Street Treats

Back when I lived in San Francisco, we used to find cool things out on the street all the time. And we'd even bring them into our homes--a thought that is unheard of in this day and age. But we didn't even think about bed bugs back then. As far as I knew, they were something Henry Miller had to deal with in 1920s Paris as he ran around from brothel to brothel in Tropic of Cancer. I found coffee tables on the sidewalk, bought couches from strangers on Craigslist. Cool bookshelf in an alley? Why not! Just bring it on in! People do, after all, throw out some really cool stuff. But in the last six or seven years, this kind of street scavenging is absolutely out of the question. At least in major city areas. And if I see a mattress on the street, there is a good chance I will cross to the other side. 

Which is why it was so surprising that I brought this sewing machine into my house yesterday. After all, I found it on the street! 

I was walking to the grocery store and passed by my neighbor's house, as I always do. There is a very sweet old couple that lives in the building. Between April and September, they sit outside in folding chairs and listen to the radio, and they say hello to every single person that walks by. As I walked by their house yesterday, I saw this table sitting outside. It's tall and skinny, not a terrible looking end table but not spectacular either. Aside from the fact that we don't need any more furniture in our house, the whole "don't take furniture in off the street because it might have bed bugs" thing keeps me from looking at any street furniture too seriously. But then, on my way back, I noticed a cord hanging down from inside of the table. I stopped in my tracks. Could it be? Sure enough, I lifted the top of the table and inside was an old Singer sewing machine, neatly tucked inside the table. 

I ran into the house, where Robb was sitting on the couch, and said something along the lines of "how much will you hate me if I bring a piece of furniture in off the street." After a quick pow-wow, we ascertained that it must have belonged to the elderly lady next door, and that she was probably getting rid of it because she no longer sews--not because her house is infested with bed bugs. So I ran outside and lugged it in.

The bad news is the belt is broken and it's missing the power cord. The good news is that those things are pretty easy to fix, and it is gorgeous and fits perfectly in our kitchen, right beneath a little homage to the Sierras that I have unconsciously put together over the years (a string of pine cones, a framed photo of a pine tree that belonged to my great grandmother, and a grizzly bear bottle opener).

I just love these old built-in machines. They're so smart, and so neat, and so much more glamorous than the plastic Kenmore I'm currently using. I mean, when in use, the table extends to give you a whole new work surface. And when not in use, the machine folds down inside of the table, and the foot fits neatly into a slot on the inside, leaving nothing but a simple, practical table behind. It's like a transformer for sewing goddesses, and I love it.

A quick look at the serial number reveals that this one is from 1948. Oh, the spectacular garments that my neighbor must have sewn back then! I imagine her in a homemade coat dress, the lapel smoothed, her hair pulled back from her face, and her lips red and glossy. Was she married to her husband then? Was he back from the war or still off in the Pacific? Oh, the stories...I'm dying to know. Now, when I see them outside in their folding chairs this April, I just have to work up the nerve to tell them that I'm the one who took the machine, and that, I hope they know, it is in good hands.

Last Week's Cake

I must admit, after a long, challenging Monday, it's hard to remember the pure elation that went into making this cake last Thursday night. Isn't it funny how far we swing during the course of just one week? My cycle typically begins with a fabulous "the world is a good place to be" type of feeling on Friday, an energetic, hopeful lilt on Saturday, a sleepy, slightly moody Sunday followed by a bad night of sleep, followed by a rough Monday at work. As the week goes on, I usually remember how to fall asleep before 1 a.m. I might turn off the TV at night and do something, think something, make something, see someone, and by the time Thursday arrives, I am a fully formed, nearly hopeful person again, ready to enjoy my weekend. Thursday is one of the better days, I think, right on the cusp of greatness. And this last Thursday was one of the best. On the docket after work, I had already planned to make a birthday cake for my sweetheart--and I do love devoting an entire night, at home alone, to baking. But then, as we were finishing dinner and I was hunting for my sifter and marveling at how I had managed to buy duplicate bags of confectioner's sugar and cocoa powder when I already had plenty of both at home, we got a phone call. First Robb's phone rang and he missed it, then my phone rang and I missed it, and then we both looked at our phones and saw that our friend Ryan had called. "Baby!" I yelled out, and Robb beat me to calling Ryan back. Our friend Jess, Ryan's wife, had gone into labor. 

