Placeholder

'N case anyone missed it

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 07 Nov 2006 23:15:00 +0000

(in Bloglines/gReader, etc.), the cook-knit-kvetch-cat-book blog is over here now.

C'mere

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 01 Nov 2006 20:30:00 +0000

As Blogger waited and waited and waited this morning, I spontaneously moved over to Wordpress. It's been in my head for a while. So I jumped. Please bear with as I fix the sidebars, etc.

Come on over.

"Song"

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 30 Oct 2006 22:29:00 +0000

by Frank Bidart

You know that it is there, lair

where the bear ceases

for a time even to exist.

Crawl in. You have at last killed

enough and eaten enough to be fat

enough to cease for a time to exist.

Crawl in. It takes talent to live at night, and scorning

others you had that talent, but now you sniff

the season when you must cease to exist.

Crawl in. Whatever for good or ill

grows within you needs

you for a time to cease to exist.

It is not raining inside

tonight. You know that it is there. Crawl in.

Inside your head any phonebooth can be a confessional

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 25 Oct 2006 17:15:00 +0000

The blog form almost demands that the blogger share some autobiography. I don't want to go on about personal things, because who knows who could be reading and c'mon, enough about me. However, I still get the confessional urge and (rationalizing) some of you Knitty readers haven't met me at all. So I decided to grab a way-dorky meme off Turtlegirl's blog for that optimum mix of autobiography and subterfuge. I cut a few questions. Feel free to post along in the comments!

There Is Lots of "Me" in "Meme"

1. FIRST NAME? Danielle
2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? After my parents' hunch they were having a boy proved entirely wrong, they had to scramble for a girl's name. Thought up mine right away but rejected it because my dad had a high-school girlfriend named Danielle. Three days later, they gave in.
3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Last night. Dork. Got some frustration on the burners.
4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? I carefully shaped it as a kid. I even learned graphology for the sixth-grade science fair. Now I can't really see my handwriting. It's like seeing a photo of yourself: "Yup. That's me."
5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCHMEAT? I truly and honestly despise all lunch meat. The way it gets slimy in the fridge... ugh.
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? I think I would find me highly entertaining. (I should keep that perspective on myself.)
7. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Y.
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Y.
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? No. Hang-gliding, maybe. And I'd ride on the back of a motorcycle if I could, like two guys in Frank Bruni's Italy article, vroom from Austria to Piedmont for lunch.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Homemade muesli, adapted from Didi Emmons' first? second? cookbook.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? When I wear shoes with laces, yes.
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? I think I'm stubborn.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? A range of chocolate options. Also, green tea.
14. SHOE SIZE? 7-1/2.
15. RED OR PINK? Red.
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? I'd like to drive myself a little less crazy.
17. WHOM DO YOU MISS THE MOST? Strangely enough, I seem to have let go of all the people I used to miss. I still think about many of them all the time, but I don't miss them. (?: "The past isn't over. It isn't even past." - Faulkner.)
19. WHAT COLOR PANTS, SHIRT, AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Dark blue jeans, black sweater, red Okkervil River shirt, black Merrills shoes. Welcome to late fall.
20. LAST THING YOU ATE? Leftover pasta.
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? Hooray for Earth, in my head.
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Burnt umber.
23. FAVORITE SMELL? Cookies. And wood fires. C'mon. There's no other answer.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? "Hello, you have reached the home of...."
25. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE YOU ARE ATTRACTED TO? What instrument he plays. Kidding! There isn't one particular thing. See the guy, ears perk.
27. FAVORITE DRINK? Non-alc: coffee. Alc: dark ale, vodka gimlets.
28. FAVORITE SPORT? Baseball.
29. EYE COLOR? Hazel? Brown?
30. HAT SIZE? No clue.
31. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Oh yes. Can't see my own shoulder clearly without correction. Hideous glasses. Must replace them one of these days.
32. FAVORITE FOOD? Easier: Least. I'm sorry to say that I still feel tentative eating fish, and I usually avoid it.
33. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Happy endings. (Barf, I know.)
35. SUMMER OR WINTER? Spring and fall.
36. HUGS OR KISSES? Hugs are more dependable.
37. FAVORITE DESSERT? You mean like desert-island? Brownies.
40. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING? Steve Almond, My Life in Heavy Metal (finally); Boswell's Life of Johnson; Elizabeth Zimmermann, Knitting Without Tears; Charles Baxter, First Light; Frank Bidart, Star Dust.
42. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV? Few innings of the World Series, ten minutes of Sex & the City, twenty minutes of Letterman. Lately I've been watching too much TV.
43. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Never thought about this. To go all free-association on youse: The crackling of food in the oven, the kettle whistling, my car shifting into fourth, the wind in the trees, Eva going inexplicably and inconsolably meow meow meow meow meow. And of course Okkervil River.
44. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? I'm sorely tempted to be all ex-music-critic snotty and say "Velvet Underground," but: Beatles. Not a huge fan of either, but the Liverpudlians were more original and influential.
45. THE FURTHEST YOU'VE BEEN FROM HOME? Rome or the Isle of Skye. (No clue about distance.)
46. WHAT'S YOUR SPECIAL TALENT? Making connections.
47. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? New Rochelle, NY

Over & out.

Accountability: It works

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 04:41:00 +0000

Friday night I had no need to cook: I was heading to NY the following morning and still had soup and sausage leftovers. But I itched for my cast-iron frying pan. Besides, it's kinda chilly here in Stubborn New England Apartment Land. So off to the kitchen I went.

That's all par for the course. What's new is that I couldn't cook up plain old whole-wheat spaghetti with mushrooms, garlic, olives, and parmesan. Oh no. No farm share vegetables! No creativity! To assuage your demands, dear readers (okay. I'm projecting. Let me project) I (fanfare) grated in some daikon radish. King me.

