yarnstorm

sunday time-warp

When I was growing up, Sundays had their own special character; they were cut off from the rest of the week, self-contained and, all too often, utterly dreary. Maybe it's selective memory, but Sundays were invariably slow and grey and lifeless. These days, Sundays still have a unique flavour, but one that's seasoned with to-ings and fro-ings, a smidgin of unpredictablity and even, if we're lucky, an itchling of sunshine.

Yesterday we recaptured that strange fuggy, blanketed, Sunday atmosphere but without the ennui and the feeling of being trapped. We baked, and read and read, and the afternoon seemed to go on forever until we were forced by the prospect of Monday to break the spell and rouse ourselves from our bookish, spongey torpor.

Ever since I first had a slice of Pecan, Pear & Cranberry Upside Down Cake at Books for Cooks a year ago, it's been at the back of my mind. I couldn't justify buying a cookery book on the basis of one recipe, but a little while ago I found Roast Figs, Sugar Snow by Diana Henry at a vastly reduced price in a discount bookshop and I've been waiting for cranberries to come onto the shelves ever since.

It's a beautiful book with an excellent text to accompany the recipes, and the photos almost make me re-think my attitude to winter (as long as I'm inside). The cake turned out just as my taste memory told me it should, and slowed us down sufficiently for an afternoon of books.

 

I'm deep in the Letters of Ted Hughes. Although I know something of his poetry and books, I've tended to steer clear of the TH personality/TH & Sylvia Plath stories because I feel that there is so much conjecture about it all that the truth must have been lost long ago in an avalanche of conjecture, assumptions and judgements all of which I find wholly distasteful. But his letters are brilliant - direct, powerful, phenomenally articulate and intelligent, and free of affectation and gossip. They reveal so much and also ultimately that the only two people who knew what happened were TH and SP.

Ted Hughes also understood how Sundays could warp time and sap energy. He writes of someone he knew whose later life was trapped in 'that Sunday round of the same sameness, the whole vital clock forcibly stopped'. And I know that it's only because I'm free of Sunday sameness that I can read these words with a degree of equanimity, and move on to Monday. 

amaryllis

Amaryllis bulbs make me laugh. They are just so huge and self-sufficient. As soon as you bring them indoors and open the bag, it's bang! and they are off and racing to be the first to produce a massive flower.

I usually buy several bulbs around this time of year. I don't go mad because I haven't got enough suitable containers and, anyway, a single successful bulb can provide quite enough entertainment and decoration for one room. I can never remember what I grew last year, so I choose something which sounds good. This year it's 'Benfica' which is apparently a deep cranberry red; that's what the top bulb is - already putting out two flower shoots and it hasn't even seen compost and water.

I also love some of the more exotic colour combinations and I'm trying out a Charisma (above, 'blush white and paprika red' according to the bag label) and a Prelude ('blood red and creamy white') and am now wondering just how many different ways of describing 'red' the bulb merchants have at their disposal... These two haven't yet started pushing out their mammoth stems because they have only just come in from the cold. But it won't be long, I know.

I like the sound of 'amaryllis' and still use this name rather than the more correct term hippeastrum. How could I resist anything which comes in amongst Amalthea, Amarantha, Ambrosine, Amethyst and Aminta in lists of Greek names for girls? Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, had a half-sister called Amaryllis who was a well-known cello player (it's the perfect name for a cellist, don't you think?) and the Bloomsbury couple David Garnett and Angelica Bell named one of their daughters Amaryllis.

A pot or two of rich red amaryllis will make a lovey background to my winter crochet, even if I don't wear a hat when hooking like Jeannette Rubenson in this 1883 painting by Ernst Josephson. (And I can't imagine how her yarn doesn't get tangled in all those rings on her fingers.)

So now I'm going to pot my amaryllis and shout ready, steady, go!   

reading matters 3: a change of mind

Unlike some people who see mind-changing as a serious fault, I feel that everyone is entitled to change their minds once in a while. I'm not talking about whims and fancies, I mean serious, life-altering decisions.

