yarnstorm

resistance is futile

This is Simon's camera. He is very keen for me to learn how to use it. He has been suggesting I take photos with it for several years. But I am stubborn when it comes to mastering new equipment. I am quite sure I won't understand how to use it and will only get cross and irritated. Mostly with myself.

But I realise resistance is futile when I see the lovely photos Simon has taken with his camera. Even more galling is the fact that Alice gets amazing results from just picking it up and shooting - her portraits of Tom and Phoebe are wonderfully candid and natural. And to compound the situation, Phoebe has mastered the art of the stage-managed photoshoot using this camera. Only Tom doesn't use it, and that's because he's too busy setting up communication networks all over the house (and looking in the fridge).

So I have been shamed into having a go with the Nikon blah-de-blah. It's early days yet and I'm still getting used to viewfinders, lenses, tripods and aperture priorities. But so far we've all kept our tempers. And the results? Well, you will see in due course.

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You asked so nicely that I couldn't resist a couple of bloody blood orange photos complete with Gothic/Hammer House of Horror long shadows.

I can tell you, I wasn't that happy about walking around the house with my largest, sharpest knife. It felt like something out of Gosford Park which we watched again last night.

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And now I'm going to let myself feel awful. I generally tend to resist illness on the basis that it stops me doing what I want/need to do, especially when Simon-the-cameraman has disappeared off to Brussels for work. But today is a dead loss. I give in.

good old-fashioned blood oranges

Tom has discovered what we've always until now called 'blood' oranges. Except that this year I notice they've been re-named namby-pamby 'blush' oranges. This doesn't stop the kitchen looking as if Tom's had a nasty accident with a knife after he's eaten a bag or two (he now possesses one of those legendary teenage boy appetites and is usually to be found looking in the fridge - for hours at a time, it seems).

'Blood' oranges provide excellent gory, ghoulish entertainment and Vitamin C. What's wrong with that, I wonder?

scattered thoughts

I like to keep everything important close to me while I work. Books. Notes. Recipe scribbles. Cup of tea. Green and Black's Caramel chocolate. I always say that all I need is an A4 space while the rest of the room can look like a bomb has hit it. Last year I read A Perfect Mess which has all kinds of wonderful theories about and explanations for disorder, and discovered that the apparently chaotic ordering of my workspace is actually extremely ordered and organised. (I love this book.) Not that anyone else can tell, and it does rely on absolutely no-one apart from me touching anything in my office. Least of all the chocolate.   

Just as I concentrate on one small space in my office and one small space in my brain while I work, so everything else in the room and mind is scattered in inverse proportion. It's all I can do to keep mugs, pens, scissors, papers, thoughts, ideas, plans, fabrics, books and yarns under control.

   

But sometimes there's a certain beauty to scattered piles and I often find myself rearranging the fabrics or suddenly espying a colour combination I hadn't seen before - usually when I'm in the middle of Something Very Important. Like describing jam tarts.

And, at this point, while my thoughts scatter once again, can I just tell you how gorgeous the new Rowan fabrics by Kaffe Fassett and Philip Jacobs are? Quite amazingly rich in colour and varied in pattern.

I may be scatty and scattered at the moment and pressed for time to reply to comments and emails and requests, but please don't think for one moment that I'm not reading every single comment here with pleasure and interest. I saw a discussion on another blog this week as to whether the writers of blogs that are widely read actually take any notice of comments. Well, I am fortunate enough to have quite a few visitors to this blog and I can tell you that I certainly never take comments for granted.

And now it's time to get back to that little space on my desk and in my brain before the children come home from school, and my thoughts and many more things are scattered all over the house.

grey

'Horsechestnut Buds and Winter Flowering Jasmine' (c 1935) Winifred Nicholson 

We are enveloped in grey. Grey skies, grey light, grey trees, grey moods. This morning I thought I couldn't stand much more greyness. And yet when I looked up just now, I saw that the sun was shining. Then I thought of this lovely painting and remembered that grey is also beautiful and calm, and just as varied as any other colour. But, it has to be said, it does look better with a splash of yellow.

phases of the sock

Tom and I have been watching the moon recently, but we don't always agree about which phase it's in. So we checked in the newspaper this morning, and now we know that there's a full moon tonight and we are hoping for a clear sky. By coincidence, as I cast on my latest pair of socks at the weekend (when the moon was 'waxing gibbous') I wondered where I was in my own latest knitting phase.