(Not the world's most attractive picture. Pretty boring dish, honestly, even with the extra heat. Note the participation of my favorite beer, Otter Creek Copper Ale.)

Q: Why has it taken me 29-1/2 years to realize that horseradish is... yup? It didn't hit me until this morning. "Daikon radishes taste more fiery than standard radishes," thunk I. "They're almost as spicy as horseradi-- oh. Wait."

Prettier:

The brussels sprouts are definitely ready for their close-up. Mmmm, brussels sprouts. To think You Can't Do That on Television could be so wrong.

Have you seen fresh-from-the-farm brussels sprouts? They grow on a stalk. I'll take a picture of the one left in my fridge. Last year I dressed up as the Brussels Sprout Fairy for Halloween and carried a stalk as my magic veggie wand*. You can imagine the amazement, particularly from drunk people.

* Yes, I cooked it afterwards.

Sat. a.m. I hied me off to NY, where the family (poor Dad) traipsed up to the famous Rhinebeck sheep and wool festival. Strangely, we'd never gone before. First, the sheep:

I'm reminded of the Swedish Chef chocolate mousse segment. "Ist vern de hern der chocolat... and now, de moose!" (Oh look, the chocolate video's on YouTube. Ten minutes later....)

Hi, mister sheep getting groomed for the show. Staunchly, I stuck to my resolution and bought not a damn thing. Kate and Mom aided me in this resolve by buying yarn so I could enjoy the experience vicariously. (Note: I ran into Bryghtrose and Stariel but didn't attend any of the blogger or Knittyboard meetups.) Kate's haul:

We didn't follow the fair maps and I neglected to find out which barns were the "good" barns. We got ferociously, inexplicably, three times lost on the way there. We had fun.

Knowing that the Yarn Harlot would be in attendance, I kept a sharp eye out for the wedding shawl. Lo and behold, while we cooed over Pyrenees puppies (!), I glimpsed the Harlot herself, with a tall blonde woman I assume was Juno.

I poked my mom (surreptitiously). We engaged in a heated whisper-debate re: whether or not to say hi. I said don't bother her; she's off-duty. Mom marched up and introduced herself. She said her daughter was a big fan. She beckoned me over from the puppy pen. I may or may not have shaken La Harlotte's hand (you will note the prose paralysis). Yes, she has a surprisingly deep and raspy voice. She seemed not exactly interested in joining our conversation. I certainly don't blame her. And I couldn't very well say to Juno "Hi, I occasionally comment on your blog," could I?

Anyway, a star sighting. I'm still psyched. I just hope she doesn't hate us.

The other standout event: K. and her sister charged up to a woman to ask where she got her bag of white fluff. I marvelled at their apparent ability to differentiate, oh, who knows, merino from Corriedale.

Me: What makes that particular fluff different from all the other fluff we've seen around here today?

K: It's maple cotton candy.

--

After cooking Friday, I finished part one of the Ambiguous @#$%ing Pink Thing (can you capitalize a symboled-out swear?). Now, I know I kvetch. But how long is that thing? From tip to tail? Compare to an object of known size, e.g., an unread copy of the New Yorker.

Twenty-two inches. See?

I immediately cast on for part two. As before, the first stage took but a jiffy. Grr. No sense. No sense at all.

As promised, Sunday (new moon) I tossed APTpt2 cavalierly aside and cast on (three/four times) for the Cloak of Mystery. I've really raced along on this-- eleven pattern repeats out of a possible 37 (hard to say, since I'm using different yarn). Clearly already an item of substance. Tonight, for you, I breached its photo virginity (and I'm not gonna extend this metaphor any farther).

Back of the pattern. Yup. Gonna be a boring few weeks in knitblogland. I'll do my best to finish the CoM ASAP so I can entertain y'all with sidelong shots of my first stab at Fair Isle.

p.s. Someone's already written a knitting mystery, right? If not, I call dibs.

Though I scored but 680? on my English Achievements exam and about the same on the SAT verbal, worse than my math score (how embarrassing)

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 22:41:00 +0000

(Thanks, Patience! Ms. SSH, I expect to see your results on this pronto.)

True English Nerd
You scored 84 erudition!
Not only do you know your subjects from your objects and your definite from your indefinite articles, but you've got quite a handle on the literature and the history of the language as well. Huzzah, and well done! The English snobs of Boston* salute you.

How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 99% on erudition

Test link.

* I salute myself?

Oh yeah. You.

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 05:23:00 +0000

After all this blog fussing, I forgot all about it for several days. It's due to my massive career existential crisis. Also a lot of socializing (hooray for my brilliant friend Ryan's band). Which means I'm too lazy to post photos, and I did all my cooking Monday. I think. I don't really remember this week.

- Barely touched the novel, but did haul out a personal essay I shelved months and months ago.

- Emailed thirty people regarding the career existential crisis. Arr.

- Knit the endlessly-long-but-still-not-long-enough APT Part 1. Hmph. I'm blowing through that two-week completion deadline like a disco baby does coke. As soon as I finish part 1 and cast on for part 2, I'm starting a new front-burner project. My patience runs short.

- Glorious food: Stayed home Monday and made lentil/kale soup with the broth from parboiling the au(tumn) gratin vegetables. That evening, laid waste to some of my endless bell peppers --> sausage and peppers. A little too sweet with my farm share's red onions, but you can't go far wrong with sausage and peppers. And Tuesday (I think) I baked blondies in my second-best pan, just because.

Since then, leftovers. I won't even mention the magnitude of this past farm share pickup, because on top of the typical eggs, cheese, yogurt, chocolate chips, yeast, and thrown-together salad dressing, my fridge currently holds:

- red onions
- bell peppers
- hot peppers
- lettuce
- delicata squash (3)
- parsley
- dill
- a few potatoes
- one doubled sweet potato
- a half bushel apples
- spinach
- radicchio
- two 20" brussels sprouts stalks
- half a cabbage
- half a large celeriac
- rutabagas (3)
- kale

That might be it? Most keeps well. Fortunate, because: Rhinebeck.

