These felted bags by fiber artist and designer Nora Bellows are simply captivating. I’m utterly besotted. Can’t you imagine yourself daintily clutching one of these, while gliding down the cobblestone walkways of gay, 1930s Paree on the arm of Maurice Chevalier after an exhilarating evening at Les Folies Bergère? Très magnifique!
Knitting patterns are available at New York Knits for the lucky devils whose dance cards aren’t completely full yet.
Environment Secretary Margaret Beckett said the report’s conclusions would be a shock to many people.
“The thing that is perhaps not so familiar to members of the public … is this notion that we could come to a tipping point where change could be irreversible,” she told BBC Radio 4’s Today programme.
Despite some pretty irrefutable evidence, our president continues to believe that global warming is some kind of ecological fairy tale. And people wonder why I’m so angry all the time.
[via Treehugger]
Yesterday my husband and I took a train down to Brooklyn, where we strolled around the Flatbush/Park Slope area, weaving in and out of shops that caught our (okay … my) fancy. Our real goal, however, was Gorilla Coffee, home of the 100 percent fair trade, Brooklyn-roasted java of the same name. The coffee was robust, full-bodied, yet not too bitter—I had the appropriately witchy “Evil Eye,” a concoction1 not found on the menu, but so happened to be a special that day—procuring a nod of approval even from my coffee curmudgeon of a companion (who’s usually content to swill the foulest mud in his mouth just short of industrial-strength Drano.)
A bag of their Ethiopian Yirgacheffe blend (described as having a “big floral aroma with subtle berry notes”) didn’t have to do too many back flips before we let it follow us home across the Brooklyn Bridge. Sit! Stay! Play dead! Good boy.
For coffee this delish, all I have to say is “Welcome Simian Overlords!”
1If you want what I had, ask for the Red-Eye espresso with frothed milk and a touch of caramel syrup.
Something from the sock archives for Danielle’s contest.
Yarn: Sunshine yarn in “Harvest” colorway, 100 percent merino, 440 yards (purchased from Knitting Sunshine, and yes, that’s my foot on her site if you click on the same colorway)
Pattern: Columbine socks from Cat Bordhi’s Socks Soar on Two Circular Needles
Needles: Size 1 Addi Turbo circulars
Comments: I had a baseball-size ball of yarn left over. If I had to do them over again I would make them taller (mine are 5 inches) and cast on less stitches for the cuff (pattern called for 72, which would fit a women’s size medium, but sag a little on my thinner ankles.) The pattern is relatively easy to memorize, but I would pay particular attention to the yarn-overs at the end of each needle.
I nearly crapped my pants when I saw this Alice-in-Wonderland tableau by Visell’s partner-in-crime, Michelle Valigura. I love anything Alice to excess, truly, madly, deeply. The fact that the art show “Remixing the Magic” is 3,000 miles away makes me shake my fists at the heavens and beat my chest in agony.
“Baby Mine” by Amanda Visell
Amanda Visell’s artwork never fails to make my cold, blackened heart swell up with silent tears of beatific ecstasy. I’ve always felt that Visell was somehow channeling the spirit of the late, great, and sainted Mary Blair (avert your eyes, do not stare directly into the light), but this? Had me blubbering uncontrollably like someone stole my lunch money, punched my three-legged dog in the gut, and then fed crack to my space-mutie baby.
Thanks, Drawn, for pointing me to her new blog and getting slobber and snot all over my keyboard. (And I mean that in the nicest possible way.)
Last night, I overheard the love of my life, light of my being, describing me to his friend on the phone (before I whapped the back of his head with a slab of tofu pups). “Yeah, she totally takes her own mug to get coffee and refuses the paper cup, because she’s all like, ‘this used to be a tree, man.’”
GOD. ALMIGHTY.
Can you tell this man is from California?
When you’ve lived in apartments all your life, gardening, like discovering a weathered piece of the Dead Sea Scrolls (or moving to Crete for that matter), is something that happens to other people. My thumb is nowhere close to green. Even if I miraculously discovered some latent aptitude for raising plant life, however, there still remains the matter of Chekhov, Destroyer of Worlds, Nipper of Ankles, and Expert Worrier of Furniture Upholstry. (Years ago, a former roommate mollycoddled a hapless pot of rosemary by our kitchen window, but greatly underestimated the tenacity and resolution of one small cat. Can you imagine the unspeakable carnage if I grew indoor tomatoes? GAH.)
