Your Brain

This is your brain.



This is your brain on Cat Bordhi.



The marvelous, mysterious Mobius Cowl in Mountain Colors Twizzle, Wild Raspberry colourway.

I finished off this scarf a couple of days ago. I am hoping that the snowstorm that followed within hours was sheer coincidence.



This is a seriously long scarf.



Modified "Irish Hiking Scarf", inspired by the Rebecca 23 scarf with hood. In Schachenmayr nomotta Alpaka, many many balls, and held double throughout. It's about 5 pounds of scarf. No kidding.

With hood sewn up:



(I'm Finnish by heritage... I've never really seen it in myself until I took this photo. Something about those Baltic blue eyes.)

Keep It Simple

I refuse out of sheer, purposeless stubbornness principle to turn on central heating until at least November. Given that fact and the brutal fall snow storm we endured last night, it was only 16 degrees in the house this morning. DH and the girls didn't say anything... perhaps they were conserving their strength.

Given that, and the fact that I apparently can't sew anything more challenging than a button on over the last couple of days, led to some practical, fun sewing. Meet a small family of rice heating pads, complete with cushy colourful flannel cases. I'll keep a couple for me and hubby and give the SD's one each to warm their beds at night.



A quick glance out the window to confirm why these are so welcome:



On the positive side, the cool house is inspiring our kitties to try to get along. There's only so much room in front of the fireplace, and they set aside their differences to roast their noggins together for a while.



Mina, the tuxedo cat, regards Ginger with much suspicion. Rightfully so, as Ginger, the young upstart, is of a tender young age where ambushes are good fun. Mina, a somber old senior citizen of a feline, begs to differ.

As You Sew, So Shall You Rip

I'm in the home stretch on Abby's quilt. The mind-bogglingly tedious yet terrifying free-motion machine quilting is finished, and all I have to do is sew the four border and four corner pieces to the main quilt body. It's not quite as easy as it sounds, as I'm quilting-as-I-go, which means that there's two seams to be sewn for each piece to be attached.

Yesterday I carefully pinned a long side border piece to the main body. It's a large quilt and hard to handle, but I eventually got it all pinned down smoothly. I sat back for a minute for a quick quality check before I began sewing, and was glad I did- somehow I had pinned the piece on upside-down. Crud. What a lot of work gone to waste. I unpinned it and left it alone in disgust overnight.

Today I came back in to the sewing room, eager to re-do what I had to undo last night. Carefully making sure the pieces weren't upside down, I re-pinned the border to the body and did another quality check. Yup. Looked good. I sewed the straight seam, fighting against the bulk of the quilt and feeding it through the machine. A quick iron, and then another round of fighting, this time to sew the decorative zig-zag stitch that holds the "grout" in place. Full of pride, I ironed the top out and then flipped it around to admire the other side.

And realized I just sewed that damned border on backwards.

Creativ Festival (Day 2)

Today wasn't nearly as intimidating; we had a good feel for what was there, and we had made our purchases (for the most part!) so we didn't have to worry about the goodies being picked clean. One thing we both wanted to do was to have some hands-on spinning experience, so Gemini Fibers was our first stop of the day.

You could tell that the staff were there out of a sincere love of what they did. As soon as Kate and I betrayed the slightest interest, I had a spindle in my hand before I could say "sheep!", and Kate was seated at a lovely wheel for some drafting lessons. The two Judy's were extremely friendly and helpful, and fueled our burgeoning interest in learning to spin.





I caught Linda MacPhee's Slinky fashion show after that. I've always loved the drape and look of slinky, and Linda's patterns make it quick, easy and lovely to sew. Seeing great potential in the swing and drape of the fabric, I fell down hard in her booth and got several meters of fabric and a couple of patterns.



The gorgeous red fabric turned into this shirt the next day... it was like magic. I, who am so afraid of sewing garments (and making mistakes!) turned out this classy little number in two hours. (Looks much more appealing on. Just ask my husband!)



I can see a lot of slinky in my future.

The Oakville Spinners and Weavers Guild had a gorgeous tapestry that was being hand-woven at the festival. It was amazing to watch. The woman working on it, Ixchel Suarez, is quite a famed textile artist in her own right, and had some amazing work displayed there. I also learned about the World of Threads Festival at this booth, which looks like an amazing show.