October in New England really is all that

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 03:22:00 +0000

Loaf of whole-wheat bread dough rising on the stove, about 350 new miles on the car*, favorite band concert ticket in my back pocket, sock yarn on the kitchen table, a counter groaning under apples, and a fridge full of vegetables.**

A prototypical New England autumn weekend. A two-diner weekend, at that.

* With a new bumper sticker, which instead of "Together We Can" really should read "Another Beat-Up Honda for Deval."

** DJ Dave, paraphrased: "For only one person, that's a pretty full fridge."

(To quench envy in New England expats, it's 64 degrees in my apartment. Up from 60. I refuse to turn on the heat. It's baking season.)

Due to timing, the Au(tumn) Gratin went to Kate instead of potluckers. (Post-potluck query: Restart Game Night with homemade "Apples to Apples"? You write the nouns: e.g., Bauhaus, rapscallion, cat o' nine tails, John Casablancas Modeling School.)

So. Starting backwards with photos from today's biscuits-'n'-gravy/apple fest in Derry, NH.

A little late in the season. (Cue Son Volt, "Windfall.")

If you pick quickly, you'll be done too soon. How to slow down? Hey!

Apple bocce! On nature's bocce lane. (Okay. Cultivator's lane.) Action shots:

"Hmmm... I think this is the pollini. Wait. Maybe it's that other apple."

We must've played for forty minutes.

Unfortunately, time did not improve my skill. Proving his projectile skills beyond arty mini-golf, and in an uncontested decision, Dave was ruled #1.

Home again, pie crust obsession enabled:

I swear those apples expanded after we left the orchard. My just-over-one-third of a bushel now fills up a half-bushel bag. I was seized with the desire to make pumpkin pie.

-- End of the food, cooking, apple bocce (I'll pause for a moment while you absorb the brilliance of that innovation), and boy butt-shot content. Everyone who thinks that knitting is lame can click away to some other website now, such as the incredibly nadiresque nerd board.

So. Saturday: Knittyboard gathering in Northampton and (briefly) Grafton. (Normally I can navigate a car.) I seem to have run out of entertaining description. Oh dear. Anyway, Webs lived up to its press. As did my companions. What a friendly and fun group of gals [waves].

(Deb/Yarner lived beyond her press, especially when she dumped chili over the uneaten end of her chocolate cake as a preventative measure.)

Bryghtrose/Cathy found yarn the same color as her hair.

My host Bethany (theherocomplex) stole about three hours from her writing and day-job responsibilities. I don't know how she does it, or how she functions with so little sleep and no caffeine. (Alert: Northampton Coffee.)

Knowing Webs's reputation, I entered with a plan. Oh yes. I scribbled down project notes and bought only:

- A pattern for an upcoming project so cloaked in mystery that I can't share details or photograph even a corner to show you. Mystery Cloak will be, for you, a boring project. When I start it. Which date recedes ever farther, like Mario Batali's hairline, as I plod on with the APT, whose first half measures 14" from the part-one-turns. I've almost used up my first ball of Cascade Fixation.

- Yarn for an upcoming project I can-- sit down-- chatter about with impunity.

These skeins of Cleckheaton (never heard of it) (plus dishes) to make anti-war Knucks for my activist cousin. Brown base with cream numbers. (After all this time, finally, I will learn Fair Isle.)

I can't remember where I read about this idea. You knit the number of people killed in Iraq into each mitt. The second mitt's number is higher than the first. Knuckle slogan: EXIT IRAQ.

- As I've noted before, I don't spend enough time knitting to feed a stash. However, sales...

Sales are another story. $2.50/skein! Gedifra Fashion Trend Sportivo. (What's that you ask? Yes, that is the same color mix as the Fleece Artist yarn. Yes, I noticed. Coordinated. That's what we'll call it. Coordinated.)

Time to heat the oven, write a late-into-work email to my boss, and turn in. Happy October to you all. There's over two weeks left.

Where am I and what have I done with my pants (II); or, in which your fearless blogger backtracks feverishly to catch up

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Fri, 13 Oct 2006 04:54:00 +0000

Damn it, I simply do not have enough time between tonight and tomorrow.

After my J/J Project re-reread (finished the book Wed. night, still have seven months to go in the blog), I'm tempted to natter on about my entertaining personal life. However, since I am not a character in my own life (I hereby remind Kate of our mutual nondisclosure agreement), I will continue to stick to project updates.

- Second session of my writing class started tonight. (Did I mention that every student but one decided to create a continuing course? Warm fuzzies.) I'm surprised at how happy I am to be back talking and writing with that group. Also: Hi, protagonist. Nice to see you again. Have you figured yourself out at all while I've been gone?

- Short assignment. Never mind the details; I have to wake up in six hours and I still have my contacts in.

- Very little knitting, but Sat. = yarn fiesta. My lost momentum on the sweater bodes well for the APT.

- Hence: As usual, mostly I'm here to write about cooking. (Is it like painting about music, or whatever that anti-critic adage says?) This shan't be that amusing due to an unfortunate (ha) lack of massive Pyrex catastrophe.

My cooking tear quieted. Friday night I ate leftovers like a normal person. Saturday night I ate party food, ditto the normality. Sunday night I cooked, like a normal person; that is, if a normal person had to amalgamate a cabbage the size of her head.

Saturday, my cousin's friend (and fellow farm-shareholder) pulled out an old Madhur Jaffrey cookbook and pointed to the curried cabbage recipe. I noted mustard seeds, fennel seeds, and coconut. (Did you know that coconut comes frozen? In fact, frozen is the only kind the Arlington Mass Ave. Indian market carries. No sugar or preservatives.)

I bought coconut, dal, and cumin seeds. I did not buy fennel seeds. Who needs them when you have... fennel?