Ryan came over and dropped off his little King Charles pup, Mister, and uttered something joyful and slightly panicked like "I'm gonna be a dad....today!"Mister sulked on the couch. (He can't stand our dog Camper...too licky, too sniffy, too jabby in his giant eyeballs.) And then before I knew it, Ryan was off to the hospital and Robb was off to work and there I was with two mismatched dogs and an ambitious cake to bake.

I had forgotten to look up any cake recipes that day, so I did a quick search on my phone for a recipe in the grocery store. One of the first ones that came up was from Ina Garten--Beatty's Chocolate Cake--and when in doubt, always go with the Ina Garten recipe. There is a reason her cookbooks sell better than anyone else's. Her food is no fuss brilliant, her instructions could not be clearer. And you don't even mind doing annoying things like buttering the cake pan, then placing your parchment paper in the pan, then buttering it again and flouring. You know there is a good reason she's telling you to do it and you just do it. 

While Mister stared at the door, pouting, and Camper chewed on the loudest of his squeaky toys, I did things like mix up this sinister butter-cream frosting, all the time my brain jumping around erratically, one second marveling at how my dear friend Jess was going to be a mom, and the next wondering if a from-scratch Caesar salad would be a good side dish for Robb's birthday dinner the following night.

While we waited for the cakes to cool, the dogs fought for prime real estate on my lap. Mister, who has the genetic edge of being an actual lap dog, won most rounds. 

And of course, because it was Ina, the cakes came right out of the pan, almost disturbingly moist and fluffy. (Could it have been the buttermilk? Or the bit of vegetable oil? What makes this cake so superior?) Because Robb loves chocolate and cherries, I found myself straining a can of cherry-pie filling--I spread the cherry liquid onto the middle layer of the lake, and the cherries themselves would go on top later.

Before long, I had a happy little cake on my hands. Yes, this cake would do just fine. It was adequately frosted, only a bit lopsided. But I started to think about those cherries and got nervous...wouldn't they roll right off the top?

Indeed, they would! Those cherries needed a blockade of sorts. A spiky blockade--the very best kind. And soon enough I found myself getting out the pastry bags and the pastry tips and scooping gobs of extra frosting into the bag. Note to people as daft as I am--make sure to put that pastry tip in the bag before you fill it with frosting. (This is how, at one point, I found myself with chocolate frosting up to my elbow, attempting to wrestle a pastry tip into the point of a full bag of frosting...not as delicious as you might think.)

The party? It was full of wine and my favorite people and a kazoo sing-a-long and a damn fine Caesar salad if I may say so myself. The cake? Bright and happy, intense and gooey (the cup of espresso she tells you to add to the batter is absolutely crucial). And the photo Jess sent us as we were wrapping up dinner? The best thing ever. Little Wren Devlin. Happy birthday to her brand new sweet soul, and to Robb's sweet soul, too. It was a great birthday weekend indeed.

And now, because it's Monday and a girl's got to do something sometimes to improve her mood after a long day, I am going to go eat some of that cake.

Jess's Girl

Know what's amazing? When a girl you grew up with is having a baby. I first met my dear friend Jess when she was 15 years old, on the first day of rehearsals for Into the Woods. She rocked a really cool bowl cut and swooped in to take the lead as the Baker's Wife with her booming, gorgeous voice. Naturally, we were all intrigued. Over the years, I've watched her grow out of that bowl cut and into a smart, gorgeous, fashionable New Yorker. She's mean and compassionate and hilarious all at once, and she's one of my favorite people. So naturally, she's going to be a great mom.

For Jess's little girl, I wanted to make something sweet, but not too sweet, and not just any old thing would do. So after much consideration, I decided to make her a very simple little quilt and a very cuddly little stuffed mouse. (And I cannot tell you how happy I was when I visited Jess and Ryan's new apartment and found that they were painting the baby's room seafoamy blue  and wanted to decorate with pink  accents. YES!)

