Twill & Dot

Valentine

2012-02-14T16:40:00.000-05:00

You should make some pasta tonight. It's really not that hard, all you need is:

Flour

(two cups)

Eggs

(three)

Salt

(pinch)

Water

(splash)

Let the flour form a little mound on a large, clean surface. Sprinkle a bit of salt on top. Now plunge your fingertips into the flour. It will be cool and soft and velvety. If you try to pinch it between your fingers, you will find that it's wily and elusive and capable of escaping your grasp. Pinch it anyway.

Once you've satisfied your tactile compulsions, crack each egg one by one into the mound of flour (you might want to form a little bowl shape in the top of the mound first). Take a moment to admire the yolks - golden orange - suspended in the flour's powdery whiteness. They will be gorgeous. You'll almost hate to pop each one with your forefinger, but you will do it, and you will feel an inexplicable satisfaction at the release, as all of that egginess tries to flee its new nest. (Don't let it.)

Now you must work quickly to marry these two substances, which initially will seem a poor fit for each other. They will resist: the egg will be self conscious and will clumsily gloop itself all around the flour. The flour will panic, and in its partially transformed state will cling to your fingers, pleading for you too reconsider. Don't worry, this phase will quickly pass (and it's too late to go back now anyway). For your part, you must remain calm and persistent - this apprehensive pair will sense your confidence, and they will soon relax and give into the process. In your hands a metamorphosis is taking place. Work very hard, pressing and kneading. If you've ever made bread or worked with clay, you'll see that the blending flour and egg for pasta is done the same way. You can do this.

Soon you will realize that you are holding a remarkable dough - it will be smooth and rounded and cool and tinged with yellow. It should be neither too sticky nor too dry. If it is either, you will amend it with modest sprinklings of water or dustings of flour. You will know.

Hold the dough still for a moment. It has worked hard, it needs to rest. After the pause, slice the dough into thirds.

Lightly flour your surface, select one of the three, and with a reliable rolling implement (say the red-handled wooden pin your grandmother used to roll pastry dough for pies), begin to flatten and shape. Lean into it. Your arms are strong, funnel all of that strength into the rolling of this dough.

The dough should be accommodating, compliant, it should do just as you ask. When it starts to fuss and resist, you'll know it needs a rest. Don't try to force it, rather put this piece aside and pick up another. Talk quietly to the dough, be tender and firm, but never aggressive. Tell it about the small things you noticed on your way home from work. Tell it what you would do this weekend, if the whole weekend was yours to do with as you wished. Talk to it about the song that's playing on the radio and what it takes you back to every time you hear it, even after all these years.

Continue rolling each third of dough, putting each one aside when you feel it resisting the pressure. After a brief respite, it will be ready to charge ahead again. You have guided it gently through this experience, and it wants to make you happy. As you proceed, pushing and resting and repeating, you will see the thirds growing thinner and also larger. It's amazing! The dough will be resilient and strong. You will roll it quite thin and it will not break. It will be smooth and cool as the rounded dough, but a different form altogether. You will imagine wrapping it around yourself like a blanket. It would soothe your skin.

When it seems you've reached the right thickness for pasta (you will know), you'll lightly flour the surface of one of the thirds and carefully roll it in on itself, as though forming a telescope. With a sharp and steady blade, you will slice the dough into sections a half inch wide. If you listen closely, you will hear a small hissing as the blade passes through, and a contrasting thunk when it hits the hard surface below. You will repeat this a second and a third time.

You will toss those freshly cut sections with your fingers, and they will begin to resemble something - maybe a tangle of ribbon or yarn, or seagrass washed up on the sand. Something familiar, but you won't know quite what. The tendrils of pasta will feel sublime. Resist the urge to toss them in the air, or drape them over your bare arms.

You will drop the newborn pasta into a large pot of boiling salted water. It will cook quickly; keep a close eye on it. You are wise enough to know that this pasta should be served with a light sauce, some fresh herbs, some friendly vegetables.

You'll sit down to a plate while its still steaming, and give a second (or third or fourth) plateful to someone you love. Or you will sit and savor it alone, with a glass of something you enjoy and music playing in the next room. You'll look out the window while you eat. The leaves on the trees will still be just a sleeping promise tucked away for the coming months. You will see the neighbors silhouettes silently pass by their windows. You will feel glad that you made this pasta - the texture and cleanness and rightness of it all. You'll wrap your left hand around your right arm and feel the work that you put into this meal. You will know.

Commute [Urban Haiku]

2012-02-10T15:30:00.000-05:00

Red lipstick boards the
train, studies her wrist through a
cigarette fog.

. . .

Drunk busker like a sentry
marks my nightly passage from
red train to orange.

. . .

Night train leaves Cambridge
floats across the river past
lights of other lives.

Origami

2012-02-10T09:49:00.000-05:00

I headed to the Fuller Craft Museum on Sunday to see their recently installed exhibit, Mens et Manus: Folded Paper of MIT. What an amazing show, and I was fortunate enough to make it into a lecture (standing room only) given by Erik Demaine, MIT professor and Mens et Manus exhibitor. Here's an article about Erik in the New York Times. Math + art. Fascinating.

I could go on about robotic origami, and the collaborative glass and paper pieces Erik and his glassblower father Martin Demaine have been working on, but I'll leave all of that for you to explore.

All of these pieces are formed from a single sheet of paper. No scissors, tape or glue. Utterly amazing. Go see the show if you can, and watch this gorgeous documentary called "Between the Folds" (you can stream it on Netflix).

Mens et Manus by Brian Chan and Ken Stone. The pattern used to fold this piece is etched into the glass panel behind.

Suigintou by Brian Chan

Green Waterfall by Erik and Martin Demaine

Black Forest Cuckoo Clock by Mark Tompkins

Carpenter Poets

2012-02-01T13:37:00.000-05:00

On Sunday afternoon, I found myself marveling at the realization that inside so many of us there are artists, writers, actors, musicians that share equal space with our work-week personas. We spend 40 hours or more at jobs that pay the bills - we pound nails or answer phones; we care for the ill or the elderly; we teach; we head large corporations. All the while, under the surface, we are composing new works and waiting for the five o'clock hour when we can put pen to paper, brush to canvas, or otherwise be reunited with the instruments of our passion.

On Sunday afternoon, the Carpenter Poets read at the Forsyth Chapel at Forest Hills Cemetery in Jamaica Plain. The men and women of trade - who build walls and windows and coax form from warm wood using cold steel edges - they also craft poetry that speaks about all of the building they do in their lives: with their hands, with gestures, with words, with one another, and with their families.

On Sunday afternoon, the Carpenter Poets stood under the bending spine of the chapel's great ceiling, each taking their turn against a backdrop of carved wood panels and delicate stained glass to give voice to their written words. As I listened, I imagined the words rising up to those beams long ago sanded smooth by other hands.

Here's a clip of some of the Carpenter Poets reading at their annual gathering at James's Gate in JP this past November:

Perspective

2012-01-29T13:24:00.000-05:00

I started going to acupuncture recently. Initially it was to treat a sore neck, which my acupuncturist fixed right up in the first two sessions, but I've continued going because, well, those treatments leave me feeling really good. I'm also about half way through a cleanse right now - seemed a fitting thing to do since I'm in on a trajectory of clearing out all manner of physical and emotional clutter from my life. The cleanse, the acupuncture - they're now a part of that process.

I had an acupuncture appointment on Friday that left me feeling reallllly good - we did a little work for the neck, hit some spots to aid with detoxification. Then there was this fabulous relaxation spot right in the middle of my forehead - ahhhh. I slept like the dead through some of the appointment, and spent the rest in a state of calm and bliss; feeling all was right with the world. I emerged from the session all noodle-y and happy, and in my amble through the rain and back to my car I made a detour past a Thai place to check out the menu for future reference. There to the right of the entrance was a sign that read:

And in my euphoric, life-loving, open and fully relaxed state of mind I thought: "Yes! That's right, DO NOT HESITATE TO REQUEST CHANGE!!! Make it happen! Thank you for that poignant reminder, Universe!" How auspicious! How remarkable!

As I stood there a half a beat longer, I bothered to read the sign in it's entirety. I realized it read:

Oh. Right.

Anyway, I say read those little messages from the Universe as you see fit.

Afloat

2012-01-29T12:28:00.000-05:00

I have reoccurring dreams of water, of being submerged in a surreal ocean. In one version of this dream, the water is dark, opaque and solid - like a black trash bag. In these ocean dreams I'm usually a short distance from the shore, which looks fair and safe and familiar. Still, I'm in the water and need to stay afloat. I tread through the strange density. I tilt my head back so the waves won't roll right over my head. There's certainly anxiety in these dreams, but also a degree of comfort - the ocean is so familiar to me. The waves are like the embrace of a loved one, though the unpredictable sort who, if in the right (or wrong) mood, might just lash out at you without warning, pull you down to dark depths.

My apartment is on the second floor of a three decker in Jamaica Plain. My bed is in the corner of my room, and on each side of the bed are windows. There's something about the placement of the bed and the configuration of the windows that, when nestled into the very corner and propped up with a mound of pillows, gives me the sense of being in a tree fort looking down on the world.