Mmm, warm stuff. Curried cabbage and fennel with mustard seeds and the above. Dal, brown rice, yogurt. Didn't taste the fennel at all. Half the cabbage down, half to go.

(This week I also ate a child's pillowcase's worth of salad mix, but the picture's boring.)

Wednesday: Again the farm share overload. The cute share coordinator (farmer's brother) told me that since we share in the harvest, when they grow more we get more. Summer's share coordinator-- while a lovely woman-- rarely let us have extras. I suppose that the farmer's brother feels a lot more free with the veg.

Having lugged probably twenty pounds of produce home-- I wanted to stop at Lucy's and ask to step on her scale, but I knew that a single stop would derail me-- I booted the boring roasted root vegetables idea and proceeded to make...

Au(tumn)gratin. The big Pyrex dish (snif) I'm saving for Saturday's shareholder potluck (chez farm share coordinator).* I made a separate one for myself in my 9x9 metal pan, a/k/a my second-rate brownie pan (snif).

* You understand that I could not possibly bring a boring dish to the shareholder potluck. Especially a potluck hosted by a cute guy.

Contents: Sweet potatoes, carrots (three different colors), parsnips, turnips, two kohlrabi, celeriac. Browned leeks and garlic. Several full-fat dairy products.

To my surprise, a perusal of the Big Yellow Cookbook, Joy of Cooking ca. 1976, and Julia Child vol. 1 came up with four different gratin methods. My synthesis: Parboiled the vegetables; spread in buttered dishes; topped off with heated cream; dotted with butter and smoked Gouda; baked forever, alternating between 300-350 degrees; finished under the broiler with a light dusting of breadcrumbs. The stuff never fully absorbed the cream, but out of the oven it sucked the liquid up. Unexpected.

Conclusion? Well, it's gorgeous yummy stuff, but next time I gratinée anything I'm taking the baked mac & cheese route and using béchamel sauce instead of cream, which even when heavy isn't all that thick. (Julia C. mentions the béchamel idea almost in afterthought. And yes, I dragged out the cookbook after re-rereading the J/J blog. Shush. I did own the cookbook before I heard about the blog.)

The Gouda never melted. Fine with me, since it looks like the parsnips and gives the eater a wee, premonitory "is it or isn't it" thrill.

Wish I'd made more.

--
Anyway, that was the sum post-parsnip total for the week. Not crazed, right? Pretty normal. I mean, it wasn't my fault the aliens arrived. Aliens have unstoppable drive. The first signs appeared Sunday evening, with a telltale breadcrumb path pointing to the scary abode as in Hansel and Gretel. Mid-afternoon Monday, as the day cooled off, they burgeoned in the warm womb and then, finally, descended.

I tell you, that UFO was a fearsome sight. Preliminary telescope data indicated that the entity had a tenacious crust and was filled with soft, pink creatures (with googly eyes, we expect) who came to colonize the Earth. A dire fate, indeed. You don't know how close you came to destruction.

But! Fortunately, one brave hero stood alone to battle the foe. Though others quailed and hid in their homes (hmph), yours truly lifted her four-pronged spear and fought back bravely, sustaining damage but persevering on.

Success came not at once. No, the battle wages on to this day. But la lucha must continua. I tell you:

I will win this fight. On your behalf. And live to fight another day! Specifically, Sunday, when-- the telescope, weather report, and datebook tell us-- more UFOs will rain down upon Boston from the mothership to the north.

Despite their cowardice during the first battle, conscripts may still be accepted. Do you have the guts for glory?

Quick update, mostly books

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 11 Oct 2006 04:48:00 +0000

- Motoring, more or less, through the Arisaig shoulder shaping.

- Tossed the fennel ratatouille. Though the glass bits weren't blue, the thought of 'em nauseated me.

- More food posts after farm share pickup tomorrow and after I photograph a crucial item I oddly neglected to photograph.

- Read tonight instead of cooking or knitting (or working). I note anxiously that three unread issues of the New Yorker seem to be hanging out on my kitchen and coffee tables, and I don't want to be That Person.

- But I don't much care, because along with my compulsive re-rereading of the Julie/Julia Project blog (Ny: Far more cooking descriptions, just as much Buffy) I bought the (ahem) "blook" in paperback this morning and seem, as of 12:30 a.m., to have read 160-odd pages of it.

- The end of this week I'm booked back to back to back. Hence the current couch colonization.

- And so without further ado or apology, may I introduce you to...

Bozzie the Second-- 990 pages of 18th-century bedtime reading delight. In this edition I've reached page 405. I think.

(Old) FO note

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 09 Oct 2006 15:12:00 +0000

Anyone else read the Mason-Dixon blog's "perfect sweater" pattern entry? Ann calls Cascade 220 the perfect yarn. Hmmph, think I, remembering the sad unevenness of the Mystery Blue Thing. (Note: I almost let slip what the MBT is!) But then she mentions blocking. So pre-gifting, I'm going to steam-block the MBT, despite the fact that one doesn't usually block this item. Hopefully it will chill the darn things out. I just emailed MBT photos to an MBT gallery and boy, the unevenness-- ugh.

Some title involving something punny with "pink" that isn't totally overused

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 09 Oct 2006 13:52:00 +0000

("In the," "Pretty in," etc.)

So I don't seem like a poser (poseur?) to knitting board readers, I offer proof that I do occasionally stop reading knitblogs and start knitting. The Ambiguous Pink Thing, alas, has hit the wall.

(Or the deck! Har har!)

And it was going so well. Every time I sat down, substantial progress. Now I'm in what the Yarn Harlot calls the project vortex: You keep going and going but never get.

The lesson may be that long things take time. If ever I make you knee socks, know that I love you (or that I love the pattern. Anyone else have the Knitters mag Socks Socks Socks book? I'm painfully drawn to the Austrian-Patterned Knee Socks. Six twist and cable patterns plus calf shaping on size 0s. Oh, my beating heart. They knock out the same book's Aran Sandal Socks, which use a measly three cables on size 2s, including a cabled heel flap).