For the quilt, the hardest part was picking the fabrics. When I saw this pale pink polka dot, it absolutely spoke to me. The border could have gone lots of different ways...a blue stripe? A solid yellow? But no, this floral was the match I was looking for. (I may have squealed a little bit when I held the two fabrics together at the shop.)

I used the polka dot fabric for the front and back--two yards is the perfect amount for a 36" x 44" baby quilt. Just fold the fabric in half and cut it down the fold. Slip some batting between the two pieces and you're ready to pin the layers together! The actual quilting could not be easier. It's just long rows of wavy lines, about two inches apart, and to make them you just let the quilt meander back and forth as you push it beneath the foot. Once you've quilted the blanket, you add your binding and you're all set. 

The mouse doll was more of an impulse creation. The blanket needed a friend! Years ago I edited a sweet little book called Kata Golda's Hand-Stitched Felt, which features a whole family of stuffed animal projects, and the author sent me a kit for making this mouse girl. (You can buy your own kit here!) You just cut out the felt pieces and whipstitch all around them--the sloppier the better!--and then you stuff the mouse's head and body and sew them together. I finished this little girl in one night, and it was so so so fun.

The scariest part, of course, is sewing the face. But you really can't go wrong. I gave Jess's mouse girl a sneaky little smile, because I can already tell that her daughter is going to be just a wee bit mischievous. 

Finally, to top it all off, I made a gag-worthy matching card to go with the gift. I know! It was too much! But sometimes I can't stop myself. Especially when I'm happy for someone. And I could not be happier for Jess and Ryan.

Come on, December 13! Let's meet this girl already!

 

On Art & Editing

As Robb and I walked through the Met last weekend, we started to get into that lovely hour-three rhythm, where you stop reading every placard and accept that you aren't going to see everything. We spent far too long looking at a medieval crossbow and breezed right by the Monets, not really feeling too enthused about all that pastel. Right about the time our legs were starting to ache and we were searching the map for anything that contains the words "wine" or "lounge," we entered a room packed with people on a guided tour, all of them snapping photos of this painting. 

I thought to myself, is that a Vermeer? Is that the Girl with the Pearl Earring? And upon closer inspection, she was painted by Vermeer and she did indeed seem to have a pearl-ish bobble hanging from her lobe. But that face...I felt like I would have remembered such a ghoulish little girl. I snapped a photo on my iPhone so I could do further research (over a glass of wine) and we got the heck out of that crowded room.

As it turns out, it was not, in fact, the celebrated Girl with a Pearl Earring painting (she's down below). But the styling is so similar, the turn of the face, and the streamers hanging from the crown of her head. I almost wonder if she was Vermeer's practice model. Was he just gearing up for the main event? Though no information seems to exist on who these girls are (except the more famous one is clearly Scarlett Johansson), I did find it interesting to learn that Vermeer did not consider these paintings to be portraits—he described them as tronies, which means expression. He wanted to capture the suggestion of a personality and highlight unusual features. The Met website calls her face haunting, and I would have to agree. I also love this: "The essential element in many of Vermeer's pictures—the viewer's curiosity about a young woman's thoughts, feelings, or character—is found here in deceptively simple form."

I like this "essential element" in Vermeer's paintings so much that I've decided to borrow it in my own art form. Last week, I finished writing a very long short story (too skinny for a novella, too fat for short fiction...will she settle on a size in time for prom?). The main character in this story is a very lost woman, though I find her beautiful. And as I read through my sister's edits on my first draft, I'm trying to keep the character's visage in mind. Her unusual features, her perplexing behavior, and ultimately (hopefully) her redemption. I hope to be subtle, yet colorful and full of light. It is my ultimate goal to engage the reader's curiosity about this woman's thoughts, feelings, or character--all in a deceptively simple form. For that reminder, I will go ahead and thank Vermeer. 

