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Articles on this Page
- 11/03/14--11:40: _Life Stills
- 11/14/14--12:36: _In Praise Of November
- 11/20/14--08:56: _Poule Au Pot
- 01/04/15--08:14: _Epiphany - Virtual ...
- 01/22/15--05:36: _Blanket Alchemy
- 02/03/15--04:43: _In The Winter's Pale
- 02/12/15--04:57: _"Life Is Too Short ...
- 03/20/15--07:55: _Washing-Line Tales
- 04/07/15--10:22: _Eastertide 2015
- 04/14/15--09:03: _Washing Line Tales ...
- 04/16/15--13:00: _Washing Line Tales ...
- 04/25/15--09:20: _Borders, Bobbles an...
- 05/05/15--05:57: _Lily Pond Crochet
- 05/27/15--04:37: _Pineapple Lanterns
- 06/04/15--12:03: _Crochet Fly-Curtain
- 06/12/15--07:57: _Of Elderflowers, Ro...
- 07/26/15--04:32: _Summer Sewing (And ...
- 09/10/15--09:27: _Making My Way Into ...
- 10/09/15--04:29: _Autumn Delights
- 10/17/15--09:30: _Rubbish Talk
- 12/23/15--07:20: _The Legend of the C...
- 01/07/16--06:32: _Motto For 2016
- 02/11/16--02:34: _Snow-Shoes
- 06/06/16--09:12: _A Patchwork Story
- 08/17/16--12:19: _If all the world wa...
- 11/03/14--11:40: Life Stills
- 11/14/14--12:36: In Praise Of November
- 11/20/14--08:56: Poule Au Pot
- 01/04/15--08:14: Epiphany - Virtual vs Reality
- 01/22/15--05:36: Blanket Alchemy
- 02/03/15--04:43: In The Winter's Pale
- 02/12/15--04:57: "Life Is Too Short To Stuff A Mushroom"
- 03/20/15--07:55: Washing-Line Tales
- 04/07/15--10:22: Eastertide 2015
- 04/14/15--09:03: Washing Line Tales Part 2
- 04/16/15--13:00: Washing Line Tales Part 3
- 04/25/15--09:20: Borders, Bobbles and Procrastinating
- 05/05/15--05:57: Lily Pond Crochet
- 05/27/15--04:37: Pineapple Lanterns
- 06/04/15--12:03: Crochet Fly-Curtain
- 06/12/15--07:57: Of Elderflowers, Roses and Lemon Verbena
- 07/26/15--04:32: Summer Sewing (And Other Activities)
- 09/10/15--09:27: Making My Way Into Autumn Via Aprons and Apples
- 10/09/15--04:29: Autumn Delights
- 10/17/15--09:30: Rubbish Talk
- 12/23/15--07:20: The Legend of the Christmas Rose
- 01/07/16--06:32: Motto For 2016
- 02/11/16--02:34: Snow-Shoes
- 06/06/16--09:12: A Patchwork Story
- 08/17/16--12:19: If all the world was paper, and all the sea was ink...
Firstly, thank you so very much for all your kind knitting encouragement comments on my last post - I haven't given up on the knit-sticks and, in fact, I've been picking them up more often than a crochet hook over the past fortnight. Partly because I am knitting dish-cloths for a local charity project and partly because my short-wooden-handled, round knitting needles are air-travel-friendly and I have been away. H has been In Italy on a school classics trip and I have snatched a few days in Holland where I've never been but have always wanted to go because it's home to some of the best still life paintings in the world. Dutch painting in the 17th C is a virtuoso affair on many fronts - Rembrandt, Franz Hals, Rubens etc. but the still life genre is my all-time favourite and The Netherlands are still home to many of the best works of the best artists - Pieter de Hooch, Johannes Vermeer, Adriaan Coorte, Jan De Heem, Nicolaes Maes, Jan Van Huysum, Clara Peeters, Willem Claesz etc. The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the Mauritshuis in Den Haag, and I am sure other museums too, hold still life treasures in almost every room. Fabulous. As in FaBuLouS!
There is a poignancy about many 17th C still lifes. Many are painted of intentionally ephemeral objects - flowers, fruit, bread, even discarded book covers and broken, old musical instrument cases. Short-lived butterflies, moths or other insects hover among the bright petals of a pink rose...
|Detail of "Vaas met bloemen" by Jan Davidsz. De Heem c1670|
(Mauritshuis, Den Haag)
|"Vruchten" by Jan van Huysum 1682-1749|
(Mauritshuis, Den Haag)
|"Bloemstilleven met horloge" by Willem van Aelst 1663|
(Mauritshuis, Den Haag)
|"Stillleven met verguide bokaal" by Willem Claesz 1635|
|"Stillleven met kazen, amandelen en krakelingen" by Clara Peeters c1615|
(Mauritshuis, Den Haag)
I don't drink spirits much, especially neat, but visiting the ancient distillery "Wynand Fockink" established in 1679 in the heart of Amsterdam is an experience all its own. Go easy on the "Oude Jenever" (Old Jenever) even if just tasting a tiny amount - it's nearly 50% proof!
Do you know that slightly gloomy 19th C poem by Thomas Hood about November? It's one of those poems that I think I can remember quite well, but when I come to look it up, I find I haven't remembered it accurately at all. Some bits I've left out completely and I've added various lines that weren't in the original! So, for example, I was sure there was a line that went "No wind - no rain" but there isn't. The poem goes as follows
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
no dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day -
no sky - no earthly view -
no distance looking blue -
no road - no street - no "t'other side the way" -
no end to any Row -
no indications where the Crescents go -
no top to any steeple -
no recognitions of familiar people -
no courtesies for showing 'em -
no knowing 'em! -
no travelling at all - no locomotion,
no inkling of the way - no notion -
"no go" - by land or ocean -
no mail - no post -
no news from any foreign coast -
no Park - no Ring - no afternoon gentility -
no company - no nobility -
no warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
no comfortable feel in any member -
no shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, -
An awful lot of "noes", but nothing about no wind and rain. Hardly surprising, of course, as there's usually a fair bit of wind and rain in November.
Anyway, having looked the poem up, it seemed to me even more nihilistic than I remembered. And I thought, actually, despite the wind and rain and a rather manic work schedule, this November so far has been rather lovely, so here is a little "apologia novembris", mostly in pics. A kind of antidote to any nihilistic November leanings, should they creep up on me unexpectedly. They make me feel that, yes, this month has had quite a bit of cheerfulness and "healthful ease" and I rather like its shade, its shine, its fruit, flowers and leaves.
|The shine of clear morning light on the water of a mill stream|
|"Distance looking blue" behind medlars ready for picking and bletting*|
*the process by which medlars ripen almost to rotting before they are deemed best to eat
|Lime-gold leaves fluttering in a shaft of sun|
|Early morning mist smudging sky and "earthly view" softly together|
|A full, glowing moon windowed in evening clouds|
|Birthday cake brownies for "familiar people"|
|Lacy light and shade from a St Martin's Day lantern|
|Martinmas horseshoes - snow-dusted with sugar, shared in "company" for the first day of winter|
|Knitting needles and yarn; beads and bright threads ...|
|... cheerfulness and preparations for Christmas|
|Soup the colour of fog - "healthful ease" in a bowl|
|The warmth and "comfortable feel" of a log fire ...|
|... and candles on a dark November evening.|
It was the 16th C French King, Henri IV, aka Henri de Navarre who, I believe, said, "I want there to be no peasant in my realm so poor that he cannot put a chicken in his pot every Sunday." It became a graphic measure of being above the poverty line and one that caught the popular imagination. Hardly surprising if you lived off the monotonous European peasant diet of dense, black bread and dried peas all the time. In fact Henri couldn't quite make good his promise but it stuck in the mindset of the French people as an aspiration worth hanging on to and by the time of the French Revolution, Henri's promise, and the delay to it becoming reality, had been turned into a little ditty, chanted as a political slogan:
Enfin la poule au pot va être mise.
On peut du moins le présumer
car depuis deux cents ans qu'elle nous est promise
on n'a cessé de la plumer!
(Finally the chicken's going to get put in the pot.
at least that's what we assume
because for the last two hundred years that it's been promised
it's been being plucked!)
Recipes for La Poule au Pot abound and I am sure many of them go back as far as Henri IV's day - it's the kind of cuisine rustique that is timeless. Of course, we aren't talking about the kind of chicken we cook and eat today, with a lot of tender, white meat that cooks quickly and easily under a grill or even, is done to a turn as a roast, after an hour and a half in a hot oven; we're talking about a boiling fowl, probably several years old and past laying; a lean, scraggy bird, nearer to stringy than plump and, not to put too fine a point on it, probably pretty tough. Needing long, slow cooking for several hours, submerged in liquid with a few pot-herbs to flavour the broth and bulk out the meat. Traditionally these included onions, shallots, garlic, leeks, turnips, parsley, bay leaves, cloves. At the end of the cooking period the fragrant, intensely flavoured broth was served first and the meat and vegetables afterwards. Very simple, but very good. I make a version of this myself, in the winter
The nearest we can get to the kind of chicken a French 16th C peasant would have recognised and been pleased to see in his pot is pheasant. Gamier, leaner, rangier birds than modern chickens altogether. It's coming to the time of year when pheasant is again available and I am looking forward to that. Cautiously.
I love roast pheasant. I make pheasant soup with the carcase and any remaining fragments of meat. I've made pheasant risotto and even pheasant and bacon sausages in my time. But there's no doubt about it that eating pheasant is a bit different from eating chicken. These are basically wild birds and they are shot, not killed in an abattoir somewhere. And you don't necessarily get them oven-ready in plastic trays. I don't eat a great deal of meat but I am not a vegetarian and in all conscience, I think that if I am not a vegetarian I should face the reality of what that means. When the game season approaches, I feel it is time to gird myself for that. One year, a few years ago, a kind, local landowner offered me a couple of brace of pheasant from a shoot on his land, which I was delighted to accept. Especially as they hadn't been hung for too long because I don't like game that's too "high". Before handing them over, he looked at me and clearly thinking that I gave off feeble "townie vibes" offered to get them plucked and drawn for me. Feeling that to accept this was copping out, I thanked him but declined his offer and said I would do the job myself.
I came home with the four birds and laid them in their bright, iridescent plumage on the kitchen table. It was the Christmas holidays and H was at home. He came into the kitchen and I explained what I was going to do and suggested he might give me a hand. He took one look, went an interesting shade of pale green and disappeared faster than you could say "knife", let alone start wielding one. Left alone, the pheasants and I spent a long afternoon together .
Plucking poultry was not something I'd done before. Waitrose doesn't tend to sell its chicken breasts still "in feather". Two hours later and I had managed to pluck and draw one of the birds but still had three to go. It was messy, surprisingly hard work and about as earthy as it gets. I wasn't going to be beaten however, so I doggedly stuck at it, plucking and drawing another one in its entirety and skinning and jointing the remaining two until darkness fell and the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a particularly vicious pillow fight and I had four birds, more or less ready for the pot. I couldn't face cooking them immediately so they waited until the following day. It was a useful lesson in the realities of cooking and eating that I've never forgotten and it's made me much more selective about eating meat. I still do, and of course, I don't pluck and draw all that I cook, but I think about it more consciously and if I ever get to the point where I can't face the idea of doing it, I shall become a vegetarian.
If you are a proper countrywoman (which I am not) you take these things in your stride but if you're a more recent country-dweller, it's more of a challenge, I have to say.
Rather easier going was a little knitting project I came across a few weeks ago and which took altogether less stress to get "oven ready". Like to meet him?
Here he is!
I love him extra much because he is entirely user-friendly - no plucking required and no giblets to face either!
As you can see, he has decided to take up residence in one of my large Le Creuset casseroles for the time being.
I think he's got wind of Saturday's pheasant shoot, on the estate down the road or may be he was listening to the news about bird 'flu on a duck farm in Yorkshire and has decided that keeping a low profile might be a good idea.
Either way, he's hunkering down and not coming out in a hurry!
For the time being however he's making me and everyone else smile, without fail, on entering the kitchen, so I'm leaving him undisturbed!
And what's for supper, I hear you ask? I am chickening (sorry!) out and producing pasta with vegetarian tomato and red pepper sauce! Someone must move off the hob first though to avoid tomato sauce spattering his tail feathers!
I like it too that in the northern hemisphere, Epiphany falls in the dead of winter at the darkest and coldest time of year. It seems entirely appropriate to have a festival centred around disclosure at a time when the whole landscape is laid bare and its contours and character are revealed now that the curtains and drapery of leaves and summer growth have fallen away.
Like a great, old painting which, when cleaned of layers of yellowing, old varnish and the accretions of grime and time, gives up the secrets of its painterly formation to plain view, there is a winter clarity and austere beauty, even in ordinary objects that it's easy to pass by at other times of the year. The graceful shape of dark-armed trees against a winter sunrise; the sharp fur of frost on a fence-post or dead leaf;
the lines of the horizon clearly and boldly defined without the softening of leaves or colour; the intense energy of dark, winter flood-streams swirling between banks that hold only an indolent trickle or sluggish pools in summer.
All these things challenge me to look again; to question assumptions, to be open to the new; to change, myself and to travel into the future "by another road".
I've been thinking about this quite a bit over the last weeks of 2014.
Particularly in relation to how I spend my time. Do you ever tot up and worry about how much time you spend surfing the virtual waves? It seems to me that it's a bit like those lifestyle questions you get asked by your GP periodically. You know the kind of thing: "How many cups of tea or coffee do you drink per day?" or "How many units of alcohol do you consume per week?" And of course when you actually sit down and tot up what the totals are, they often are rather higher than you thought they were. The tea and coffee question always makes me feel uneasy as I know one is only supposed to drink three cups of caffeine-containing fluid per day but this wouldn't even get me beyond breakfast-time! The actual number of cups of tea I drink daily is at least in double figures. My GP eyes me and, knowing full well that the figure I've given him needs to be augmented by at least the fifty percent that he automatically assumes I've decreased it by before telling him, and probably more, suggests I switch to herb tea instead of Earl Grey. I mumble something non-committal and try to move the conversation into safer waters like the fact that I don't drink coffee at all. He's not fooled for a minute of course, and probably mentally marks my notes as "caffeine-addict".
But never mind tea or coffee-addiction, back to time. And in particular time spent on the Internet. Which I had begun to feel was, in my case, getting disproportionate and over the last weeks of 2014 the need to redress the balance with real life felt increasingly pressing. Which is why I haven't been blogging in December. It's been all too easy for me to fritter away an hour or two (or more), hopping between sites, reading, writing here and there, surfing images and ideas and, up to a point, none of that is bad, on the contrary, it's inspirational, creative and horizon-stretching, all of which I am all for, but the point is "up to a point" and beyond that point I'm not so sure that it's so creative a way to spend time. The virtual can take over from reality as well as emulate it. And that isn't so good, it seems to me. Virtual living instead of real living.