In the darkest part of night, when the waves are rolling in and I'm kicking my legs through ominous depths, I can pull the curtain back and see the lighted windows of my neighbors homes. I sooth myself with the stories I create about the lives beyond the lighted windows - women stirring pots of soup, children bent over schoolwork at kitchen tables, cats slinking through long hallways, someone plucking the strings of a well-worn violin.

I think, somehow, that seeing the safety of shore gives us the courage to stay submerged and keep treading.

Seer

2012-01-18T16:00:00.000-05:00

What if you were to stop in your neighborhood coffee shop on a wintery late afternoon when the sky was just turning dark, and the streets were wet with melted snow, and the shop windows that glowed from within were moist from ovens that were baking breads and croissants and custardy pastries. Would you read the cream that first swirled into your small cup of dark roast as you would tea leaves? What would the milky strings that float to the top mean? What if they looked like a dragon, or a quail, or the face of a worried old woman?

What kind of bird are YOU?

2012-01-17T19:47:00.000-05:00

So, I have to wait until May before I can be immersed in another version of Wes Anderson's universe? I can be patient. I will sit here quietly tapping my fingers on the desk. I will handwrite a letter to a pen pal. Angst. Bittersweet love. Redemption. A soundtrack of nearly-forgotten Nico and Rolling Stones and...?

Exit slo-mo.

Winter

2011-12-27T14:29:00.001-05:00

Winter has been shy this year. Peeks its head out from time to time, breathes a penetrating exhale, but hesitates to step into center stage. There's still time, of course. It's only late December, after all. This morning there was frost on my windshield, pleasing patterns like small, crystalline footprints, the remnants of some secret late-night scurrying. Beyond the frost: a dark, skeletal tangle of dormant trees.

What Would Freud Say?

2011-12-27T14:25:00.000-05:00

And the discourse continues. You know what they say: Big bow, big instrument.

String Vs. String

2011-12-09T14:05:00.001-05:00

Earlier today I spotted these dueling flyers (top, right) on the cork board outside my neighborhood bakery/coffee shop.

The flyer on the left reads:

LEARN SOME CELLO
Lessons in Classical, Folk, and Imporvisatory Styles.

I studied Composition and Cello Performance at Princeton University, and recently completed my Masters of Music in Contemporary Improvisation at the New England Conservatory. I've studied with some of the greatest luminaries in these fields, including Natasha Brofsky, Steve Mackey, and Paul Lansky; I've also been teaching privately for many years, as well as through group classes in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Maine.
I'm happy to be opening a studio in my new home in Jamaica Plain.

The flyer on the right reads:

Why learn SOME cello when you can
LEARN A LOT OF VIOLIN?
Let's face it, most people don't even know what a cello is and it's going to get REALLY old explaining it to them every time you're awkwardly carrying your bulky, adolescent-sized instrument on the T. The violin is practically pocket-sized in comparison. Just swing that sucker over your shoulder and you're good to go. If anyone asks what it is, you can tell them that it really is a machine gun. They probably won't ask again.

In addition, the violin can offer you things that cellists only dream about---like the opportunity to actually play the melody. Why "oom-chuck" for the rest of your life when you can scale that melodic line to soaring heights? Just think of the jealous look on the faces of the cello section as they realize they're resigned to 50 more measures of half notes while the violinists ride that glorious melody to completion.

I can offer you that and, like cello guy, I can offer it in my J.P. studio. I've studied at the University of Denver and Longy School of Music and have participated in festivals in Aspen, Las Vegas, and Germany. The teachers I've studied under, including Sally O'Reilly, Joey Corpus, and Mark Lakirovich, were so freaking luminary that I didn't have to pay my electric bill for 4 years.

So learn classical violin, or maybe even viola. It will still be better than some cello.

Rain

2011-08-02T18:43:00.000-04:00

There's something cozy about sitting next to an open window while the August rain pours down outside. This week I'm staying at a friend's place in Boston, and the windows here are large, but they don't seem to let the rain in at all (at least not on this side of the house).

So I can sit here comfy and dry and listen to the thunder crackle and roll, and occasionally the cats jump when things get exceptionally loud. The drops are landing hard on the tin roof of the neighbor's garage and on the trash bins three floors down. I feel pretty certain this rain will move on through and not linger; when it started I was out on the sidewalk and the first dops hit the pavement big and fat - a sure sign to a lifelong yankee that the storm will not last. Do I put too much confidence in the folklore of my New England upbringing? We shall see. I need to walk to the store soon and pick up some sour cream for dinner and milk for breakfast. So I'm hoping my instincts are right.

Under Water Lens

2011-07-19T18:01:00.006-04:00

Growing up, our family summer vacations were spent on Cape Cod in tiny, pine-paneled cottages near the water. We loved the tourist attractions, mini golf, and the neighborhood stores where we'd buy morning donuts, comic books and small white bags of penny candy. Long days were spent at the beach, and from a very young age we learned to navigate safely through the tides and undertow. We learned to overcome our squeamishness as we waded knee-deep through a thick soup of churning seaweed to swim in the clearer, deeper water beyond. We pried black-spiraled snail shells from jetty rocks. We dug for mole crabs and kept them in temporary homes in our plastic sand pails, and at day's end we'd return them to their home at the water's edge. We collected sun-bleached shells and salty stones to keep on windowsills back home, daily reminders of our summer lives.

Cape Cod is now my year round home, and over time I've explored this sandy peninsula by foot and by bike on trails that meander through varied terrain - past the vivid-green lushness of marshes, through cedar forests, across windswept fields, and around cranberry bogs, inlets, harbors and kettle ponds. I've explored the Cape's narrow, winding back roads which lead past art galleries, antique shops and dusty book stores; past small fish markets; past antique houses and the remnants of homesteads and family farms, and eventually, always, back to the water. I avoid, as much as possible, the inevitable shopping centers and trophy homes that have multiplied uncomfortably over time.

While I've explored the Cape on land, my knowledge of it's underwater habitat has not kept pace... until recently. Last week I picked up a copy of this book: Under Cape Cod Waters by Ethan Daniels. Daniels has a background in science and an artist's eye for color and composition. He is an award-winning photographer who has traveled the world capturing images of life below the waves. Like myself, he is locked in a lifelong love affair with Cape Cod, but his fascination lies below the surface of Cape waters, in a world that many never have the opportunity to see. In Under Cape Cod Waters, he has compiled a collection of images that show us some things familiar - a tangle of water lilies, swaying rockweed, blue crabs, starfish, painted turtles - but from new angles: up and through the water's depths. He also captures images of sea life that few of us will ever observe first hand: a rare yellow sea raven; beds of orange seas anemones; finger sponges reaching towards the light; great colonies of algae, bivalves and invertebrates that have, over time, established themselves on the broken forms of forgotten shipwrecks. He shows us color - not just the deep green-blue-black of the water, not just the dull browns of sun-dried seaweed on the sand, but rich, unexpected tones: fuchsia, lime, silver, red, cobalt, orange.

©Ethan Daniels

Daniels' words, both eloquent and informative, vividly describe this other world that is fertile, nutrient rich, and absolutely teeming with life. It's a world that pulsates, its life forms carrying on without awareness of new shopping centers, new roads, new trophy houses, increased traffic; rather they are engaged in a daily drama of life and death, survival of species, and adaptation to the environmental changes we subject them to.

As we come to understand how we impact the world around us, we bear the responsibility of stewardship for these underwater inhabitants, and the responsibility of minimizing the impact of our growth and development has on the Cape's delicate underwater environment. This is the underlying message in Ethan Daniel's book: a warning that our very existence and the choices we make have the potential to destroy, or the power to protect from devastating harm.

©Ethan Daniels

Anyone who's spent any amount of time in and around the water is aware that there's life in those beautiful shallows and ominous depths. Fisherman know what's running by the appearance of certain bait fish; they know water temps and currents and tides. Many Cape Cod natives know the best places to dig for steamers or rake scallops; some know the best spots to drop lobsters traps. The majority of us, however, give only a passing thought to the small pond fish that nibble at our ankles; the crabs that scuttle at the shoreline (and administer underwater warning nips to our toes), and the swaying plant life that we wade through to get to swimmable waters. We give slightly more consideration to the wriggling, slimly possibility of eels, of lumbering, prehistoric-seeming snapping turtles, and the occasional shark sighting that makes the local news. We remain alert to the unseen things that brush against our legs as we swim out through the waves, and we trust that whatever is below will continue about its business as we continue about ours. But once we view the world through Ethan Daniel's lens, we might better appreciate this unfamiliar world, it's seen and unseen inhabitants. With a new perspective might come greater understanding of the need to protect our ocean, marshes, bays and ponds and the life teeming within. I'll wager that if you spend some time absorbed in the stunning photos in Under Cape Cod Waters, you'll move through Cape waters, peer down through their depths with new awareness.

For those of us on the East Coast, there are two opportunities to hear Ethan Daniels speak this summer. If you find yourself on Cape Cod on July 28th, you might want to attend his lecture at the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History. I, for one, am planning on attending his talk and book signing in one of my favorite towns at the Woods Hole Library, on August 1st.

