This morning I was attacking the weeds in my garden. Last year I broke my leg. This kept me out of the garden entirely. All the crops died. Surrounding native grasses mounted and invasion into the tilled area, spreading their rhizomes by the yard and intertwining them into a mat guaranteed to foul the tines of a tiller in a few feet. Weeds then populated the spaces the grass had not. I faced an untillable field of grass, wild mustard, foxtails and thistles which could only be put back into service as a garden by hand pulling the tall weeds. As I was removing the thistles, I ruminated about Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter. All I had heard was he "thrust thrice three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb." That was a greater quantity than all the thorns in both of my hands. But I did not know the period of time Theophilus set this record. Was 9000 thistles a lot, or an amazingly small number to accrue in a lifetime of thistle sifting? After all, Theophilus was successful. I imagined he was the heir of a thistle sifting business, being named Thistle. He could have been the scion of many generations pursuing this enterprise. Perhaps he became famous by inventing thornproof gloves. By the time I had exhausted speculation on the circumstances surrounding the tongue twister, my wheelbarrow was piled high with weeds.
After dumping the barrow, I began to contemplate the business of thistle sifting in general. This led me to remember a particularly hot afternoon in the summer of 1960. I had dreamed of living and working on a farm all during my childhood. Since I was lazier than the average child, my parents decided to teach me farming is hard work. They sent me to Minnesota to spend the summer on my aunt and uncle's farm. I was ecstatic. This particular day, Uncle Ben informed me that a 40 acre field of oats had thistles growing in it. When he harvested and sold the crop, the price he received would be reduced if there were thistle seed with the grain. He had figured out how to prevent this from happening. He welded a small, sharp blade to a rod. My cousin David and I were to carry one of these into the field the thistles had invaded. Working carefully, we were to find every thistle in bloom and with a swift diagonal chop, remove its head. With no blossom, the plant could not make seed.
David and I worked our way into a patch of thistle and began chopping. The blades were excellent for the job. When we had curtailed one infestation, we spotted another one. The temperature climbed into the nineties. We kept chopping until we saw no more thistles to execute. I could see salt on my arms from drying sweat as we trudged back to the farmhouse. It was almost dinner time. We were thirsty so we made Kool-Aid to drink before the meal. We drank two pitchers in fifteen minutes.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Thursday, April 27, 2017
Hemstitching Hmmm.
The great grandchildren are getting way ahead of me again. I wanted to weave a series of baby blankets to catch up with the birth backlog. My usual sett is >20 epi. I did not want to spend days threading heddles, so I used coarser threads than usual. With 5/2 perle cotton, I could get by with 15 per inch. Ha. I gloated. Only 600 threads for forty inches. This was going to be a breeze. I measured and beamed warp for four blankets and started to thread. My heddle frames are supported in the center, so I usually thread both ways from the middle. I was zipping along at a great rate, threading a blooming leaf which I had decided to reflect back on itself to make it symmetrical. Then I was hit with the realization that my huge collection of heddles on the frames was going to be an obstruction. In order to weave the whole width of the loom, I had to remove 600 of the extra heddles. I was sad, as I was already winding warp for the next project, equally wide, to be sett at 30 ends per inch.
I have never liked hemstitching. Whenever I did it, it looked bad. Since this is a standard weaving skill, I decided these four blankets were going to be hemstitched at both ends at three ends per bundle. By the time I had done 1600 stitches, they were either going to look better or I was going to be dead.
I began with an orange blanket using a 10/2 natural tabby to match the warp and tromping blooming leaf. The second blanket was plain weave with rainbow colored pattern stripes. By the third blanket I was ready to try indigo warp and weaving in my favorite twill, M and W. At the beginning and end of each blanket, I put in a row of hemstitching. Not only was my craftsmanship improving, but the task itself was becoming less onerous.
The fourth blanket was green, treadled in a rose path variation, and the hems went along splendidly. I was now quite satisfied with my performance. I had left a four inch unwoven space between blankets. I cut them off the loom and realized hemstitching them had freed me from hours of fringe twisting. I tossed them into the washer and dryer and they were finished!
Hmm. I like hemstitching. A day in the sun put all the heddles back onto the frames.