So the New Year finds me taking stock of this particular epiphany as well as the oriental kings' one. 2015 is a watershed year for me in various ways. Not least in that I turn 50 this year. Time to take stock; time to evaluate and think about the time that is still to come and the time that is now gone; time more than ever, I feel, to live for today as well as for tomorrow. Because in the scheme of things, there won't be as many tomorrows as yesterdays.
That isn't a negative or gloomy reflection, I'm finding - on the contrary, it's energising and I've made some decisions that feel positive and uplifting about investing in the "now" - a few adventures beckon and that's exciting. One in particular about investing in a little creative retreat space - not a second home or anything grand, but, well, wait and see! Suffice it to say for now that I am reading this book that H kindly gave me for Christmas with focused interest and new projects are lining up a-plenty for my hook.
I hope that what will emerge will provide a small space of recreative possibility by means of which I can travel, not by a different route exactly, as the same route in a different way, which perhaps amounts to the same thing. Not quite, may be, but near enough. I'll post some proper pics once it moves from virtual pipe-dream to hard and fast reality. Some time in the early summer, I hope.
This feels like a big step for me as it does involve some significant financial outlay. I am a banker's daughter and although bankers' reputations in recent years have tended to indicate a tendency to profligacy rather than frugality, I was brought up to save and husband money carefully and thriftily. To be spendthrift was a cardinal sin at home and neither my sister nor I were allowed to be, either with money or any other resource. It was a good training although at times frustrating when we wanted to spend our birthday or Christmas money and it disappeared instead into the joyless vaults of our Post Office savings accounts. It has meant that as an adult, regular saving, however meagre the amounts might be, and often they've been tiny, is second nature to me and it has stood me in good stead when money has been pretty tight from time to time. Correspondingly, spending money on any significant level can make me feel guilty. But while saving for future rainy days will always be in my blood and I am not intending to blow my life's savings at the drop of a hat, I am coming to realise that there is a balance to be struck. "There are no pockets in shrouds", after all, as the old Jewish proverb puts it.
All in all, at the beginning of this New Year, I am in the process of a rebalancing act - balancing epiphany with practice; virtual with reality; unchangeable circumstance with choice and possibility. That will colour things here a bit in terms of frequency of posts, I think. And you may get more pics and fewer words. No bad thing, you might say! It will also, I suspect, reduce my wider involvement in the blogosphere which I shall miss but there just are only so many hours in the day.
I hope you don't mind my little ramble of reflection but I wanted to explain that I haven't just disappeared down a mouse-hole to those of you who are kind enough to read here. Thank you so much for your reading, for your comments, for your friendship - virtual and real - and for your inspiration - I send you a virtual hug across the fibre optics and wish you all a very happy New Year and some happy epiphanies that will keep you healthy, happy and the you that you are intended and in your heart long to be.
And, as a little Epiphany thank you gift to you all - a virtual thank you that can become real in your own kitchen - here is my recipe for Epiphany buns for you. They are, if you like the idea, symbolic food - they contain spices and fruits as reminders of the wise men's wealth and gifts of frankincense and myrrh. At their centre is the gold - a gilded disc of marzipan buried for safe-keeping in the spiced and fragrant dough and the rolled up form of the buns represents the circuitous route home that they took.
But you don't have to bother about the symbolism, if it isn't your thing - they are just gorgeous light and sticky buns with echoes of Christmas. They are in a different tempo from classic Christmas cake or mince pies though - not so heavy or intense - perfect for a dark, damp post-Christmas January afternoon with a large mug of (non-herbal!) tea. I make these in my bread-maker which makes everything easy but you can of course make them by hand - you may want to cut the liquid back a bit if you are making them by hand to make the dough easier to handle.
What you need:
1 tsp fast action dried yeast
500g strong white flour
1 tsp salt
3 tsp mixed spice
zest of 1 orange
100g unsalted butter, cubed
2 tbsps dried skimmed milk powder
1 tbsp treacle
2 tbsp brandy
1 egg whisked with enough water to make, along with the brandy, about 350 ml of liquid altogether
75g glacé cherries, rinsed in hot water, drained and halved
c 225g marzipan (preferably homemade) at room temperature
1 egg whisked with 1 tbsp milk to glaze before baking
4 tbsps demerara sugar boiled until frothy and syrupy with 2 tbsps water to glaze the buns while they are still hot from the oven
What you do:
Put the yeast, flour, salt, mixed spice, orange zest, butter, milk powder, treacle, brandy, egg and water into the bread-maker bucket and switch it to its "white raisin dough" setting, adding the sultanas, raisins and cherries to the raisin dispenser, if your bread-maker has one. If it doesn't, put the fruit in a bowl and add it when the "raisin beep" goes. On no account add all the fruit to begin with or it gets mashed up in the first part of the kneading cycle and don't miss the raisin beep either because adding the fruit half an hour too late doesn't go well either and leaves the fruit in unincorporated clumps. Nasty!
Let the bread-maker do its thing and then preheat the oven to 190 - 200 C depending on your oven. (My oven is quite hot and a fan one and I find 190 C is good.) Tip the soft dough gently out onto a floured work surface and press out with your hands to a rectangular shape about 35 cm by 20 cm.
Roll out your marzipan to a sausage that will stretch the length of your dough rectangle. Place it along the long edge nearest to you and roll up the dough around the marzipan.
Line a couple of baking sheets with non-stick baking parchment.
Using a knife dipped in the flour bag before each cut, cut slices approximately 1.5 - 2 cm thick of the rolled up dough and place with the cut side facing upwards onto the baking sheets. I get about 15 slices from these quantities.
Glaze the buns before they go in the oven with the egg and milk mixture and then bake for about 15 minutes until nicely risen and golden.
While they are cooking, bubble up your brown sugar glaze in a small pan, stirring to make sure the sugar dissolves.
When the buns are baked, remove them from the oven and transfer them, still on their paper to wire racks and brush immediately with the hot brown sugar glaze. (The paper will catch all the sticky drips.) Allow to cool before tucking in - if you can!
There are some things that seem relatively commonplace to make at home and some things that seem faintly exotic, unexpected or even downright daring, if you know what I mean. What is homemade around you as you grow up, has a lot to do with what falls into which category, I think. Different for each person, by definition. My mother always baked cakes and biscuits, made her own pastry and preserves, wove baskets and sewed most of her own summer clothes so I take it pretty much for granted that these things can come via the homemade route. There's nothing exactly ground-breaking to me about making them yourself. She didn't bake her own bread, (or only very rarely as a kind of scientific experiment); we never made yoghurt or churned ice cream. She never sewed a pair of trousers and there are sundry other things that never made it on to the "make it yourself" agenda when I was a child. So these things, which in other households might well seem run of the mill to make yourself, seem very much not-run-of-the-mill to me, but instead, quite adventurous.
Blankets are one of these items, although in many ways they are an obvious and straightforward thing to make. But to start to make a blanket from nothing more than a ball of yarn and a hook (or a pair of knitting needles) has always felt to me slightly like a daring venture into strange and exotic territory.
Uncharted waters where magical creatures might lurk or an iridescent mermaid might pop up. I can't explain it quite. Especially when having made a handful of blankets, the mystique really ought to have gone by now. But it hasn't.
Of the two types of homemade woolly blankets, the modular sort, (made from lots of small, repetitive motifs that get joined together, either as-you-go, or at the end), and the incremental sort, (made by adding rows continuously to a single piece of ever-growing fabric), I slightly prefer the incremental kind, as I find it harder to keep going with the modular sort, on anything of any significant size. I get bored and lose momentum. Mrs T has the attention span of a gnat, clearly!
Being January, a cold, bleak and rather colour-drained month at the best of times, despite the odd, beautiful icy sunrise - these pics are all taken around 7.30 in the morning on my cold, early morning forays into a dark and bracing countryside when I walk, think, and breathe great lungfuls of icy air, to fuel the day ahead -
it seemed like a good idea to begin a new chapter of adventurous blanket-making and so I've started two. One of each type. The first is Sandra's utterly gorgeous "Painted Roses Blanket" - the link will take you to her post about it with a link to how to access the pattern. I've changed the colours of the flowers slightly - mine aren't pink and red, some with gold and some with black centres, but all have black centres and dark red and deep magenta petals. You would think that these two colours would do nothing very exciting when placed together, other than fight, perhaps, but somehow the opposite is true and in a strange and wonderful, hooky alchemy the two colours glow and sing with one another and lend the flowers even more of a three dimensional sense than the pattern already gives them.
They look like those deep-red, old-fashioned, velvety roses, that grow in forgotten corners of old gardens, where not too much tidy gardening has happened; the kind you find tumbling against crumbling stone in a tangle of briars with a heady wall of fragrance coming off them that would be oppressive, if it were not so subtle. My grandmother had such a rose. I can't remember what it was called but it was a monumental plant that grew round the back of the house from where my grandmother would pick the flowers and put them in a Victorian rose-bowl in the sitting room or on the old Welsh dresser, whose cupboard I loved to bury my head in, as a small child, inhaling deeply the heady smell of old wood, fine linen, green baize and bone-handled cutlery that resided behind its latch.
I've developed a cunning strategy to outwit my dwindling attention span and have allotted myself a fixed target of squares for each week - not too many, but not too few either, and am joining them in rows of eight as I accumulate them. (The finished blanket will contain 80.)
The pattern is a lovely one - complicated enough to be interesting but not so complicated that you can't commit it to memory. It's got enough variation of colour for interest but doesn't require so many colours that you have to cart a hundredweight of yarn around with you, on the move.
So far, so good! I'm half-way and just need to keep going to get over the awkward two-thirds point when the end is not quite in sight but one feels one has been going at this for quite some time and is getting a bit tired. It's a bit like playing the board game "Ludo" or "Sorry"* when you have four counters to "get home" and it's tempting to focus on just one or two, abandoning the others to their fate. Which, as we all know, is not the way to win!
*"Sorry", if you don't know it, is a 1930s English board game, similar, but not identical, to Ludo. You turn up cards that tell you how many squares to move along a board, rather than roll dice, and if you turn up a "Sorry" card you get to take one of your counters that hasn't started yet and put it in place of someone else's which is hopefully at least half-way round the board, sending your opponent back to the beginning again, with a polite "Sorry".
In my childhood this was a quiet and refined game played at my grandparents' house with courtesy and gentleness. Inherited from them, it now resides with us and has been nicknamed "Killer Sorry" by an innocent bystander who, on an occasion of happening upon a round under way between H and me a few years ago, was slightly taken aback to find that what appeared, at first sight, to be a quaintly old-fashioned, harmless parlour game could be played at a speed and with a level of competitive aggression and strategic thinking, more at home on a professional rugby field than a children's board game. Mrs T hangs her head in shame and blames H! Hope he doesn't read this or that will come back straight over the net at me! Probably with good reason!
In our defence, I have to say, that played like this, it has a pace and absorption it never had when I played it as a child and on the sundry occasions when the electric power supply has failed here, like it did last winter, it has proved a valuable replacement for more sophisticated forms of electronic entertainment!
But I digress! My other blanket adventure is the stripy incremental affair in my first pic above. Here it is again in a slightly wider shot.
It's one of those sampler-style blankets that use different stitches in different rows and lots of different colours. I've seen a number of these around - Little Woollie's amazing Mixed Stripy blanket is perhaps the most splendid - huge, colourful and extravagantly generous in every regard. (Julie's pattern for her wonderful blanket is published in Edition 18 of Simply Crochet if you want to have a go.) But I didn't want to make anything quite as big or complex as this - I know my limitations! So instead I've gone for the Seaside Blanket design in Handmade Glamping which is a simpler, but still sampler-style, affair. I wanted to make it slightly smaller than the original pattern so I've reduced the basic stitch count to 187 from 204 after a lot of pencil scribblings and painfully tortuous efforts to get my head around the arithmetic. Miraculously it seems to have worked out OK for the different stitch patterns, although I strongly suspect that that's more by luck than judgement. No matter! Who cares, if it works?
I love the different stitches - simple half-treble-crochet rows, mixed with granny stripes and popcorn bobbles. I particularly like the pale turquoise bobbles that pop up from the cream rows, which is an idea I've borrowed from Julie's Little Woollie design and inserted into the pattern run of the Handmade Glamping blanket.
And that faint sense of adventure and daring exploration persists. Both blankets are some considerable way off finishing but they have grown and are growing each week, slowly but surely - magically somehow. Sometimes I look at my basket of yarn and feel like the miller's daughter in the Tale of Rumpelstiltskin who faces spinning all those bags of straw into gold by dawn and knows that the task is too big for her.
More often than not though, I feel more like Rumpelstiltskin himself, happily absorbed in the twist and twine and colour of each strand and with each stitch, feel that I am gradually turning, not straw into gold exactly, but those balls of yarn into magical, cosy layers of warmth and brightness and some strange but happy alchemy is at work.
No mermaids have popped up from among my stitches nor any strange sea-creatures although every now and again, to begin with, a gremlin crept in on the act of the stripy one and the sequence of colours did not flow easily but jarred and grated and had to be ripped back and rethought. Now though, the pattern and colours repeat evenly and smoothly and, like a Medieval alchemist turning base metal into gold, I am steadily turning a pile of yarn into a wealth of blanket-coverage to keep the bitter cold at bay. Straw into gold, or yarn into blankets? Not sure which is more magical but I think the blankets might just have the edge. Sorry, Rumpelstiltskin!
"The red blood reigns in the winter's pale" I love this image from Shakespeare's "The Winter's Tale" (IV.iii.4) - it's a good reminder at this point in the winter, that under the surface, things are already beginning again. Life is afoot and beginning to reach for the thin sun; the washed-out world of winter pale is beginning to get restless for colour; sap and blood flow deep beneath the surface of frozen ground, in hibernating burrows and in the creamy, close-packed flesh of bulbs and roots.
I've needed a temporary distraction from my blanket-making - something quick and pleasing and if with a nod to the mood of the season, so much the better. So with "the winter's pale" hovering in my head I thought I'd hook up a "winter's pale" bowl.
Just because. I find crocheted bowls very useful - they hold balls of yarn, reels of thread, fresh rolls from the oven, letters to answer, pens and scissors, muffins, ribbons and candles. Not all at the same time, or in the same bowl, of course! I make them in mercerised, washable, cotton yarn so they can be easily washed if the rolls are floury, say, or sticky, purple, blueberry juice oozes from a muffin and the bowl's next use up, is for yarn or fabric pieces.
The pattern I use, as a starting point, is Jacquie's lovely crochet bowl pattern which you can find here but there are lots of similar patterns for crochet bowls if you have a little search - basically you crochet a circle, increasing the number of stitches in each round up to the point where you have the diameter you want and then carry on crocheting, without increases, to form the sides.
A few things that are worth remembering, if you fancy a foray into crochet bowl or basket-making yourself and haven't tried it. If you want the bowl / basket to stand up nicely without reinforcing you need to create a dense fabric with a bit of stiffness to it. To do this, you need to use a smaller hook size than you normally would for the weight of yarn, or, use the same hook size, but use the yarn double, which is what I do as per Jacquie's recommendation in her tutorial. You can use any crochet stitches for your bowl but I find the neat tightness of single crochet (double crochet in UK terms) works best. It's quite hard on your hooking fingers, working the yarn so densely though, so you may want just to do a few rows at a time.