Hurricane Sweater

I tell ya, this hurricane thing has been pretty crazy. Having grown up in California, I had no idea what to expect. On Monday--the day the fun was due to begin--I sat at the dog park giving Camper a pre-storm run as another friendly dog owner explained to me how in Florida, coconuts can literally fly off the trees and kill you during a hurricane! He advised me to get some nonperishable goods and stay inside. While we don't have coconuts here in Brooklyn, I decided we should listen to him.

The day went like this: rainy rainy rainy, wiiiindy, rainy. Then really fucking windy! Camper and I stood at the back door and watched our puny little fruit trees flop in the wind. (In fact, below is a really boring video I took of the yard which is only good for the very end when Camper growls at the wind.)

For the rest of the day, I ate all of the nonperishable food first, like I wasn't supposed to, and only on day three of not being able to go back to work have I started in on the lettuce and fruit. Our power stayed on. Our internet worked. My phone stopped being able to make or receive calls (much to my mother's dismay). I feverishly searched the internet for updates on what the hell was happening out there in Manhattan and beyond. I let Camper out now and then and was a thrilled to feel the wind pushing up against the glass door (you really had to put your shoulder into it if a big gust was blowing). Four stacked lawn chairs blew across our yard, and our big green party bucket (you know, the things you fill with ice and put your beers in) got crushed. RIP party bucket.

We fared pretty well. Others we know did not (and seeing as a lot of people still don't have power and lost absolutely irreplaceable belongings, they're still not doing well...and my heart goes out to them and my shower is open to them).

But if there was one bit of good news this week, it's that I made some major progress on Robb's sweater. That's right, it turns out that hurricanes provide the perfect conditions for marathon knitting. When I wasn't shoveling my face with cheese-laden snack foods, I was working row after row of Stockinette. What I'm holding in the photo above is not, in fact, knitted long johns, but the completed front and back of a cardigan!

(So you can understand it better, I have tried it on for you as it will eventually be worn. And from the back. Note that it will have arms and will not look like a hippie cape, as it does here.)

We're still a long way off from being done, but finishing the back put the wind in my sails. As many of you know, it's been nearly two years since I started this sweater--and I'm still not convinced that it will fit Robb, nor am I convinced it will look good on him--but progress is progress. The sweater is currently being blocked on my kitchen floor, pinned down to a bath towel, and when Robb gets home from work, it's try-on time! And then possible sewing up the sides time! And then picking up stitches for the arms time! It feels like a miracle.

In other news of astonishing amazement, I finished the first draft of the story I have been working on, and I'm sure I will have lots more to say on that topic soon. For now, I am basking in the unique glory that comes with saying you're going to do things and then doing them. Now, both the story and the sweater have a lot more work ahead of them (I guess you could say the story needs to be sewed up and have some arms added to it, too). But phase one? Complete!

Jess's Future Stylish Child

So you know how in my last blog post I went on and on about how focused I am right now? How I'm not really crafting all that much? How I'm only working on Robb's sweater and the writing of an epic story? Well, it turns out I'm having trouble keeping that focus. This is hardly a surprise.

Last night as Robb and I watched the debates, I knit his sweater furiously (literally...these debates make me tense!), working row after row of knit and then purl, knit and then purl, trying my hardest not to watch the expressions on the candidates' faces (I hate watching men smirk). After an hour of knitting, I threw the cardigan over Robb's shoulders to see how much further I have to go in the back. Five more inches, including the ribbing. It's getting there folks, it really is! I'm in the zone now. However, I'm a wee bit worried that my gauge was off and we're discussing our options (there might be some panels added to the sides, beneath the underarms--a knitting maneuver that scares me. What will that do to the armholes? What do I look like, a surgeon?) At one point I declared how great I'M going to look in this sweater once it's done, so the confidence level is clearly shaky. We shall see, folks, we shall see...