(Speaking of amazing shows- don't forget the Ottawa Valley Weaver's and Spinners Guild exhibition and sale next weekend (Oct 31-Nov 2). This is always a treat for the fibre inclined.)

Rounding out our amazing weekend at the Creativ Festival was the Vogue gala dinner and fashion show. We sat with some engaging women, had a nice dinner, and got all inspired again when we watched the latest Vogue/Butterick/McCalls patterns sewn up and strutting the runway.

It was a grand weekend; I'm so glad I went. I don't know if I'll make a point of attending annually, but what a fabulous treat this was.

Creativ Festival (Day 1)

Kate and I got back Sunday from Toronto's Creativ Festival; the first time I'd had a chance to attend since my first time in 1997 (back when it was still the CSNF.) It's a bit of a pricey proposition, after transportation, hotel and event tickets are summed, but after all was said and done, I reckon it worth every penny.

We got there on Friday about noon, and were immediately overwhelmed by the size and variety of exhibitors. We walked around in a daze, until we ran into Joe. His friendly patter brought us into his booth to see what was going on.



Joe is the husband of Jonelle Raffino, the creative force behind SWTC, the alt fiber yarn maker. Joe gets thrown to the wolves at festivals all over North America at the SWTC booth, and encouraged us to touch and stroke the new offerings (have you seen Therapi??? It's 30% Jade. I kid you not.) Nice guy. Nice yarn.

We took a break mid-afternoon, completely overwhelmed. A sit and knit, a cup of tea, and I for one felt ready to go back in.

There were free workshops going on all day long in different venues on different topics. We attended one on garment embellishments- fairly low on information but long on beautiful examples. The workshop on "Knitting Without Patterns" turned out to be inspirational gold... Nina opened our eyes and made us feel much more confident with ad-libbing our own patterns. Mistakes can turn into design features, and nothing needs to be made as written. What a startling yet obvious truth.

I had a little bit of serendipity at Mary's Yarns. A couple of years ago I ran into some simply divine yarn at a shop in L.A.... I don't know what I was thinking when I failed to come back with a single skein. They had a small selection at Mary's booth... I scooped up a single perfect skein as a momento of both L.A. and the festival. This will be something luscious... I'm thinking a cowl.


Mountain Colors "Twizzle", 85% merino/15 % silk in Wild Raspberry.

I picked up a nice ball of bamboo/nylon sock yarn at the Mary Maxim booth.



The surprise purchase of the day was yarn for a cardigan. Kate and I both bought four balls of this, because we fell in love with this cardigan after trying it on at the Adirondack Yarns booth. It's a surprise purchase because it's an acrylic yarn. I've always considered myself above acrylic yarn (preferring natural fibers) but the beauty and softness of this yarn could not be denied.



I had a comprehensive serger lesson at the Baby Lock booth; I made the error of asking one of the reps there "what's the point of having a serger?" He took 45 minutes and 15 sewing samples to deliver his answer, and thoroughly convinced me. I'm not sure how I ever got along without one now! :)

Day Two will be a separate post, lest this one become too long.

Last Gasp of the Garden

It's harvest time, more or less, and I have to say I'm pleased with the overall performance of my little square-foot garden. This being the first year, there's definitely tweaks and changes I'll make, but overall, I got good veggie bang for the buck.





Out:
Zucchini. Not overly fond of the stuff to begin with, and the single seed I planted used up so much real-estate and gave me so many squashes that I was filled with despair. Not a bad outcome for someone who actually likes the stuff, granted. Don't ask me why I planted it.

Marigolds. Planted as a pest deterrent, these cheerful blooms often crowded out the actual veggies they were intended to protect.

Peppers: Three plants, two tiny little peppers all season, only one of which was edible. Not worth the effort, IMHO.

Strawberries: I've had both climbing and alpine strawberries going for two years now. While I enjoyed the berries, this summer was so very wet that the majority molded on the vines. As they're good for two good bearing years anyhow, I pulled 'em up.

In:

Garlic: All that real-estate cleared up by removing the strawberries is now turned over to two varieties, Siberian and Fireball. If everything goes well, I'll be self-sufficient next year as far as the stinking rose goes.

More:

Beans: I loved the taste of the fresh and dried-on-the-vine beans. More, please!