The color is, by the way, just about that garish. You should see it under fluorescents.

The same morning (Saturday) I took a shot of Arisaig, all excited to show y'all that I'd started on the lace part (again).

But lo and behold, frustrated with the APT, suddenly all fizzy on lace, we have, this morning...

Hee. Lace detail:

(Off-topic, two cents from the day job: Web accessibility guidelines ask that you add "alt" tags to your images. If you're uploading through Blogger, you can look at the code and add a caption in the alt="" space. Just put it between the quotes. If Blogger squawks your readers can still read the caption text. Back to the usual blather.)

Here's a final picture, in the sun, to give you a better sense of the yarn's color.

(Yes, I'm only knitting pink these days. It's 'cause I'm so girly.)

The gauge/sizing continues to give me tsuris. (Anyone surprised by this?) On the one hand, it's much easier to knit the size small, because it's clearly the version the designer started with. On the other hand, I don't get the needle requirements at all. Look at the wingspan on that thing! The pattern calls for smaller needles on the ribbing; I frogged that (after two tries) and used size 2s throughout. But honestly, shouldn't I have used smaller needles for the lace?!

(I'm not bothered by the rib/lace discrepancy; I'm bothered by the width of the lace.)

I can't bear to frog the lace (take three on the cardi back) but I quit increasing six stitches early. Hopefully this will save a tad bit of yarn, since I'm making the cardi longer than prescribed. The designer has you knit only about 11" before the shoulder shaping. If you're roughly 5'5", take a quick measurement of your armpit to your waist. Eleven inches = very cropped.

Naturally I'm also already fretting about the sleeves. The pattern calls for cuff up, and I don't know that I can modify the lace to knit top down (to allow for running-outage). Anyway, I'm packing that worry away. I really might be fine on yarn (knock wood), since take three hasn't quite finished the first ball of yarn yet and-- key point-- the entire take two is still knit up, waiting to be ripped.

Goal: Finish the APT in the next two weeks. Holiday projects! Can't spend too much time knitting for myself! Happy Thanksgiving to the Canadians, and Indigenous People's Day to the U.S.ians. I'm working from home. Love it.

p.s. I think I'll frog back one lace repeat and take out an extra two stitches. Oh wait, that would be two repeats. Fuh.

The only prescription for my fever is more ludicrous cooking projects on a weeknight

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sat, 07 Oct 2006 15:25:00 +0000

No sooner did I come home from Nova Scotia than I started cooking like a half-screwed-in lightbulb. Oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies the night of my return. (Due to experimentation with the flour quantity, they resulted in, as I said, chocolate-chip tuiles.)

Braised radishes, very pink [standard indoor photo quality disclaimer, though I think the more recent photos don't suck quite as much]:

Then Friday night... you know, the thing is this: I somehow manage to convince myself that X won't take all that long. I had a zingy brainstorm about an alternate way to use the butternut squash, peppers, and jalapeños. Bought lamb for it. Friday, it was already almost 9:30 when I got home from the gym-- you know those days you end up two hours behind yourself? one of those. But, I thought,

"All I have to do is brown and stew the lamb and throw two dishes in to roast. Twenty minutes prep time, then I'll just sit around while everything cooks quietly, by itself."

Right. So how did it happen that when the meal was done I hadn't had time to wash a single dish? (Yes, I ate at 11:30.)

The dish more or less deserved it:

Lamb curry. Cross between a curry and a stew. Browned lamb; sautéed onions and garlic; roasted bell/jalapeño peppers and butternut squash (done in separate dishes to allow for their different cooking times). A slice of bread, a giant slug of beer, and six ice cubes after I tasted a nibble of the roasted jalapeño, I opted to soak up the capsaicin with a few purple potatoes. Half a beer in the liquid. Standard Indian spices. Toasted squash seeds to top. Served on steamed wheatberries. (Oddly, the final time around I had to eat it without adequate grain, and then it tasted too-- sweet? tangy? something didn't work.)

Really the only galling element is the yield: about five servings. Why do I care? I had one of those classic Whole Foods shopping moments, that's why. I only go there for meat. So there I am, bargain shopping, hmm okay that's the stew meat and the two marginally cheaper options require serious butchery, ha no way am I buying the expensive tenderloin or whatever, okay, stew meat, affordable, fine. One-and-a-half pounds, please, nice butcher man. He wraps it up and slaps the sticker on. Which is when I realize Holy @#$% I am spending fifteen dollars on meat.

So that was last Friday. And as I mentioned, I was immediately gripped by the desire to bake a pie. Such was my fervor that I actually walked the leftover three dozen tuiles to Lucy's so that I could justify making more dessert. I came home that evening fully prepared to spend the capstone of the weekend baking alone in my kitchen. Did I mention that Yom Kippur was less than 24 hours away?

You will not be surprised to learn that I did it anyway.

Fortunately for my social life and the pie, my downstairs neighbors invited me to watch the penultimate (sob) Sox game. We each had seconds. Sunday afternoon, a friend and I polished off a slice apiece. So only one, lone slice lurked in my fridge over the fast day.

Tuesday night I had a quick-turnaround article to write. Stayed up 'til nearly 3 a.m., woke up at 7 a.m., went to a gallery for the article, went to the day-job office, finished article, did my job. How do I rest? Pick up the farm share (overloaded, as stated earlier), send a friend a card, buy mushrooms, go to the gym*, buy 12 pounds of flour, sugar, etc. since the apple pie took every tablespoon of non-bread flour I had in the house. (Naturally, I was already elbow-deep in butter when I thought to check; I imagined calling up the neighbors to ask for, literally, a cup of flour.)

* I finally triggered myself to get to the gym semiregularly by checking my bank statement.

