Martha's got crochet in the spotlight

So all day long, for two straight days I sat across from a lovely purple poncho. As I demonstrated spinning and worked our booth, I kept noticing this amazing poncho. After a while I asked Rebecca about it and she said it was a variation on the Martha shawl. Oh yes, I thought, I remember a guild member mentioning this at the last meeting. It is such an easy pattern that I was able to make one in two short evenings. The first one I made out of commercially spun yarn, but the next one, will be out of my handspun. Now that I understand how the pattern works, (and it's really easy, it's just that I was rusty from not having crocheted in so very long) I am planning another one. I am going to take my triple ply chocolate perendale and overdye it with warm reds and purples. I want a slightly varigated look.

I gotta get the picture thing figured out and then I can show you what I am talking about.

Painted Rovings and a bottle of wine

On Saturday I attended a full day dyeing workshop. We started at 9 am and finished at 5 pm. I was exhausted and invigorated. I have been dyeing fibre for a couple of years now, but my results, while oftentimes lovely, have been inconsistent and a few times disasterous -- felting and too much bleeding of colour.

I was so inspired by the workshop and a renewed sense of knowledge about the dyeing process, that on my way home from work on Monday I stopped in at Birkeland Brothers (sellers of fine yarns, carded wool, knitting and spinning equipment) and purchased 3lbs of white perendale rovings.

I then transformed our dining room into a "dyeing studio" and spent the next several hours making painted rovings. I divided the rovings into approximately 1 oz sections and I have 15 of these delightful multi-coloured snakelike things drying in front of our living room stove. Yesterday I dashed home from work as quickly as possible, and because I didn't have to set up the studio, I had even more time and managed to get the other 2 lbs done. I sipped wine, played with colour combinations and tried to keep track of what I was doing so if an amazing one showed up, I would know how to replicate it. That's the thing about this process, you paint the rovings and push the dye into it as much as you can, but you really don't know what it's going to look like until it comes out of the steamer. I anyone is interested I will give details of the dyeing process that I used. As excited as I was about seeing the results, I let them cool right down, overnight. I woke up this morning and rinsed them all out and they too are hanging in front of the stove.

Tonight I label them all and prepare them for sale at Fibrefest International (April 15 and 16 at the Tradex in Abbottsford, BC). If they sell, I will feel good. If they don't, I have lovely rovings to spin up over the summer! Life is indeed good.

Got that outta the way. . .

As a newcomer to the blog world, I was excited by the idea of being able to post some of my stories. The Long, Lonely Road is one of my first, and apart from my family, this is the first time I have made it "public". I am glad to have it out of the way, 'cause now I feel I can get onto other things.

Tomorrow I am going to a full day dyeing workshop. It's taken me all week to gather the supply list. I've been dyeing fibre for a while now. I started with koolaid dyes, then onto chemical dyes in a very informal/chaotic manner. Tomorrow, I learn the "official" way to dye. And then I can go from there. What I am looking for in the dyeing workshop is the ability to replicate my results. Not that I am a Type A artist, but sometimes I just want enough fibre to make something other than a pair of mittens or socks.

Next week I am going to figure out the picture thing so I can start posting phots of my work and play. I really appreciate the photos in other fibre-blogs.

The Long, Lonely Road --Part VIII

Part VIII
After arriving home, I headed for Sudbury early the next morning to see my mother in the hospital. I couldn't believe how much someone could change, deteriorate in only eight days. She was a small woman and seemed even smaller and more vulnerable in the hospital bed. Her normally lively brown eyes looked faded and eerie as the whites in them had turned yellow. Somehow she had contracted hepatitis at work and it was working its way through her system. She was weak and genuinely happy to see me safely home, but her enthusiasm was curbed by her lack of energy. Her smile was lovely and at that moment I was so sorry I had left and caused her any worry. I wanted to give the ring back to her, right then and there and tell her the whole story of it: why I took it; what I was thinking about; why I left; and why I was back. But I just couldn't. It all seemed so silly and childish. And pathetic. So instead we had a nice visit. I assured her that I was home to stay and not to worry about the house or the other kids while she was in hospital.

