So now it's gluten-free

One day she's vegan then poof she's gluten-free. What will that Nake-id girl do next?

(And how 'bout the photo of the brown treacle pictured above. A lovely gluten-free roux made from teff flour, ghee and some leftover bacon-flavored grapeseed oil I bought from a multi-level marketing company.)

So here's the deal: In an ongoing attempt to address some minor but persistent health issues--high cholesterol and some mood challenges--the Ayurvedic Doc asked whether I'd be willing to try going GF for a month.

Oh, sure. So off I trot to the Internets where it appears gluten causes everything from, um, gas and bloating to full-on cancer. This protein, this component of the staff of life, ritualized in the Abrahamic traditions, can not only wreak havoc in your upper and lower plumbing it can foul your brain.

All we can say over here is: OMG. And pass the lettuce.

Teaching blocking

Most of the time when teaching, the blocking conversation goes like this: Euclan. Washer. Soak. Spin out. Dry flat. Done.

If we get to blocking in a project class--and often we don't--it's given short shrift in the rush to teach mattress stitch, weave in ends or kitchener. For the Color Affection class, because of the timing on my shawl, I'm going to haul the blocking wires, pins, towels and wool wash to class and demonstrate that in spite of the dreary process that is pinning out a shawl, you get amply rewarded with a beautiful finished project.

Oh, yes. And for your viewing pleasure another amateur photo of shawl and cat feet.

Color Affection Shawl: The photo montage

Look at that fancy blurred background. And how the light sets off that natural white yarn to perfect advantage. Just like Jared Flood. (Snort!)

Clever shooter to incorporate cat paws to set off the shawl's neutral palette of the shawl. Bet that's never been done before!

Or consider this immortal image:

Surely you're just dying to knit one yourself. If that's the case, I'll be teaching this little beauty at Wild Yarns beginning Tuesday, Jan. 8, 6-8 p.m.

Have a great weekend, fellow shutterbugs!

Learning to see

I had a yoga teacher once who said that people who are good with words have poor spatial awareness. It's a phrase that continues to comfort whenever a yoga teacher gives an instruction like, "Place your right elbow on your left knee," and I'm in a knot trying to figure out which knee to adress.

Photography feels that way, and so for years, impatient with the-exposure-depth-of-field-light-source physicality of it all, I've mostly pointed and clicked and hoped for good images, leaving the science and expensive hardware to those with more concrete minds.

I haven't bought a camera since 1994, a 35mm automatic Olympus that used film. Parsimonious by nature unless we're talking yarn, digital photographic equipment has always been down on the priority list with cell phones and cable television. These pages have been populated with photos taken with hand-me-downs, cast-offs and a lucky freebie. Until today.

Last week, I bought an entry-level DSLR, a little Canon EOS Rebel T3i--a good deal at Costco with two lenses, bag, cords, memory card and instructional DVD, which I have to stop every two minutes for 15 minutes of camera fiddling. There's a lot to learn--the viewfinder itself displays 18 bits of information, a hieroglypic of flash and exposure icons, highlight tone priority, red-eye reduction and on and on. Dazzling, really.

And, the medium itself, so rich, so complex, you can see why it's an art.

It's going to take awhile, but I can already tell by looking in the viewfinder of this nice tool that there's a lot to see.

Comfort and Joy

A peaceful season to you

Lessons in humility

Dear Universe,

How many times do we need the humility lesson? I mean, really?

I took off my prima donna tap shoes years ago. Haven't you noticed the comfort walkers? The willingness to roll up sleeves and write just about anything? For Pete's sake, I've worked for lawyers. How low can you go?

But, no. You felt I needed the mirror shoved front and center yet again and gave me a career-limiting uh-oh upon which to reflect. You had me sobbing on a public toliet, thinking, "I was a high-school valedictorian, how did my career devolve to this!?"

And reflect I have. Of course, we all need the lesson of slowing down and paying closer attention, but if we focus too closely on the weeds, we'll miss the forest and the wild things that come to us in dreams. To work in fear of mistakes is to work in fear. And is that any way to foster invention, new thinking and creativity?

It's all about balance, isn't it? To color outside the lines may yield something fresh and interesting, but is it usable? Likewise to put forth dull, perfectly wrought copy gets the job done, but will anybody read?

Hard to imagine in this day and age that teachers ever made children wear dunce caps. it strikes the contemporary viewer as cruel, doesn't it? Do we need to wear the cone of shame in order to find that point where inspiration and perfection come together in excellence?

Universe, I think there's a bigger message here but not quite sure I'm getting it. Or is it just about dotting i's and crossing t's?



Photo by Arthur Tress




Here's butter in your eye: An Ayurvedic adventure

I've made no secret of my eye woes but have been circumspect about one of my treatments. How do you explain to your researcher-surgeon let alone your family that you're allowing someone to put butter in your eyes?

Not butter exactly, but ghee.

The treatment is called Netra Basti and it involves building circular dough dams around each eye and then pouring warmed ghee into those dams.

I thought it was weird, too, but it seemed benign enough. And since Western medicine couldn't offer any ideas about how to stave off another rogue retina, I thought, what the hell?

I arrived wearing work clothes, knowing I was about to get doused in oil. I was asked to strip down and climb onto a warmed massage table. I cuddled up and the Ayurvedic clinician--a lovely woman, who is so giving and healing I just wanted to hug her immediately--began applying dough to my left eye socket. The dough was made of urad dal. It was cool on my face and smelled warm and vegetal. After she secured the dough to my face, she poured warm ghee into the basin surrounding my left eye.