Lug everything up the stairs. Yes, it's already 8 p.m. Yes, Project Runway night. Which didn't get watched, because I immediately turned into a Tasmanian Devil of swirling roasting energy convincing myself that stuffed spaghetti squash and semi-ratatouille won't take that long. "Twenty minutes prep time, then it's just hang out while the two dishes roast in the oven," says I. In the back of my mind, I think about baking another apple pie; neighbor has given me a tip to improve the cohesive power of my powdery crust dough.

I forget the real name for the semi-ratatouille. It is a real dish. Tomatoes out, fennel in, serve room-temp, stir chopped olives in after cooking. Here it is, ready to go:

So maybe it's because I was, clearly, high on fumes. Or maybe I never knew that you're not supposed to add tepid water to a Pyrex dish that's been sitting in a 450' oven for 25 minutes. Either way...

Kaboom. Picture taken after I removed the spaghetti squash, obviously. That oven is still on. Mechanically I picked up the phone and said, blankly, "Mom, I just exploded a Pyrex dish in the oven."

I count myself fortunate:
- I didn't get hurt.
- The fennel ratatouille was above the squash. Can you imagine my distress if I'd had to throw away all those vegetables? A big slice of the farm share. Ugh. I finished the stuff on top of the stove. Have to admit that I did, er, crunch on a tiny piece of glass last night, and it has, um, put me off my ratatouille lunch, but I should be fine if I stir through the stuff carefully. Right? The first two servings were unsullied.
- I don't care for spaghetti squash. Though hey, maybe I would've loved it stuffed Italian-style.

The ratatouille turned out all right on the stove, though lacking that browned taste.

Still, I'm saddened by the loss of the dish. My blondies dish! Look how well-loved it is!

It's from my beloved first-edition, no-corrections, note-scribbled copy of The Big Yellow Cookbook, whence also cometh my pie crust recipe.

If anyone comes across a 7"x11" Pyrex baking dish that will fit my old dish's blue plastic lid, buy it and I'll reimburse you. Until then, no bar cookies. !

By the way, you'll note that I was then short an entrée. Couldn't make a cheese sandwich after all that. I took the already-chopped peppers and made a mushroom-pepper omelet sandwich.

Went to sleep, late. Woke up, late for a meeting. Raced through another day. Several social options on the books, plus the missed Project Runway rerun and the final Gray's Anatomy Thursday before my writing class starts up again. (How dumb do I feel tweaking my weekday plans for TV? I wish they'd move GA back to Sunday.) So what do I do Thursday night? Well, hang out with a friend. But then!

Parsnip tart, as brainstormed. "Twenty minutes prep time...."

Delicious, though I could've done with more of everything. The tart's so minimalist that you need two large slices to count as a main course. Neighbor's tip does help: apple cider vinegar.

(Note that I am perfectly aware that I'm spending way too much time alone in the kitchen, and yes, I know it's kinda sad.)

So it's something like 11:40 and I'm finally emerging from my kitchen vortex, remembering that I already had chocolate earlier in the day (er, twice. Remember the late-for-the-meeting bit?). When I came to, I found myself spattering the (just-cleaned) stove stirring homemade chocolate pudding in a (just-cleaned) saucepan.

Sick. Sick. I've even started rereading the Julie/Julia Project blog-- again. (If you like to read about cooking, the blog beats the blook.) Last night I forced myself to eat leftovers. I wouldn't even let myself wash up the dinner dishes. But oh, the itch to bake another apple pie.

And-- oh fear me-- I still have fennel, half a leek, cabbage, jalapeños, parsnips, mushrooms, and salad greens in the fridge.

Recipe musing

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Thu, 05 Oct 2006 21:25:00 +0000

My CSA's newsletter says that contrary to my impression, the final week of the season is Oct. 16, not the last week of the month?! I pray that the earlier date only applies to the western Mass. shares. The thought of losing my farm share two weeks early makes me nauseated. What am I going to eat come wintertime? I hate the end of farm share season. Months of boring green salad, etc., from vegetables flown and trucked in from Chile. Arf.

With that potential heartbreak in mind, I'm musing over ways to use a couple pounds of parsnips. F.S. partner and I used to think that we missed the best selection coming late. Quite the opposite: Last night the secondary coordinator guy loaded us up. I'm talking three heads of fennel for my half-share instead of one, more parsnips, a second head of lettuce between me and FSP, even a few pounds of fruit share apples-- and we don't have a fruit share!

Hence, parsnips. I'm thinking I'll make a tarte tatin, only savory (and minus the apples). Slice the parsnips thin and layer them in a rose on the tart crust. Questions:

- How long will they take to brown? Parboil first? Prebake the crust or not?
- Layer the sliced parsnips over a slather of mashed parsnips? I may not have enough to do this.
- Caramelized onions: Yes. (We got red ones in the share.) However, try as I might I can't imagine that they can brown properly if inserted into the parsnip layer, since half of each slice won't be exposed directly to heat. I'm thinking do 'em first on the stovetop and then spread them under the parsnips.
- Under? everything: smoked Gouda? That cheese makes the most sense to me-- I think goat cheese will be too tart, mozzarella pointless, and cheddar too distinctive. Also smoked Gouda is always good with quiche-y things.
- Sage.
- Add anything else?

Hmmm.

(This will all take place, of course, after I pick and vacuum all the Pyrex shards out of the broiler.)

My next explanation for the delay on the promised cooking post

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Thu, 05 Oct 2006 19:51:00 +0000

It was all going so well. Thirty pounds of farm share and flour lugged up the stairs, two dishes roasting happily, peppers chopped on the board.... Three words:

Catastrophic Pyrex failure.

As I stood in front of the open, 450 degree oven, I did think to take a picture. Will post later.

Yet more proof that no one at my day job understands me

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 04 Oct 2006 18:22:00 +0000

Or, at least, is the same kind of fish. Lunchtime. I turned to the NY Times online and read:

R.W. Apple, a Times Journalist in Full, Dies

By TODD S. PURDUM 10:41 AM ET
R.W. Apple wrote about wars, politics, food and the revenge of living well from more than 100 countries. He was 71.