I've knitted socks before and generally have a short burst of knitting, say, three or four single socks, and then my enthusiasm wanes. But in this current phase, I am onto my fourth pair and I still don't know whether this is the first quarter of the phase or maybe the last quarter, or whether this pair will be the waning crescent before it all goes dark on the sock front.

I also think of each sock as having its own phases, some of which I like better than others. The 'new' phase of casting on and ribbing is always a little worrying until I've got the measure of the yarn and how the self-striping is going to work. And then I move through the 'first quarter' onto the 'waxing crescent' phase which is when the leg part just grows smoothly and waxes gibbous until I turn the heel which, to me, is the equivalent of the full moon.

And then, because I only ever knit top-down socks, I start to get nervous in case my ball of yarn is waning too quickly and I might run out as I get to the last quarter and the very last phase of the 'waning crescent' ie the toes. At this point I start knitting very quickly - as if by speeding up I may just hoodwink the yarn into becoming longer.

At the Foyles knitting group today (so good to be there again, so good to see everyone) I hit the waning gibbous phase which means that, unfortunately, my sock will not be aligned with the planets tonight. But at least I'll be able to knit by the light of the silvery moon.

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I'm told I knit my socks 'inside out' (above). For some reason I like to knit the rounds from the 'inside' - it suits my unorthodox knitting style. The yarn is a Regia one and I like the way the stripes change frequently so that I get plenty of amusement from them.

mellow yellow

I'm just mad about saffron, to borrow the words from 'Mellow Yellow' by Donovan. I never liked Donovan particularly, but he was always on the radio, in the background, when I was young. I didn't know what saffron was, and certainly never met anyone called Saffron (still haven't), but saffron stuck in my mind.

Later, I read all about the amazing story of saffron and once visited Saffron Walden half-hoping it would be bathed in a mellow light and have fields of crocuses all around (it wasn't and doesn't). Occasionally I bought a little tube of dark red filaments and marvelled at how such a tiny amount could turn a whole pan of rice a beautiful shade of yellow and completely fill the kitchen with a unusual, strange, exotic aroma.

I also knew about Saffron Cake (more a bread than a cake) but only from reading about it in recipe books. So when I came across a lovely reference to saffron cake in a children's story while researching my book, I had the perfect excuse to bake one.

As soon as I poured warm milk over the saffron strands the colour bled out and the white turned a vibrant shade of yellow which was even deeper and richer after an overnight infusion. I'd just watched Girl with a Pearl Earring which reminded me just how precious and costly Vermeer's pigments and susbtances were; saffron has retained this aura and reality of expense and I didn't want the recipe to go wrong.

Kneading a yellow dough was fantastic - like dealing with grown-up, edible Play-Doh - and it rose beautifully in a gold cloud. The moment of reckoning, though, is always in the slicing, and I was suitably thrilled when the first slice fell to reveal a stunningly yellow crumb, speckled with dried fruit and peel. Eaten with butter it was a taste of old, old cooking; just half a teaspoon (I don't know how much that is in drachms - the traditional Cornish measurement of saffron - maybe half a drachm or 1/16 of an ounce) transformed a sweet, yeast-leavened bread into something which is part of a tradition which goes back 3,000 years.

The recipe will be in the book. Quite rightly. 

charisma

This is amaryllis 'Charisma'. The word charisma always makes me think of 1960s film stars, white plastic knee-high boots, Milk Tray adverts and Avon cosmetics. The mother of my best friend at junior school was an Avon Lady and we used to spend hours investigating her case of tiny testers and phials, sampling everything we could. We regularly reeked of 'Charisma' perfume (now sadly discontinued) so I am amazed we were never caught.

But this Charisma is perfume-free and truly charismatic in that it draws 'attention and admiration easily' and has 'an uncanny ability to charm'. Really, it is stunning, with very fine markings and exquisite colouring which looks carmine blusher brushed on the petals. 

Even the backs of the petals are delicately outlined with what could be lip liner.

And it's tall and statuesque like the models of the 1960s.

I feel I am letting it down by keeping it on my windowsill. In an ideal world, such a bloom should be on a mirrored dressing-table surrounded by powder puffs and lipsticks and compacts and crystal perfume bottles. And little girls trying it all on.

swimming pool quilt

Although it often takes me a long time to plan a quilt in my mind, I usually manage to get the cutting, placing, piecing, sandwiching, quilting and finishing done in a reasonably short space of time. But the Swimming Pool Quilt was different. I wanted to make a blue snowball quilt and cut all the fabrics as long ago as last May so that we had something to photograph for the book (there's a photo of me and Tom, who has changed dramatically since it was taken, placing fabrics on the floor). I made some neat little numbered piles of squares so that I knew what went where, and then they sat around my office for months. Until I finally let go of the snowball idea and decided to dive into a simple swimming pool. (I'll make a snowball quilt one day. When I have time to deal with all those little corner triangles.)