Peas: Despite the weird rust that claimed these late in the season, we enjoyed many delicious sugar-snap peas.

Carrots: A sweet heritage seed, these carrots were tasty.

Kale/Chard: What's not to love about these hardy, delicious, healthy greens???





PS: Spot the kitteh!

This Will Surprise No-one.

Your result for The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test...

Pure Nerd

96 % Nerd, 39% Geek, 43% Dork

For The Record:


A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.

A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.

A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.

You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.


The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendences associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.


Congratulations!


Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST

Take The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test at HelloQuizzy

Fun Stuff in the Mail

It was a fun mail day. Aside from my confirmation letter from the college I will be attending in January, I received these:



These are two day-passes to the Creativ Festival in Toronto (formerly the CSNF). This can only mean one thing: ROAD TRIP!!!

Kate and I have train tickets booked, hotel arranged, and tickets in hand for next weekend's all-you-can-handle fibre festival. I haven't attended for years, and am very much looking forward to the festival itself, and a road trip with a dear friend who I don't see nearly enough of.

I got a retirement card in the mail today as well. Velda, who has noted my pouting and stomping about with regards to the lack of ceremony when I left work, has taken matters into her own hands and sent a thoughtful card.



She also is an enabler extraordinaire. One of the reasons I'm rejoicing in my new freedom is that I now have greater control over what I look like. Civilian clothes all the time, painted nails, hair dyed unnatural colours... it's all available to me now. I even confessed to her that I was thinking of getting my nose pierced; I like the look, and it is now lawful for me to do so. Her reply:



Do ya think she's trying to tell me something? :)

What's On the Needles?

With all the whining I've been doing about work and whatnot, I bet you forgot that this is supposed to be a knitblog. I've been woefully inept at including fabric-y content, let alone actually knitting; however, there are a few things on the needles right now.

These are socks I cast on for the trip to Edmonton; I needed something on DPN's so I could knit on the plane. This is my first project using the Harmony laminated birch needles, and I have to say I'm impressed. With a bit of use these needles get glossier and very slick; a pleasure to knit with.



I'm still plugging away at the two socks on one circular needle. I have come to the conclusion that a longer cable would make life so much easier.



I'm half-way between the beginning of the arm steek lines and the neck shaping on the Kauni Damask cardigan. I really have to be in the mood to knit on this one... that's why it's taking crazy-long.






I think I've abandoned the tank-top of Berroco Suede Deluxe- even after strenuous blocking it's about an inch too short width-wise. I could probably compensate somewhat by increasing the width of the back piece. So, do I complete the tank-top, risking the possibility that it will be completely unwearable, or do I plug away on the back, just for the thrill of actually completing a garment and just in case it actually fits???



I am itching to begin a new alpaca scarf/hood for myself. I yearn for the charmingly-named 23 Scarf With Hood (Ravelry link) from Rebecca, but can't see myself coughing up the Euros to buy a copy of the magazine. I think I can also do something lovely with the Irish Hiking Scarf pattern, and then sew the hood in as per the Rebecca pattern. I have 1000 yards of some lovely grey alpaca bought during one of Wool-Tyme's warehouse sales... it's DK weight but I was thinking of holding two strands together for extra warmth. Whatever I do, it had best be started soon... scarf weather is nearly upon us!

Under Rug Swept

Those of you keeping track (AKA me) may realize that I'm in the final week of service with the Forces. On Monday, I'm posted to a holding unit where I will sit, administratively only, until my final release in April. The six months in between are a period given for vocational rehabilitation- trying to teach an old soldier new tricks.

I feel like a manic depressive right now. I'm ebullient, nostalgic, giddy, afraid, excited and morose in turn with little or no transition. I pity those around me; I don't even know what I'm feeling until I walk in the door and whip my beret viciously across the room and make a pointed comment or six. "Oh!" I note with surprise. "I seem to be angry."

Wait a minute. Angry? Why angry?

It's tradition in the military to have a formal luncheon for people who are retiring. There's a whole program detailing the protocol of these events. It's a regular occurrence; it's what you do, plain and simple. I talked this over with DH; I'm not one for crowds but I think I needed and wanted the formality and ceremony to close this huge chapter of my life. I started writing my speech in my head. I wondered when someone would ask me where I preferred the luncheon; these aren't quick events to arrange and time is short.