I gasped. Literally. "R.W. Apple is dead?!" I exclaimed to no one. I have no one to share this with here at work. So I'm sharing it with the blogosphere.

Edit: Okay, at least two of my co-workers know who the guy is (was). But they still don't share my enthusiasm.

For those who aren't media hounds or New Yorkers (Q: or over 40?), Apple had a front-page byline in the Times for years and years and years-- one of the biggest political reporters around. After he semi-retired from that beat, he got an incredibly sweet gig writing long food travel pieces, presumably funded at least partly by the Paper of Record.

Man, what an obit.

To the end of his life, Mr. Apple kept a small black bag packed with essentials, including a personal pepper mill, ready to be whisked away on a moment’s notice for a big story, or for a little one that caught his fancy....

Mr. Apple’s dinner guests — at his Georgetown house, his farm near Gettysburg, Pa., or his English cottage in the Cotswolds — were apt to include not only leading politicians but also prominent figures in architecture, cuisine and the arts. He thought nothing of beginning a sentence by saying, "The first time I made lunch for Julia Child ...."

Mr. Apple was always the hero of his own life, especially in his younger days. His colleagues swapped so many outraged stories about his bumptious behavior that they eventually began charging each other for the privilege, with the proceeds going to a kitty for their bar tabs.

And-- I could not be more excited that the reporter caught this--

In 1982, he married the former Betsey Pinckney Brown, and she became his traveling companion, driver and partner at table, often introduced in his first-person food and travel articles as "my wife Betsey."

YES! Anyone who follows the NYT food section has (had!) that experience reading Apple's foodelogues: Waiting, shoe poised ready to drop, for that moment (always in the first three-four grafs) he wrote, "..., with my wife, Betsey, ..." (Note the commas.)

A friend once called me "dashing"; it was one of the highest compliments I've yet received. I can only dream of aspiring to the heights of Applehood.

Hee hee

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 04 Oct 2006 01:01:00 +0000

Aw man, talk about timewasters! Google now has a gajillion gidgets with easy blog code. For instance...

You don't have to thank me.

EDIT: Grrr, why is Blogger halving the screen? You definitely can't play PacMan while scrolling. Fuh. Anyway, here's the gadgets page.

--
p.s. Yom Kippur fast Sunday night/Monday = delayed cooking blog post.

Vacation shots, feel free to bypass

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sat, 30 Sep 2006 19:14:00 +0000

As many people know, all summer I kvetched about work overload. So I took my summer vacation in late September. Mostly I read (thanks again, Julie and Rich). There are no photos of books, largely because although I'm past 550 pages in Boswell I (ahem) misplaced the godforsaken volume Thursday after an uncharacteristic encounter with a margarita. Argh.

Anyway. I'll keep the blow-by-blow short. After my fly-by-night departure (got about three hours of sleep)(damn, I'm already going into detail) I called my kid sister from the airport (5:45 a.m. She was on her way to work) and landed to fairly inauspicious, misty/rainy weather.

(Look-- kilometers!) Which cleared up beautifully as soon as I arrived at my destination.

Harbor basin at low tide:

The view from Julie's front door:

After I spent a day or two unwinding (i.e., lazing), I put on my tourist's hat and visited Lunenberg, a pretty coastal town. First I hunted down nearby Blue Rocks. It's a small, traditional fishing village, says the 1999 Frommer's guidebook I found on the street four years ago (I loaned my good guidebook away).

The fishing shacks intrigued me. All pint-size. Rough, short gangplanks to get in and out. "Village" overstates the spot considerably.

No one was there. A small handful of wood-carving souvenir shops-- that is, people's houses-- and that was it. Tight turnaround. Which reminds me: The Toyota Yaris hatchback is a faaaantastic car for the money. Decent headroom. Comfortable. Handles fine, though I wouldn't want to corner hard. Tight turning radius. Sips gas.

Then I did my best to get lost.

I succeeded. Lunenberg itself: eh. Lotsa galleries offering locally made paintings of storm-tossed seas and scenic coves. (Is that description too harsh?) The tourist shops seemed especially strange on a post-season, empty day. The town has attractive churches.

(Any guesses? In New England, that would be cod.)

And stately cats.

"You may kiss the paw."

Okay. We're getting near the end. Promise. Monday, back with my generous hosts (whom I'd cleaned out of All-Bran), I wanted to get closer to the view. So I hiked the local cape.

Pretty. I haven't uploaded my water pictures, but it was there. Speaking of not uploading, I'm not maintaining blog semi-anonymity; I have a constitutional dislike of getting photos of myself in front of landmarks. (Other people in front of landmarks-- no problem.) Also, as an ex-New Yorker I worry that any stranger I ask to take said photo will turn and run off with my camera.

To prove that I didn't crib this portfolio from stock-photography sites--

Windy up there. Shnookered around for a while, then came back down and walked on the beach. Which leads me to the minor moral of this picture book: In Nova Scotia, come September,

Apples are everywhere.

Ta-da! (thx thx J. & R.!)

p.s. Drat, forgot to mention Halifax. I have a funny story involving a hip comics store, a mouth (mine), and a foot (sadly, also mine).

Nova Scotia knits

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sat, 30 Sep 2006 18:56:00 +0000

First off, both the Ambiguous Pink Thing and the Arisaig cardi (remember that?) are motoring along satisfactorily. But I forgot to take photos, and after loading 103? photos to iPhoto I hope you'll excuse me photo if I can't bear photo to take any more photos today.

So... as I asked, when in Rome (Nova Scotia), what does a knitter do?

Yup. My first two skeins ever. Story short: Gaspereau Valley Fibres started as a sheep farm, and I wanted to buy their own, homegrown yarn. Unfortunately, that day they offered mostly bulkyish yarn-- gorgeous snuggly stuff, but I couldn't drum up any ideas for it. So I roused about until I found the two cheapest skeins of Fleece Artist in the house.