She asked me to slowly open that eye. I was nervous but allowed my eye to flutter open. The ghee wasn't irritating. Rather it felt like I was crying but without the tears.

"That's good," she said. "That's the pitta coming out."

She then asked me to do eye exercises, following the numbers on a clock, forward, then backward. She asked me to follow a square and make an X, then circles. It wasn't unpleasant and I could see my clinician through the veil of the ghee. It was like being in a bathtub, looking up through bathwater.

After we did the other eye, she covered both eyes then massaged my feet, upper body, head and hands with an herb-infused sesame oil. It was heaven.

I left coated in oil, my hair matted and sticking out in grey rastas.

My eyes felt tired but fed, like they had had a nice meal. And my under eye lines--softened!

Will this prevent another retina tear? Hard to say. But my floaters seem less apparant and I'm completely soft as opposed to al dente. Won't it be interesting to see what my next eye exam reveals?


The glory days of the sweater

Photo from BTM Vintage on Etsy

Those of us who remember shoulder pads fondly (and the big hair and earrings) will also recall the sweaters: Exuberant, embellished knits that didn't fade into the wallpaper but rather announced themselves in all their intarsiaed, glittery glory.

Over the holiday I had the pleasure of meeting one of the icons of the industry. Knowing my interest in textiles, my MIL set up a visit at the home of Estelle Gracer, one of her mah jong pals. Inside I immediately fell upon a colorful hand-crocheted table cover. On the far living room wall hung a dramatic piece of fiber art, ribbons cascading gracefully. Beautiful throws and beribboned throw pillows lay across chairs and sofas. Chair pads and custom upholstery and lampshades--the house is a testament to an incredibly creative life.

Photo from Ebay store Shopping with Gina

In the late 1970s, Estelle began crocheting more seriously after reading a book on creative crochet she received from her daughter. Frustrated by the yarns available at the time, she began ripping apart old sheets and crocheting up the strips. She liked the effect, which was new at the time, and before long was having fabric machine cut for her in New York on an industrial scale. The vests and jackets she created were both luxurious and bohemian and her business took off. At its height, she employed 350 crocheters who produced 1,500 jackets a month in the United States, and she said, she and her husband paid good wages. (The business is now called Cici Bianca and is owned by Cindy White.)

Celebrities like Linda Evans wore her pieces; she designed for Bill Atkinson, Jay Jacks and Anne Crimmons. One jacket was pictured on the wife of Florida's governor at the time with the Queen of England and Prince Phillip, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, Gerald and Betty Ford and other luminaries.

Today Estelle has only a handful of examples in her house--a gorgeous fabric and chenille bolero, a bright red evening jacket, among others. They look remarkably contemporary and wearable, ideal for date night with a pair of naughty high heels.

Estelle, herself, is a treasure, full of stories about the fashion industry and the vagaries of running a successful cottage industry after the sudden death of her husband. She even pressed yarn on me--custom-dyed chenille she had used in her business. We were impressed, charmed and dazzled by our morning with a fiber pioneer and courageous female entrepreneur. A big kiss to my MIL for making this happen!

Evening sweaters...gentlemen and ladies, don't you think it's a time for a comeback?

Getting ready to teach the Color Affection Shawl

On Tuesday evenings in January I'll be teaching the much-loved, much-Raved Color Affection Shawl by Vera Välimäki of Rain Knitwear Designs. Since it is helpful to do before teaching, the knitting of the aforementioned piece is about to commence (in concert with the viewing of Craftsy's free Knitting Short Rows just to be sure all those short rows in my past were performed correctly--and if not, oh well).

Do take a moment to view the parade of shawls in endless color combinations on Ravelry. Kaleidoscopic in variety, you really should look. But I couldn't resist the natural colors of Thirteen Mile Farm's wool. This yarn is about as virtuous as you can get: organic, predator friendly (with only dogs and llamas guarding the livestock) and spun in a largely solar-powered mill. It also hails from Montana, which makes a neighbor if not local.

I feel righteous just writing about it.

Anyway can hardly wait to start and look forward to seeing the color combos my students cook up.


Making ponchos in a post-poncho world

It started with this: Martha looking tan, rested and trim after five months in Alderson prison and wearing a hand-crocheted poncho.

Lisa circa 2005: I'm starting to think I want a poncho.

Me: You don't want a poncho.

Lisa (whining): Make me one!

Me: You don't wear your own hand knits. I'm not making you a poncho.

Lisa: But you're a better knitter.

Me: I'll spend six weeks knitting a poncho and by then it will be out of style. I'm not knitting you a poncho.

Time passes. Say five years.

Lisa: I'm still thinking I want a grey poncho.

Me: Go for it.

Lisa: You make it for me.

Me: Uh huh. There's no way in hell I'm knitting you a poncho.

More years pass. Suddenly a big birthday looms. A really big birthday. The one I commemorate with the gift of a shawl. There was nothing for it but to knit the much-desired thing.

Churchmouse Yarn and Teas provided the perfect pattern. Three skeins of Berroco Ultra Alpaca in Charcoal Mix accomplished the task.

This design elevates the poncho to something more timeless and less lumpen than the one pictured above.

Thanks to my lovely neighbor Kim for the modeling. And to Lisa, here's to many, many more! Birthdays, not ponchos.