Still, being vegetarian, I often wonder if I can keep my carrot-tops and assorted vegetable trimmings from landfill-entombment by composting my dinner scraps. This automatic, bug- and worm-free composter, which only needs 10 watts to power up, is pretty goshdarn sweet. I wasn’t exaggerating, however, when I said my kitchen was unbearably small. It is, as George Orwell, might say, doubleplusunbig. In other words: No. Room. At. The. Inn. Even. For. You. Baby. Jesus.
Researching composting for apartment dwellers also unearthed (hur, hur) something called vermicomposting, which doesn’t take up much space. One problem: it involves worms. Lots of tiny, slimy, wriggly, redworms. And (I say this in all earnestness) if you think I’m letting anything remotely spindly or squelchy sublease my apartment, you’ve got another thing coming. Suffice to say, I’m not the kind of girl who will KNIT WORMS FOR FUN AND FANTASY. (Dear Lord, what have I gotten myself into?)
I e-mailed my municipal recycling coordinator for information on community composting programs in my neighborhood, so we’ll see how that pans out. (I’m not holding my breath, so nebulous is my faith in humankind.) How I’ll go about applying any quantity of fertilizer is also uncharted here-be-dragons territory. Maybe I’ll end up, like Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden, begging my landlord for “a bit of earth,” far from feline machinations. Or BETTER YET maybe I’ll just pelt clods of it at impatient drivers who don’t seem to care if they run me over. Yeah, how do you like them apples now, you jerks?
Here are more Jaywalker pictures, as promised, helpfully modeled by my sister, who was visiting.
And as Adelin again demonstrates (not at all against her will, no not in the least), we were the darlings of our supermarket checkout line because we did all our own bagging, making the paper-versus-plastic conundrum as moot as a cow’s opinion. Yeah, we don’t need no steenking bags, no sirree bob.
I’m sad to report, however, that we never did discover How Jen Found Out, to my eternal regret.
“Witches’ Night” by Colin Johnson (Not to steal his thunder or anything, but I’m quite convinced that he’s managed to capture the inside of my head through some kind of remote telepathy.)
I’m home at the mercy of a cranium-jabbing migraine, so here are some purdy pictures for you in lieu of a full post.
More on the deliciously surreal work of Colin Johnson here and in a spiffy interview by Art Beat Street. Also, be sure to check out the collaborative show he’s curating.
What the Internet doesn’t need is another blurry snapshot of someone in a cunningly knit Jayne hat, so here’s an illustration of Ma Cobb’s dear boy, as cunningly as I could capture him, instead.
I completely grok fandom. My older brother’s a fanboy, my husband’s a fanboy, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m a big ol’ fangirl (but anything you’ve heard about my high-school past with The X-Files are LIES ALL LIES). What I don’t understand is fandom knitting, a concept I find as difficult to grasp as slash fiction1, Harry Potter fans, or … My God … cosplay).
When Jayne hats started popping online like gorram Tribbles, I feigned nonchalance (cleverly edged with boredom) and asked my Firefly-obsessed spouse if he wanted one—I didn’t necessarily want to knit one, but if he had to have it, then I GUESS I could. He said he could live without it. I asked him again over the course of a few weeks, bringing it up as if I were discussing the weather or ruminating on the taste-versus-health differential of low-fat salad dressing (”… blah blah raspberry vinaigrette … so, honey, you really don’t want a Jayne hat?”) To which he would respond, “I don’t know … I think I’d rather have a Harry Potter scarf instead.” (THE HELL?)
Thank Gort for the relative anonymity of the Internet so Heather didn’t see me beet-red with embarrassment as I ordered one of her 2 kits, clutching my paper-thin excuse of a first-date anniversary.
In two evenings, the damned thing was done. I marched over to my husband and pulled it over his head.
“Here, I thought you might want a Jayne hat after all, and who am I to deprive you. HAPPY NOW?”
(Joss-Whedon-related postscript: Felicia’s3 Speed Demon sock yarn in the “Slayer” colorway? Totally had me at hello.)
1Though I’m not above snarking the HoYay when my husband watches Smallville (I know).
2 Total sweetheart who gave me entirely too much for so little; I highly recommend buying from her. She even includes a handmade pom-pom!