I got carried away and made my thumb rather uncomfortably sore. You just don't know when to stop, Mrs T!
Alternatively you could use a single thickness of yarn and your normal hook size and then line the finished bowl with some stiffish fabric or spray it with spray starch. But I prefer the double strand of yarn method. Partly because it makes the colour changes potentially so interesting.
I change colours alternately so that each pair of colours pairs up with another pair in an overlapping kind of way. I use each colour for four rows at a time in total. If you use colours that are quite close to one another, you get an interesting shaded kind of effect which I really like.
The bowl is rather taller than I intended because the colours got carried away with themselves and wouldn't stop. But the result is nicely roomy which is no bad thing. Holds plenty of balls of yarn, even if here, it's lost one into the snow!
I've made another bowl in slightly warmer colours -
- the colours of rhubarb emerging from the papery, brown wrappings of its crown into deep magenta and crimson, fading as the stem gets taller to pale pink, mint and cream and with a sudden blush of cerise before its final, deeper green, umbrella-shaped leaves.
This too seems appropriate to the season even though the rhubarb in my garden is nowhere near ready to pick but it's there, beginning to show its pink stems and reminding me again that "the red blood reigns in the winter's pale."
It's pale and interesting outside today with the first proper snow of winter.
I know snow and ice can be a nuisance but I do like a bit of proper snow. The quietness; the clean strangeness of the landscape;
the stillness of the air; the pure blueness of the light in the early morning;
the swift delineation it gives to everything.
A day to make soup.
This looks pale and not very interesting but it's rather good.
Clean trim and chop a couple of leeks and a bulb of fennel and cook them in a spoonful of olive oil until softened. Add 1 cup of green split peas*; season with 2 tsps salt, some black pepper and freshly grated nutmeg; pour in about 2 pints of water and cook in a pressure cooker for 9 minutes until everything is really soft; then whizz to a purée in a blender with a dash of lemon juice and a bunch of fresh dill. Don't be tempted to omit the lemon juice - it needs it. Cheap as chips and more delicious than somehow it really ought to be, when made from such homely and humble ingredients!
*You can of course use yellow split peas, if they're easier to obtain. I like the green ones purely for the slightly glaucous, green colour they give the soup.
Shirley Conran's famous maxim is not a bad one to live life by - don't sweat the small stuff; don't get bogged down in frippery detail; don't waste time on what is inessential. All pretty sound. But there's also the view point that life is too short not to stuff a mushroom. If a stuffed mushroom makes your heart sing and you enjoy the process, that is. This post is not remotely about stuffing mushrooms, in a literal sense, but it is about making something that is the hooky equivalent of a stuffed mushroom. So a health warning first up: this is about making something frivolous and let's face it, fairly useless; something nicely decorative but also something that might well qualify as a dust-trap; it is inessential and frippery; the world will not be a better place if you make one of these! So if you feel this post is heading in a direction not for you, waste no more time and click away! If, however, you have sneaking mushroom-stuffing tendencies, you might just find that this idea delights you. And experiencing delight in the world is a Good Thing, I believe. So, if that is you, read on....
I don't know why I got the idea in my head, but after Christmas I kept thinking about making a crochet gingerbread house. I've made simple houses in real-time, baked gingerbread to give away at Christmastime sometimes and I thought to myself, why not in crochet? I had a little search to see if there were any patterns around and indeed there are some, but not free ones, and I thought to myself, "Well how hard can it be to crochet up panels, without a pattern?", so I did, and this is what resulted:
I love it! (Especially sitting in the snow!)
It's made up of panels of crochet stitched onto inner plastic panels, lined with fabric and stitched together.
I made it in stages. A bit here and a bit there. A pick-up-and-put-down project for odd winter moments when I wanted a break from blanket-hooking.
It is not totally useless because the house is actually a box and the roof forms a lid that lifts up on a hinge. Like a peep inside? It's lined with some pale, turquoise, Lecien Floral Collection fabric called "Flower Sugar" - difficult to find a fabric more obviously suited to line a gingerbread house!
The actual crochet "gingerbread" is made from Schachenmayr SMC Catania Grande yarn in "cinnamon"and the icing is in the same yarn, in white. The glass of the door and windows I made in thinner Phil Coton 3 yarn in "jade" which was the closest I could get to a clear, mint-flavoured, boiled-sweet colour.
The "sweets" that decorate the walls and roof, I hummed and hawed about. I tried buttons but the ones I had, in the colours I liked, were too big. I tried embroidered French knots but they were too small. I spied one of the coasters made from little felt balls that I bought in Amsterdam, and had a eureka moment!
I cut the retaining threads that linked the mat together and hey presto the tiny multicoloured felt balls were just right!
The thing was a joy from beginning to end.
The initial mock-up that I made from cardboard, (culled from tea cartons, in the larder), seemed to replicate the idea I had had in my head fairly easily.
The crochet was simple - it's basically just single crochet. (Double crochet in UK terms)
The sewing was straightforward.
It was inexpensive and un-stressful, it brightened up some dark winter afternoons. What was not to like?!
On a slightly more serious note, as a project, it's also taught me not to feel too enslaved to patterns but to treat my hook and yarn a bit like a sketching pencil, trying out numbers of stitches and rows and adjusting as I went rather than feverishly counting and blindly following a path already laid out for me. It was liberating. I made mistakes of course and so I simply ripped out the mistake and tried again with a stitch fewer or a row more. It wasn't a big deal to undo trials that turned into errors because the panels were all quite small and the idea was so basically simple.
Now, if you're feeling that you might like to give such an idea a go yourself, I have good news for you. At the top of this page you will find a tab for a page with a tutorial guide with all the details you will need to make your own gingerbread establishment. I should preface this by saying that it's not a precise and definitive pattern, as such. Because tension and the yarn and hook size you choose will all affect the exact stitch and row count you will need, but I've shown you, hopefully nice and clearly, how to do it and given you all the wherewithal you'll need to rustle one of these up, should you wish to, either for yourself or for your children or grandchildren.
I wondered about saving this up to post near next Christmastime but I reflected that actually it makes more sense to post it now when it's fresh in my mind and there's plenty of time for anyone else, smitten with gingerbread-building urges, to make one for next Christmas without getting hatched up in the Christmas preparation-rush that descends any time after Michaelmas.
I haven't quite decided what to keep in my gingerbread house so it's been standing empty and unoccupied since I made it.
But if you leave a house empty, sometimes new occupants move in surreptitiously ...
... that seems to have happened here!
One of the small joys that come with the arrival of Spring is the demarcation zone of laundry drying outside on the line, instead of inside in various corners, that are intended to be inconspicuous, but end up bugging me, big time. Every year I resist buying a tumble-drier on the grounds that they take up space, cost significantly to run and I don't think the laundry smells as nice as when it's been dried in the sun and the wind outside, even if that sun is thin and elusive and the wind a pretty sharp one. Every winter I waver, after months of draping damp shirts and towels over the shower rail and on an ancient wooden clothes-horse that can't accommodate more than one small load of laundry at a time, but every year, in the nick of time, Spring arrives and the laundry is banished outside for the next six months and I breathe a sigh of relief. The tumble-drier temptation has been seen off once again and all is well.
So I've been enjoying getting outside to peg out the laundry every day that it's been remotely possible and as well as using my washing-line to peg out the laundry, it's inspired a little frugal, crafty make that I thought you might like to see.
I've seen various iterations of baskets, bowls and bags made from fabric covered washing-line and I suddenly got the urge to have a go myself. As you do!
In view of the fact that my washing-line serves as exactly that, I couldn't siphon off a few yards without causing problems for my laundry-drying, and in any case my washing-line is plastic-coated wire which is not suitable, so I had to hunt out an alternative. With some difficulty I might add. You need cotton covered washing-line without any plastic or metal anywhere near it, (or inside it), and this is not as easy to come by now as one might hope.
I drew a blank at Homebase and B&Q but at a small, old-fashioned, independent ironmongery, A L Vickery of Drayton, a few miles down the road, success was mine. It's rare to find an old fashioned ironmongery these days but when you do, it's always a delight - little drawers of loose screws and nails that you expect to buy by the ounce; beeswax furniture polish; brush-heads; drill-bits and saw-blades lurk, cheek by jowl, with pyrex kitchenware, pale blue muffin papers adorned with roses and stainless steel teapots. The kind of place where you can't see what you're after, you ask and they always have it, no matter how obscure or insignificant your quest is. In response to my inquiry about cotton washing-line, I was directed to a board displaying reels of sash cord, which is basically the same thing. Made encouragingly by a company called "Everlasto" which has been going since 1856.
You can buy this in reels that are attached to one another so that it's not cut unnecessarily short. I bought two.
Back home, I raided Google for some instructions - these sites here and here were great for inspiration and help - and set about my boxes of fabric scraps to rip up a nice pile of shreds to wrap the cord.
Happy work, I have to say! I've always had a "happy snipper" tendency! Before long, a large spoilheap of fabric strips was mine to play with.
I thought I'd just try wrapping a few to see how they worked and some time later I was still going - it is singularly addictive!
I pinned the wrapped cord as I went, so that I had some idea of where the colour changes were going to fall and kept going until both reels of cord were pretty much covered. All 20 metres! The fabric strips need to be wound on tightly but I found that, once wound, they stayed put and I only needed a few pins here and there actually to secure the fabric onto the cord. The pins you can see in the pic are mostly just to work out how the coil was going to assemble itself, colour-wise.
Next up was the sewing. All the tutorials I found said to use a long zig zag setting on your sewing machine so that's what I did, coiling the wrapped rope around and zig zagging all the way. I changed the thread colour as the colour of the fabric changed but you don't have to.
I found the flat base quite easy and everything was going swimmingly. Less easy was negotiating beginning the basket walls where you have to turn the basket, as you stitch. I broke a sewing machine needle and lost the sharp tip in the bowels of the machine, at this point. A bad word was said.
Funnily enough, the sewing machine didn't like operating with a foreign object lodged in its mechanism so I had to undo the bobbin housing and hunt about. More bad words were said. My delight at retrieving the needle-tip, which I had begun to fear might be gone forever and live permanently, like a malevolent gremlin, in the machine, was short-lived when I realised that all the many bits of the sewing machine mechanism, that had come out of the bobbin housing, would have to Go Back. In The Right Order. Oh dear! After a good deal of cursing and jostling and trying not to jam anything irrevocably, I am pleased to say that I won this battle, albeit slightly scarred by an argument with the bobbin cover from which I came off worst and with a few tell tale marks of sewing machine oil on my fingers. Undaunted, however, I pressed on.
Another needle broke before I decided to stitch the beginning of the turn-up by hand and then continue with the machine once we were on the flat plane of the sides without trying to operate in three dimensions.
I'd recommend this if you want to have a go yourself. I think carrying on with the machine would be fine if you are happy with gently sloping sides that only gradually pull away from the base - the angle of turn would be much easier to accommodate - but it's a bit more tricky if you want something that turns more sharply. Or it may be just me being incompetent. Once I had stitched the sides, I found it reasonably easy to go back though, and zig zag over my hand-stitching just to make sure it was secure.
Onto the main body of the sides, it was relatively plain sailing. I had to keep reminding myself to "put the foot down" because the fabric-covered rope is so thick it's easy to think the sewing machine foot is down when it isn't and, of course, again, the machine doesn't appreciate that.
All in all, I managed to break four, no, five sewing machine needles on this little project! Oops!
But in the end it has come out beautifully, I think.
It's quite big - 35 cm / 14 "wide at the top and 13 cm / 5" deep - about the size and shape of a washing-up bowl - perfect for balls of yarn, sewing and crochet projects in progress, all manner of things.
I love it! The finished article is nice and robust but not too heavy. Can't think why I haven't made one before. It would make a great container to store toys, computer cables, socks, hats and scarves or anything really.
And I have another three reels of cord for another go. Need to buy another packet of sewing machine needles first, though! And some more thread - the project eats quite a bit.
Obviously you can buy fabric to make these baskets but there is something very satisfying about making them from scraps. If you don't have a hoard of fabric scraps waiting to be raided, old shirts, cotton dresses or skirts, that you don't wear any more, would be good potential hunting grounds. Ideally you need the strips to have a bit of length to them or the wrapping gets a bit fiddly but you don't need huge pieces. Some of mine were really quite small. Nothing too thick in terms of fabric though or you won't get the fabric-covered rope under the sewing machine foot.
Now the sun is out, post-eclipse, so I must get out there and hang my laundry on my more functional washing line!
And perhaps pick a bunch of daffodils because they are out a-plenty now and my new basket will also be good for cradling a bunch of flowers, I think!
I increasingly think that "doing" is more important than "hearing" or "seeing". Which is perhaps an odd thing to say when I spend so much of my time listening, writing, reading and speaking. But it's true, I think. And this Easter has been a wonderful journey of "doing" in all sorts of ways, both sacred and secular. An "alive" mixture of meaningfully-serious and frothy-and-frivolous. I recommend it for the sheer, accentuated feeling of being alive that comes in its wake. I do much the same things every Eastertide, but some years are special, for some reason, and 2015 is one of them.
|Tutorial for these eggs here|
This is the finale in my posts about my washing-line exploits, (for the time being, anyway!). You may already feel you have had more than enough of washing-line tales by now, but as this episode is a little bit different, I thought I'd post it, to round things off, if you see what I mean.
As I mentioned in my Part 2 post here, I've found it very difficult to get the sides of my washing-line baskets to turn up at, anything like, ninety degrees and then remain perpendicular to the base to form more of a cylindrical, bucket-like shape. However carefully I turn the basket up, it persists in splaying out, as it spirals upwards. Not that that's necessarily a problem, if that's the shape you're after, but I did fancy something more barrel-shaped.
What to do? Turning the conundrum over in my mind, I thought back to the crochet baskets I've made using no rope, just two strands of cotton yarn - most recently here. These don't have any problems with the sides turning up at a right-angle and remaining more or less perpendicular. Could I combine the two techniques, perhaps? Aha! A light-bulb moment!
Want to see what resulted? Here it is!
Much straighter sides, and very little splaying out. Bingo!
This is how I got there. (In case you'd like to also.)
Firstly you need some lightweight 1/8" / 3.2 mm diameter rope like this:
You'll probably need a couple of skeins for a basket this size (10"/ 25 cm in diameter, 10" / 25 cm high)
You also need some lightweight yarn - an acrylic / cotton mix is what I used. (Scheepjeswol Softfun, a Dutch yarn that I used for my Spring Flower Bag and coin purse last year. You can get it in the UK here.) You don't want anything too dense or the finished basket will weigh rather heavy.
You'll also need:
a hook, one size up from what you would normally use for your yarn - I used a 5mm instead of the 4mm one specified on the ball band.
a tape measure;
a permanent marker pen;
plenty of safety pins;
sewing thread and a sewing machine.
(Flowers and hens, optional - see below!)
What you do:
First coil the end of your rope round to make a little circle with a hole in the middle and the main part of the rope going off to the left (unless you crochet left-handed, in which case, it should go to the right). Pin in place and using a zig-zag stitch, machine stitch it in place, to secure it.