In the meantime, I keep finding things that I want to knit (but can't yet) for my dear friend Jess's future stylish child. Jess is incredibly fashionable, and she's having a girl, so it only follows suit that this girl will be fashionable. (Though I'm sure that's what they all said about Chastity Bono when she was born, and that apple fell pretty far from Cher's fashion tree...which is probably a good thing.) Well, we'll have a few years of dressing Jess's little girl up before she starts forming opinions. But I MUST finish Robb's sweater before I cast on another. Really, it's imperative.

In the meantime, I'm dreaming of this little potato sack sweater. I found the inspiration on Pinterest and followed the link to this fabulous Finnish blog. I have no idea what she's saying--or if there are actual instructions on how to knit the sweater--but it's so simple, so straightforward, so timeless, I really think I could make it up. (Famous last words, I know.) I mean, it's all garter stitch! And it's chunky as all get out, which means speedy results! And it's for a baby, so no shaping! Plus that little color-blocked tummy just kills me. I think I'd avoid the hood as that just seems like I'd be asking for trouble (especially since I'm talking about making up my own pattern).

After I sketched out the potato sack above, I started thinking I might prefer an A-line sweater for this little girl. I do suspect, after all, that she's going to be very girly. Though for a baby sweater, the lines might get lost (she's not gonna do a whole lot of strolling for a while, right?). So maybe the A-line comes for her first or second birthday. I picture it with goloshes. Don't you think? So I guess I really am saving this one for a rainy day...

Writing Stories

I haven't been doing much crafting lately. It's true! And it's a rather strange thing for me not to give into every creative whim. (I usually begin each weekend by making a list of things I would like to make, practical or not, and making them just because they sound like fun at that very moment.)

Instead, I am using this lovely cool autumn to focus my efforts. I am reading a lot. I am going to finish Robb's sweater if it kills me. And, most importantly, I have been learning how to write again.

I have been reacquainting myself with that odd mix of anticipation and frustration that comes with yearning to sit down and write a story--knowing without a doubt that you have something to say--and then just as your fingertips are about to touch the keyboard, not being sure that you will say it correctly.

I will be in the midst of writing dialogue and think, no no no, this is all wrong. This character would never say it this way. And then I keep going, just doing it wrong.

I have spent too many hours on 500 words, rewriting, rephrasing, cutting, adding.

I have had moments of elation, where I strike clear down to the bone of what happened. And I have had moments where I am sick to my stomach, calling up my own stories--the ones I don't like to tell--and integrating them into the plot line. Sometimes your own stories are the most important ones to tell; to put them into a story is a way of extracting them from yourself. After all, if left to their own devices, these stories will knock against the walls of your stomach in endless circles.

There have been lots of treats. A tall canister of whipped cream sits in the fridge and occasionally gets shook up and applied to the top of extra fancy homemade iced coffee. There have been bowls of salty popcorn and cool slices of cheese that I eat before bed. There might be a sundae in my future tonight. These are my rewards for having sat down and continued the story.

I'm not sure yet if I'm writing a story or a novel. All I know is that it ends with knitted bikinis, and I feel relieved to know the ending. Aren't you intrigued? Me too.

I heard something recently that was said by Deepak Chopra in the back of a van while he was being interviewed by Rainn Wilson (it's really worth a watch if you have a few minutes). He referred to the creative process as "divine discontent." This is how we feel when we aren't sure how the story is going to tell itself, when it's not yet clear how we are going to create what is in our mind's eye. His theory is that this is when we are at our happiest. When we are making art that only we can make, and when we are solving the riddles that are involved in making it.

I adore this theory. I really do.

Which is why tonight I tried to write a scene with an old man and a young woman, and when I discovered that they didn't know what to say to each other, I didn't panic. I just haven't worked it out yet. Who they are to each other, how it would feel to be in their shoes. It will probably come to me while I'm walking, and I'll need to duck onto a stoop and jot down a note. It will be something mysterious that will only barely make sense to me later, like "Egg McMuffin!" or "His wife is dead!" (And yes, these notes usually have exclamation points, because when you figure out why your character is where he is and is behaving in that particular way, it really is quite exciting.)

It's all exciting. Every bit of it. Even the never-ending sweater I'm knitting which I will finish...in the rare moments when I'm not stuffing my face with reward cheese.