Photo by freshlyblended

Nestled in upstate New York with her husband and a mini-menagerie, Nicole Lecht runs freshlyblended, a one-woman studio that churns out elegant, nature-inspired journals and notebooks deftly assembled from found materials and post-consumer recycled paper. The talented and effervescent Nicole and I chatted about sustainability in crafting, how she became a “green” designer completely by accident, and where cork paper comes from.

1. How did freshlyblended come about?

Well, I actually went to college for Illustration (that’s what my degree concentration was) and graphic design, but in my last year of school, I took a bookbinding class on a whim and totally fell in love with the structural aspect of it. After graduating, I got a job as a book-cover designer for a publishing house, which opened the door even wider for me, so I ran with it and started to do some research about materials and business.

The word “freshlyblended” came about when I was in a local coffee shop sketching and reading the back of my coffee cup. It said, “… from a fresh blend of eclectic ingredients …” I didn’t hesitate with that name because, at the time, I was struggling over how to hone in on my multiple abilities and eclectic influences. freshlyblended represents just that.

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Chekhov poses with his new summer bed, which I whipped up last evening using repurposed materials: corduroy from an old ankle-grazing skirt of mine I shortened considerably, upholstery remnants I snagged for cheap a few years ago, and foam padding someone at my office threw out but screamed “POTENTIAL” at me.

(I used an overlapping envelope-style closure on the back so it’s easy to throw the cover into the wash.)

Necklace made with 100 percent repurposed materials (well, except the glue), including cord I rescued from curbside pickup.

These spools of thread and cord were rescued from the curb of a super-ghetto fabric store that just closed in my neighborhood. Some of the spools in the boxes I found these in were crushed and water-damaged, which is why I suspect they tossed these babies out with the bathwater. But still … I couldn’t just leave them there for the garbage collectors. They might as well have been mewling little wet-nosed kittens calling me “mama.”

Not pictured are cigar-box lids that were left outside the, well, cigar shop, crafted out of pure wood and left out IN THE COLD TO DIE. (Not FSC-certified wood either, I’ll bet.)

I am just one woman. HOW MUCH MORE DO YOU WANT OF ME, OH LORD?

Because my office is getting ready for The Big Move, people have been cleaning out their offices and cubicles like the Second Coming of Martha Stewart and her poncho posse were coming over for an impromptu inspection. (We have five large black dumpsters, lined up like recalcitrant circus caravans, moodily crowding the hallway.) Recent … ahem … acquisitions of mine include a brand-new stainless steel thermos (obviously company swag), a small wicker basket with handle, a beer glass, a vintage “The Saint” paperback, a massive folder full of empty (possibly vinyl) CD sleeves, and a TON of packing paper.

I think if it wasn’t for my monthly Country Living fix, I’d have needed to be institutionalized a long time ago. (It was the only thing holding my sanity together when I was waiting in line at the Social Security office this morning, feeling my lifeforce ebb away by the minute, and trying to ignore an older gent who wanted to know if I was from China or Japan¹.) The flagrant wastefulness absolutely breaks my heart—which, yes, I sometimes admit to having—because you know it’s all going to the landfill, more often than not, in someone’s backyard.

We need a new mantra to reflect the zeitgeist: want not, waste not.

The rest of us are trying to leave a living planet for our grandchildren.

Now GET OFF MY LAWN! No-good punkass kids.

¹Because, he said, he could usually tell, but I was a tough one. Also, he told me not to be offended because he loves the Asians. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, doesn’t it?

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.