Now get your hook and yarn and beginning with a slip-knot, make 15 single crochet stitches (UK double crochet stitches) into the ring. (Round one) Put a stitch marker in the first stitch so you know where the round should end. You are now going to crochet over the rope in a spiral adding 15 stitches in every round and crocheting over the rope as you go. So, in round two you will make 2 stitches in each stitch (30 stitches in total). In round three you will make 2 stitches in every second stitch (45 stitches in total), in round four you will make 2 stitches in every third stitch (60 stitches in total) and so on, increasing the gap between increases, by one stitch in every round. My base was 13 rounds deep so my final round had 195 stitches in total ie 2 stitches in every 12th stitch, with 11 stitches between increases.
When you want to change colour, join your new colour with a knot, just before you finish the final stitch of the round before, as in the pic below, so that the colour-change is nice and seamless. Crochet over the ends as you go, to avoid any pesky yarn-end-sewing-in later. : )
Continue until you have a circle the size you want. Mine was 30" in circumference. Measure the circumference and make a note of it. This is important because that old rope wants to go a-splaying and a-wandering and you're going to need to rein it in. Using your permanent marker, mark your rope in sections, each measuring the circumference you're working to. You don't have to mark all the sections at once - you may not know how many rounds you'll want to add to the sides to begin with anyway - but just make sure you stay ahead of your crocheting so you're never crocheting over rope that doesn't have a mark to aim for. From now on, you will not make any increases at all and you'll keep the same number of stitches in each round. A good idea to count them and make a note at this point therefore.
As you can see in the pic, my mark is arriving about 2" short of the end of the round. Which we don't want. So pull gently on the rope to tauten it up and get the mark to coincide with the finish line as in the pic below.
Before you get carried away and carry on blithely crocheting, safety-pin both the crochet and rope at the marked point otherwise it can start walking, when you're not looking. I know this because that's what mine did and it had to be frogged and redone! Thank you, H, for the safety-pin suggestion - works brilliantly!
Keep on crocheting round in simple single crochet stitches (UK double crochet stitches), maintaining exactly the same number of stitches in each round and changing colour whenever you feel like it. It grows fast because each stitch, made over the rope, is significantly bigger than a normal single crochet stitch would be, without the rope inside it to expand it. We are motoring now! Neeeeowwww!
When, or if, you need to join in a new bit of rope, splice the two ends together and machine stitch together with a zig-zag stitch over the join, backwards and forwards, a few times.
Trim off any fraying edges on the rope, on a slant, to make the join less bulky and carry on!
This is Black-Eyed-Susan who is very friendly and won't go to bed without being fed from a caring hand. She only gets sunflower-seeds like this, as I draw the line at plunging my hand into the bar-snacks bowl, aka the dried meal-worm tub!
I was flattered to think she liked my basket too!
Enough to hop up on to the back of the garden bench and get a proper close look at my crochet stitches and the nice, stripy colours. What a discerning hen you are!
But it became clear, that actually it wasn't my crochet at all that she liked the look of! It was those yummy flowers I had provided for her especial delectation and delight!
OK, Susan! That's enough of that!
You may remember that in January I launched into hooking two blankets at the same time for using in my up-and-coming retreat space, which is shortly due to become a reality in my garden. I don't know why I can't just do one thing at a time but, it seems, I can't. And although it was, may be, a little on the ambitious side, I haven't fallen by the wayside too much on getting on with them. In fact, the body both of my stripy Handmade Glamping Sampler blanket and my Painted Roses blanket was finished before Easter. Good news! And you'd think with the end in sight I'd have got on with the borders but, somehow, I've kept putting them off.
Borders intimidate me slightly. We don't get on very well for various reasons:
1 I am never quite sure I have enough yarn to complete them and dread having to frog a whole round on a big blanket;
2 because my arithmetic is so erratic, I have no idea whether my stitch count is going to work with a particular border;
3 while I find crocheting along the top and bottom edges of a blanket is quite easy, going down the sides of rows and trying to make sure the stitches look evenly spaced is not at all easy. "Cats' teeth" stitches anyone? Mine sometimes look less like cats' teeth and more like crocodile bites and dearly though I love crocodiles, and I do, (more on that idiosyncracy at some future point, perhaps), borders that resemble crocodile toothmarks are not quite what I am after, in my hooky endeavours;
4 my creative momentum seems to give out with the last stitch of the final row, or the final join of a block, leaving not much mojo left for a border; feeble, I know, but there it is;
5 I underestimate what a difference borders make to a blanket and secretly wonder if I can get away without bothering; "No, you can't, Mrs T!"
This is all rather foolish and I felt I really must get my act together. I began with the stripy affair because that was pretty big to begin with and didn't need much of a border - just something to enclose the stripy, bobbly rows nicely, and in which to hide all the yarn ends, so I filleted a few rows out of the border pattern as given in Handmade Glamping and kept it simple - one "granny row" of groups of three double crochet stitches (trebles in UK terms) and then a couple of rows of single crochet stitches (doubles in UK terms) to finish.
Done! And even in its simplified form, it's really pulled the whole blanket together.
What was so difficult about that, Mrs T?!
The border on the other one is still, ahem, in progress but in my defence I can at least say I have started on it!
Here is the finished one:
I love the bobbles!
... and the soft cosiness of the wool and cotton mix yarn* ...
... and the stripes...
Did I say, I love the bobbles? I really do!
But I love the colours, almost as much as I love the bobbles ...
... and the way it tumbles and riots cosily...
... I love the whole thing, in fact, border included!
*The yarn is Spud and Chloe's Sweater, if you're interested, which is expensive but an absolute dream to crochet with and the colours are amazing. It's an American yarn, but if you're in the UK, you can get it at Mrs Moon's wonderful On-Line shop here (where I see it's on special offer at the moment). I wouldn't normally use such an expensive yarn for a blanket but this is an exception and I hope to enjoy it for many years to come, before handing it on to another Mrs Tittlemouse perhaps, to enjoy in a future generation.
The colours I've used are:
Can't think why I put off finishing it. Anyone else do this, get to within an inch of finishing a project and find the last lap a real effort, that you put off and put off and once it's done, wonder why it took you so long?!
There is something very appealing about the idea of replicating a lily pond with a hook and yarn and I am afraid I just couldn't resist the notion. It's an entrancing project to work on, as the Spring shifts towards early summer and my own little garden pond beckons. Have a look here for the free pattern instalments and details of Jane's exquisite design. Jane's blog has some extra, and very helpful, notes here, if you're interested.
The blanket is designed to be hooked in Stylecraft Life yarn which is an acrylic / wool mix yarn in a fabulous range of colours. You can buy special packs for the project from Deramores and you can pre-order Stylecraft Life packs from Janie Crow here. I think there have been some supply problems with the Stylecraft Life but Deramores do a Stylecraft Special version, pretty close to the original pack.
But here I came face to face with a snag, caused, not by supply problems, but by my own prejudices and / or fussiness. I know this is a heresy in the hooky-blogging sphere and I may get disapproval / criticism for "letting the side down" and saying that "the emperor has no clothes on", but I generally don't like making blankets from yarn whose predominant fibre is acrylic - I find a lot of it is quite scratchy and not very nice to work with. There are exceptions, of course, as with everything, but generally speaking.
This is, quite frankly, a big, old nuisance as predominantly acrylic yarn is far cheaper; it tends to come in nice, fat balls, not 50g tiddlers you have to keep replenishing, and the colour ranges in something like Stylecraft Special, are, without question, first class. I've tried using it, but I always reach the same conclusion a few rows into whatever project it is - I don't like the feel of the finished fabric; I am not all that keen on the look of the yarn itself; and I don't much like working with it, to the extent that the sensation and sound of the run of it, down my hook, can set my teeth on edge. And if I am going to invest a good many hours in a project, I don't want to work with something that puts my teeth on edge all the time, or to end up with something that I don't like touching or looking at in the light. However cheap the yarn may be, or however extensive the colour range.
I know there are very many people who love it and who get wonderful results from using it, but it just doesn't work for me, so in the first instance I thought the Lily Pond blanket would have to be shelved as a nice idea, but not practicable to realise. While wandering along Deramores' virtual shelves, however, and humming and hawing about whether I could put aside my aversion to acrylic scratchiness, I found they also offer a version of the Lily Pond CAL colours in Stylecraft Classique Cotton. This is a pure cotton yarn, un-mercerised and soft; it is a dream to work with and while the colour range is not as comprehensive as its acrylic-based Stylecraft siblings, it's nonetheless good and not too far from the palette required for the blanket. Aha!
So far, so good, especially as I had quite a few of the required colours in my stash and didn't have to buy the whole pack. But it wasn't quite as straightforward to make the switch to a different yarn, from that recommended in the design, as I'd hoped. The length of yarn in each ball is considerably shorter, for a start, so you need more balls of the Classique Cotton than the number specified in the pattern for the Life. Probably two, for each one of the main colours (the greens and teal at least). And the colours in the two ranges although similar, are far from identical. The suggested substitution of the pale blue "Sky Blue" (Classique) for "Mint" (Life), for example, just didn't work for me. I tried replacing it with the deeper and greener, "Tropical Jade" (Classique Cotton) but this had the effect of unexpectedly bringing out the yellow component in the other greens ("Leaf" and "Soft Lime" in the Classique Cotton) and gave the whole panel a most off-putting, sickly, yellowish tinge. The kind of colour, reminiscent of stagnant water, full of unspeakable sludge and suppurating duck-weed, that has been sitting in the sun without any refreshment of rain, for some weeks in a dry summer, and from which a heavy and unpleasant odour assails you, if you approach too close. Nasty! Certainly not what I wanted to replicate in my throw which I wanted to evoke a cool, clear, limpid pool into which you might, on a hot day, feel tempted to dip your feet. A few frogs and fish in there perhaps, to tickle your toes, but no rotting pond-sludge or decomposing waterweed, thank you!
In the end I have substituted the dark blue "Nocturne" in the Classique Cotton for the pale bluey-green Life "Mint" which is quite a bold swap as the two colours are quite different. It works though, I think. I much prefer it to the "Sky Blue" or the "Tropical Jade" anyway.
The pattern is being released at fortnightly intervals. The third instalment was released today. It's a lovely way of doing it, as you never face too much at any one time and so it feels nice and manageable. Of course you don't have to complete each stage in the first fortnight of its release, but if you want to, it's been well judged in terms of what it asks, I think.
In the first instalment you make part of the pond - rippling stripes of greens and blues to represent the water. Among the first few rows there are flecks of colour - to represent the goldfish swimming among the depths and perhaps the waterlily roots. I love the idea of that. The bright flick of a tail, caught by the sunlight through the water, before it disappears into the cool, dark shadows. So evocative. But here I've made another swap. The pattern instructs you to use pink for the flecks of colour which is fine for representing reddish waterlily roots, or budding leaves perhaps, but I'd got stuck on the idea of the goldfish and have you ever seen a pink goldfish? No. Me neither, so the pink had to go and orange "Seville" has replaced it. I am conscious that this also is a bold swap (which may backfire on me) because potentially I may have disturbed the harmony and equilibrium of the overall blanket by introducing a rogue colour element. Orange features nowhere in the rest of the design and it may stand out like a sore thumb, if I am not careful, sparing though the flecks of orange are. I may have to add a judicious hint of orange to some of the flower centres, perhaps. We'll see. Too early to tell as yet. But in a strange way these slightly unexpected colour conundrums are making the creative journey of the blanket not stressful, but rather exciting. Unpredictable, but alive, if you see what I mean.
I was so taken with the water panels I thought I'd make a waterlily to sit among them just for the sake of it. This isn't part of the CAL blanket but is a most beautiful three-dimensional design by Esther Chandler of Make My Day Creative. You can find her free pattern here.
I've made this in Cascade Ultra Pima mercerised cotton in "Pink Sapphire" and "Buttercup". The pad I made up myself and is in Cascade Ultra Pima "Sprout". I took the water and the waterlily with its pad outside to photograph on a mirror under the big cherry tree currently in bloom in the garden and I love the effect of the deep-blue, Spring sky and the foamy, white blossom reflected alongside my hooky efforts.
The second instalment of the pattern was for the first batch of lily-bud squares - I haven't quite finished these. They need some surface stitching in deep pink to highlight the petals.
But I love the way the frame-work, that surrounds the flower in each square, has a slightly lacy, fragile quality to it, while the outer rows are quite solid for joining to the other panels.
Today's instalment is for another version of the lily-bud square with a slightly bigger, more open flower. I am looking forward to starting it very much.
Has anyone else embarked on this project and made any creative adjustments? Do share, if you have. I find that part of creativity, and reading accounts of others' experience of it, fascinating.
Now it's the end of May, one can almost spend evenings outside without freezing to bits in this country. It's one of our national characteristics to maintain a valiant front that outdoor-living is well within our grasp, even when it's pouring with rain and when a wind, that cuts like a knife, is blowing in unfriendly gusts. And we espouse a touching, (if often misplaced,) optimism every year, that it will be a "barbecue summer", so we've reached that time of year, (that we reach every year), where shops and catalogues are full of "must-have" delightful, outdoor-living accessories to make the perfect mise-en-scène for those long, dreamy, summer nights - barbecue equipment; picnic-ware; bunting to string across your al fresco dining area; candle-holders to nestle among summery salads and jugs of Pimms; lanterns to hang from strategic branches and light the way from kitchen to table; all the accoutrements that make for enchanting evenings, wiled away on the terrace, on a balmy, summer night. Never mind the fact that, generally, we only get a tiny handful of evenings in the UK, where this is really viable without wearing a whole load of extra jumpers and huddling under blankets alongside a barbecue, ostensibly there for cooking sausages, but really for preventing hypothermia among the assembled throng. I may yet be surprised this year - I shall be very happy to be. So far however, I have not seen much evidence that this is likely. But it's early days.
But I love the idea of the whole outside-living thing though, and every year I have to fight down the temptation to give in to the purveyors of aforementioned, delightful, outdoor-living accessories. I remind myself that, "I am not my mother", who is a much hardier soul than I am and who picnics more or less, at any time of year, without a second thought, and regards swimming off one of our cold, English beaches as the crown of any holiday spent in this country. Last time I swam off an English beach, a few years ago, I went an interesting blue colour that took an alarming length of time to dispel. And gritting my teeth (to prevent them chattering) and trying not to shiver too obviously is not my idea of a fun summer evening.
But just as my sister and I - we were hardier as children, clearly - used to argue no end with my mother about wearing our lightweight, cotton, school, summer-dresses from the beginning of the summer term in April "because it's the summer term and everyone is wearing summer dresses, except us", I am not quite ready to give up on the idea of the outdoor-living vibe. It's summer after all! But I don't want to waste money on a lot of stuff that will only see the light of day (or night) very occasionally, if that. Enter a little homemade solution or two.
Resisting the temptation to spend multiples of £15 or £20 on charmingly atmospheric, outdoor lanterns, I've made some for next to nothing and best of all they work beautifully and atmospherically inside, as well as outside. In fact, I haven't deployed them outside yet - it hasn't been warm enough. They also get round that irritating thing of using real candles outside, where the slightest gust of that balmy (or otherwise) summer breeze extinguishes their flames, almost as soon as they're lit.