I went to see my Captain last week for an informal meeting about the release process. He mentioned that there would be a section breakfast next week when they'd say so long to a couple of other people who were moving on to new units.

I froze. My heart froze. In the world of military tradition and protocol, a breakfast (shared, no less) is to acknowledge people who were being posted out, not retiring or releasing. After the gloriously sharp hurt had faded and I could speak, I pointed out to my Captain that I was retiring, not being posted; that this was my career that was being wrapped up and that I was entitled to the full departure program. He got the "deer in the headlights" look, and said he'd get back to me on that.

Five minutes later, it was confirmed; not that I was in any doubt. Here I had just over a week of service remaining, and my chain of command had not even realized I was leaving, never mind planning an event. (Nothing happens quickly in the military- I informed them almost a year ago that this was coming, so it certainly wasn't a surprise.)

A while later, a Sgt was delegated to oversee the event, and the grumbling began about the extra administrative work.

Because of the preparations necessary, my luncheon will likely take place in November; over a month after I have actually left the unit.

I am wounded to the core that my service to Queen and Country should matter so little to them, that they would have quietly swept me under the rug had I not been assertive enough to ask for what's mine. My friends, if there was any doubt that I am doing the right thing by moving on, this incident seals the deal. My sadness has been replaced with anger. Mostly.

Slow Food Weekend

With DH and the girls both gone, I am in the enviable position of having no-one to please but myself when it comes to meals. Yesterday I had a craving for pumpkin pie, and after looking around, I settled on a somewhat exotic recipe calling for sweet potatoes and coconut milk called cazuela pie. As I took the fragrant spiced sweet potatoes out of the oven, it made me crave a soup I had had somewhere in my past- sweet potatoes, peanuts, coconut milk and spices. I filed that thought away and continued making my pies.

The pies were done, half of one eaten, and the craving persisted this afternoon, so I turned to my most likely friend in such a food emergency: the Rebar cookbook. I found it immediately: African Yam and Peanut soup with ginger and pineapple. (Recipe is found here... is this even legal to type out recipes from books and publish them on the Internet???)

Anyhow. Unwilling to take any short-cuts, I made a lovely vegetable broth from leeks, celery, carrots, fresh garden herbs and spices, and then used this broth as the base of the yam soup. All afternoon I chopped and stirred, blended and sampled. It's funny how I usually couldn't be bothered to go to this lengths for dinner with a house full... but perhaps since it was only me, I took great pleasure in the preparations.

Dinner was excellent. A glass of Merlot, some whole-wheat naan bread, and a beautiful creamy orange soup graced with cilantro and dull red squiggles of hot sauce. Should have taken a picture but I was too hungry. An excellent recipe, though pretty time-intensive. Fortunately, I'll have left-overs for days, and a freezer stocked with delicious soup.

A Hero You Never Knew

DH, my mum Linda and I vacationed in Dubrovnik last spring. DH and I had spent six months in BiH in 2001 and had briefly holidayed (and fell in love) in Dubrovnik, and knew we had to return.

While there, I prowled the streets alone one day, and found my way to War Photo Unlimited, a gallery that focused on stories of conflict. Being deeply interested in the subject matter, I bought a ticket to the exhibition. The main exhibition was by a Canadian photographer with Croat roots, a young woman called Lana Šlezić. Her exhibition, titled Forsaken, dealt with the subject of women in Afghanistan. The photos are provocative, sad, hopeful, horrifying; powerful in every dimension. Deeply moved, I brought my mother and husband back to see the exhibit the next day.

One photo in particular struck me. A robin's egg blue burqa shrouded a woman; from beneath the fabric her arm is raised, pointing a pistol.



This is Malalai Kakar, one of the few incredibly brave women who serve on Afghanistan's police force. Death threats from the Taliban were the stuff of her daily life, but she was a woman who knew she was doing what needed to be done and making other women's lives better by her actions. She did not let fear stop her.

The Taliban shot this amazing woman in the head this morning. She was killed instantly.

The only consolation I can take from this (inevitable?) tragedy is that upon hearing of her death, over 20 women today alone joined the Kandahar police force.