It felt weird to be home. I had practically been across the country and back in a mere eight days, and yet it all seemed like it had never happened. Everything was the same at home except that my mom was in the hospital. Before my trip I figured that things were going to be really different when, if, I returned. I didn't know how it was going to be different, I just felt that things would be somehow changed. I wanted things to be different, but I didn't know what that looked like.

When I got back to the house I went into my mother's room. It smelled the same familiar way it had the night that I left -- a flat smell mixed with a piercing freshness from her favourite perfume. I walked over to her dresser, lifted the lid of her jewelry box and put the ring back where it belonged.

The End

The Long, Lonely Road -- Part VII

Part VII
Trudy scarcely spoke to me for the rest of the trip and I don't blame her. We were a team and I almost dragged her down with my guilt. I thought I was doing the right thing, the noble thing. My shame at how closely I had come to abandoning our ride home kept me silent about my joy at finding the ring. The road home was long and lonely.

The Long, Lonely Road -- Part VI

Part VI
Standing in my kitchen I smiled at the memory of the ring and that trip and wondered what kind of weird luck saved me. Silly ring. I laugh about it now but it was a strange time in my life. Funny how things get buried for years and then a little phrase unearths them. Whatever happened to that ring? Whenever I tell the story, I only tell the first part. About losing it and finding it. In fact, I often lie. In my retelling of the story, I have the courage to tell Trudy that I found it. We laugh and carry on happily for the rest of the trip. But that's not what really happened.

The Long, Lonely Road -- Part V

Part V
Cal came out of the restaurant, climbed into the truck and started it up. He looked remarkably energized for a fellow who'd only had three hours of sleep and had a fifteen hour drive ahead of him. At that time in my life I didn't know of the existence or effect of certain chemical substances. We followed quickly not knowing how we were going to break the news to him that his "company" was leaving because I had to find my mother's ring that I had stolen. While he was walking around the truck checking things out, I got into it, climbed to the back of the cab, and grabbed our packs. I pulled mine out first and handed it down to Trudy. I looked into the cab again to get Trudy's and off to the left, gleaming in the darkness by the light of the Husky, was the ring. It must have slipped off when I swung my pack up there. I reached across the cab, picked up the ring and quickly put it into my front pocket.

"Hand me up that pack Trudy. You're right. Let's just forget about it."

She swung the pack back up to me and looked at me in a strange way.

"Make up your friggen' mind. What about your mom? the hospital? the ring?"

"Just forget about it, okay?"

The Long, Lonely Road -- Part IV

Part IV
Outside of Dryden we stopped at the Husky station for a late supper. It was nearly midnight. The day had been hot and muggy, but it was finally starting too cool down. The place was virtually empty. A gas attendant was reading a Louis L'amour western, a waitress was mopping the floor when not reluctantly taking food orders, and someone was crashing around in the back making sandwiches and pies for tomorrow's customers. After we ate, Cal returned to the truck for some sleep. He asked us to wake him at three a.m. so he could make a final push, drop us off at the turnoff at 7 p.m. and make it to his niece's wedding reception in Lively by eight. While he slept, we hung around the Husky, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, talking and washing up in the bathroom. That's when I noticed that my mother's ring was missing.

I looked all over our booth and then the rest of the restaurant. I asked the waitress if she had swept anything up --

"It's a solitary pearl, mounted on gold -- nothing really fancy."

"Nope -- haven't seen it. Sorry."

Sorry was the last thing she looked like. She couldn't have been less interested or concerned by my mounting panic. You'd think she want a bit of excitement to get her through the long summer night.

"But I can't go back until I find it." She raised one eyebrow in response, pushed a stray lock of hair off her sweating face and was for a moment about to say something, but then resumed her mopping.

We looked for the ring everywhere and then we looked some more. We walked back and forth across the parking lot from the truck to the restaurant so many times the gravel and cracks in the pavement became familiar.