Like a peek?
What you need:
a clear, uncoloured plastic drinks bottle rescued from the recycling pile and washed out.
I used an Innocent Orange Juice bottle because I liked the cuboid, lanterny shape of the base but any clear, uncoloured plastic bottle will do.
a craft knife or sharp pair of heavy scissors
a set of battery-operated LED fairy lights per lantern - available inexpensively from Amazon here
a lacy pattern for a crochet square whose finished dimensions will fit within the width of one side of your bottle - I used the pineapple design from Priscilla Hewitt's delightful, pineapple afghan pattern which you can get here but any lacy or filet design will work well - flowers, hearts, geometric patterns, whatever takes your fancy.
DK weight washable yarn in a colour of your choosing - 50 g will be more than adequate - and a crochet hook in the appropriate hook size for your chosen yarn. I used Cascade Ultra Pima Cotton from my stash in "waterlily", "mint" and "sage" with a 4mm hook for mine.
optional: a hole-punch and string or raffia
What you do:
Remove the label from your plastic bottle and clean off any residual stickiness with white spirit or "Sticky Stuff remover". We seem to spend a disconcerting amount of time in this house, de-sticking packaging of various sorts. It would make recycling at home much easier, if manufacturers used a nice, easily-dissolved glue for their labels, that would soak off cleanly in plain, hot water. Annoyingly, most labels seem to be stuck on with industrial-strength adhesive, requiring chemical warfare to remove it. Marmite jars are the worst, I find, which is a shame because the chunky, dark brown, 500 g size glass jars with their sturdy, yellow, non-corrodible, plastic lids are perfect for homemade chutney, but I digress!
Using a craft knife, or your scissors, carefully cut off the neck of the bottle just after where it starts to narrow and discard the top section you've removed. Sand off any roughness on the cut edge of the bottle with your sandpaper.
Measure the circumference of the base of your bottle and work out how many repeats of your pattern you want to have. I opted for two pattern repeats, so that there is one pineapple on the front and one on the back. Work out how many stitches you need for each pattern repeat and then add on enough to make a ring big enough to fit around your bottle base. Make a note of the number of extra stitches you are adding and mark where you will begin your pattern repeat with stitch markers as you go. Chain the appropriate number of stitches and join with a slip-stitch to make a snug fit around your bottle. Try it on for fit.
Now crochet up a tube or "sleeve" for the bottle, following your chosen pattern for the patterned sections and filling in with simple double crochet (UK treble crochet) stitches in between. Join each row with a slip stitch before carrying on. Begin each new row with a chain of three to get yourself up to the right height.*
*These instructions assume your pattern is basically in double crochet (UK treble). If your pattern uses half-doubles or singles, you'll need to make the fill-in sections in the same stitches or you'll get into a war of stitch-height difference!
The pattern sections should finish before the bottle starts to begin to taper at all. Once you've got to that point, carry on using your plain double (UK treble) crochet stitches (or whatever stitches you are using) and decreasing a few stitches in each row to keep the fit snug. You have to do this by trial and error, so keep trying the fit of the cover over the bottle to check. Begin by decreasing two to three stitches per row and seeing how it goes. The rows are quite short so it's not a big deal to undo a row and redo, with more, or fewer, decreases. Once you are nearly up to the top, you might like to end with a row of single crochet (UK double) just to make a neat finish. Or you might not - up to you. When you're finished, simply fasten off your yarn and sew in the end.
Bingo! Now fit a couple of AA batteries to your fairy lights' battery box, shove the string of lights inside and switch on. You can either hide the whole battery box inside the bottle or you can leave it outside and tuck it behind. It's unobtrusive either way. If you're going to hang the lantern up, the box would be better tucked inside completely.
You can punch a couple of holes in the thin plastic at the top of the bottle and thread some string or raffia through, if you want to hang them up. You can even crochet a simple granny square in the same yarn to insert inside the bottle, underneath the lights, to avoid too much light shining through the bottom when it's swinging aloft in that balmy, summer-evening breeze! The beauty of these lanterns is that they're very lightweight - you don't need a cast-iron bracket or anything similarly robust to support them and there is no molten wax to worry about, once they're lit, so you don't even have to keep them level.
They look nice in the daytime, unlit ...
but they really come into their own once it's twilight or dark and you can light them up ...
And if like me, you are leery about sitting outside, before it's a respectable temperature, (by which I mean over 20C), worry not! Pop your lanterns on a table, or shelf, inside and enjoy them there.
Or hang them in a window. They feel very summery indeed to look at and you can enjoy them whatever the weather, even in the UK's "barbecue summer" that never seems to materialise.
Of course if you are lucky enough to live somewhere with real "barbecue summers", go for it and enjoy them "à la terrasse"!
I've got another little cheap-and-cheerful, homemade "summer-living-accessory" on my hook too. Here's my progress so far. Any guesses as to what it will be? (It's not a blanket.)
In my last post I left you with an unidentified pic as to what was on my hook as my next cheap and cheerful summer-living project. Well, here it is:
A crochet fly-curtain! And just as the weather turns a little bit more summery, I've managed to get it up and running in time to keep out those pesky midges and mosquitoes that make a bee-line for me at the first opportunity. Some people seem more prone to being bitten than others. I think perhaps it's some chemical in some people's skin that attracts biting insects to them more than to others and unfortunately I seem to have it. The pesky little critters leave the rest of my family in peace but me, they home in on, without fail, leaving large, itchy and painful bites that take ages to disappear. Which goes to explain why the idea of a fly-curtain had more than passing appeal.
You used to find these kinds of curtains in the doorways to shops sometimes in this country - not crochet ones, usually just thin lengths of plastic in varying colours - as a small child I used to love swishing the colourful strips to and fro when I should have been helping my mother with the shopping! Nowadays you don't see them so much here, but they're still common in continental Europe, especially in places like Greece. They are popular too in the Netherlands, I gather, and the pattern for this one is a Dutch pattern, from the book Haken En Kleur by Claire Boeter and Saskia Laan. The book is in Dutch but if you can read crochet diagrams, you can follow what you're supposed to do quite easily. Anyway, as soon as I saw it, I felt that I really had to give this a go. The pelmet part was a doddle. Not too big - my chosen doorway belongs to my new, tiny garden-retreat-space and is actually quite a bit narrower than that in the pattern - so each row worked out reasonably short. It has happy colour changes that keeps it interesting and uses a straightforward and delightful combination of stitches. A piece of cake.
The strings, ("slierten" in Dutch), were not a piece of cake, and, in fact, proved to be downright tedious, I have to say. Not because they were difficult - they're about as easy, in principle, as it gets - just long chains in different colours but they're long. As in LONG! And there are a lot of them.
Each one is four hundred and seventy chains, approximately. I say "approximately" because counting four hundred and seventy chains without interruption on eighty eight of the wretched things was doing my head in, so I went free-form and aimed for the same sort of length on each but didn't worry about some being a bit short and some being a bit long. You might think that looks a bit unsatisfactory. It does in a way. But in another way, there's a kind of Bohemian freedom to their varying lengths that I rather like. A few of the strings have flowers that you crochet along, as you go, just for fun.
A really sweet design touch, I think.
The chains are attached with slip stitches and a knot to secure the ends, a few rows before the end of the pelmet section so the join is neatly hidden from view and then you finish the "slierten" off with beads to give a bit of weight that keeps the strings hanging vertically in the breeze. I used an assortment of wooden beads that I had in my sewing box.
A lot of them come from a set of beads I was given for my fourth or fifth birthday, that my mother had kindly squirrelled away and passed on to me recently, (as mothers do!) I still remember painstakingly threading them onto an old green bootlace, when they were new! Others come from a necklace of wooden beads that I've never worn, as the beads always seemed slightly too big. All good up-cycling / re-cycling!
The curtain is attached using an idea I got from the clever Handmade Glamping book in which Charlotte Liddle and Lucy Hopping suggest using Velcro for attaching a blind to a caravan window. It's a brilliant idea, I think. You stick one part of the Velcro to where you want to hang the curtain and sew the other half onto your blind or curtain.
Easy to remove for washing; inexpensive; no struggling to fit a rail or cumbersome curtain pole or anything too taxing of DIY skills. Perfect! John Lewis actually sells boxes of "Sew and Stick Velcro" for this kind of project with the two halves in separate reels, one with a self-adhesive backing and the other without, ready to sew onto whatever you want. Sheer genius! Click on the link if you feel your crafty life might be enhanced by acquiring some! I expect you can get it elsewhere too, although I've not seen it.
Rather than sticking the Velcro directly to the door-frame I got D to cut me a thin panel of plastic styrene sheet which he uses in his railway-modelling but is darn useful stuff for various sewing and crochet purposes that require a bit of stiffening, so I, ahem, "borrow" it periodically! (You can buy it by the sheet here. To cut it, you score it with a craft knife and then snap it carefully apart along the score-line.) This was then lightly sanded, in order to key the surface, and screwed in place first, before sticking the Velcro to it, to preserve the paintwork behind. You could use a thin piece of wood similarly, if you wanted to, or go ahead and stick the Velcro directly in situ. Depends on your chosen surface, really.
Anyway the long and the short of it is that this is about as delightful a summer-living accessory as I've seen in a long time.
And right on cue the weather has turned hot and summery - perfect for a swishy fly-curtain to swirl and float as one sits with an open door and the breeze coming and going but with flies and bugs stopped and searched, and most importantly of all, Turned Back, at the frontier!
I love the way that the breeze makes the beads gently dance and tap, companionably in the background, as they swing to and fro.
Thank you so much for all your kind and enthusiastic comments about my crochet fly-curtain. The weather has tailed off somewhat since finishing it but I am pleased to report that on those occasions when the sun has shone and the door has been open, the curtain has done "what it says on the tin" and has kept pesky, flying visitors well and truly Out. Which augurs well for future sunny days, as and when we get them.
Although it has not been very summery the last few days, the elderflowers are nevertheless boldly coming out in the hedgerows here. The wide, shallow flower-heads with their creamy, delicate blossoms, overflowing with sweet scent, remind me of shallow champagne-goblets, perched among the green leaves. They beckon me to leave my desk and get out and pick them for elderflower cordial before the heavy thunderstorms, forecast for later today, batter them down and soak the fragile flowers, beyond use. I took the hint. This morning they are still new and dry and drifting with golden pollen - perfect for making cordial. Most cordial recipes caution against washing the flowers after picking. I had assumed this was because in washing you would lose the perfume and the water that would cling to the flowers would add unnecessary extra liquid to your mixture. I discovered today, while researching one or two variations, that actually the chemical composition changes in the flowers, when they are wet. Negatively so. You only want to immerse them at the point of infusion, not before. No idea why this should be, but they do smell different in the rain and perhaps that's why. I don't wash them anyway but this is just an added incentive not to bother.
Anne floated the idea of infusing rose petals with the elderflowers for cordial in her post here and this seemed to me to be an inspiration of sheer genius. (Not uncommon with Anne in the kitchen, I have to say.) My new-last-year Gertrude Jekyll rose is a bit green and youthful still and her flowers have been hanging, slightly sadly, from her young and whippy stems, which are not yet up to the job of supporting them in a more upright position. Nudging me to pick them to enjoy them properly, rather than leaving them to trail on the ground. I've picked some to put in a vase and been enjoying them all week.
The scent is breath-taking.
As is the colour.
What about pairing that scent (and colour) with the elderflowers? What about it indeed!
As with making rose petal jam, it's a good idea to snip off the white part of the rose petals as these can be bitter so all the white tips, like the one in the pic, got snipped off before I poured on the bubbling-hot sugar syrup.
I now have two batches of elderflowers infusing in the kitchen, one with rose petals, one without, and the scent is headily distracting.
Despite the vagaries of the English summer about which I was grumbling a few weeks back, there is something about the scent both of elderflowers and old-fashioned roses that makes all my grumbles about the lack of warmth and sunshine evaporate.
The essence of summer. In your face, literally.
Do you make your own elderflower cordial? If you don't, I recommend having a go, with or without experimental variation. It is extraordinarily easy and, personally, I find it a marked step-up from the commercial variety, as well as being cheaper, of course.
There are lots of recipes for elderflower cordial. It's child's play and boils down to the following:
1 Pick the flowers.
2 Pare and squeeze a few lemons.
3 Boil up a simple sugar syrup.
4 Pour the hot syrup over the flowers and lemons.
5 Cover and leave for twenty four hours.
6 Strain and bottle / freeze.
7 Drink diluted with water (and / or something alcoholic)
For more detailed instructions of how I go about it, you can find the recipe that I use here where I posted about it last year. The frozen cordial keeps beautifully for a year or more. I know because this week I have been drinking the last of the batch I made last June.
The rose variation on the elderflower theme has sparked one or two other possibilities for experiment - elderflower partnered with lemon verbena, for example. Apparently very good indeed with gin. As I have recently planted out some little lemon verbena plants, I am wondering whether, if the thunder and rain will just hold off a smidgeon longer, I might have time to pick some more flowers for a third batch. I think I might!
I have no idea as to quantities with these variations. For the rose one, I picked four generous Gertrude Jekyll roses because these were the flowers drooping lowest that would otherwise see out their days sweeping the flowerbed and because Anne said two were insufficient in her initial experiment. They have partnered about twenty seven elderflower heads. The lemon verbena plants are new and not very bushy as yet, so I didn't want to pick too many leaves off them. A generous handful of the aromatic, pointy, green leaves leaves with half a lemon sliced up for good measure, to eighteen elderflower heads is what I ended up with for this batch.
The kitchen now looks (and smells) like some kind of summery alchemist's cave with assorted pans and bowls emitting similar, but subtly different, fragrances from beneath their lids. I keep going in there, just to breathe them in. I hope no one wants any rice with their chilli con carne this evening - all my big pans are now occupied! Oops!
It's always nice to indulge in a bit of sewing in the summer. Pretty cotton prints in summery colours. Nothing too big or that takes too long. Stitching in the garden, or inside while the summer sun streams through the open windows.
Very satisfying and soul-lifting. Even better if you have a friend to share it with too.
So, in the last few busy weeks, there has been a bit of the above.
A summer blouse - Butterick B5711 - charmingly old-fashioned in style with a little round collar and short, slightly puffed sleeves. Sadly, this pattern is discontinued now but you may be able to pick one up in a sewing shop which still has it in stock.
It's has a fitted shape and sits nicely on top of jeans or a denim skirt. I love the inexpensive but very pretty, flowery fabric I found for it, even though it took me by surprise and bled rather profusely on its prewash and dyed one of H's white T shirts a pretty, but distinctly unpopular, shell-pink colour. Oops! Nothing a good dose of bleach in a bucket of soaking water couldn't fix fortunately, or I would have been in the dog-house.
I don't make fitted clothing much - getting collars and sleeves to behave nicely and look "meant" is not always easy, I find. But this blouse appealed so much that I gave it a go and I am rather pleased with the results. I haven't worn it as much as I had hoped yet as (predictably) the English summer has been erratic in its presence recently.