Pause/Block

2011-07-12T23:44:00.000-04:00

So, I have all this stuff I need to do tonight, primarily writing, but I can't make my brain to do what I need it to do right now. It's hot, maybe that's why.

The kitten is stretched out on the coffee table and it's amazing to me that she can take up as much room as she does, considering she is SO SMALL. I'm also constantly perplexed by how much of an impact she can make bouncing around the house - relative to her size I mean. She's constantly landing on my lap (and on the laptop) like someone just dropped her out of the sky, not at all delicate and light-footed as you would expect a cat to be. She's also kind of clumsy, frequently missing her mark and falling short of landing on the intended surface when trying to leap onto the table or a chair or whatever. Sometimes she'll put too much effort into a leap and overshoot - trying for the coffee table, for example, and instead skidding across the surface and taking books, pencils, coins, bits of paper with her all the way across and onto the floor on the other side.

OK, that's all for now, I'm going to try to focus. I wrote this as a mental pause, like a cleansing of the palate except for my brain, and having nothing to do with taste. Maybe not the best analogy.

Reprieve

2011-06-30T11:22:00.001-04:00

Some days it is bliss to sit in the cool grass, in the dappled shade of a tree, and watch the goats graze - leisurely, languidly.

The air right now is warm and fragrant with honeysuckle. A family of crows, immersed in conversation, clicks and caws and coos plaintively from the tall oaks on the edge of the field. The turkeys have followed the goats down from the barn, and they pull at the clover, hunt for bugs and wriggly things. Visitors pause to chat and the toms puff up their plumage, fan their tail feathers and sputter, glad for the opportunity to demonstrate their magnificence to a new audience.

The goats move in silence today, save for the sound of their grazing (tearing at grass, snapping branches as they reach for sweeter leaves above). When their bellies are full, they will meander back to the barn and wait for fresh hay, cool water, and their turn in the milking shed.

Journey

2011-06-29T13:17:00.004-04:00

I grew up in central Massachusetts, landlocked, in a landscape that's different from where I live now. Back then, that mournful sound in the distance came from a passing train, not from a ferry or a foghorn as it does today. In my old home, the romanticized means of escape to distant lands did not take the form of wooden mast and billowing sail, it was shaped from hard steel, unyielding, unstoppable. Trains passed through the fabric of that landscape as a single thread not necessarily integral to the structure, but one that would, if plucked, leave behind a discernible gap, a disquieting space to catch the eye at every glance.

Late at night I would lie in bed and listen to the engine's whistle and the rumbling weight of each car as a train snaked it's way along tracks through the woods near my home. The sound was a predictable comfort, and when the train had passed and the rumbling no longer audible, I'd sometimes feel lonely, a momentary emptiness.

I remember, on at least one occasion, trying to summon the courage to slide out of bed, pull on a pair of shorts and exit the silent house through the back door - past the rusting Pinto in the driveway, past the shade-drawn windows of the neighbor's houses, and into that particular darkness that clasped, like folded hands, around the expanse of my woods. Through that darkness and towards the tracks I'd go, and I'd wait for the train, my unseen late-night companion. I wanted to be there as it rushed by, to feel the power behind the rumbling. In my mind, there was a faint glow like an aura around each car, and I saw myself lit up, hair blown back, inhaling deep in my exhilaration as each car roared by. In this vision, the loneliness I felt as I listened from my bed was vanquished as I stood there next to the tracks. The apprehension I felt entering the dark nighttime woods would be gone, and I'd turn back towards home, transformed and invincible, retracing my steps back to the safety of asphalt, through the neighborhood, along our cracked driveway, through the screen door and back into bed.

During daylight hours, in the summer heat, we'd enter those woods my friends, my brother and I, armored in a filmy layer of sweat, pine pitch and mosquito repellent. A symphony of sound accompanies children into the woods - a twig-snapping, leaf-shuffling, small-voice-chattering composition. We'd tromp confidently past familiar markers - the half-finished tree fort, the vernal pond that, each spring, would be teeming with tadpoles. On the hottest days, the heavy smell of creosote was discernible well before the tracks were in sight. There was a small slope to clamber up, and at the top we'd emerge from the coolness of the woods, through scratchy brambles that caught our clothes, and into full light, exposed, onto the tracks. We'd balance on rails hot from the sun, pull pennies from our pockets and lay them down. We'd hunt for discarded spikes, heavy and corroded, to bring home as trophies. With summer-dusty fingers we'd pull blackberries from the wild canes along the edge of the clearing.

More than once we plotted an adventure, a plan to follow these tracks to some exotic destination. We knew that they ran right through our remarkably un-exotic town - they were visible from the grocery store, the fire station and the industrial park - we saw them from these vantage points nearly every day. But... The potential for the exotic lay in the miles and miles that stretched unseen, hidden in woods not totally unlike ours, but maybe, somehow... different. The adventure seemed feasible - pack a lunch, bring a thermos, and just walk. And we did, we walked and walked, but always there was something to end our journey too soon: perhaps a reformulated plan that would have us doubling back to cool off in the lake, because it really was so hot after all, and we could always start our adventure over again tomorrow, or the day after.

It's been many years since I've walked a long stretch of train track. Yesterday after work we took a hike on the wooded trails behind the post office, and we followed a route that passed close to tracks that I know carry the "scenic dinner trains" through this part of Cape Cod. I headed straight for those tracks and stood on the rail for a moment, gazing down their trajectory in the distance. The moment transported me back to my childhood; there was a fleeting sense of adventure and possibility. I know where these tracks go - through the town, over small cranberry bogs, past very ordinary neighborhoods - I see them regularly.

But I know there are long, unseen stretches through different woods, and it's those unseen stretches that I like to wander to in my mind.

This Chocolate

2011-05-25T09:34:00.001-04:00

Delicious? Yes, and divine. Decadent as well. A little indulgent, which is to say (OK) expensive. This is, in fact, a really expensive candy bar. But...

Deeply rich. Aromatic. Primally, savagely, obscenely Chocolate. A satisfying, popping penetration at first bite, then melting. Transparent grains of salt against the tongue, startling yet satisfying in their contrast to sweet. Complete disbursement of texture and flavor upon chewing - sweet but also sharp, assertive, penetrating earthy, creamy, abounding. A Chocolate of complexity and contradiction. Warm in a way. Blanketing the palate, burrowing deep within crevices of each tooth and sliding smoothly under tongue, over taste buds and at last (and sadly, perhaps) a swallow that leaves behind only fond, fading echos of that taste, that precious morsel.

But then, sensation: The essence that is Chocolate radiating out from the core towards limbs and fingers, through the top of the head, then coursing back inward again. On through the body and also triggering in the mind contentment, fulfillment of some previously unidentified need. Fleeting yet substantial joy.

A wholly worthwhile indulgence, this singular gastronomical adventure.

All this and no time to even describe, in sufficient detail, the journey of each bean through many hands under an exotic sun, across a rolling sea and to a city a world away. Roasted, ground, handcrafted, hand wrapped, all with a nod to old ways. Also, organic.

Only time left to mention that I'm keeping the beautiful wrapper. And giving you the link: Mast Brothers Chocolate.

Things We Do

2011-04-23T11:17:00.000-04:00

Just when you think you've got yourself in a nice comfy groove, along comes some cosmic force that heaves a mighty stomp and shakes your ground, dislodging a wheel or two, leaving you mired in mud until the spring thaw passes, or until a helpful bystander gives you a push that lands you back on your former track, or into an entirely new one. You can reorient yourself to the path in either case, as long as it has you are moving ever forward and not looping back around in a circle.

Things happen - death, separation, pain, change. Also, birth, rebirth, evolution, reunion, joy.

Things are given and then taken away. For example, a fancy camera: it's here at your disposal, and then it's gone. This could happen three times over with three different fancy cameras - here and gone. (The camera being a mode of delivery for your vision of the world, snapping photos an outlet for creative expression.) But perhaps you have a not-so-fancy camera at your disposal? Not your ideal, but a camera nonetheless, and here now is an opportunity to learn to work with what you have, and to do your best to excel in spite of (or because of) limitations. Potentially a good thing, an opportunity to become creative in ways you might not have otherwise considered.

But this is not just about a camera.

Coasting and upheaval. You come to realize that this is the point, this is the norm. Sometimes the upheaval comes from so many directions at once that it feels downright overwhelming, so you turn to friends, advisors, books, religion, philosophy, art, music, and science for guidance. Anywhere and everywhere. You turn within.

I recently bought a book called "When Things Fall Apart" by Pema Chodron, and this excerpt here has (so far) been most significant for me:

"The very first noble truth of the Buddha points out that suffering is inevitable for human beings as long as we believe that things last - that they don't disintegrate, that they can be counted on to satisfy our hunger for security. From this point of view, the only time we ever know what's really going on is when the rug's been pulled out and we can't find anywhere to land. We use these situations either to wake ourselves up or to put ourselves to sleep. Right now - in the very instant of groundlessness - is the seed of taking care of those who need our care and of discovering our goodness."

