that tells us, frustratingly, that it's going to be okay, that it can't go on forever. I know it sounds crazy, but I think about this sometimes when I'm knitting and it feels like I will NEVER finish the back of the sweater. I think about this all the time when I'm in yoga. When it is 100 degrees and I can't imagine holding my leg straight and my foot in the air for another moment. But then I do. And oh, how wonderful it is when the breeze blows into the studio and I think, why do I even need television when the universe gives us such amazing gifts as the combination of sweat and breeze? 

As we climbed up the backside of Half Dome, I do believe we all felt a bit of this same sweat-and-breeze sense of wonder. How could you not? Looking at our smiles in the photo above (I'm second from the front, going through a chubby, awkward phase--note the pink sweatshirt with teddy bears and heavy bangs), you would not exactly suspect we were four days out in the wilderness and had just hiked 11 miles. Oh, but the view from the top...how could you not smile?

This week, I return to Bikram yoga. I haven't been in three weeks and I'd be lying if I said I weren't a little bit scared. I suspect it will be a lot like starting over, and my anticipation of discomfort is sky high. But at some point, I plan to remind myself that the instructor will open a door and there will be a breeze. That the next class will be easier, that I will get stronger, and that an hour and a half cannot last forever. At that point, I do believe, I will have persevered.

Crafting in the Moment

Friends, I took a little break. It was not exactly intended, but not exactly surprising either. If I had to pinpoint a cause for this break, I would say it's an end of summer ennui, a large workload followed by a lovely vacation to California, and a series of moments when inspiration struck, but I was far from a computer.

The break, however, was not for lack of making things. In the past few weeks alone, there has been the completion of a second wedding quilt, dozens of rows knitted on a sweater, the construction of a six-layer pink ombre cake, and I made the acquaintance of a certain baby Frida, who modeled a particularly cute hand-knitted seed-stitch hoodie for me. And yet, I haven't taken a photo of a single thing. Not exactly intentionally. In fact, I really did mean to photograph them. But when Megan put the sweater on Frida, I completely forgot to reach for the camera. And when I gave the quilt to my parents, I declared that I would take photos in natural light the next day (and then proceeded to forget to do that for the next five days). The cake? Didn't bring my camera to the party...there was flourescent lighting in the kitchen anyway, so it would have been a wash.

But the truth behind the matter is this: I've grown a bit weary of the beautification of craft, the trendiness of craft, and the expectation of perfection. (And believe me, I know this sounds crazy coming from a craft book editor, since these three merits are absolutely part of the job.) But lately, I've found that there is something disconcerting about a perfectly executed creation, an impeccably styled photograph...rather than thrilling me as it once did, I've been feeling like it gets away from the heart of the creation. I guess you could say that I miss seeing the hand of the maker, the mistakes, the surprises. As I peruse some of the most vibrant DIY blogs on the planet and admire their offerings, I sometimes find myself wondering, is this what my life is supposed to look like? (Note: this is not what my life looks like.) The sensation reminds me of the anti-Martha battle-cry of the late '90s/early 2000s, when I would hear my mom cursing in front of the television as Martha Stewart demonstrated the how-to for some gorgeous decoration. "I hate her. But I can't stop watching!" (I might be paraphrasing.) Only now it's not just a single Martha...it's a whole internet full of Marthas with creations that we can't stop watching, and the trends that float through Pinterest repeat more reliably than a chevron bedspread. In recent months, I looked on in amazement as people from all walks of life considered the merits of filling mason jars with salad for each day of the week, and I still can't help but wonder how good Friday's salad will be and if the lettuce won't be just a wee bit wilty.

Not that I am immune to salad jar craft ideas! I am, after all, a person who not many months ago went to the trouble of making her own cheese, and I am also a daughter of the Sassy Magazine generation, who lived to tell the tale of dyeing her hair with Kool-aid and chamomile tea. I only started knitting in 2005 when the bandwagon pulled up in San Francisco, and I still to this day take on all manner of projects that will likely not look as good or taste as yummy as the variety that can be bought at the store down the street. Nevertheless, I will never stop making things. I guess the difference is that, in the last few weeks, I have just been trying to enjoy it for myself. The way I used to. Before the internet, before blogs, before everyone was an amateur photographer, before I started making books. There was a time when I used to make things only for the sake of showing myself I could do it, and showing someone else that I loved them. To that end, it's been sort of nice to take a brief hiatus, to live in the moment of making and giving without documentation. When Frida wore the sweater I made for her, I held her in my arms and rocked her about, completely forgetting to grab my camera. And that is probably a good thing.

This isn't to say I won't be sharing creations here anymore! Because, well, that would be pointless. There are still many many reasons to share and enjoy, just as there are many many reasons to sometimes take a break from sharing. I just wanted to let you know where I've been and where I am and what I've been thinking. Do you ever feel this way, too?

Finally, despite all of my grand declarations in this post, I did want to share one of my recent creations...the only one I did think to photograph. It is not very good and it is certainly not trendy. It's a watercolor pencil sketch I did at Alpine Lake, sitting on the shore with my mom and my aunt, each of us with a sketchpad in our lap and a grip of pencils in our hands. My aunt declared my shading to be wimpy and filled in the shadows of the lake for me, and later, my mom taught me how to wet the brush and blend the colors. This is one of my favorite creations, because it is laden with laughter, advice, sunscreen, and the memory of that perfect golden day.