My other recent sewing escapade was a joint one with my American friend Liz of Carolina Knits who, along with her husband, came to stay with us a couple of weeks ago. We popped into Oxford for a bit of sightseeing and to cover off some jet-lag-relieving punting on the river - thank you H and D for propelling all five of us, without mishap, up and down the Cherwell!
D has always loved punting and is very good at it, which is perhaps not surprising as Oxford is his hometown and he spent a good deal of his time growing up either on the Thames or on the Cherwell in one form of boat or another, but H has also taken to it, well, like a duck to water in recent years ...
... and it is not easy to wrest the pole off him to have a go oneself these days! Not that I mind personally - being punted along an Oxford river in the sunshine is one of life's great relaxations. Operating the punt-pole oneself is considerably harder work - harder than it looks and requires quite a deft hand and eye.
Anyway back to the sewing! Amongst our cultural and river-based activities, we made a quick detour to Oxford's delightful little haberdashery shop Darn It And Stitch for a couple of fat quarters apiece, to turn into homemade espadrilles.
This is a fun idea that I found while researching craft shops in Bath (where we also went for a little sightseeing). Bath is home to The Makery a wonderful emporium of fabric, sewing notions and inspiration.
The Makery has been having a series of summer espadrille sewing workshops and there's even a little video tutorial on YouTube that Kate has done for those who can't make it to a workshop but would like to have a go. You can find it here. We found it really clear and helpful.
You need a pair of espadrille soles in your size (either from The Makery here or John Lewis sell them too, here), a couple of fat quarters, and any other notions you want to use by way of embellishment as well as standard sewing equipment.
And ideally you want a friend to do it with because it's more fun like that!
The espadrille soles come with a pattern which you need to trace in the correct size, making sure you add on a seam allowance. Then you cut out your fabric pieces - we used contrasting fabrics for the top of the espadrilles and their backs and I used a third fabric for the lining.
You stitch the outer fabric and the lining pieces together on the sewing machine, clip the seams, turn and press them and then pin on to the soles and hand-stitch in place with blanket stitch.
It's a lovely project to mix prints and plains - the grey rain-drop pattern fabric and plain bright pink for contrast, that Liz chose, worked brilliantly.
Or you can use a pair of toning prints, perhaps with a plain lining, like I did:
So it's September. And the summer is gone. The swallows knew it weeks ago and had made themselves scarce before August struggled to its bedraggled end here, but I've been slower to catch on, I think. Sometimes the ebb and flow of life sits harmoniously alongside the ebb and flow of the seasons and sometimes it doesn't and I find myself trying to catch up, slightly out of synch. I've found that recently anyway.
There are special joys to be found in September even though I find the deep golden light that is characteristic of a nice day at this time of year somehow carries a feeling of melancholy that always makes me feel wistful.
I've not wanted to go looking for any extra melancholy and wistfulness however and have been concentrating instead on the uplifting qualities of the following:
1 A new sewing project that was originally going to be a one-off but looks as though it might be set to replicate itself, possibly more than once. It started with me playing around with bits of fabric from my fabric boxes that were having some difficulty closing. They seemed to me to murmur a little autumn poem.
Then I unearthed a bunch of old lace and trimmings that have sat in my sewing basket for years. Some of the lace, like the two bits, in the bottom centre of the pic above, have lain there for at least forty years, to my certain knowledge. And a happy idea was born to make an autumn apron out of strips of all these fabrics, sewn together, and trimmed with the oddments of lace. The plan was to evoke some of the browns, russets and hunting greens of autumn leaves together with the filigree adornment of those lacy spider-webs, you see in the garden, beaded with dew on early, autumn mornings. No, I was not tempted to add an embroidered eight-legged resident or two!
There is a nice large pocket sewn out of the off-cuts, with the strips going vertically, instead of horizontally and the top edge of the pocket is trimmed with a bit of grey lace.
A pair of wooden buttons (that came free, a while ago with an issue of Simply Crochet, I think) finish off the top. They are purely decorative but I like them.
The ties are deliberately mismatched; stitched together using two spare strips for each, before turning out and pressing and sandwiching between the outer and the lining fabrics to secure them in place.
It's a tweaked variation of Ruby Tandoh's Pear Blackberry and Coconut Cake which was featured in The Guardian last weekend. I tweaked it by replacing the coconut oil with almond oil and the desiccated coconut with ground almonds to make a Blackberry, Pear and Almond Cake.
I do like cakes made with oil that only require you to get out a whisk and a bowl rather than the whole faff of the food processor. Life is never too short to make cake, I feel, but sometimes, when time is short, a quick cake-making fix is better than a long one!
3 Drying apples from our elderly apple tree. It is so weighed down with fruit this year that I am wondering whether it needs crutches under its low-slung branches. Most instructions tell you to dry apples in slices but I want chunks for using in bread, porridge, buns and cakes over the winter.
I haven't treated the cut fruit with acidulated water or anything so it's inevitably gone a bit brown in the drying,
but that doesn't worry me - it's the flavour and consistency I am after, particularly for adding to bread recipes where fresh apple is too wet and too fragile to hold together under the kneading process. I could probably have dried these a bit longer but I don't want them too leathery, as an ingredient, so I'm freezing what I am not using immediately, in case they have not lost quite enough moisture simply to store in jars, or paper bags, in the larder. An initial experiment in using them in these spiced apple buns promises rather well - the apple pieces remain definite but are neither hard nor dry and the apple flavour is very good.
I am making a lot of these kinds of fruited, yeast-raised buns at the moment - they satisfy my need for something sweet to nibble on around 4.00 pm without being too heavy on the old sugar (and fat). They would also be rather good in lunch-boxes should you find yourself needing to fill same or, for that matter, lightly toasted for breakfast.
If you want to have a go, my recipe is as follows:
Spiced Apple Buns
3tsp active dried yeast
350 g strong white flour
150 g strong wholemeal flour (you could just use white flour but I quite like the nuttiness of a bit of wholemeal in here - means they qualify as health food!)
1 tsp salt
2 tsps ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground mace (or nutmeg)
1/4 tsp ground cloves
50 g unsalted butter cut into pieces
50 g runny honey
2 large eggs (or 3 bantam eggs) whisked with c 100 ml whole milk and enough water to make up the liquid total to c 380 ml
100 g home-dried apple pieces (or you could use commercially dried apple rings snipped up)
100 g sultanas (or raisins)
For the glaze: 1 egg whisked with a teaspoon of water
pearl sugar or demerara sugar to sprinkle on top
I've used an assortment of spices that I think go well with apple - I've got a particular fondness for ground mace at the moment which I think is made from the outer casing of the nutmeg seed. Its taste is similar to nutmeg but slightly warmer and stronger. It works very well in breads like this one anyway. But you can vary the spices according to what you like / have in the cupboard. The same applies to the fruit. You can change the make-up of the liquid as well, so long as you end up with the about the same quantity of liquid overall so feel free to use all milk and no water and one egg rather than two if that suits you. Some egg and some milk is needed though so I wouldn't simply replace with all plain water if you want the same tender-crumbed results, especially for eating just as they are.
I make the dough for these buns in my automatic bread-maker on the wholemeal raisin dough programme. Not all the fruit will go in the fruit-and-nut dispenser of my machine so I just add the extra by hand when I hear the portcullis-like trap on the dispenser fall and know that the automatic hopper has released its payload at the right moment. You can, of course, make them by hand following any fruited bread or hot cross bun recipe for the method.
Once the dough is risen and ready, preheat the oven to 200 C (195 C for fan ovens). Shape the dough gently - it's quite loose and tender - into twelve nice, round, cushiony buns and place on a baking sheet lined with baking parchment. Brush each one with the slightly diluted, beaten egg and sprinkle with pearl or demerara sugar. Bake for around 13 - 14 minutes until well-risen and golden. Watch them carefully towards the end of the baking time to make sure they don't overcook. You might need to turn the baking tray around if some of the buns seem done before the whole tray is ready.
Cool the buns on a wire rack before eating just as they are ...
... or may be with a bit of unsalted butter. Any leftover buns freeze beautifully.
4 Mastering a knitting pattern for a vintage-style tea cosy for my big enamel teapot that pours beautifully but is too big for any of my existing tea cosies. There's a gorgeous pattern in Handmade Glamping for a tea cosy like this made with five colours, rather than just two, but I got in such a pickle trying to follow the (somewhat elliptic) instructions and keep five balls of yarn separate and in the right places that I gave up and found a simpler pattern for the traditional two-colour version here.
I love the Handmade Glamping book, it's one of my favourites and full of inspiration but I do find the technical instructions for how actually to make the projects are sometimes insufficient. It's fine, if you're fairly confident with the required crafting skill and can supply what is not explained from your own experience but trickier if you aren't. And with knitting, I am not at all confident, and should only really be let loose under the watchful eye of a minder!
But this has, in the end (and perhaps despite me), worked OK. It keeps the tea as hot as can be. The design of these vintage-style cosies with their self-pleating folds, means that the teapot is effectively wearing something like an eiderdown, with a pocket of insulating air trapped in each fold. Perfect for brewing up tea to go in a flask, without the tea losing its heat, as well as keeping a pot of tea alive and well, some time after making it, even when you're not "taking it out." Do you use a proper teapot and a tea cosy when you make tea? I'd got rather lazy and had fallen into bad tea-bag-in-a-mug habits that were quite wasteful really, both of electricity and tea.
5 Photographing my late summer sunflowers in the early morning sun which despite being planted quite late, have come good and cheered these late summer / early autumn days with their wonderful, yellow, mop-like heads.
6 Changing up breakfast a little by switching from porridge to a very simple, but oh-so-good, homemade granola. Just oats and chopped almonds turned in maple syrup, honey, vanilla extract and a spoonful of rapeseed oil and baked on a tray in a slow oven before being cooled and
1 Pumpkins. I really do love pumpkins and when their bright orange faces first appear in October, I always feel buoyed up.
I bought one of those beautiful duck-egg blue ones the other day (although I think technically it's a Crown Prince Squash and not a pumpkin at all) but felt that on balance it was a bit like the idea of wearing blue lipstick. Fun, in theory, but better to stick to the more tried and tested classic colour zone, in practice. I roasted the the flesh in its blue-green skin and found the skin turned the beautiful vivid orange flesh disconcertingly murky; the flavour was a bit murky too. One lives and learns these things. In case you're wondering, I have not actually worn blue lipstick to live and learn that, but I can probably anticipate that particular "learn", without bothering!
Back to the pumpkins. I always make roasted pumpkin soup at this time of year. Simple; delicious and full of vitamin A.
This version was about as simple as you can get. A splash of olive oil, an onion, two sticks of celery and a pile of roasted (classic orange) pumpkin, water, salt and pepper. Thick. Satisfying. Cheerful.
I also make spiced pumpkin muffins with grated, raw pumpkin. The pumpkin flavour is subtle and unobtrusive but it makes the muffins deliciously moist and sticky. I look forward to making these every year and they never disappoint. Ever.
You can find my recipe here, if you're interested - just scroll down past the crochet slippers.
This year I wanted to experiment with making pumpkin scones. I'd seen a few examples around on the Interwebs and loved the idea of a bright yellow scone hit. The first version I made was disappointing - not enough pumpkin purée and too many spices so that they tasted wonderfully of "pumpkin spice" but were a very miserable brown colour. I can make spiced, plain, brown scones any time. What I wanted was the colour pop! (Is it the blue lipstick thing again, perhaps?!) So I had another go, using my own family scone recipe as a base and "pumpkinising" it, if that's a word. It worked. These yellow jobs are vivid, to say the least, even on the outside.
And on the inside? Well, see for yourself... Sunny side every side! Even allowing for the fact that it had got dark by the time I took this photo last night and the light had to be lamplight.
To make these, you need 250 g cooled roasted pumpkin purée on hand for which you'll want about a quarter to a half of a culinary pumpkin weighing approximately 1.5 kg to 2 kg in the hand. Cut the raw pumpkin into wedges and cut out all the woolly fibres and seeds. Don't peel it. Roast, skin-side down, in a baking tin for an hour at 190 C until the flesh is beautifully soft. Cool and then peel off the skin before mashing the flesh with a fork or whizzing to a rough purée in a food processor.
For the scones, put 500 g white self-raising flour, a generous pinch of salt, half a teaspoon of freshly grated nutmeg, two teaspoons of cream of tartar and one teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda into the food processor, Whizz briefly to aerate and mix. Add 50 g cold unsalted butter in pieces and whizz to the consistency of breadcrumbs. Tip the mix into a big bowl and when you are ready to bake, preheat the oven to 220 C and line a baking sheet with baking parchment.
Whisk 250 g of the cooled, roasted pumpkin puree with enough natural yoghurt to make about 350 ml of liquid overall. Pour into the bowl of dry ingredients and mix with a knife to a dough. It makes a nice well-behaved kind of dough, I found. Roll out thickly, (or just press out with well-floured hands which is what I do) and cut into rounds or triangles. Brush with milk and bake for 10 - 12 minutes until well-risen and golden.
I omitted adding any sugar because I fancied them as savoury scones with cream cheese but you could add a tablespoon of sugar or two, if you wanted to serve them with jam. They are very good. A hint of nutmeg but not too spicy and the colour is just glorious. A brilliant, unshadowed, sunflower-yellow. Not remotely a blue lipstick experiment! The marriage with cream cheese works beautifully and I think they'd also be very good with soup.
And because every home needs a pumpkin or two that aren't roasted, but sit cheerfully on the window-sill on grey, wet autumn days, I made these.
Not remotely functional, but completely charming and I love them. They are weighted down with plastic, bean-bag pellets tied up in a little nylon stocking bag stuffed inside the filling to give them a bit of authentic heft - the best real pumpkins feel heavy for their size. So actually, they work as paper-weights should they need usefully to earn their keep! You can find the pattern here. It's in German but very nice and straightforward to follow. When you come to the decrease part, the pattern only specifies the first couple of rows. Don't worry - just keep on decreasing in exactly the reverse order in which you increased on the way up. You can alter the number of rows you do in the middle (without increases or decreases) to vary the size of your finished pumpkin. My pale green and lighter orange pumpkins are done with eight of these rows (as per the original pattern) and the larger, darker orange one is done with twelve rows instead of eight to make him a bit bigger than the other two. I made up the leaves and curly tendrils myself, using this pattern here as a starting point and adapting it, as I went, to suit.
Lurking in the pumpkin patch is not just a toadstool or two - hooky or otherwise - for luck, but also one of the hedgehogs I made a couple of years ago. Clearly enjoying a bit of autumn rootling before hibernation calls!
2 Potatoes. While we are talking vegetables. Not for eating, this time, but printing.
Inspired by the turning leaves in their vivid reds, russets, and yellows against the evergreen ivy in the hedge, I turned some potatoes into leaf-stamps for printing wrapping paper. Fun. And easy. I used real leaves for the templates and water-based printing ink to print with.