Friday Evening Walk

2010-07-02T23:14:00.001-04:00

One of the busiest holiday weekends of the summer approaches, yet among the chaos we can still find places for quiet walks at sunset. Happy 4th everyone.

Early Summer

2010-06-29T22:42:00.005-04:00

At dusk most evenings (as of late) we don bathing suits, mount bikes, and coast down the hill to the pond. When we arrive on our particular stretch of pond, we sometimes see see children on floats, women with dogs on leash, or just an empty stretch of small sandiness. We part cool water with arms pushed wide to our sides, dive, kick and surface to breathe relief. Across the pond where the rope swing lives, on the edge of the pine forest and clay banks, there are lithe and lanky teenagers, plus younger kids hollering into the water. In another clearing directly across we sometimes see families, kayakers, waders. Two nights ago an osprey hunted fruitlessly and passed some time in an adjacent tree. Tonight we met two new friends, one human and one canine - a lab with an insatiable desire for tennis balls tossed into the water, across the pond over and again.

On the warmest nights we arrive there after others, and stay to watch them leave, one by one. The littlest called home first, the older kids hang on longer but succumb to hunger eventually. We linger. I try to look down through the water's depths and think I see sandy bottom but realize that what I'm mistaking for jetsam is actually clouds and blue sky reflected in the water. I shift my weight to my back, kick my legs out and widen my arms. The rest of my body follows suit and finds the balance and I'm submerged to my ears with a view of the sky, the same clouds in reverse. I hear the kids' voices as though through a tunnel; they are muted, far away, echoing. Somewhere below me I hear the click of a pebble against another and realize there is some activity, some life form going about it's business. I'm floating in the reflected clouds, sky. Sky below, sky above. I right myself and look around. Two heads bob among tiny waves. Clouds float beneath the water. Water bugs gauge their distance and skim, splayed with perfect surface tension, never close enough to catch but never completely out of reach.

We emerge from the pond and towel off. Hop back on bikes and pedal/coast home through the grassy dirt path, under the clothesline, and back to the garage where we deposit bikes. The cat mee-ewes hello and is rewarded with dinner. On goes the music - Nick Drake, Jose Gonzalez, The Shins, Rufus Wainwright - against a backdrop of chop-chopping veggies and butter sizzling in the pan, or coals smoking on the grill.

A rosy glow from sunset. Fireflies. Voices from next door. Perhaps there will be ice cream from down the street, or from our own kitchen (blueberry/strawberry last time). Early Summer.

We are here. The time is short. Staying in the moment is easy on such a night.

Farm Days

2010-06-28T10:51:00.007-04:00

A few weeks ago I started volunteering at Ocean Song Farm in West Barnstable, MA.

I'm going to be a "relief goat milker" later this summer, and I've been helping with small chores like watering the garden and minding the goats while they're on a ramble outside of the paddock. Last week two of the does got into the spinach when I wasn't looking, so it looks like my minding skills could use a little work. Yesterday I helped move a herd of sheep and goats for the first time, and learned about installing electric fencing.

Ocean Song Farm is located on a spectacular 110 acre Audubon property called Long Pasture Wildlife Sanctuary. It's home not only to the farm, but also to a varied ecosystem of plant life, critters and trails that wind through forests and fields and along the coastline of Barnstable Harbor.

The farm itself is owned and run by Jenifer Holloman and Jason Beetz. Jen and Jason are helping to maintain portions of the sanctuary property by practicing Management Intensive Grazing with their goats, sheep and pigs. These animals live as such animals should - part of a herd, foraging and devouring all manner of wild greenery, getting exercise, sunshine, fresh air, and respect from their caregivers. At the same time they are maintaining this land in a sustainable, healthy way. A win-win situation. Some of these animals are raised for meat, others stay on the farm and are bred and continue to graze the property.

There's a community garden as well, with the harvest going to market and to the volunteers who help around the farm (yay!). We've already been the recipients of a variety of salad greens and Swiss chard - tender, flavorful and delicious.

Helping out on the farm is rewarding and energizing (mentally, if not physically!), and it has proved a great way for me to meet some wonderful like-minded people that I might not meet otherwise. I've often thought I would like to keep a couple of goats for milk (read: cheese), and of course I would like to have a flock of chickens again. I've got a long way to go, but I've already learned so much from both Jason and Jen, and I realize that this will be the best way for me to determine whether I really have the energy, drive, and disposition to care for animals like these on my own. Time will tell.

Jen and Jason encourage lots of volunteer help, not just because they need it to keep the place running, but because they understand the importance of passing what they have learned along to others, of allowing people to have the experience of working with the animals and the garden, and of reinforcing the value of producing food in a sustainable way.

By it's very nature, such a place builds a community up around itself. Yesterday I saw people and children of all ages and from all walks of life at the farm - some were there to lend a hand, others to spend a few minutes watching the pigs, the goats, and Drumstick the turkey (who probably thinks he's a goat), and to pick up a bag of greens cut fresh from the garden. It's a heartening experience and I sense that this community will continue to grow around the farm.

This is Not a Food Blog

2010-06-23T09:31:00.000-04:00

I swear, but I just had to share this:

Yesterday's lunch.

Brown bread from Pain D'Avignon, cream cheese, dill and radishes from the CapeAbilities farm stand in Dennis, and a cold glass of lemon mint iced tea. Eaten picnic-style in a shady spot in the yard.

Then this morning there was this:

Whole grain bread (again from Pain D'Avignon), Cloumage Artisanal Cheese Curd from Shy Brother's Farm in Westport, and honey from E & T Farms in West Barnstable. The cheese curd, which I'd never tried before, came highly recommended by the staff at the CapeAbilities farm stand, and I have to say that it lives up to it's reputation. It has a wonderful tang that will make the perfect base for either sweet or savory, and I look forward to exploring it's culinary possibilities.

Last night we FEASTED on local Swiss chard sauteed with onions and fresh sausage from Peterson's Market in Yarmouth Port. This local food thing is divine. We're looking forward to fresh pork in the fall from our friends at Ocean Song Farm, but more about that in another post.

Meanwhile, I'm going to be working those farm stand veggies as long as they keep coming, and if I can get it together I might try my hand at canning, freezing and pickling this year. Anyone have any tips for getting started?

Happy eating, all.

Heavenly

2010-06-20T22:49:00.000-04:00

For two days this week the air in my kitchen was infused with the fragrance of the sweetest, most delicious strawberries I've ever tasted.

My new friend Jason over at Ocean Song Farm in Barnstable described to me the first time he ate a Cape Cod Organic Farm strawberry straight off the plant while working in the field of this nearby farm. Jason, not previously a big fan of strawberries as he tells it, reported to me that these were the best he'd ever eaten. He is now a strawberry convert. Now, to my thinking, all farm fresh strawberries are usually pretty spectacular, so I took his claims of superior flavor in stride while filing away the info for future reference.

When my closest farm stand ran out of strawberries this week, I saw this as my opportunity to test Jason's claims. I made my way to Barnstable and arrived at CCOF to see workers, one by one, carrying pallets of strawberries high on their shoulders from the field to the stand. It was a beautiful Cape Cod summer day, and I knew those berries would be warm from the sun. I picked up two pints, and then a third, aware that this short season was about to end. I grabbed a big bag of arugula, some cilantro plants, and a cherry tomato plant to fill a gap in my garden. Before I had even pulled away from the farm stand, I popped one of those berries in my mouth and knew instantaneously that Jason was right. The berry nearly dissolved in my mouth, the flavor intense, sweet, ripe, round. These are the best strawberries I've ever eaten, and if there are better out there in the world, well then hooray for me.

With three pints of these gems sitting in my fridge, I felt sure I'd have plenty to freeze for the cold, berry-less winter months. However! I ate one pint the first day - for dinner sliced and tossed with the peppery arugula, goat cheese, balsamic vinegar and toasted walnuts. For desert accompanied by bite size morsels of cheese, these adorable Hannahbells from Shy Brothers Farm in nearby Westport, MA.

My friend Annie was visiting from Nantucket that night and we both indulged in berries and cheese, so while I didn't eat the entire pint myself, I came pretty close.

A second pint accompanied us on a visit to Boston where Dan's brother converted them to strawberry buttermilk pancakes. Lip smacking. The final lonely pint is now sitting in a strainer in my sink, it's numbers reduced every time I walk into the kitchen.

Perhaps next year, in anticipation of strawberry season, I'll be better about planning for the harvest. I will start buying earlier in the season and try a few recipes, slice and freeze some for winter when the comparatively flavorless grocery store strawberries have an unnaturally red hue. Meanwhile I am content to live in the strawberry moment and savor the remaining few.

Outer Lands

2010-06-08T09:04:00.001-04:00

Yesterday we made a long-overdue journey to the Outer Cape to visit my "virtual" friend, the lovely Lady Trout of Trout Towers and Opera Betty. She has been entertaining me for over a year now with her endlessly amusing, clever and poignant writing, and it was so nice to meet her gracious self in person. I brought Dan along with me, since he's never been to this neck o' the woods, and we had a relaxing lunch on a park bench on Main Street before meeting up with Ms. Trout at The Left Bank Gallery on Commercial Street. What a great space and collection of artists, including (take note, Nantucketers) the amazingly talented Katie Trinkle Legge.