Not long ago, I read an article about how schools are preparing young girls for life. The headteacher of one the leading girls' schools in the country explained that each leaver has to give a valedictory speech in which she sets out her ambitions and plans. But, said the headteacher, we also let them know that it's OK for them to change their minds as they get older and have to adapt to the way their lives develop.

I was so delighted to read this sensible advice. I once went through an appalling period of anguish when I was at university; I'd been invited to apply for a prestigious British Council scholarship to spend ten months in the Soviet Union. I went along with the whole thing because I was a well-trained girl, but was horrified when I received the letter telling me I'd won it. The news was in the local press and in university publications, and I felt my life was out of control. For six months I worried and worried until I eventually made myself ill.

And then I had my moment of revelation when - and I now understand just how significant this is - I was baking fairy buns. The realisation suddenly dawned on me that I could change my mind and say no. The world would not fall apart, I would not be sent to prison, or flogged, or pelted with eggs by my Russian lecturers, and the Soviet Union would bear no losses.

I cannot describe the feeling of relief that engulfed me after I understood that I didn't have to do things to please other people, and that I could make my own decisions. Sure, there was the expected opprobrium at university, but that was nothing to spending ten unhappy months in the back of beyond, just so I could learn more Russian.

My change of mind and refusal of the scholarship was one of the most significant decisions I have ever made; changing your mind can be massively liberating, believe me. So I am really happy when I see that girls are being encouraged to make intelligent decisions. Because life changes, we change, everyone around us changes. And it would be silly for our minds not to change, too.

I write all this as a preface to a much less significant change of mind, but one which reminds me that it's not weakness which makes us reconsider our stance on things we thought were 'settled'. For I have changed my mind about Elizabeth David. 

I used to find her writing bossy and humourless, and her recipes too starkly written. I've always known that she was food writer I ought to appreciate so I have many of her books on my shelves. And, goodness me, I've tried to like her and raise myself to her level. But even when I blamed myself, I disliked her for illuminating my own inadequacies and shortcomings.

Maybe ED is someone you have to be old enough to enjoy (by 'old' I don't mean reaching a certain age, just a certain grown-upness)? Or maybe all you need is a brace of lovely, warm, sunny afternoons, a cushioned chair in the garden, some peace and quiet, and a glass of wine? Whatever the real reason, I found that reading her books one after the other recently revealed ED as an amazingly readable writer with a huge capacity for enjoyment and a gift for conjuring all the sights, smells, tastes and pleasures of Mediterranean food.

An Omelette and a Glass of Wine is the title of my favourite book (a collection of pieces, rather than a single tome) and also the key to what I find so enjoyable about ED. She knew the value of simplicity, of the good things in life and saw that complications in gastronomy could never be a good thing. Maybe this is why I find I like her now more than when I was young and complicating my own life - I didn't understand the need for simplicity.

Faites simple, she repeats after Escoffier. And don't accept scholarships to the Soviet Union.

inspiration: knitting

In an email interview last week, I was asked who inspires me when it comes to knitting. So, working on the basis that if I gave this too much thought my response wouldn't be instinctive and honest, I quickly wrote down the first names that sprang to mind, plus some reasons, and carried on with the rest of the questions (actually some really good, well thought-out questions for Let's Knit)

Since then, I've been thinking about the people I mentioned and why and how they inspire me. So here are some knitting thoughts, the ones that have been with me since I started the lovely, soft, lacy 'Haven' scarf (above) in Kim Hargreaves' Heartfelt book.

Kaffe Fassett

KF has been an enormous influence and inspiration for many years. He was there in the beginning when I was first discovering the joys of colour and Rowan's natural yarns, and he's still with me whenever I need confidence and encouragement. I can hear him telling me to get rid of any inhibitions and just have a go, no matter how easy or difficult, plain or colourful. It's a powerful message and fundamental to the enjoyment of knitting. Plus, he is a genius with colour.