I find it works best to paint the ink on with a brush rather than dip the potato in a pool of ink as printing ink is quite thick and you risk overloading your design area and wasting ink. It's also a good idea to cut a couple of wedges out of the wrong side of the potato stamp to make something to grip them by when you're printing as they can be slippery customers to manipulate otherwise.
Some of the prints are more imperfect than others but somehow they work OK all together, I think.
I started off trying to print in some kind of ordered pattern but the potatoes had other ideas. And when potatoes have their own ideas it's best to go with them. The overall effect reminds me of autumn leaves eddying and floating to earth in a sunny, autumn breeze.
3 Crab Apples. I promised myself that I would make no more jam this year. The larder shelves are full and there is only so much jam one household can eat. But my little crab apple tree, planted only eighteen months ago has been unexpectedly dripping with tiny, rosy, crab apples and I couldn't resist. I will give it away at Christmastime, I promise! (Well, some of it, may be!)
4 Dulce de leche. I thought I would have a go at making my own dulce de leche to spoon on, well anything really, pancakes, fruit, yoghurt, whatever. H tasted my efforts cautiously but when I told him how I made it, he went off the idea. Can't think why - it's just boiled milk and sugar, but there you have it. Feeling that as a result, the temptation of it sitting uneaten in a jar, in the fridge, might lure me into secretive, midnight spoon-raids, and that temptation might be less, if it were incorporated into a composite dish, I wondered how to use it. Various possibilities proffered themselves but I opted for swirling it into freshly churned, homemade vanilla ice cream. I am not sure however, that the tub of finished ice cream is not a substantially more powerful temptation than the original jar was of the stuff, neat! What was I saying about living and learning?!
You can buy dulce de leche ready-made, of course, and if you do want to make it, you can go an easier route by simply boiling up an unopened tin of condensed milk. However, making it from scratch was, although time-consuming, not at all difficult. I didn't want to go down the boiling tin route - comes out a bit too dark and thick for my liking and then there's always the risk of the tin exploding "in media re" which, although potentially exciting, would also be messy. Anyway, I wanted something slightly more gooily runny but still unctuously thick, and you can control that much more easily if you use the fresh milk method. I used Claire Thomson's recipe from The Guardian which you can find here.
Claire specifies that you need to cook the milk mixture for about an hour and a half and up to two. I cooked mine for an hour and twenty minutes. Couldn't wait any longer as I had to go out but you could go on a tad longer, if you want it sit-up-and-beg-stiff. Get a good book or go through your emails on your laptop to wile away the time usefully, as you stir. The precise time will depend in part on the size and shape of your pan as well as the vigour of your heat source. If you have an extractor fan over your hob, use it - speeds up the evaporation. Do not leave the mixture unattended. You want to avoid it catching and burning at all costs. The beauty about this method is a) you can see the milk begin to caramelise and progressively change colour which, if you like seeing a bit of kitchen chemistry in action, like I do, is fun and b) you can control the timing of the process to end up with the consistency you prefer. A little less long and a lighter, caramel shade, for a runnier sauce and slightly longer and a darker, more treacle-toffee shade, for a stiffer one. Remove from the heat and allow to cool. Carefully spoon and scrape the cooled dulce de leche into a jar; cover and store in the fridge.
Lick the spoon and that spatula you used to scrape the sides of the pan - it would be wasteful not to! - yes, it is as delicious as you hoped it might be! Apparently keeps for several weeks but I doubt if I will be able to road-test that.
Swirl into freshly churned, homemade, vanilla ice cream, if you want to taste the ambrosia of the Homeric gods come to life, from the pages of myth!
5 Late blooming of flowers in the garden that I thought had gone to their eternal rest for good. In the golden autumn light the colours are peculiarly intense and alive.
6 And finally, a delightful autumn visitor to my apple tree earlier this week. I apologise for the blurry quality of the pic but it had to be taken through a window to avoid disturbing him. I think he is not after apples, but earwigs and other creepy crawlies in the bark of the tree, to which he is very welcome. If he would care to venture inside and see off the enormous house-spiders which currently seem to be launching a takeover bid here, I'd be even happier.
Seriously. This content of this post is rubbish. You might argue that how a society disposes of its waste tells you something fundamental about it, in which case there are some signs of hope for us all, as we've become a lot more conscientious about waste than we were. Long gone are the days of my childhood when you put your rubbish (all of it, shamefully unsorted) into galvanised metal bins that the dustmen (so-called) came and collected from your back door, emptied and put back, outside your back door, every week. Now rubbish has to be carefully sorted, segregated and placed in the correct, coloured wheelie-bin which must be placed at the roadside, (but not on the road), by 7.00 am on the correct morning for collection on designated dates, once a fortnight unless there's a public holiday, when the whole system goes haywire and a whole new temporary timetable has to be digested. Waste disposal is no longer a simple business. And failure to comply at any stage of the process - not sorting rubbish according to the guidelines; filling the brown garden-waste wheelie-bin so that the lid does not completely close; not placing any wheelie-bin in the correct location for collection, or failing to get any bin in position by 7.00 am sharp - is a serious matter and not taken lightly.
Keeping track of which colour wheelie-bin is due for collection, which day, in which week, is not always easy, when one's life mostly revolves around matters other than rubbish, but it's a shift in the way daily life is lived, that basically, I think, is a rather good thing. Partly because sometimes one man's / woman's waste is another man's / woman's treasure, and partly because the idea of piles of waste fouling the landscape and polluting the earth, sea and air we all live alongside is, obviously, pretty nasty. Something that seeing (and smelling) some of the city's rubbish mountains on a trip to Cairo, a few years back, really brought home.
Having said that, every time the goal posts are moved on the rubbish front, it takes me a while to adjust. For example, when waste-food bins were introduced in Oxfordshire for collecting stuff that wasn't suitable for home-composting, back in 2010, I got myself in a ridiculous quandrary over the correct destination for various items. Where do you place a used muffin paper, for example? It's paper, so, presumably it goes in the normal paper, glass and tin recycling bin, but hang on! What about that muffin-residue that's still stuck to the wrapper? Does that make it food waste? Or where do you put that wad of kitchen paper-towel, soaked in excess roasting-fat, that you used to wipe the dish out before washing? The dilemmas seemed legion at the time although of course one adjusts after a while and it becomes second nature. (Biodegradable paper muffin-wrappers do go in the food bin, I decided.)
The latest goal-post-moving, here in the UK, is in relation to plastic carrier bags which, apparently, take a terrifying one thousand years to decompose. In order to cut down their indiscriminate use, most UK retailers must now charge for supplying plastic carrier bags and the day of the plastic carrier as the disposable receptacle of choice, for everything from muddy wellington-boots to cooking-apples, gifted from a friend's tree, is gone.
I tend anyway to use an old-fashioned shopping basket for hands-on food-shopping. Though, if my eyes are bigger than my basket, I've always fallen back on accepting a free carrier. No more.
I have also always used plastic carriers as bin-liners. In fact, in my kitchen, a plastic carrier on the inside of the cupboard door, under the sink, has, for the last twenty-years-plus, I am ashamed to say, been the bin itself - free, space-saving, hygienic, convenient. Or it was, up till now.
Shopping for clothes or other items, I've never bothered to take a receptacle for my purchases. But I can't stuff half a dozen pairs of socks from Marks and Spencers in my handbag or squirrel bulky stationery supplies in my coat pockets. Habits must change.
So I've been experimenting with a few novel solutions for this new phase in the rubbish dispensation. One is rather frivolous while also functional, the other is a bit more utilitarian. Both recycle stuff that would otherwise probably be heading for one or other of the wheelies.
Want a peek?
This is my first effort. A bin made out of an old Malteser tub and a bit of hooky. It's not huge but adequate for a small room. No liner required. Though I have imposed s few restrictions on what may be placed in it! See below!
The pattern for the crochet flower fabric is taken from a pattern for a gorgeous bag in Nicki Trench's Cute And Easy Crochet With Flowers.
I love that bag! But it requires 207 flowers which is a lot of flowers. In fact the bin idea came about when I'd made and sewn together about 20 and was beginning to baulk at clocking up another 187. I was also becoming concerned by the fact that the way the flowers tessellated together once sewn, was distinctly un-linear and it looked as though it might prove distinctly tricky to create the rectangular bag shape. Could I find something where the way the flowers tessellated was an advantage, rather than the reverse? I could! It's worked like a dream. The Malteser tub, as you can see, is a flower-pot kind of shape ie its circumference is smaller at the bottom than the top.
This is not the easiest shape in the world to crochet a cover for in straight rows, I've found, but the flowers negotiated easily what is difficult otherwise to accommodate, namely the sloping sides.
I had to keep trying the cover on with the wrong side turned outwards to see where to join on the flowers as I went but it worked fine. I made sure I joined enough flowers to hold together first of all and then went round filling in the gaps, keeping the flowers fairly taut so that it held up nicely.
I think I've used about 80 flowers in total - it's very difficult to count them, once sewn together, without losing track of which ones have been counted and which ones haven't. Certainly nowhere near 207 anyway. The yarn is Stylecraft Classique DK Cotton in a variety of colours left over from various other projects and I've used a 5mm hook which is big for this yarn but works well as the flowers hook up quite densely.
Then there was the question of how to attach the cover to the plastic tub. I considered threading some elastic through the top edge of the flowers but wasn't sure it would hold firmly enough - the cover needs to be stretched quite taut, for the best effect. So I persuaded D to drill small holes all along the top edge which he did very kindly.
I was then able to stitch the cover in place directly on to the tub itself using red yarn to match the colour of the plastic.
Very easy to do, and it can easily be snipped off in order to wash the cover and re-sewn, as and when need arises.
I am thrilled at how it's turned out. The tub is ages old - I got it one Christmas and once the Maltesers were finished - what is it about Maltesers that makes them, even in a tub this size, last so short a time?! - it's served, very occasionally, as a useful container for fruit-picking etc but has otherwise been cluttering up a cupboard and falling out on anyone so foolish as to open the door unwarily. It now has a permanent useful function and has become a delightful object to the eye as well as very useful rubbish container.
This is the base which I decided to make solid.
No nasty rubbish in here, please, though! Yarn ends? Yes! Waste paper? Yes! Pencil shavings? Possibly!
Chewing gum, the contents of the dust-pan, detritus off the bottom of people's shoes? No thank you! I am as pernickety as the local council, on waste disposal protocol, clearly!
OK, now for my second experiment. These are very simple and very functional bags made from old shirts. They aren't disposable but neither are they at all special and if one gets irretrievably snagged, or damaged I shan't have the slightest compunction in getting rid of it (into the textile recycling bank) and replacing it with another. I have taken to using them as my kitchen bin and as other bin-liners as well as spare shopping bags than can be stuffed in the car, my handbag or anywhere else. They go in the washing machine at whim, on a hot wash and I don't care if they get marked or dirty. They aren't particularly pretty but they don't need to be. They are quick to run up and all you need is an old man's shirt. An old shirt, I mean, not an old man! Men's shirts are best as they are more generously cut but you could use any shirt that's reasonably sized. I used some old shirts where the collars and cuffs had become so frayed as to be unwearable but the body of the shirt fabric was still fine.
What you do:
1 Lay the shirt out on a table with the front facing you. (Unbuttoned, as in the pic)
Cut off the button band and the button hole band on each side of the front of the shirt, cutting up from the bottom edge, in a straight line - the existing stitching will guide you - no need necessarily to use a ruler.
2 Now cut up alongside the side-seams nice and close to the seams. When you reach the sleeve, cut across the shirt front horizontally. You now have two similarly shaped panels each with a straight edge lying adjacent to one another.
3 Place the two edges of these pieces together, with right sides facing, and stitch in a straight seam. Press the seam open.
4 Now turn the shirt over so that the back is facing you. Cut up alongside the side seams as you did for the front and when you reach the sleeves, cut across horizontally.
5 Place the stitched panel and the panel cut from the back together with right sides facing and cut out a simple squareish bag shape. The pattern I drew out was 16"/ 41cm square
6 Cut out small, identical-sized squares from the bottom corners. (Mine were 2"/ 5cm) This helps to make the bag nice and boxy when you come to stitch it up but you can omit this stage if you like. You can see how I've cut mine in the pic of the panels waiting to be sewn together below. The panel on the left is the one made from the two pieces from the front of the shirt, stitched together down the centre as in Step 3 above.
7 Place the cut panels together, right sides facing and pin and stitch the long sides and the bottom edges together leaving the boxy bits flapping, if you cut boxy bits, that is. If you did this, once you've stitched the main side and bottom seams, you need to align these so that the end of the side-seam matches the end of the bottom seam. Pin and stitch across to seal up the bottom of the bag.
If you didn't cut boxy bits out, just carry on sewing down one side, round the corner, along the bottom, round the second corner and up the remaining side. Even simpler.
8 Fold over the top of the bag, press and the fold in the raw edge. Stitch all the way around the top.
9 Cut two strips for the handles about 16" / 41cm long by 3"/ 7.5cm wide from the shirt fabric that remains. I cut mine from the bottom of the back panel but you could also use the sleeves. Try to cut the strips along the straight grain of the fabric from wherever you cut them.
10 Fold each of the handle strips together, right sides facing, lengthwise. Stitch. Turn out and press.
11 Position the handles where you want them along the top edge of the bag and stitch in place.
12 Snip off any loose threads and you're done.
A rather roomier, bigger version could be made from old bed-linen. I have some elderly duvet covers in my sights next which might become boot-bags or potato-storing sacks! And of course although these homemade bags aren't waterproof like plastic ones are, I am not sure that their breathability isn't more useful. Neither muddy boots nor fruit and vegetables do well, wrapped in plastic. And for rubbish? Well, so far, I've found they've worked a treat. Anything wet and messy is generally destined either for the garden compost heap or the waste-food bin. What happens when I have something that falls outside the remit of those receptacles I will have to discover, as and when! Meanwhile, I have no plastic carriers in the house - they've all gone in the bag-recycling facility offered by the supermarket. A small insignificant planet-friendly effort may be, but from small acorns and all that.
Anyone have any any inspirational rubbish tales to tell or frugal rubbish makes you'd recommend? Do share them.
Like all the best folk-tales, it is a mysterious, and slightly unsettling, mix of light and shadow; good and bad; truth and fiction. The bad guys are not all bad and the good guys are not all good, as in real life.
And because one of my favourite things at Christmastime is to enjoy and share a Christmas story I thought I'd share this one with you here. I hope you enjoy it! I've paraphrased the story as told by Lagerlöf (actual quotations are in italics). So get a cup of tea or coffee and may be a homemade Christmas marshmallow (if you insist and only because they are so yummy and it is Christmas!), put your feet up for a few moments well-earned rest and read on:
It reminds me that the magic of Christmas is not about a perfect family enjoying perfect presents, a perfect house, perfect hand-made decorations, and a perfect turkey dinner – go, Robber Mother! - it is about having room for wonder in one's heart at God coming among us.
It reminds me that sometimes we have so much "stuff"in our lives that if we're not careful, we can miss the real gifts that come our way unbidden, without fancy wrapping or a hefty price tag and that sometimes our certainties are the things that cut us off from light and joy and peace.