We ambled around Wellfleet for a bit before driving the rest of the sandy spit to Provincetown. As it turns out, a Monday afternoon in early June is an excellent time to visit Ptown. I think this is the first time I've been on Commercial Street and not had to navigate through mobs of people, bicycles, dogs, marching bands, etc. It turns out I love Provincetown in June! (Although I'll take a good marching band any day.)

A Simple Task

2010-05-24T09:41:00.002-04:00

I just love having a clothesline.

I know there are folks whose delicate sensibilities are offended by the sight of my laundry (gasp) hanging in the sun, and to those of you I apologize most sincerely. You might live in one of those neighborhoods where "association" restrictions forbid such aesthetic abominations. The kind of association that mandates the maximum height allowance for your Kentucky Bluegrass, and how many offspring you may bear. I do not live in one of those neighborhoods.

My laundry area is in my basement, accessible only through a bulkhead. When I emerge from that dark space with a basket of just-bleached linens braced against one hip, the sun feels brighter and the air is suddenly more fragrant - sweet and spicy with lily of the valley, scrub pine, blueberry bushes and perhaps if the breeze is just right, a hint of saltiness from the ocean which is just down the road a bit as the crow flies.

I hang each item, wooden clip to corner, in neat rows until all are in place, and I offer my efforts to the sun. Drying laundry in this way requires a certain degree of precision and attention that is not normally granted such a mundane task. Perhaps it is the ritual itself, which has otherwise been lost to the now mechanical process of laundering, that appeals to me as well. I can envision my counterpart 50 years ago, 80 years ago, 100 years ago - worlds apart culturally I suppose, but with this simple task in common. We both reach down to a basket and back to the sky - clipping, stretching, clipping. In silence, focused.

My reward for the extra minutes spent on this task is a cotton shirt, a pillowcase, a sweater infused with the scent of lily, pine, sea and sun. There is no sensory experience that can compare.

I will walk past my bed countless times today, sun-dried sheets tucked in, folded down and exhaling that remarkable scent. I will anticipate the end of the day when I can finally enfold myself in it, lay my face on the cool pillowcase and sleep surrounded by that simple sweetness.

Sadness.

2010-03-24T07:28:00.000-04:00

My Dear Friend,

Of the five stages of grief, I believe I am currently wedged somewhere between acceptance and denial. I know this because I have cried every day since we learned you were gone (acceptance), and at the same time there is a part of my brain that insists (cruelly) on imagining that this is all a mistake. Every time the phone rings I have a fleeting hope that it's someone calling to say that you've been found, safe and alive (denial).

Do you remember when we first met? The early days are foggy to me, but I believe it was sometime in late 90's at Bayberry Farm. We casually knew each other from a distance for a while, but eventually our brief chats became longer conversations, and this became the foundation for our friendship. We had a common bond - each of us stewards and self-appointed guardians of a particular piece of land and it's solitary inhabitant.

You introduced me to Tuckernuck on a sunny afternoon. You introduced me to the man that I have spent the last 9 years of my life with. You introduced me to the woman who would become your wife and my cherished friend, and to your daughters, with whom I hope to one day share stories of their father. Through knowing you my life has been immeasurably enriched, and my only regret is that I never expressed this to you while you were alive. I'd like to think I would have if we had grown older together in our friendship, but that is a sorry consolation.

Two days from now I will join the people who love you in honoring your memory and celebrating your life. I embrace this opportunity for communal grieving and the solace that comes from it - I need some relief from this heavy ache in my heart. I will pull strength from our friends and will give whatever I have inside me.

If souls are reunited after this life, I hope we will meet again. Meanwhile, I will greet you every time I cross the sound. I will hope that you are with us in spirit when we are on the pier, motoring out of Hither Creek, rounding Whale Shoal and anchoring in Tuckernuck Harbor. It is hard for me to imagine that you would not be with the guys as they head out under blue skies for an afternoon of fishing. It's hard to imagine that you will not be there when we gather to feast and reminisce among friends and music and children and dogs. So I will believe that in spirit you will be there, and we will raise a glass to you, my dear friend.

With love,

Kelly

Layers

2010-03-02T23:25:00.002-05:00

We are redoing the new (to us) home that we moved into just over a month ago. We've traded easy-going, sandy-floored beach digs for 1930's Cape Cod holiday-away. Our old house was shingled in thick layers of weathered, silver cedar; this house is painted in a slightly jarring pastel. And I like it.

Have you ever stripped wallpaper? I hadn't before this month. I am currently tackling the dining room which, until very recently, was adorned in stripey strawberry paper.

See here - I've saved a bit for you:

Under the stripes we find yellow paint. Cheery, in a way. Then comes the realization that the yellow was painted over the loveliest gray and white wallpaper - presumably dating back to the house's original construction in the 1930's. We peer at it up close, noses to the wall, because it's so faint now, hiding behind the yellow and a bit damp from all of the steaming. We wish we could strip away the strawberries and the yellow cheer and salvage the elegant old paper. Alas.

I'm contemplative while steaming and scraping and stripping the layers away. What went on in this dining room during the gray paper days? Who put this wallpaper up, and how long did they live here? Who painted over it with the cheery yellow?

I imagine large family dinners, birthdays, celebrations, holidays. Obligatory meals with coworkers. Smaller meals for two, or one. Jubilant, raucous, joyful, tense, polite, hurried, at ease, content, lonely. Perhaps just quiet, with the sound of the ticking clock coming from the other room, as it does now. Platters were passed; glasses were raised; looks, smiles and stories were exchanged; a solitary diner reflected on the day. Other lives were lived here under these layers. Now we impose our presence, create a new story here, and strip away part of the past. The people who live here after us will have nothing to peel back, nothing to look under, no hint at the lives lived here before ours. I feel a little sad about denying someone else that sense of discovery. Perhaps somewhere in a hidden corner I could leave a small patch undisturbed, save for a thick layer of our own paint brushed across the top.

My Dear John Letter to an Island

2010-01-16T04:23:00.001-05:00

I love Nantucket. For the past 16 or so years, it has been my home. But I am about to leave Nantucket for the second time in five years, and I am once again reminded of how much my relationship with this place resembles a relationship with a lover, one that you cannot resist even though you know he's not exactly good for you. For the purpose of telling this story, I’m about to refer to the island in the masculine rather than the accepted feminine. I hope it’s not too distracting, bear with me.

Visiting Nantucket for the first time is like meeting a beautiful and charming stranger. He is intriguing, a dichotomy: he is all at once reclusive and distant, but also socially vibrant, he hangs out with all the cool kids. You are introduced to him in the summer when he’s at his best: the life of the party, sunny, warm, compelling and full of life. He serves you the finest food and wine in seemingly endless quantities, gives you unrestricted access to the most beautiful beaches and landscapes you’ve ever seen. People are drawn to him, want to be around him, and you are not immune to his appeal; you want to know everything about him, you want to be with him all of the time. But his fair weather friends only see one side of him; they do not live with him.

As time goes on you see that he is moody. The remoteness that seemed so intriguing in the honeymoon phase makes him cold and inaccessible at times, especially in the winter when his mood is gray. He prevents you from spending as much time as you would like with friends and family members who do not live near him and you start to wonder, “Is he controlling me?” He puts restrictions on where you go and when, and you pay a higher cost than most people when you leave him for even the smallest adventures “away”.

Then there’s the money thing, the root a lot of problems in many relationships. When you first meet in the summer, money is not an issue, there seems to be a steady flow of it and you don’t really question it. But when winter comes and his summer friends are gone, that flow subsides and becomes a trickle. You start to worry, but he assures you everything will be OK, you just need to hang in there until spring when his fair weather friends return and things pick up again. And he’s right, eventually the weather warms, his demeanor improves, and the money worries become a distant memory. In the back of your mind, though, you know he spent the winter dipping into your bank account when you weren’t looking. You don’t feel entirely comfortable about it, but everything else is so good between you and you don’t want to start a fight, so you let it go.

Winter isn’t all bad, You have time alone with him, you take long walks basking in his now altered, albeit equally stunning beauty. You see a side of him that many people never see, and it makes you feel special. You meet a different group of his friends and become part of their tight-knit and supportive community. These people are intelligent, creative, enduring, they come from diverse backgrounds and they reflect well on your lover. At some point you start to wonder if you are staying in this relationship because of his friends, and you admit to yourself that in part, this might be true.

After a while, you reflect on whether it might be time for a change. Sure, you love him, but you’re not sure that he’s good for you, and you wonder whether you are preventing yourself from finding the “right one” by staying in this relationship. You wonder if you are staying because the arrangement is “safe”, predictable. You grow weary of the seasonal moodiness, the control issues, and the roller coaster ride that is this relationship year after year. Now that you think about it, the money thing is really starting to tick you off. You work hard all summer, how dare he help himself to what is yours without even feigning remorse?

You confide all of this to some of your friends and family, and they confess to you that they do think he’s great and all, they love visiting him, but they have known for a while that he probably isn’t good for you. You talk about it, agonize over it, and finally make the very difficult decision: it’s time to get out of this relationship.