I have never liked hemstitching. Whenever I did it, it looked bad. Since this is a standard weaving skill, I decided these four blankets were going to be hemstitched at both ends at three ends per bundle. By the time I had done 1600 stitches, they were either going to look better or I was going to be dead.
I began with an orange blanket using a 10/2 natural tabby to match the warp and tromping blooming leaf. The second blanket was plain weave with rainbow colored pattern stripes. By the third blanket I was ready to try indigo warp and weaving in my favorite twill, M and W. At the beginning and end of each blanket, I put in a row of hemstitching. Not only was my craftsmanship improving, but the task itself was becoming less onerous.
The fourth blanket was green, treadled in a rose path variation, and the hems went along splendidly. I was now quite satisfied with my performance. I had left a four inch unwoven space between blankets. I cut them off the loom and realized hemstitching them had freed me from hours of fringe twisting. I tossed them into the washer and dryer and they were finished!
Hmm. I like hemstitching. A day in the sun put all the heddles back onto the frames.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Adventure for Breakfast
My hubby was watching a recipe demonstration for Aussie Chicken.
"This looks interesting." I looked at the finished product.
"What does it have in it?"
"Chicken, bacon, honey mustard, mushrooms, and cheese." We had all those things in the kitchen.
"How did they make it?"
"They browned the chicken, cooked the bacon, sauteed the mushrooms, draped the bacon over the chicken, poured the honey mustard over the top, added the mushrooms and cheese and baked the whole thing in the oven."
"We're having Aussie Chicken for breakfast."
I went into the kitchen and started preheating the oven. I put equal portions of honey and mustard into a bowl and zapped them for 30 seconds while acquiring the other ingredients. The honey was no longer crystallized and they mixed together nicely. I drizzled olive oil in a skillet and started browning the leftover chicken thigh on one side and cooking the mushrooms on the other. When I deemed them cooked enough, I removed them and fried the bacon in the same skillet. While the bacon was frying, I put the chicken in the center of a small cast iron skillet and coated it with honey mustard to stick the bacon to it. I draped the bacon over, added more honey mustard glue and stuck on the mushrooms. The rest of the honey mustard went over the whole thing, and shredded mozzarella topped it off. I popped it into the preheated oven.
Twenty minutes later, we ate Aussie chicken for breakfast. I was an interesting combination of things I don't usually mix together, and tasted good. My husband is the world's greatest sport. When he cooks, he makes a special trip to the store to buy ingredients. He prints the recipe out, and follows the instructions slavishly, often taking the better part of the afternoon. His meals are always special. I, however, fly by the seat of my pants. From the time he watched the video to the time the last of the breakfast dishes went into the dish drainer was a total of 45 minutes.
"This looks interesting." I looked at the finished product.
"What does it have in it?"
"Chicken, bacon, honey mustard, mushrooms, and cheese." We had all those things in the kitchen.
"How did they make it?"
"They browned the chicken, cooked the bacon, sauteed the mushrooms, draped the bacon over the chicken, poured the honey mustard over the top, added the mushrooms and cheese and baked the whole thing in the oven."
"We're having Aussie Chicken for breakfast."
I went into the kitchen and started preheating the oven. I put equal portions of honey and mustard into a bowl and zapped them for 30 seconds while acquiring the other ingredients. The honey was no longer crystallized and they mixed together nicely. I drizzled olive oil in a skillet and started browning the leftover chicken thigh on one side and cooking the mushrooms on the other. When I deemed them cooked enough, I removed them and fried the bacon in the same skillet. While the bacon was frying, I put the chicken in the center of a small cast iron skillet and coated it with honey mustard to stick the bacon to it. I draped the bacon over, added more honey mustard glue and stuck on the mushrooms. The rest of the honey mustard went over the whole thing, and shredded mozzarella topped it off. I popped it into the preheated oven.
Twenty minutes later, we ate Aussie chicken for breakfast. I was an interesting combination of things I don't usually mix together, and tasted good. My husband is the world's greatest sport. When he cooks, he makes a special trip to the store to buy ingredients. He prints the recipe out, and follows the instructions slavishly, often taking the better part of the afternoon. His meals are always special. I, however, fly by the seat of my pants. From the time he watched the video to the time the last of the breakfast dishes went into the dish drainer was a total of 45 minutes.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Short cut, the long way around
When my children were in cross country, they had a meet in Wood River. The bus driver decided to take a short cut over Trail Creek. As they zipped along the seldom used road, they were happy that they would spend less time on the bus. Until they came to the sheep. Shepherds were using the road for it's original purpose, to trail 5000 sheep from their summer grazing to their winter home. There was not time to turn around and drive the usual route, so the bus picked its way through several miles of closely packed sheep before speeding on to Wood River. The runners arrived just in time to get off the bus and dash to the starting line before the starting gun.