It reminds me that sometimes it takes the outsider, the stranger, the one who is different and even unwelcome to show us what really matters and that sometimes we realise that, only when it is too late.
It reminds me that Christmas is still a magical time even when I feel snowed under with work and other stuff.
Lots of people, these days, seem to choose a word, or a phrase, as a kind of motto, or talisman, for the New Year. It's rather an appealing idea and I've been toying with a few. Some of them more frivolous than others.
I wondered first of all about taking a leaf out of Marie Antoinette's book - something along the lines of "Let me eat cake!" but that seemed a bit greedy and, actually, I intend to eat cake a-plenty whether or not I've adopted a cake-eating motto.
Next, I considered something a little more serious and dynamic such as "flow" - a lot of change, potential and actual, lies ahead this year and I need to be able to move with the tide of life, as it ebbs and flows. Not something I shall find all that easy, I suspect.
In the same vein, I considered "open" - both as a verb and a description of a static state. Opening doors and windows to move forward and to sniff the wind and the weather outside in a figurative sense. Being open and receptive to what the year and life may bring.
Both of these possibilities had the virtue of simplicity, being single words. I'm not sure why, but, simplicity notwithstanding, neither seemed quite right. And then H and I went to see "Bridge of Spies" on Monday. I saw it for the first time before Christmas actually, but it's still showing in Oxford, so going to see it again made a nice end-of-the holidays-outing.
There is a catch-phrase that comes up in the film - "stoikiy muzhik"* or "standing man" in Russian, with associations of endurance, patience and persistence winning through against unlikely odds. I am not sure I am a natural "stoikiy muzhik" - I am too inclined to bustle and flit and let's admit it, panic!, but in an odd sort of way, the slight unfamiliarity, even strangeness of the concept makes more sense to me, on the threshold of this year than anything else. After all, there's no point adopting a motto that doesn't remind you to do things slightly differently from how you would have done things anyway. So "stoikiy muzhik" it is. I expect, as Russian is an inflected language, there's a feminine form for "standing woman" which would be more appropriate for my purposes but I'm afraid I have no idea what that would be.
* I have no idea either whether I've transliterated this correctly from what I heard in the film. If anyone, reading this, speaks Russian and can correct me, or indeed supply the feminine version, please do so!
It's perhaps not a very glamorous motto, I grant you. Even in the film, the phrase is originally applied to someone "who never did anything remarkable". But that unremarkable someone survived when perhaps otherwise he wouldn't have done and the lawyer to whom the phrase gets transferred in the film proves that being there; being yourself; waiting out the to-ings and fro-ings of events; refusing to blow with every wayward gust of wind; those things have a worth and value that it's easy to underestimate or overlook.
It's not a pretext for remaining static or failing to move on. That would be a poor motto indeed for handling the inevitable changeability of life, in this year or any other. But it is a reminder to keep faith when the ground feels unsteady or treacherous, figuratively speaking. It's a reminder to hold a steady course, rather than give up because there is a cross-wind or it has started to rain, metaphorically. It is a reminder that as human beings we are precious primarily because we are here, not because of what we achieve or even aim to achieve. It may of course backfire on me and I may find it helps me not a jot. But it may just find me at the year's end standing, like Tom Hanks on the Glienicke Bridge outside Berlin, with a certain peace of mind and heart and with more gained than I imagined would be possible. And that seems to me worth aiming for.
I doubt that 2016 will see me continuously display the serene aspect of my Russian matryoshka doll here, but you never know! Here's hoping!
Do you adopt a motto or word at the beginning of the year? If so, what's your chosen one for 2016?
It all began with one of those meanders along the highways and byways of the Interwebs when you can't remember how on earth you ended up where you have done, but you feel rather pleased at your destination anyway, however random the chance that brought you there. Don't ask me what started the meander - I have absolutely no idea now - but what I stumbled on in January was this website featuring Russian felt boots. They are called "valenki" in Russian - traditional footwear for men and women that provide excellent insulation in the severe cold of a Russian winter. Apparently they are effective in temperatures as low as - 40 C. They are traditionally worn both inside the home and outside in the snow, if it's dry or compacted snow, without any ill effect. But of course, being felt, they are not waterproof so they're not suitable for wearing in wet snow, or slush, (or English rain). These days, you can get plastic galoshes, or overshoes, to wear over the top of your valenki, in wet conditions, but originally they were designed just for the intense, dry cold of the Russian winter.
Because fit was important with these and I wanted to use a different yarn from that specified, I broke with habit, or I should say, laziness(!) and made a tension square. Worth the trouble, I have to say. I don't like working with very thin hooks; 3mm is about as thin as I'll go, comfortably, so I was relieved to find that although the yarn I wanted to use was aran weight rather than DK, a 3mm hook was fine. In fact the prescribed 2.5 mm hook and DK yarn would have come out too small. OK perhaps, if you don''t want to tuck your jeans into your mukluks but I did.
You need to change colour ahead of needing to use it, which results in quite a lot of twists getting put into the working yarn.
I found the best way to deal with this was to push the twists down the yarn away from the work for as long as they would happily slide along and when they wouldn't slide any longer, to hold the work up by the two strands and let them spin the twists out by themselves before resuming and then repeating the process when necessary.
Here you can see the accumulated twists that I've pushed down again towards the work so you can see how many there are, before I hold up the pink and red yarn strands and let the whole lot untwizzle itself.
The yarn I used was Cascade 220, mostly left over from other projects. It's a perfect make for using up oddments of lots of different colours.
In total, I used eleven colours. The specifics are as follows if you're interested:
Blue Hawaii 9421
Hot Pink 9469
Blue Velvet 7818
Tiger Lily 9605
The finished mukluks are longer than the pattern specified because I wanted them to be properly knee-high. That meant adding two extra bands of patterning. One band I repeated from the top, but in different colours, and the other I made up myself, using a simple heart design. I also added some extra rows to make the channel for the twisted cord at the top after I'd finished the basic mukluk. All in all, these additions gave me the extra length I was after.
These soles don't have the shallow-tray, moccasin-design but neither do they hide any of the stripiness of the heels and toes which the moccasin-style ones might have done.
Be warned, when selecting the size of sole, that you will probably need to go down several sizes - I made the mistake initially of measuring my shoes but actually, you need to go by your foot measurement because the mukluks are closer to a sock, in fit. My soles, for example, are actually size 3-4 even though my shoe size is 6.5.
And if we should be lucky enough to have a spell of proper arctic weather with cold crisp skies and frost that disdains melting even though the sun is out, instead of this constant, miserable, grey rain and wind, my feet are ready. I may even wear the mukluks, out and about, inside my Hunter wellingtons with the pom-poms peeping out of the top.
H informs me that along with my green coat this get-up would amount to pushing the embarrassing-parent-meter into the red zone but I am confident I am not yet in my mother's league with her infamous "tea-cosy hat" a garment that has gone down in family annals as the most embarrassing garment to be seen out with, ever! I can best describe it as a kind of tam o'shanter that came out way too big and in an ingenious bid to take up the slack, she bunched up the centre to make a kind of bulky top-knot. It is, shall we say, slightly peculiar, but very warm! She knitted it over forty years ago, when I was about six. I regret to say that my sister and I found it pretty embarrassing then and the next generation have unanimously maintained our approach! But it lives on indefatigably and when my parents came to stay this last Christmas and we went for a walk, guess what emerged from my mother's capacious pocket?! And do you know what? I was secretly pleased it was still going strong! One day, you never know, H might be pleased to see my mukluks in the same way!
Have you had defining moments of inspiration that set you off down a particular creative path? While much creative inspiration, I'm sure, is absorbed gradually and by a sort of process of subconscious osmosis, sometimes it strikes more like a bolt of lightning and looking back, even over many years, it stands out distinctly and identifiably.
In my mind, I was already in that passage, sniffing the intriguing smells of fabric, paper, lint, furniture polish and sweets and I could see the bales of patterned muslin and plain calico, the glass-fronted drawers containing buttons and wooden reels of ordinary sewing thread and bright, silky skeins of embroidery floss that the shop sold even though the illustration didn't extend far enough to include them. Miss Muggins' job, of selling "cards of linen buttons and black elastic" and cutting gorgeous fabrics from different rolls with a big pair of heavy scissors, seemed, to me then, the acme of career choices. Even today, I find myself, every now and again, toying with the notion of giving up my present job and doing something similar. One day, you never know, it might become reality!
Her aunt teaches her how to cut the pieces and join them with embroidered feather-stitching and finally she is proudly able to put the finished patchwork tea-cosy over the cocoa-jug on the supper table, as a surprise for her mother.
All in all, it's been a totally delightful project. If you fancy giving a similar idea a go, yourself, here are a few tips that you might find helpful.
Having said that, I found that it was absolutely impossible to persuade the fabric to go down the inside of the tube as per the instructions. Worked fine with a wider fabric tube for the larger plastic tubes but not the very narrow one. Don't despair however, because all you need to do is use the narrow tube to hold the fabric tube apart, as you get it started and then discard it. Bit by bit, you can push the sealed end down inside the fabric tube alone with the metal rod provided. Fiddly, but not impossible-fiddly, and there was certainly no way I'd have got that tube turned out without the help of the plastic tube to begin with. Apologies if what I'm saying is as clear as mud. It makes sense, I think, alongside the instructions for the gizmo. I inserted the two ends of the tie in the seam that joins the crown and rim of the lining, making sure it was not twisted and that the positions were equidistant apart.
Today it is beautifully warm and sunny after a long spell of cold, grey murkiness so I have christened my little patchwork hat while sewing and drinking tea in the garden keeping H company over his history revision. I am pleased to report that it works beautifully - light and comfortable to wear and the brim is just deep enough to shade out the sun from the eyes.
As you can see, my teapot does not run to a patchwork cosy (yet!) but is wearing a bunch of cosy hooky nasturtium flowers instead.
... if all the trees were bread and cheese
what should we have to drink?
Do you remember that absurd nursery rhyme? I thought of it today after a little printing foray landed me in a sea of blue ink which I managed to get on myself and almost everything else in the immediate, and not so immediate, vicinity. But never mind the mess, the print results were pleasing and what is a little blue ink among friends?!
I have found this summer a strange limbo time, for various reasons with which I won't bore you. Even without today's inky exploits reminding me of the old nursery rhyme, I have felt sometimes I am inhabiting an absurd world that no longer makes a great deal of sense and in which I am not sure where I belong.
But it is mid-August; the weather has been glorious; the blackberries are beginning to glow darkly on the bramble bushes and the wild plums are ripening far above my head in the trees that line the rides beside the cornfields and this is a good time.
The country smells of summer - the contented, rich, dusty smell of ripe barley and wheat against the greener scent of long grass, wet with dew in the early morning but quickly drying as the sun climbs higher. The atmosphere is anchoring and seems to dare me to preserve it.
That primeval urge to preserve and squirrel away at this time of year runs pretty deep in Mrs Tittlemouse's soul and this week I have given in. Not to making jam though - I have a jam-making-embargo this year because we have enough jam in my larder from previous years' preserving efforts to feed an army. A large army, at that! Researching other possibilities, I found a recipe for a Russian plum liqueur. Intriguing. Slightly different from some of my other concoctions and safely not in the adding-to-my-jam-mountain category, I thought I'd give it a go.
As I mentioned earlier, the wild plums are are already ripening but harvesting them is not an easy matter. The plum trees are tall - twelve or even fifteen feet high.
And of course the plums sway tantalisingly, right up among the dappled leaves, at their tops.
I have no portable step-ladder high enough to pick them nor are the trees conducive to climbing, at least by me. What to do? A little ingenuity, was called for (and a little compromise). Some of the plums have already begun to fall to the ground. Discarding any with obvious bruising but retaining those that looked intact among those already fallen was a start. And what nature starts, man or woman may encourage, so a little judicious shaking of the tree produced a heavy shower of more. Plenty to half-fill several large jars. Here are some of my first gatherings - the reds a mixture of bright cherry, through garnet and ruby to deep purple with some translucent yellow ones thrown in for good measure
The liqueur recipe, which is my own tweaking of several similar ones, is childs-play. Here it is, in case you should wish to do likewise:
Pick or gather your plums - wild ones, any type, are great, if you can find them, but cultivated ones should work fine too, I guess.
Wash the plums and dry carefully in a clean tea towel. (Discard any obviously bruised or damaged fruit.)
Prick each one with a needle, several times and add to a large glass jar with a sealable lid.
Add sugar - ordinary white granulated sugar is fine - about 300g to 500g fruit.
Add a handful of blanched almonds for every 500g fruit.
Add enough Russian vodka* to top the jar up and cover the fruit and sugar generously - about 500 ml per 500 g fruit.
Leave in a cool dark place for as long as you can manage but at least three months before straining and bottling in clean, sterilised bottles. You may want to shake the jar from time to time as it matures to encourage the sugar to dissolve properly.
Before drinking or giving your bottles of liqueur away, design and attach a suitable label.
Ah, the labels! Which brings me to my printing foray. I liked the idea of the wild plum liqueur's Russian roots and wanted to make a Russian label for my bottles using Cyrillic script to spell out its Russian name - slivyanka.
*Obviously you can use any vodka but I wanted to keep the Russian connection intact so I used Russian vodka made, (according to the label on the bottle), from wheat grown on the Russian steppes and water from Lake Ladoga near St Petersburg. I like the story of its provenance and the thought of that exotic northern distillate meeting my homely wild plums and sugar, under my nose here in rural England. A northern stranger made welcome and warmed, far from home.
Researching slivyanka threw up some images of old Soviet labels which I used for inspiration and I made my own rubber stamp using this rather good little kit and this morning while my plums quietly continued to macerate in their rosy, syrupy jars in the dark, I had a go at printing with it.
It's come out nicely, I think - handmade and rather rustic-looking but that's the effect I was after. The lettering, which had to be cut in reverse in order to print legibly, was tricky to carve out accurately and one or two letters had to have remedial plastic surgery in D's workshop to repair slightly over-enthusiastic carving. Ahem! Nothing to see here, people!
I can't wait to bottle and label up my slivyanka and then sip the sunshine that it encapsulates on a grey, cold and wet November day. And it doesn't just encapsulate the sunshine - it's the ordinary and yet extraordinary memory of walking out on this last Monday morning, early enough for the air to feel like cool water on my bare legs but warm with the promise of a hot day ahead; looking up into the fluttering, sun-dappled leaves, far above my head to search out the bright plums hiding there; the curious feeling of plums raining on my head as my friend gave the tree a strategic shake; gathering the fallen fruit from their dusty, chalky resting places on the path and in the more cushiony, tuffets of grass; it's the memory too of the simple assembly of the jars, companionably done, and the uncomplicated delight in seeing them begin their long, slow journey from raw fruit, sugar and spirit to becoming a single blended liqueur that I imagine might find itself at home in a Russian forest under birch trees laden with snow, sparkling in the winter sun. "Fanciful!", you may say. Guilty as charged! But food and drink is always about the imagination as well as taste. And this particular imaginative byway makes me feel no longer in limbo but at home in myself so I am sticking with it.
And so, ...