Patricia Roberts

Patricia Roberts redefined the possibilities of knitting for me. She challenged and modernised my perceptions and made hand-knitted garments sophisticated, luxurious, witty and very fluffy. I aspired to knitting whole garments in her yarns which were all too often beyond my budget, and if there's one iconic PR jumper I wish I'd knitted in the eighties, it's the mohair one with the bunches of grapes all over it. PR also helped me to understand that knitting could make you laugh. 

Debbie Bliss

I am in awe of DB's technical skills and enviable ability to keep producing new patterns which move with the times and yet still retain the hallmark of her brilliant design skills and her attention to detail. And there is no-one to touch her when it comes to patterns for babies and children. I discovered DB when I was pregnant with Tom and Alice and knitted a huge number of little sweaters and cardigans from her books and they always turned out brilliantly. We have drawers full of photos of the children modelling her designs and we all agree that her Plum Pudding Hat is a masterpiece.

Sasha Kagan

I see that Sasha Kagan's Knitting Book is now a collectors' item. I can remember when it came out in 1984 and I was bowled over by it. Really it's a collection of charts for patterns to transpose onto basic garments, but to me it unlocked a whole new way of thinking about the infinite possibilities of small-scale patterns and colour combinations. I was also seduced by SK's use of natural fibres and the wonderful way in which she plays with whimsical motifs such as oak leaves, Scottie dogs and pansies. In fact, I knitted an entire jumper in purple and violet and yellow pansies on an ecru background but hardly ever wore it because I saved it for 'best'.

Sarah Dallas

SD is very understated. She hasn't published a great deal and appears to be very unshowy, but her incredible understanding of the history of knitting and of garment construction means she produces classic, understated, timeless designs in which the nature of knitting is exploited to the full. For me, one of the best books of recent years is Knitting, not only for its range of simple, beautifully designed patterns but also for SD's very tasteful, clever use of colour. No matter how often I go back to this book (and her Vintage Knits), I know I will find something to inspire me every time.

Kim Hargreaves

I love KH's style. When she was working for Rowan I knew that her patterns would always be utterly reliable and yet very individual. KH has an enviable knack for designing garments which are modern and of-the-moment, yet which have not gone out of date by the time you finish knitting them. She uses tailored shapes to flatter and wonderful buttons and beads to enhance, and her designs have a lovely relaxed elegance to them. Ordering a kit from her is a treat - with the beautiful packaging and ribbons and tissue paper, and I think KH is doing wonders for the self-esteem of knitters everywhere.

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So there we are. All British, bar one (as far as I know). All female, bar one (I am sure). But these are the people who have inspired my knitting - and they continue to inspire. For that I am very grateful.

sunday sunday

Sunday is a good day for making masses of butterfly cakes for Phoebe to take into school as part of her birthday celebrations.

pools of colour

For months I've had little piles of fabric squares on my desk ready to be sewn together to make my Swimming Pool quilt. Now, at last, the fragments of water and reflected and refracted light (as I see them) have come together to make a swirling mass of blues and aquas and greens.

An all-time favourite book is Waterlog by Roger Deakin, a passionate outoor swimmer whose descriptions of swimming in the moat of his ancient Suffolk house are wonderfully vivid. I love the way he writes about swimming with wildlife and through underwater plants, parting and clearing the debris on the surface of the water. So when I was choosing fabrics for this quilt, I was happy to include leaves and foliage which suggest the variety of plants that appear or fall on the surface of ponds and natural swimming pools.

One of the best moments of quilt-making for me is choosing the backing fabric. I rarely buy it in advance, because I am never quite sure how the top will turn out. I like to wait and see, and then pick something to complement or surprise or contrast, or just something to make a statement. I'm prepared to keep an open mind until I see what's on offer, and then I usually know when I see the fabric.

So yesterday, when I pulled out the bolt of the gorgeously, exuberantly, rococo Brocade Flowers by Kaffe Fassett and saw the wonderful waves and curves of colour and light which match the aqua tones and suggestions of scattered sunlight, I could see it would work perfectly for what I had in mind. Putting the whole thing together will be like diving into a soft, warm, dappled pool.

I'm adding a dark, dramatic border to mark the edge of the pool so that people don't fall in, but can stand at the edge and look into the depths.