So this is the position I find myself in. I’m leaving the island, though I’m not going far. I’m moving to the Cape, which is now starting to feel like the new boyfriend who looks eerily like my ex. I have no idea how this will work out, but I owe it to myself to give it a shot. This new beau has many of the same qualities as my soon-to-be ex – good looks, cool friends – but is not as restrictive, geographically or financially. Will I regret this break-up? I hope not. When I meet friends on the street and tell them about the impending split, the more sage among them give me a knowing look and say, “well, you can always come back”. Lord knows I’ve done it before, I left the island for what I thought were greener pastures, but that turned out to be a “trial separation” and I came running back to my ex, all of his finer qualities completely exaggerated in my mind and his flaws a foggy memory. Things were really good for a while, but we eventually fell into the same old patterns.

I am more hopeful this time that this new relationship will work out. If it doesn’t, I can always come back; something tells me he’ll be waiting for me.

So here’s my Dear John letter to an island:

Dear Nantucket,

I’m sorry to tell you this in a letter, but I cannot bear to tell you in person. I’m leaving you. I love you with all my heart, you know that I do, but I just don’t think you’re good for me anymore. I wish I could say, “it’s not you, it’s me”, but I really think the problem is you. I’m sorry. We’ve had some really great times, and we’ve had our share of bad times. I’d rather leave now before the bad overshadows the good.

I have met someone else and I think you’d like him; you guys have a lot in common. Of course no one will ever replace you in my heart, but I think this new situation will open up possibilities for me that you just cannot provide.

I really mean it when I say that I hope we can still be friends. I’m keeping my (wonderful) job, so we’ll still see each other a few times a week and I don’t want it to be awkward. Of course there’s summer when I expect we’ll see even more of each other. I’ll see you at Clambake in July for sure.

I wish you all the best, and I know you will find someone new soon, there are always others like me waiting in the wings.

Love and friendship,

Kelly

Adieu.

Before the Crack of Dawn

2009-11-12T10:22:00.000-05:00

When you live on an island, sometimes you have to get up at 5:00 AM to get yourself off of said island, to a place that we like to call "America". I know some people get up at 5:00 AM on a regular basis, but we are not those people. There are only three "slow" (meaning you can bring your car on it) boats leaving Nantucket each day in the off season, and the 6:30 AM boat is one of them. Two of the boats that leave the island in the winter have you either departing or arriving in absolute blackness. Talk about winter blahs.

When you are the one departing on the 6:30 boat, the alarm goes off at 5:00 AM, you leave the warmth of your bed, fumble for clothes set aside the night before, toss back caffeine in your preferred form, and stumble out into the cold dark to dash to the ferry terminal. This always seems such an unnatural exercise - you were so warm and cozy and locked in a dream-state only moments before. There's always the fear of missing the boat and throwing off your entire schedule - the next boat does not leave until 12:30 PM. The ferry itself is cold, the air is damp and metallic, the lights are too bright, the seats are too stiff. As you cross the channel, sometimes (as today) the wind is strong and the boat is tossed and groans a bit and you reassure yourself of the seaworthiness of this vessel. You leave Nantucket in utter darkness and you arrive in Hyannis in morning's full light, and the whole trip is a blur.

If it happens that you are not the one traveling on the 6:30 boat, you still wake with the 5:00 AM alarm, but you stay in your cocoon and watch your significant other complete each stage of the routine. You tell yourself that once he leaves you'll either a) Fall back asleep, or b) Get up early and be productive. The reality is usually c) Lie in bed too long thinking about A and B. Today, however, I opted for d) Stay in pajamas, drink a pot of tea, and redesign the blog.

Fresh Eggs

2009-10-12T13:20:00.001-04:00

This is Maude, one of our three Plymouth Barred Rock hens. OK, she's actually still a pullet, but it seems easier to just call her a hen. She has the most pleasant demeanor and I've grown quite fond of her. She is the largest of our three birds, and seems to be developing the fastest. This weekend she advanced her ranking in our household and hearts (bellies?) by being the first to lay a perfectly formed, albeit tiny, egg.

Maude's egg is on the left, on the right is a store-bought egg (laid, presumably, by a much more experienced chicken). Not only is Maude's egg smaller, but it's paler as well. I know she will lay larger eggs over time, but I don't know if the color will deepen.

I spent a day thinking about how to prepare this celebratory egg, wanting not to dilute the flavor in any way, but also appreciating the limitations of one small egg (no omelets this time around). I decided on a dish known to me as a Bird's Nest (aka One-Eyed Egyptian, Egg in Nest, etc.).

Simplicity, runny yolk, fried bread. Perfection.

I was surprised by the the strength of the shell. I handled this egg gingerly when collecting it from the nest, not wanting to crush it prematurely, but it required more than one hardy tap on the side of a bowl before yielding its contents.

Yes. The promised bright orange yolk. An egg as it should be.

Fried up in a pan with a little butter. Sprinkled with Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper. Accompanied by a few cherry tomatoes.

Yes, it was divine. Keep 'em coming, Maude.

Beach Break!

2009-08-24T09:12:00.000-04:00

Hurricane Bill did not lead to much more than heavy surf and the unnecessary cancellation of our plans to join friends on an even tinier, more remote island west of Nantucket.

We had a house guest this weekend, which meant lots of eating and lots of beach time. Not complaining... the water is just fine. Back to work today, but first I thought I'd give you a beach break too.

Weaving and/or knitting content next time, promise.

2009-08-05T09:28:00.001-04:00

They came to us when they were only days old, now they are almost 4 months (and growing FAST!). These chickens of ours are Barred Plymouth Rocks, they are a traditional New England breed, and the will start laying eggs for us in the fall. Their names are Edith, Agnes and Maude. They are a delight to have around, they are quite social with us and with each other, and they all have very distinct personalities. This is my first experience with chickens and I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I did not expect them to be as entertaining as they are. They hunt for bugs, they scratch for goodies in the yard, and they love treats: pasta, cherries, cheese, yogurt. Agnes is the most adventurous, and she likes to sit on my shoulders and head when I permit it. There is the problem of those very large, very messy poops that come with little warning (a mere shake of the tail feathers) so I try to limit the hang-out time on my head.

The Nantucket Farmers and Artisans Market is well under way, and a big success so far this year. While we'd like to see more growers and food vendors participating eventually, this is only the 3rd year of the market, and it takes time for things like this to catch on. We have lots of talented and entrepreneurial craftspeople to be sure!

Since my last post in May, I have acquired a 48" Macomber loom that now lives in the shed in our back yard. The word "shed" probably does not accurately convey the environment that now doubles as my fiber studio - aside from the fact that I share it with the lawn mower and weed whacker, it's really quite lovely with a wood floor, skylight, and an electric wall heater. With two looms I am weaving more than ever, here's a sampling:

Things are selling great at the Farmers Market (bamboo flies off the rack) and I've met some off-island shop owners who may be interested in carrying a few of my things. A great way to connect with people.

Farmers Market Washcloths

2009-05-11T21:02:00.000-04:00

I've organized a fundraiser for the 2009 Nantucket Artisans and Farmers Market, you will find the details and a FREE PATTERN below! Please consider knitting a washcloth or two in support of the Farmers Market, information regarding the fundraiser is included along with the pattern.

The Nantucket Farmers and Artisans Market is a program of Sustainable Nantucket and is not an income-generating endeavor for SN. Last year vendor fees covered most of the expense of operating the market, however Sustainable Nantucket contributed about $4,000 of it's own funds to make this market happen. This and other fund raising endeavors will help to offset some of the operating expenses. For more information about this project and the Nantucket Artisans and Farmers Market, read on or click here.

Farmers Market Washcloths
Designed by Kelly Knight in Support of the Nantucket Farmers and Artisans Market and Sustainable Nantucket.

This pattern is free. In exchange for a copy, I hope you will knit one or two (or more!) washcloths to donate to the 2009 Farmers Market. Washcloths will be sold at the market this summer and all proceeds will be donated to Sustainable Nantucket to help cover some of the costs associated with operating the market. While you’re at it, knit some of these cloths for yourself, your friends and your family!

Why knitted washcloths? They are quick to knit up and are a great way to use up some of the yarn in your stash. They make great facecloths, but they’re also useful in the kitchen in place of sponges. Unlike sponges, they can be thrown in the wash instead of thrown away when they start to get grungy, and that’s much better for the environment.

One cloth uses just over a half a 180 yard skein of yarn (see yarn specs below). This pattern gives basic guidelines to knit the cloths shown, but please have fun with this project and feel free to make it your own by altering the pattern and/or color. If you are an advanced knitter, consider this an opportunity to show off your skills; if you are a beginning knitter, this could a great way to expand your repertoire. Experiment with color and texture - use the given measurements as a guideline, but try out a new stitch or pattern, give multi-color knitting a try or add embellishments such as knitted or crocheted trim, knitted flowers or embroidery. Crocheted cloths are welcome too, and feel free to share this pattern with anyone you think would like to participate. Most of all, have fun!