But last month, I realised I'd done enough putting off and got to work on finally making the quilt. The freshness and the details brightened up quite a few days; it was such a straightforward quilt to put together that it was a real pleasure to simply swim in the colours and fabrics. The photo above shows the effect I wanted - that of uneven, rippling surfaces of swimming pools - perhaps natural, outdoor pools or lovely David Hockney pools.

I wanted the main part of the quilt to ripple and to make the eye drift over it without seeing lines and joins and patterns. But I wanted a bold and definite border, just as swimming pools often have edging or paving.

The backing fabric is a huge Kaffe Fassett Brocade design from Glorious Color which makes me think of the swirling water and reflected sunlight of a pool in summer.

And the edging fabric is a tropical flower and leaf print from the amazing eQuilter. It didn't work in the pool, but was just fine as the rim.

Phoebe dived right in.

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The quilt measures 80" x 90" / 205cm x 230cm and is a mix of fabrics mostly by Kaffe Fassett, Denyse Schmidt, Amy Butler, Martha Negley, and Philip Jacobson. It is machine-pieced and hand-quilted.

yet stands the clock at ten past three?

Phoebe and I are elbow-deep in flour, butter, eggs and sugar as we test recipes for Cherry Cake and Ginger Beer. She is my right-hand girl and the best critic of my draft instructions. She's been there since the inception of the whole idea over three years ago, and I am grateful for her staying power (and baking skills). Tom and Alice help in a tasting capacity while Simon does his best to make sure nothing is wasted. It breaks his heart when mistakes and failures are binned unceremoniously - and we've had to do that a few times. Some things work first time (molasses candy pull, posset, jam puffs) while others require several attempts to get the result I'm looking for (parkin, walnut and honey cake, crumpets).

As we make four or five things on a recipe day, we can't eat substantial portions and the slice taken out of the pineapple cake (above) was enough to tell both Phoebe and me that it had passed the test. And then I saw that it looked a little like a clock face telling the time at ten past three. Which brought me, as any mention of clocks and afternoon tea does, to Rupert Brooke.

I'm taking liberties with his poem The Old Vicarage, Grantchester when I say ten past three, because the memorable closing lines are, of course, '...yet/ Stands the Church clock at ten to three?/ And is there honey still for tea?'. But my cake made me think of the beauty of both Rupert Brooke and Grantchester - where you can still have honey for tea at ten to or ten past three in the wonderful setting of The Orchard.

We went there a few years ago and it was magical. And now I have the times of ten to three and ten past three forever ingrained in my cake-eating imagination.

my amaryllis

'Prelude'. The label says blood red and creamy white, although I'll be pedantic and say I think it's more cherry red and ivory. Also, the labeller omitted any mention of the wonderful lime green centre in each flower. So, my kind of amaryllis.

Now that I'm generally viewing winter in a more positive light (late November and the whole of December are the pits as far as I'm concerned, and I always feel like a new woman in January) I'm enjoying some beautiful blogs that have a delicate, pared down style and cool light, an eye for composition and detail, and a joy in ordinary, everyday life. Even though I don't understand a word of Finnish, I keep going back to Liivian talossa for the amazing colours and gentle world view. I even like looking at the words with all their vowels and dots which somehow complement the images.

It may seem perverse to mention 3191 just as the year of mornings has come to and end, but now that it has come full circle it's possible to appreciate the project even more fully - and I can see how it will make a beautiful book.

I love this kind of dedication to a theme and admire the discipline and creativity needed to make it work. Another beautiful photo blog which is already in book form is simply breakfast. As a strictly tea, toast, butter and Marmite girl every single day of the year I also admire Jen's ability to vary the content of her breakfasts.

Just a few other things:

• I'm afraid I don't remember where I bought the yarn for the marmalade socks. It's been in my yarn basket too long.
• Waitrose has Seville oranges in stock this weekend.
• Thank you for your excellent comments on the post about the Kelvingrove Museum and Gallery in Glasgow. I enjoyed reading all of them, even the ones that upbraided me for being politically incorrect. I've since remembered that Manchester City Art Gallery underwent a huge refurbishment not so long ago which has made it more accessible to, and enjoyable for, all Mancunians, and without any loss of dignity and artistic integrity. Just a thought.