3 Felicia, I got it yesterday and I LOVE IT SO MUCH I want to hug it and squeeze it and NAME IT GEORGE!
Green LA Girl has some great tips on how to reduce junk mail and help fight deforestation. Every effort helps.
Ok folks, I know we’ve all done this, but it’s time to come clean. In order to get 2006 off to an even more auspicious start (actually, since I’m Chinese, the year doesn’t begin for me until Jan. 29, so I get to carouse and sin for another 11 days, haha suckas), I’ve decided to lay open to public scrutiny and derision, a personal hall of shame I’m going to call “A Million Little UFOs1.”
First up, the Lucky Clover Wrap from La Stoller’s Stitch ‘n Bitch Nation. So darling. I even doled out for the recommended Rowan 4-ply cotton in a fetching shade of pale olive.
After casting on last spring, I managed to complete the front, back, and sleeve pieces. Where are they now, you ask? Stashed under a pile of blankets in a large wicker basket, yarn-ends still protruding from unmentionable places with vulgar daring. Sometimes my husband will wander over to the basket, pull out a blanket or two, and sounding quite perplexed, ask, “Honey? Do you know you have yarn in here?”
The stumbling block wasn’t the repetitive clover stitch (which, once you had the increases and decreases down to a science, proved surprisingly gratifying), but rather, having to knit 13 stitches of ribbing long enough to circle the moon and back—and, if you weren’t completely spent by then, still have enough left over to hang yourself in exasperation. I think I was a few inches into the insanity before the terrifying realization of what I was in for finally hit me, and I was suddenly beset with the urge to return to my mother’s womb.
Instead, I put Lucky aside (this evolved into hiding it the way Joey from Friends put his borrowed copy of Little Women in the freezer because Beth was “very, very sick”) and moved on to kinder, gentler projects.
Current status: Possible resuscitation when it gets warmer.
Next, Hall of Shame (Part 2): Harry Potter? But I hardly know ‘er!
1Not flying saucers, but knitting lingo for Unfinished Objects.
Craft-bloggers have always been tremendously gracious and generous with sharing their sources of inspiration, especially when it comes to their Japanese craft books, which are elusive delights in our part of the globe. In that spirit, I’ve begun to catalog mine online, making this part inventory, part valentine to the crafting community.
Title: Journey トキメク旅心をバッグにつめて
ISBN: 4-579-10969-4
Jack Bauer, loneliest man on the planet. *Cue Incredible Hulk theme.*
So, last night’s 24 … HOLYSHITOMGWTFBBQ!
Chekhov says “Yo Jack, chillax.”
P.S. SHUT UP, AUDREY.
My kitchen, which is so tiny it seems like an architect’s idea of a joke, or an ironic afterthought, has a wall of tea just above the doll-size stove. There is no room for my two teapots, however, which would otherwise multiply like oversexed bunnies if it wasn’t for the scant square-footage. I love teapots almost as much as the leaves steeping within—such a simple equation of form and function working in concert to brew the perfect cup of tea. And it’s their simplicity that draws me. (I veer away from painted ladies with garish florals, overwrought pastels, or those that try too hard at being “whimsical”.) I like my teapots classic, streamlined, and absolutely mindful of their singular purpose. You can always be sure of an ordinary teapot. It will not transmogrify into something else or lay a golden egg when you’re not looking. (I cannot vouch for coasters, though, those sneaky bastards.)
Is anyone still knitting socks that aren’t Jaywalkers? I just finished the cuff of Nancy Bush’s Fancy Silk Sock (part one of two!) with gorgeous, gorgeous Fleece Artist Merino in “Mahogany”. If you don’t have her delectable Knitting Vintage Socks: New Twists on Classic Patterns (it’s well-worth the sticker price, folks), the pattern can also be found reprinted here, uh, hopefully with permission.
Does anyone dig furnishing and kitchenware catalogs as much as I do? I fish them out of our mail piles with glee, and devour them slowly like I do a good book. (Then, much to the consternation of my much-beleaguered husband, I repeat the browsing process while tugging at his sleeve, going “Lookit! Lookit!”) I plan to get a thick binder, rip out pages from my catalog collection (eeks!) and then organize those disembodied parts into different sections of our dream home. I’ve already managed to pull said husband into watching various home-improvement and decorating shows on cable television with me, insisting that we are amassing knowledge we can put to use when we buy our first house. (My hunch that his cheapskatedness would overcome his disdain for interior decorating proved correct.)