I started working at Joshua D. Smith Foundation with developmentally disabled adults and soon found myself in charge of weaving, about which I knew nothing. The client had been warping her loom one thread at a time. It took about a month to put on warp for one rag rug, and one hour to weave it. I was sure there was a better way. I took home a weaving book and discovered that this was true. The warp could be measured for multiple rugs and all put on the loom at once. I was gung-ho for the attempt. Reading from the book, I saw many steps for accomplishing this. One thing I did not understand was the need for establishing a cross, so I just skipped that step. Egad. I had 360 threads six yards long and they all became tangled. It took many days to lay them out on the living room floor and establish a cross so I could put them on the loom.
Yet I continue to do this. Given written advice from experts, I try to streamline the process and find myself draining the swamp. Someday, I am going to have a rousing success and be the expert writing the book. Likely story.
I started working at Joshua D. Smith Foundation with developmentally disabled adults and soon found myself in charge of weaving, about which I knew nothing. The client had been warping her loom one thread at a time. It took about a month to put on warp for one rag rug, and one hour to weave it. I was sure there was a better way. I took home a weaving book and discovered that this was true. The warp could be measured for multiple rugs and all put on the loom at once. I was gung-ho for the attempt. Reading from the book, I saw many steps for accomplishing this. One thing I did not understand was the need for establishing a cross, so I just skipped that step. Egad. I had 360 threads six yards long and they all became tangled. It took many days to lay them out on the living room floor and establish a cross so I could put them on the loom.
Yet I continue to do this. Given written advice from experts, I try to streamline the process and find myself draining the swamp. Someday, I am going to have a rousing success and be the expert writing the book. Likely story.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Once a weaver...
When I discovered weaving, I found my destiny. From the first project, I knew I had been born to weave. I knew then why the sight of a loom had always drawn me like a magnet. I realized why I had such a compulsion to touch fabric.
The art and music classes I previously attended had been leading up to a symphony of color and structure I could hardly imagine.
I had learned in orchestra that the celli and double basses are playing what is called the ground. In weaving there is pattern and there is ground. Once I understood that the tabby weave on alternating threads provides a base from which the pattern threads can do their marvelous effects, I finally appreciated fully the wonderful work the lower strings, woodwinds and brass perform in building pleasing music.
In the garden, plants require nutrients and support which are furnished by the ground. Weaving showed me why tinkering with the soil before I plant is worthwhile. Ground weave is everywhere.
I have begun to see everything in terms of threads, color, and structure.
We got a string trimmer, which I have never used before. My husband explained the operation, the safety measures, and maintenance. I had only one question. "How do you advance the warp?"
The art and music classes I previously attended had been leading up to a symphony of color and structure I could hardly imagine.
I had learned in orchestra that the celli and double basses are playing what is called the ground. In weaving there is pattern and there is ground. Once I understood that the tabby weave on alternating threads provides a base from which the pattern threads can do their marvelous effects, I finally appreciated fully the wonderful work the lower strings, woodwinds and brass perform in building pleasing music.
In the garden, plants require nutrients and support which are furnished by the ground. Weaving showed me why tinkering with the soil before I plant is worthwhile. Ground weave is everywhere.
I have begun to see everything in terms of threads, color, and structure.
We got a string trimmer, which I have never used before. My husband explained the operation, the safety measures, and maintenance. I had only one question. "How do you advance the warp?"
Oops!
It is not in my makeup to do things by the book. When I cook, I look at my ingredients and see what needs to be used, and put those into whatever I am making. For instance, if I see insufficient applesauce for parceling out at dinner, I might dump it into cookies. My regular cookies are called "this and that". I take a bit of this and a bit of that and mix them together, then add whatever I think the batter needs to bake into cookies.
I do the same with meals. I look at cookbooks to get ideas and hints as to proper proportions, then substitute freely. Once a recipe turned out to be something wonderful, and I went to copy it into my personal file. I had substituted every ingredient for something the original specified.