About 2:15 a.m. I realized that the ring must have come off my hand when I washed up. The gas attendant eagerly parted with his novel, dug up some tools and met us in the ladies' room. He pulled off the pipes to check for the ring in the "u" joint. There were two sinks. It wasn't in the first, but there was lots of other disgusting stuff that needed to be cleaned out of it anyway. He started on the second one. My heart raced, fearful of what the world would be like if the ring wasn't there, hopeful, praying that it was. It wasn't there. I looked at Trudy and she looked like she was about to cry or kill me. The moment before rage looks a great deal like sorrow, or at least that's what I needed to believe at the time. The gas attendant wasn't pleased with me either. He took the sinks apart only because I told him I was one-hundred-percent positive that the ring was there. He would never have done it on a hunch. And there he was, left with a mess that he barely knew how to put back together, and the two girls he had hoped to impress strangely quiet and tense with each other, walked out with hardly a word to him.

Outside the Husky I told Trudy, "I can't leave. I have to find it. I just can't go home without it. She doesn't even know I took it."

We went back to the truck. It was time to wake Cal. We didn't say anything about the ring. He went inside for a quick piece of cherry pie and cup of coffee before pulling out. While he was inside we discussed our options.

Trudy was clear about what she wanted. "Just leave it. We'll never get a ride all the way back. This guy's taking us right to the turn-off."

"I can't leave it behind like that. My father gave that ring to her for their anniversary."

"So what, they're divorced now. We hardly have any money left -- I don't want to be on the road for another couple of days with no money."

"She's in the hospital, dying for all I know." Somehow I had convinced myself that she was in the hospital because I had taken her ring and would probably die if I lost it. Sleep deprivation, guilt and the mind of a teenager are a wicked combination. "I can't leave it here."

"You're an idiot. We're going to give up this ride and you still won't have the ring. We've looked everywhere already. Where else is there to look?"

"I don't know, but it's got to be somewhere." Then the thought occurred to me that it may very well have been left at the hostel in Banff. I started to cry.

Trudy looked at me in disgust and impatiently said, "Great. Let's get our gear. You owe me for this."

The Long, Lonely Road -- Part III

Part III
A few days before Trudy and I left on our cross Canada adventure, I was out shopping with my mother. She wasn't feeling too well, a summer flu she thought. But that didn't stop her. As a single mother, she wanted to see her kids well equipped for the season. I had just picked up a cheque for having worked after school in the Art Room. The plan was to buy some summer clothes.

"This is lovely," my mother said, "It's a perfect colour you." She was holding a lightweight denim sundress with an embroidered bodice.

"Naw, I don't wear dresses." I scarcely looked over at the one she was holding.

"But you look so good in them and a nice sundress is all you'll need on those hot, muggy days."

"No, I don't want it." I wandered away from the dress section and started looking at tops. My mind wasn't on clothes. I wasn't excited at the prospect of a new outfit.

My mother followed me over to the shirt section. "What's up with you?” she asked with mixed concern and mild annoyance that I wasn’t getting into the shopping spree.

"I don't know." There was a long pause. "Are we going to do anything this summer?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are going to go anywhere, take a trip or something?" I was thinking of all the family trips we had taken every summer of our lives. But this year was different. This was the first summer without my dad. My parents had separated earlier that year. He now lived in Brewer, Maine, a day and half drive away. Things weren't the same in many ways and the summer held little promise. "I want to go somewhere. I want to see the mountains."

My mother laughed as she walked over to the bathing suits. "I don't think that's going to happen too soon. I need to work as much as I can. It's the only way I can hope to become fulltime." She was a nurse and worked casual which involved a lot of graveyard shifts and little notice. "How about a new bathing suit? Your old one is getting ratty."

"No," I sighed.

"What is wrong with you?" She was starting to get impatient with my lack of enthusiasm for the shopping excursion and the direction the conversation had gone.

"I just want to do something, go somewhere -- have an adventure," I blurted out, as much to my surprise as hers.