A non-sequiter: I watched snatches of Merlin on the Sci-Fi Channel this afternoon. What’s up with their portrayal of Nimue? The Nimue (also “Vivien”) of legend was what my husband calls a skankoid1 who seduced Merlin into imparting all his magical knowledge to her and then used it against him to seal him in a cave for all eternity. None of this mushy/kissy rubbish.
1He has also taught me words like “ASS-plode,” as in “I just ate something that didn’t agree with me and I’m about to ASS-plode.” I’m so glad we’re still discovering new things about each other after all these years.
The U.S. Postal Service commemorates favorite childrens’ book animals this month, featuring one of the Wild Things (Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, 1963), Curious George (Curious George Flies A Kite by Margret and H.A. Rey, 1958), Wilbur (Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, 1952), Frederick (Frederick by Leo Lionni, 1967), Olivia (Olivia by Ian Falconer, 2000), the Very Hungry Caterpillar (The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle, 1969 and 1987), Maisy (Maisy’s ABC by Lucy Cousins, 1994 in the U.K. and 1995 in the U.S.), and the Fox in Socks (Fox in Socks by Dr. Seuss, 1965).
I think I just squeed my pants.
Yarn: Cherry Tree Hill Supersock (Superwash Merino) yarn in “Serengeti” colorway (purchased from Simply Socks Yarn Co.)
Pattern: Jaywalker socks by Grumperina
Needles: Size 1 Addi Turbo circulars
More pictures over the weekend, hopefully. An overcast morning sky doesn’t do indoor photography any favors.
Mental note: It isn’t (and will never ever be) appropriate to wear short gaucho pants and knee-high boots at the same time, no matter what Urban Outfitters tells you. It’s fugly in the catalog, and even fuglier in person. Please, think of the children.
On the way home from work, I stopped at the Starbucks on 29th St. and Park Ave. South, husband in tow. (He made me promise to do all the asking, and palmed me $10 for the cause.) I asked the male barista behind the counter for two tall fair-trade coffees. A brief look of bemusement flickered across his face. “We’re not brewing that today,” he said.
“But aren’t you supposed to brew it on demand?” I asked (very politely, in my least-confrontational voice). He shook his head but I pressed my case: “But it’s Starbucks policy, and it’s on your Web site.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You want us to brew it special for you.”
“Yes, please.” (If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being exasperatingly polite until I get what I want.)
He paused. “Hold on, let me check,” he said, ducking into a door at the side. A few moments later, the barista strode back to the cash register. “Um … okay … we had the fair-trade coffee last week, but we don’t have any more,” he said. A quick glance around the rather sizable store confirmed that it did not stock Cafe Estima, which is the fair-trade blend. It did, however, have for sale several gentleman bears dressed in argyle vests and grasping tulle roses—meant for, I assume, the nearby lady bears swathed in Pepto pink. (It was a very heterosexual display.)
I thanked the barista for looking, returned his sheepish smile, and left feeling somewhat disappointed by my wholly unremarkable experience. Truth be told, I had imagined writing about some huge scene with emotions running high on both sides1, or fortuitously landing the best-case scenario and being able to laud my fellow Manhattanites for being so socially progressive.
In the end, I can only compare the episode to narrowly missing the train on your morning commute—it’s nothing to cry over, but you still wish it hadn’t turned out that way.
1Once, in a fit of righteous indignation in second grade, I made a bully cry. You see a small Asian female, I see a loaded gun just waiting to be set off by the right circumstance.
Nascent company Moody Buddha is rolling out a series of “modular art lamps” designed by a passel of illustrators that includes some of my all-time favorites Keri Smith and S. Britt.
I am particularly covetous of the lamp pictured above, featuring a blissfully slumbering beastie by Michael Slack.
The lamps are expected to become available in February.
The universe seems to be conspiring to get me to resume the 12-week course, The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. Prematurely aborted at Week 4 a year ago by circumstances that overturned my daily schedule, the exercises were cast aside, albeit with plans to return to them at some indeterminable point. My husband often prods me to take up the course again (seeing as I grumped and harrumphed less when I was able to pin my insecurities down in prose), while Claire, in a timely post, considers the same for herself.