The deadline for the first batch is June 16 as we would like to have the bulk of cloths ready for the first day of the market, June 27. We will happily accept donations all summer long, however, as we’d love to be able to sell these cloths throughout the entire market season (through mid-October).

You can drop off your finished washcloths at the Sustainable Nantucket office at 14 Federal Street or at Sheep to Shore on Sparks Ave; there will be drop-off boxes at both locations. You can also mail your donations to:

Sustainable Nantucket
PO Box 1244
Nantucket, MA 02554.

Please pin your name and email address to your cloths so we can give you credit for your creations. You can email any questions to nfam@sustainablenantucket.org, please put “Washcloths” in the subject line.

Thank you for supporting the Nantucket Farmers and Artisans Market. This is a program that enriches our community by providing local growers, artisans and craftspeople with an affordable venue in which to sell what they produce here on the island, and by giving the residents and visitors of Nantucket the opportunity to support and purchase from local small businesses. To learn more about the Farmers Market and Sustainable Nantucket, or to support Sustainable Nantucket by becoming a member, visit www.sustainablenantucket.org.

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Pattern Instructions:

These washcloths are fast and easy projects. The dimensions given yield a 12” x 12” cloth prior to washing (some shrinking is expected).

The yarn used here is 2nd Time Cotton from Knit One Crochet Two, but any cotton of similar weight will work. Thicker or thinner yarn will work too, just adjust your needle size and add or subtract stitches as needed and knit a small sample square first to assure a functional gauge.

Yarn: 2nd Time Cotton or similar yarn, 100 grams = 180 yards or 164 meters.
Needles: Size 6 US or size to obtain gauge.
Gauge: 17 stitches = 4”
Finished Size: 12” x 12” before washing.

Abbreviations:
K = Knit
P = Pearl

Ribbed Washcloth

Cast on 60 Stitches
Row 1-8: Knit
Row 9: K6, then knit rib pattern as follows: *P3, K3, repeat from * until last 6 stitches. K6.
Row 10: K6. *P3, K3, repeat from * until last 6 stitches. K6.
Repeat rows 9 & 10 until piece measures 11”
Next 6 rows: Knit.

Bind off loosely, weave in loose ends.

Two Square Washcloth

Cast on 52 Stitches
Row 1 - 10: Knit
Row 11: K6, P40, K6
Row 12: Knit
Row 13: Repeat row 11
Row 14: Repeat row 12
Row 15: K6, P2, K36, P2, K6
Row 16: Knit
Repeat Rows 15 & 16 until piece measures 4”
Next Row (WS): K6, P2, K10, P16, K10, P2, K6
Next Row: Knit
Repeat last 2 rows until stockinette stitch square measures 4”.
Next Row (WS): K6, P2, K36, P2, K6.
Continue in garter stitch (knit every row) for 2 1/2”.
Next Row: K6, P30
Next Row: Knit
Next Nine Rows: Continue in garter stitch (knit every row).

Bind off loosely, weave in loose ends.

Finally, Rugs!

2009-04-29T11:02:00.000-04:00

It seems like this project has taken ages; why does it sometimes feel like trudging through mud in a heavy pair of boots with certain projects? It's not like I've been avoiding the rugs, it just seems that I've hit snags along the way (running out of warp yarn, for example) that have slowed the whole process down, plus all those other pesky details of everyday life keep interfering: taxes, housework, my other job, a social life, etc. Hopefully I'm on track now and will be cranking these out for the next couple of weeks.

You may recall from past posts that these rugs are being woven from the wool gathered from the sheep that are kept by the Nantucket Conservation Foundation. So far I have completed the sage green and cream rugs and now I'm on to white and blue. The green and cream were woven on 8 harnesses in a diamond twill pattern, this next batch will be on 4 harnesses also in a diamond twill.

I've also finished and photographed the linen scarves, these will be posted on Etsy sometime this week. I experimented with beads in the weft, and I like the results. The linen has a lovely drape, and I think these will be great accessories for spring and summer.

The weather last weekend was gorgeous! While Boston and the mainland had temps in the 80's and 90's, we stayed between 60 and 80. The ocean around us keeps us cooler than the mainland in the spring and summer and warmer in the fall.

I took advantage of the beautiful weather and had a most energizing walk on the beach on Sunday, while my ever helpful and extremely talented boyfriend built me a doubling stand from some scrap lumber he had lying around. Fabulous!

Ah, Spring!

2009-04-20T15:54:00.000-04:00

Yes, it's here! Know how I can tell? My taxes are done, the daffodils are up, there are newborn lambs at Squam Farm, and visitors are starting to appear around the island on the weekends.

The arugula and lettuce seedlings have punched through the soil in my garden. It always amazes me that these delicate little sprouts can survive such chilly weather, but they actually thrive in it. The peas have only just started to gingerly poke through, slightly behind the greens.

I wish there were more colorful signs of spring in my garden, but without heroic efforts involving wire, deer netting, and foul smelling sprays, tulips and hyacinths are little more than convenient snack foods for our neighborhood deer. To be honest, I just don't have the energy. For reasons that are beyond my understanding, the deer will not eat the daffodils. They eat everything else, to be sure, including my chives and lilies, both of which will rebound when the deer move on to what must be more delectable greenery later in the season.

Did I mention the lambs?

Some of the sheep in this flock provided the wool that I am using to weave rugs for the Nantucket Conservation Foundation. I've posted quite a few photos on my Flickr page if you'd like to see more.

I've spent the last week and a half weaving linen scarves for spring and summer and played around with weaving with beads. Fun... I think I'll keep going with the beads and will see where it leads. I can envision some interesting possibilities. Here are some photos of the scarves in process, I'll have photos of the finished scarves soon.

I'm working on designs for dishcloths right now, a project that will be a fundraiser for Sustainable Nantucket. The idea is to ask knitters and crocheters to knit up these quick little projects and donate them to SN; the cloths will be sold at the Nantucket Farmers and Artisans Market and the proceeds will be donated to help offset some of the cost of running the market. I'm going to design and distribute some basic patterns as a guide to get people started, although my hope is that most people will take this opportunity to design their own patterns and play around with color. If you are a knitter or crocheter on Nantucket (or elsewhere) and would like to contribute a cloth or two (or more) to the cause let me know and I will send you more information.

Thoughts on Spending in a New Economy

2009-03-24T08:45:00.000-04:00

Like most people these days, I find myself in the position of having to think very carefully about how I spend my money. While we were never quite rolling in the dough, my boyfriend and I had both been in good-paying jobs for some time, we are childless and mortgage-less. Before the world shifted and the economy took a nose dive, we spent fairly freely - there were no restraints on our food and entertainment budgets, and I will admit to a certain amount of recreational shopping. Now... my real estate career and my boyfriend's work have slowed considerably. Fortunately for me, I have other things to fall back on and fortunately for most of us on Nantucket, seasonal tourism will inject some much needed cash flow into our economy very soon. We will be fine, but the reality hit many months ago that our days of thoughtlessly spending money are gone for the foreseeable future.

It's not that bad, to be honest. I like to know that I can comfortably pay my bills, and beyond that, the financial restrictions have brought us back to a lifestyle that feels simpler and somehow more peaceful (despite the money worries always in the periphery). I find myself returning to a more creative lifestyle, and this new economy has forced us revisit and restructure our priorities: connecting with our families and friends and time spent really experiencing and enjoying life on our beautiful island with less focus on material gain.

This new economy has also forced me to really consider how I am spending the money I do have to spend. For example, this year we are participating in a CSA through our friend's farm/nursery Seaside Gardens here on Nantucket. We are paying for a season's worth of organic produce in advance, and come June we will begin to receive, every week, a bag of freshly picked veggies and herbs. This will supplement the small plot of veggies that we grow here at our home. I feel good about spending my money with a small, locally owned and operated business that practices organic agriculture vs. our large chain grocery store. The locally-grown produce I buy requires fewer petroleum based products (fuel for shipping and plastic packaging), reflects my ideals for a healthy environment, supports our local economy by providing much needed jobs, and assures that the money I spend in my community stays in my community.

I've now started reflecting on how the choices we make about how we spend our money can help both individuals and entire communities at a time when many people are struggling. I still need to by gifts, and I do want to treat myself with a new something-or-other occasionally, so it's not just about the essentials. I am trying to "buy local" as much as possible rather than ordering online, and I am taking the time to consider ways that I can buy from individual craftspeople and small businesses.

A few useful sites for finding beautiful handmade and locally produced items:

Etsy - You probably know Etsy already; if you don't, take a moment to check this site out. Etsy features handmade items (everything from artwork to shoes to books), supplies for creating your own handmade, and vintage items. They even have a "Shop Local" search function so you can locate sellers from your area.

Art Fire - Same idea as Etsy, an online marketplace for handmade items, supplies, and vintage items.

The Crafts Report has a great online craft show finder, you can search their database by show name, date, and location.

I love the Local Harvest web site. It has search functions that help you connect with farmers in your area. You can search for farmers markets, CSAs, restaurants that offer locally grown food, and co-ops. You can also search by item and producers of everything from chocolate to seafood to yarn.