Still Life

They bought the house in 1990 after they sold the farm. Sparkling new, with white linoleum, countertops and walls, it must have seemed a great luxury after the farmhouse. Running water, city sewers and no early-morning chores to deal with... they finally had the kind of life they worked so hard for.

Grandma was an Irishwoman and yet a lady, as someone remarked laughingly. In thrifty Irish spirit, she treasured her house and belongings. Nearly twenty years later, the linoleum gleams as new and the white paint throughout looks fresh. There’s not a stick of furniture in the house newer than ten years old and one suspects most of it is much older than that; yet it too is lovingly maintained. Her bedroom closet holds her daily clothing, perhaps a dozen tops and half that number of slacks. (She wore slacks, not pants; and certainly not jeans. Or if she did, they were ironed complete with creases.) In other closets her “good” clothes are hung; outfits that attended weddings and funerals on her. These dresses and suits hang formally on the hangers as they hung on her lithe, graceful frame; seemingly imbued with her presence when she wore them. It’s hard to imagine anyone else wearing them.

The house is for sale now. With Grandma reduced to a box of ashes that Grandpa takes into the bedroom with him at night, there’s no reason to stay there any longer. It’s too much house for an old man, especially when he is so far away from family. Extended family descended over the weekend when her memorial was held and stripped the house bare of valuables and things that remind them of her. There’s not much left in the house, and that suits him fine. He doesn’t consider material possessions important; they were hers and what else is one to do with them? The middle daughter has obsessively polished the house to a fair gloss when the crowds left, getting the house ready to show. It will show well; being so lovingly maintained and having a feeling of spaciousness from being so empty. Grandpa has asked a high initial price; he says he will buy a new chain with which to wear his wife’s old wedding ring around his neck with if he gets what he asks. As of now, the ring rests on a thin chain of silver that must have also been his wife’s.

She had time before she died to make sure her good jewellery went where she wanted it to go. Her new wedding rings to the eldest daughter. The special necklace that Grandpa had made for her with her first initial as a pendant went to the granddaughter who was given that same name by virtue of a middle name. So on, until all of worth was distributed, and a strange collection of leftovers remained. A chunky chain with a strange buffalo pendant, a pin in the shape of a garden hoe, an iridescent swallow. Several small angel pins, some with birthstones and some without. The flotsam and jetsam of one woman’s life, possessions that meant something to her and nothing to others. They are picked through, puzzled over, and most are ultimately discarded.

It’s the end of an era. Grandpa’s of an age where he can’t really live alone; he’ll need help to do the stuff of daily life that his wife used to manage. The laundry room and the kitchen are foreign lands where a man of his generation had no need to learn the language or customs thereof. His daughters solicitously fill the freezer with single portions of home-cooked food, and that will get him through until the house sells. After that, he will move in with the eldest daughter. No-one believes this will be for long; it is apparent to all that his wife took his spirit with her and he’s just patiently waiting to join her.

Memorial Day

I thought and thought about it, and finally decided, with the help of DH's social conscience (which is much better evolved than mine) to fly out west for Grandma's memorial. I get freaked out easily by crowds, whether they're family or not, and my stiff upper lip is greatly challenged by my birth mom's extravagant emotions, so I wasn't looking forward to the event. I knew it would be draining, but as DH (right again, goddamn him) pointed out, This Was Not About Me.

We're all back home now in Westlock following the memorial, overstuffed with luncheon and emotion. I hugged more mysterious relatives than I can shake a stick at; it will take a lifetime to sort out who's related to who. I met up again with my grandma on my birth father's side... we've only had two or three chances to meet, so it was nice to talk with her. It tickled her to no end that I'm a knitter... she is too. I suppose that's where I got my crafty gene from as no-one else will take responsibility for it.

I'm tired, and the night is only half-over. Soon the house will be full of well-wishers and friends of the family, stopping by to pay their respects. I'm about at the limits of my social tolerance for the day, so I'm sitting on the lawn in the back-yard, boosting wireless capacity from an unknown neighbor. God bless them, whoever they are.

Positive ID

Now that I've gotten over the shivers, I've done a little research and identified my hairy garden visitor as the European Garden spider, Araneus diadematus. (Do go to that last link for a lovely close-up photo.)

Apparently this species is not prone to jumping on humans and sucking their brains out through their eyeballs. I am so relieved.