When I am learning a new skill from a book, I should stick to the facts. I don't. I question every sentence. Why is this step necessary? If I cannot see any reason, I eliminate the step. Sometimes this works. Often, it does not. The first time I measured warp for multiple projects, I could not see a reason for maintaining a cross to keep the threads in order. After all, they were all the same color, all the same length, why did it matter which came first? I ended up with a tangled mess. I had to lay out 360 threads, each six yards long, on my living room floor, untangle them, and rebuild the cross. And I had to do it quickly, as several people and four dogs were regularly crossing said floor.
Now I know better than to do that particular thing. But I still look at what is prescribed, and choose another color, another structure, a different sett, vary the treadling and end up with something which bears no resemblance to the project I am "copying". Oops.
I do the same with meals. I look at cookbooks to get ideas and hints as to proper proportions, then substitute freely. Once a recipe turned out to be something wonderful, and I went to copy it into my personal file. I had substituted every ingredient for something the original specified.
When I am learning a new skill from a book, I should stick to the facts. I don't. I question every sentence. Why is this step necessary? If I cannot see any reason, I eliminate the step. Sometimes this works. Often, it does not. The first time I measured warp for multiple projects, I could not see a reason for maintaining a cross to keep the threads in order. After all, they were all the same color, all the same length, why did it matter which came first? I ended up with a tangled mess. I had to lay out 360 threads, each six yards long, on my living room floor, untangle them, and rebuild the cross. And I had to do it quickly, as several people and four dogs were regularly crossing said floor.
Now I know better than to do that particular thing. But I still look at what is prescribed, and choose another color, another structure, a different sett, vary the treadling and end up with something which bears no resemblance to the project I am "copying". Oops.
Playing against a stacked deck
Every now and then, in a burst of insanity, I attempt the impossible. The latest fiasco was signing up to take a quilt class. On the surface, it looked like a good deal. I was going to sew blocks 10" square which comprised only five pieces. I was sure I could learn the technique and then bang out the whole quilt top in a few days, getting ahead before the next grandchild to tied the knot. It was recommended we use batiks. I had them in my stash. I would not have to buy any materials.
So far, so good. I arrived at the first class with my batiks and rotary cutter, ready to do four hours of making small pieces out of big ones. The teacher said to layer the fabrics four deep, right sides up. One of the advantages of batiks is it is difficult to tell which is the right side, so I just layered and cut, carefully placing the "right side", namely the one that I had turned up while cutting, up when I sorted them into piles.
I carried my box of pieces home, ready to mix and match. I took one piece from each of five piles, laid them out to see if they made a pleasing block, and stuck them into plastic zip bags. When I began, it was easy to get five different fabrics into each block, but as I eliminated them, the less favored batiks began to overweight. In order to prevent duplication, I had to raid my plastic bags and exchange.
Therein lay the seeds of disaster. Pieces got turned over. They would still sew together, but would not make a rectangular block. Every seam was curved, too. This meant that one could not just match up corners and sew. I found myself ripping out 57% of all seams sewn. Although I have always loved batiks, I had profound regrets for the duration of the construction.
The quilt turned out fine, and my hair was already grey, so no harm came of it.
So far, so good. I arrived at the first class with my batiks and rotary cutter, ready to do four hours of making small pieces out of big ones. The teacher said to layer the fabrics four deep, right sides up. One of the advantages of batiks is it is difficult to tell which is the right side, so I just layered and cut, carefully placing the "right side", namely the one that I had turned up while cutting, up when I sorted them into piles.
I carried my box of pieces home, ready to mix and match. I took one piece from each of five piles, laid them out to see if they made a pleasing block, and stuck them into plastic zip bags. When I began, it was easy to get five different fabrics into each block, but as I eliminated them, the less favored batiks began to overweight. In order to prevent duplication, I had to raid my plastic bags and exchange.
Therein lay the seeds of disaster. Pieces got turned over. They would still sew together, but would not make a rectangular block. Every seam was curved, too. This meant that one could not just match up corners and sew. I found myself ripping out 57% of all seams sewn. Although I have always loved batiks, I had profound regrets for the duration of the construction.
The quilt turned out fine, and my hair was already grey, so no harm came of it.
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