She cut me off with, "Well we just can't afford it, so forget about it." And we wandered around the store in a terse silence. I ended up buying nothing, which is why I had seventy dollars and 35 cents burning a hole in my pocket.

The Slow Food Manifesto

The effects of the onslaught of the industrial civilization are still intrinsically with us today. First we invented the machine and then took it as its life model. We are enslaved by speed and have all succumbed to the same insidious virus: Fast Life - that disrupts our habits - pervades the privacy of our homes and forces us to eat Fast Foods.

To be worthy of the name, Homo Sapiens should rid ourselves of speed before it reduces us to a species in danger of extinction. A firm defence of quiet material pleasure is the only way to oppose the universal folly of Fast Life.

Many suitable doses of guaranteed sensual pleasure and slow, long-lasting enjoyment can preserve us from the contagion of the multitude who mistake frenzy for efficiency. Our defence should begin at the table with Slow Food. Let us rediscover the flavors of regional cooking and re-learn the art of savouring taste and texture. For the sake of our health and out children's health, we need to banish the degrading effects of Fast Food.

In the name of productivity, 'Fast Life' has changed our way of being and threatens our environment and our landscapes. So Slow Food is now the only truly progressive answer.
That is what real culture is all about: developing taste rather than demeaning it. And what better way to set about this than an international exchange of experiences, knowledge, and projects?

Slow Food guarantees a better future.

Slow Food is an idea that needs plenty of qualified supporters who can help turn this (slow) motion into an international movement, with the little snail as its symbol.

Visit http://www.slowfood.com/

Recipe for Basil Pesto -- the Slow Way

In the spring, dig up a plot in your backyard, about 3' X 10' that gets a lot of sunshine. When the leaves of the oak are 1/2 grown, plant your basil seeds. You can directly sow basil. Plant the seeds about 1/4 in. apart (but don't worry too much about over planting cause basil likes to be crowded, helps to create the humid micro-climate they thrive in) in rows about 6" apart.

Leave a six inch border all around so you can plant nasturtium. The nasturtium will ensure that slugs won't cross over and eat all your basil, and the nasty aphids will gather on the nasturtium instead of your basil. Furthermore, it is beautiful and will give your garden a wild, Tom Thomson Tangled Garden look.

Basil prefer hot and humid climates and get stressed when things are too dry. If they are stressed they will go to seed. You don't want that. Water in the morning so the plant has time to dry off before nighttime and the moisture in the soil creates the humid climate they love.

When you basil is about 4" high, pinch out the middle leaves. This will provide for your first harvest and will also cause the plant to start branching out. Note: pick basil at the end of the day, when all the dew is dried off and the heat of the sun in the leaves has gone. If you pick it in the heat of the day, it will wilt. Once they've hit the 4-6" mark, they just take off and grow like crazy, so pinch them back regularly to keep them branching. Experiment with harvesting and find a rhythm that works for you. When the plants start to flower, pinch that out as the flavour of the leaves weaken a bit when they go into seed production mode.


How to make basil pesto:

• 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 2 - 6 cloves of garlic, depending on the strength of your garlic and your own preferences
• 1 packed cup of basil--really packed, with a plot 3' x 10' you don't need to skimp on the basil
• 1/4 cup asiago, parmesan and/or romano (experiment with these chesses and find the one that works for you)
• 1/4 cup of nuts ( traditional recipes call for pine nuts, which taste divine but are very expensive, so I use blanched almonds and when possible, hazelnuts from the tree in my yard)
• pinch of salt, pepper and cayene
• juice of 1/2 lemon

Add to food processor in the order listed, stopping until each ingredient is blended. Blend the basil just as much as you want, some prefer a fine grind, I prefer to leave larger pieces of basil, makes for a more traditional taste.

If you want a traditional approach, add basil to your mortar and grind into a paste with pestle adding oil in dribs and drabs. Then add all the other ingredients, grinding as you go until the paste is to the consistency you like.

Add to lightly drained (but not rinsed) pasta, spread on focaccia, or use instead of tomato sauce on your pizza.

Ciao