In knitterly news, I received a delightful package from Nordic Fiber Arts in the mail last week. While traditional Norwegian colors include combinations of black and white, neither I nor the mittens’ would-be recepient adhere to tradition very well. Someone I love should look forward to having warm mitts soon!
Somehow, I plan on turning this:
Pucci-esque fabric purchased two years ago at a discount fabric store’s closing-down sale—a steal at $1/yard. (I ended up buying the 9 or 10 yards that was left on the bolt.) Vogue sewing pattern from SewingPatterns.com.
into this:
Click on screenshot for the actual Web page.
I’ve sewn bags and pillowcases, and hemmed the occasional curtain, but have never before attempted any kind of garment. (I don’t think badly stitched stuffed animals count.) While I’m not the type to make New Year’s resolutions, I’d really like to better my sewing skills this year, especially since I see so much that’s out of my reach financially, but I know I can put together myself with just a bit of crafty ingenuity. I guess that old chestnut is true, after all, even though I hate to lapse into stereotypes—necessity truly is the mother of invention. And how.
Dearest, darlingest Noro Kureyon,
How swiftly fickle fancy flees! Yet I tried to make it work out, I truly did. Those giddy first few days held so much promise! But it’s time to admit what was patently obvious from the start: We’re just no good together. I fell for your winsome good looks, your earthy temperament, so much so that your brittle personality and penchant for snapping under the slightest pressure failed to raise any red flags. Or maybe they did and I simply chose to ignore them. My dear, dear Kureyon, coaxing you along with kid gloves is something my strung-out nerves can bear no longer, and what was once a girlish infatuation has been reduced to a smoking cinder of disillusionment.
You’ll make someone out there very happy some day—someone who will treat you like the unique snowflake that you are. I’m just sorry it wasn’t me.
Mournfully yours,
W.W.
P.S. YOUSUCKIHATEYOUANDHOPEYOUDIE.
Argyle knee-highs from Old Navy; Mary Janes from Delia’s.
Mary Janes card from The Walrus and the Carpenter.
I’ve finished my Jaywalker socks, but have been procrastinating on blocking them into shape. Yarnstorm’s horror story about washing her superwash Cherry Tree Hill socks also has me worried about any potential color-bleeding, especially since this is my first experience with the yarn.
We haven’t seen the sun for days, smothered as it has been by a thick, wooly blanket of gray. New York City in the movies never rains unless it’s to bring two would-be lovers together. Where is my swell of violins? The crashing cymbals and singing uteruses? The picturesque drizzle over a horse-drawn carriage ride around Central Park as Harry Connick Jr. croons his left ventricle out? Monochromatic weather always leaves me sullen and pensive.
I turned to my husband last night, cocking my head to the side and frowning, “Do you think you know my secret, inner soul?”
“Yes, I love your tea-drinking, manic-depressive, Gothic, Elizabethan soul.”
And this is why I married the man. He doesn’t think I’m a loon.
I’ve been following discussions about fair trade, especially regarding Starbucks and its less-than-truthful claims. According to its policy, you can walk into any of their stores and ask for a cup of fair-trade coffee, and have the baristas brew it for you if it isn’t already percolating. GreenLaGirl has been putting Starbucks stores to the test, with varying results. Here’s another less-than-visible Starbucks policy that may sour your macchiato.
I’m not as militant as my very socially conscious (and involved) sister, Adelin, but this why I prefer to caffeinate from my local tea shop. Transfair USA, which provides the fair-trade certification, has a list of fair-trade coffee retailers.
Never start a blog right before the holidays. You’ll spend most of the winter break suspended 3,000 miles away from home, hearth, and computer, while the one or two readers you’ve picked up on the way write you off as a flaky no-show. When you do return, you’ll get so wrapped up in validating your XHTML that you lose track of time, much to the consternation of your husband and cat—alas, my desktop is in the master suite—who pad off peevishly into the living room for some peace and shut-eye. (I soon guiltily powered down and urged the somnolent duo into bed, however.)
Did you know that the “target” attribute is no longer standards-compliant? I sure didn’t, but then I’ve been stuck in HTML 4.01 Transitional for who knows how long, and I had to suppress my reflex to throw in a table or two to get things aligned. My style sheets could still do with some tidying up, but that’s a whole other marriage-threatening, after-hours project.
The Orchid Thief: A True Story of Beauty and Obsession
by Susan Orlean