While I'm in this vein, I just started a Style Hive account, you can find me under Twill and Dot. This is another way to find unique and handmade items.

If you still aren't convinced, please visit the Why Buy Handmade? web site. There you will find great links and articles on Conscientious Consumption, the Handmade Movement, why buying handmade is better for the environment, challenging the big box stores, and more.

Have a great weekend, and happy shopping!

Bad Blogger

2009-03-16T16:45:00.001-04:00

Wow, I didn't realize it had been so long since my last post! If there's anyone out there still reading, I am very sorry. Bad blogger.

I've been weaving, weaving, weaving... very busy. I just posted five new scarflettes on Etsy.

It's been so gray and blah around here for days, it does my heart good to look at these wonderful colors. The scarflettes were a lot of fun, I have to say. They allowed me to play around with color and pattern without a major commitment, and shopping for buttons to match was a treat. I did not end up using any of my vintage buttons as I had originally planned, none of them seem to match quite right. The vintage buttons will have to wait for the right project to come along.

The windows at Mitchells Book Corner on Main Street has had an ever-changing display of artwork by local school children. The building is undergoing major renovations this winter, and I think these displays have been a great alternative to the standard-issue brown construction paper. This month's display is the most colorful so far.

Last Wednesday was Craft Circle at the Nantucket Atheneum. The great room on the second floor is a wonderful space for this kind of gathering. People really seemed to enjoy themselves, and we've decided to gather there every other week rather than the monthly meetings we had originally planned on. Last week our guest speakers included Susan Bordman, an amazing needlework artist; and Betsy Tyler who is extremely talented in the art of Pysanky (Ukranian Easter Eggs). Last week's group of crafters were knitting, crocheting, beading, quilting, and embroidering.

I'm betting on an even bigger turnout next week; the overall theme will be knitting, and right before town meeting. As most Nantucketers know, the click of knitting needles is as common a sound at town meeting as ayes and nays; boisterous opinions and pontifications.

An Island in the Winter

2009-02-10T08:47:00.001-05:00

When I tell people that I live year-round on an island, I am often asked the question "What do you DO in the winter?" A reasonable question, I guess, if the person asking has always lived in an urban environment. The assumption, I suppose, is that the island shuts down and all activity screeches to a halt. Quite the opposite happens, truth be told. I think people are just as busy here as they would be in any other town, our activities might be just a little different.

My week last week, for example:

On Monday the silk scarves came off the loom! I twisted fringe, washed, photographed. Now they will be listed on Etsy and perhaps Art Fire.

I immediately started planning the next project. Linen scarves or shawls?

Hmmm. I also have some ideas for some completely new projects, and I am doing some research right now. What do cigar boxes and embroidery have in common? I'll let you know when I figure it out. Thinking...thinking...

This guy took a bit of my time last week.

A mysterious limp found us at the vet's office (much to his great dismay) and he spent a few days confined. Luckily it's winter and he spent much of the time sleeping. I am happy to report that he seems to be recovered. It's Freddie the cat, by the way, adopted by us from the MSPCA about a year ago. I highly recommend adopting adult cats, we've done it 3 times and I'll be happy to tell you all about our experiences if you want to know.

I also had my first committee meeting for the Nantucket Farmers and Artisan's Market last week. The Farmer's Market is put on by Sustainable Nantucket, an important grass-roots organization that works "To preserve the community character of Nantucket while sustaining its economic and environmental vitality." The market is a wonderful community event that brings year round and summer residents together to support and benefit from the local harvest of fresh produce, plants, hand baked and hand made goods. A worthy endeavor indeed and I'm glad to be a member of the committee this year. I hope to have photos to post this summer.

This time of year I have two evening groups that I meet with, Knitters Night Out at my favorite LYS, Sheep to Shore (web site coming soon!) and a weekly gathering of crafty ladies and good friends. This second craft night started as a way for a small group of good friends to get together for a few hours a week in the winter and sew, knit, crochet, drink wine, eat cheese, and socialize. The group has slowly expanded in number, and has evolved to include a once-monthly gathering at our library, the Nantucket Atheneum, where we will not only create and socialize, but we will be graced by a variety of speakers, all experts in their given craft. I'm crossing my fingers for a very accomplished embroiderer who shall remain nameless for the time being, and a woman who will talk to us about Pysanky, the Ukranian art of decorating Easter Eggs.

Thanks to these weekly get togethers, I manage to find time to work on my knitting (which has been sorely neglected lately) and I'm making slow progress on Arwen. I notice with cabling that if I don't work on it daily, I fall out of my groove with the pattern and make lots of mistakes. This leads to frogging, frogging, frogging. Ribbit.

OK, so what else? Winter days spent working, meeting, planning, gathering with friends, creating, caring for four legged family members. Add to that weekend dinners with friends, cooking, reading, planning the garden for this coming summer (it'll be here before you know it!). Also important is the time to decompress. For most of us who live here, life on Nantucket has a definite rhythm. Summer is so extremely busy and most of us work double time to earn our year's income in a few short months. The winter allows time to recover from that pace and gear up for the coming summer chaos.

Oh yes, and I almost forgot - my classes at the Artists Association of Nantucket which start this week. "Intro to Macs" begins tonight, and my weaving workshops start in March or April.

We also take advantage of whatever nice weather comes our way by taking long walks through the moors and woods, along the shore, or through the quiet neighborhoods that are all but shut down for the season. It's so nice to be able to enjoy all of this without heavy traffic, hustle and bustle, and the distractions that come with a large influx of people. I love the quiet times. I don't miss mini malls, strip malls, megaplexes, traffic lights, or highways. If I get an urge for culture, change, diversion, Boston is only a boat ride and a short drive away.

Yippee! I Made the Front Page!

2009-02-02T08:40:00.000-05:00

Hello! I'm so excited! My green and black merino, silk, and Tencel scarf made it to the front page of Etsy! Woo hoo! I missed seeing it live on January 29, but found the screen shot in the Etsy Front Page group on Flickr. Thank you Etsy admin!

Nature Walk

2009-01-30T14:07:00.000-05:00

It was a beautiful day today, the kind of day that could almost fool you into thinking that Spring is just around the corner. In truth we are so far from Spring, all the more reason to take advantage of this weather while it lasts.

I went for a long walk at Squam Farm today and brought my camera along. This is one of my favorite areas for walking on Nantucket - acres of conservation land and some days I can walk the entire property without seeing another human being. What I do look forward to seeing, in terms of living creatures, are the sheep that the Nantucket Conservation Foundation are keeping on this property. The sheep are here as part of an effort to maintain the grass plains environment that is so prevalent on the island, an interesting project.

The advantage to walking these trails in the winter is that with all the foliage gone, it's easier to follow the deer trails and get off the beaten path. These little exploratory adventures lead me to the most surprising places - meandering streams, a stand of Tupelo trees, a hidden kettle pond. I loaded the photos I took onto Flickr, have a look here if you like.

All of this walking and photographing and blogging has seriously cut into my weaving time today; this will be a short post so I can get back to it. Still working on the warp of light blue silk, I've finished most of the first scarf and have three more to go. I'll post photos of the weaving soon, and the scarves will be posted on Etsy as soon as they're done.

Lost in the Virtual Chaos

2009-01-27T10:05:00.000-05:00

Egads, there's hardly time for sleep what with the blogging, Facebooking, Tweeting, Flickring, and Etsy-ing. Not to mention that pesky real-world work and such. I'm not sure how to filter this online networking: which tools are worthwhile and which are just useless time-sucks - the social networking versions of Tetris? I'm also trying to feel at home with this blog. I know there are buttons and badges and widget-y things that I can add to make it a bit more exciting, or at least more visually stimulating around here. I think it's a bit like moving into a new house, you need some time to adapt to the space before you start the actual nesting process. I'll get there eventually.

Yesterday I set up a Flickr account for Twill and Dot. On it you will find a photo tour of the handweaving process, for those who may be curious. Yesterday I loaded photos of the set up process, today I will add photos of the actual weaving happening. There are some photos of my woven things, and photos of Nantucket as well. Take a look if you like: http://tinyurl.com/dlrydd

Here's a sampling of photos from the tour:

Brief explanations accompany the photos.

I took some time to snap some photos of long pond in Madaket yesterday. It's so chilly here, though I hesitate to complain too much since we're still above zero. The cold weather creates some beautiful images in and around the water.

Off to weave now, have a great day!

My Very First Post!

2009-01-25T10:13:00.000-05:00

Hellooooooo, internets! This is my very first post of my first blog ever. Hello out there.

It is Sunday morning and it promises to be a rather chilly day on our wee island. According to our thermometer its 25 degrees, but the weather report is promising a steady decline in temps. The sun is shinning, however, and I will try to take a walk and snap some pictures before I hunker down in the house with wool socks, a mug of tea, and my knitting needles.

Today is also a weaving day, I am warping the loom with light blue silk for a new batch of scarves. This evening will be threading and tying up, and the actual weaving should begin tomorrow. I have three scarves in the Etsy shop right now and need to add to that inventory.

Blue silk off the warping wheel...

...and onto the loom.

Yummy.