(p.s.: I'm trying to leave out locating details until I ask my host whether or not she wants her town identified. If yes, I'll add a link to the LYS.)

The right skein is 325m (!) of 100% washable merino. Oddly, the accompanying sock pattern says not to wash. Hm. The photo turned the merino's plum purple. (In some dicey corner of the writer's universe, that sentence makes sense.)

No way will I hide this gorgeous stuff on my feet. I think that, post-presents, I'll bow to groupthink and knit a Clapotis scarf/wrap for myself.

The left is some other yardage (I wrote it down somewhere) of Kid Silk. (Not Kid Silk Haze.) Comes with a scarf pattern I might use. The skein smells faintly... sorta faintly... of goat. LYS owner suggests that I air or wash the yarn. Yes--

Truly, airing or washing the skein is a great idea. Here's hoping the stuff doesn't make my needles or hands smell like goat. (Though Eva-cat might appreciate it.)

p.s. I glued up a cute orange-and-hot-pink fleece sheep thing at the crafts table. Picture to come, maybe.

Okay, what first: nature, food, or knits?

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sat, 30 Sep 2006 18:54:00 +0000

My camera does a decent job outside, so I have a few (FEW) vacation shots to post. This is going to be picture, scroll-scroll-scroll blog post heaven. (Run.) To reduce reader RSI, I'm splitting the photo-heavy updates into three posts, with the cooking updates left 'til tomorrow.

Promises, promises

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Thu, 28 Sep 2006 20:36:00 +0000

- I have an absolutely jaw-dropping dish to try tomorrow night. Can't wait to cook (and photograph badly!).

- Also on the cooking front: Two new recipes for... believe me... plain green cabbage. I'm tired of making endless spicy Asian slaw. These dishes both require the application of heat.

- I am starting to crave apple pie. Yet how can I make an apple pie when I have a few dozen oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies on hand-- specifically, slightly failed cookies that taste good but don't look good enough to palm off on people? (Flour. Experimenting with flour. Forgetting that the oatmeal does not, in fact, replace its volume in flour. Drat.)

- Ambiguous pink thing has required a couple of stabs at the (ahem) short-row part that gets turned, but tonight's Grey's Anatomy KAL should take care of that. Note: Call Mom to get season premiere synopsis. Did you non-Canadian guys know that one of the Canadian stations somehow aired the second episode instead of the first?

- And a final yarn promise. I'll just ask, rhetorically, convolutedly, and absolutely at a loss for punctuation marks-- When in Rome-- rather, Nova Scotia: To make like the Romans, what does a knitter do?

p.s. Great quote from the Knittyboard today: "What exactly is an asshat? Is it a hat for your ass (I call those 'pants') or a hat that looks like an ass?"

448 unread emails later

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 27 Sep 2006 04:21:00 +0000

Or was that 484? I'm back from my weeklong Nova Scotia rest cure, thanks to wonderful hosts Julie and Rich. Can I stay home from work tomorrow on the grounds that further absence will traumatize my cat?

Photos (eventually), yarn, ghee, scenery descriptions, books, praise of the Toyota Yaris hatchback to follow.

p.s. I forgot to turn off my various daily alerts and listservs, including two local freecycle lists (oog).

p.p.s. Who's baking cookies at midnight? I don't know who's baking cookies at midnight.

As promised

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 02:47:00 +0000

I have to get in a cab in the rain in... five-and-a-half hours to start avoiding my computer. But buying new camera batteries was on this evening's list.

In the last four-ish days, I cooked several things I didn't (obviously) photograph. And I also made:

[insert standard photo disclaimer. ugh.]

What for a lack of a better phrase I'll call "eggplant paneer." (Is eggplant the "baignan" or the "bartha" in "baignan bartha"?) That pink stuff is raita mixed with the last of a steam/sautéed beets/chard side dish. You can't see it under the brown gook, but I'm also eating the last of last Friday's absurd, impromptu experiment: beet-stuffed potato croquettes, a.k.a. potato pancakes. Which taught me that I don't care to make potato pancakes more than once a year. Note to self: Put smoke detector back on ceiling.

(I had my downstairs neighbors-- hey, remember the downstairs neighbors?-- up for a bribery dinner.)

(p.s. I'm now at page 485 or so of Boswell.)

I also made something that may surprise you:

What's so surprising about salad? I haven't had any lettuce in the farm share for probably eight weeks. The fork holds pale yellow carrots, crimson-streaked carrots, and albino-blonde peppers. I don't want to think about what I'll cook come November.

Okay.

So.

Fanfare? Though all my knitblog-reading has activated my knitting insecurity. I know I can cook well. Knitting... well, the pictures do suck. Anyway, I finally finished the godforsaken

Green socks. Let's get a gander at that braid:

I knit two pairs of socks back in 1999-2000 but didn't keep them for myself. So far these are, well, damp. I did a better job on sock #2 than #1. Hmm.

I'm much more excited about the... yes...

Mystery blue thing! Take a look at that detail!

... because you're not going to see anything else! (If you know me in real life, don't check that Flickr account. I mean it.)

I hope in the next week to start my next holiday project. What? Yup, you guessed right: The Ambiguous Pink Thing.

Back online next week-- I'll send postcards.

And I need to arrest myself

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 18 Sep 2006 18:46:00 +0000

D: [Frets about the proper title case capitalization for "for" in the figure of speech "If it weren't for...." Is it a coordinating conjunction, a preposition, what?]

Mom: The grammar police aren't going to come after you.

D: I am the grammar police.

N.B.

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sun, 17 Sep 2006 14:10:00 +0000

I have finished the Mystery Blue Thing, which is a good time to say... some of you readers may want to avoid going directly to my Flickr account until after the holidays.