mulberryshoots

I’ve been knitting a sweater for my daughter, C. for awhile and have been wanting to finish it so that she can wear it now that the cool weather of the Fall is upon us. Knitting is a good pastime for me because it keeps me busy while watching the Red Sox play or Jonny Lee Miller and Lucy Liu on the show, “Elementary” trying to catch criminals on TV.

The desire to finish it, however, felt to me like the myth of Penelope, the wife of Odysseus, every day toiling to weave her tapestry and each night, that day’s work mysteriously unravelling. In her case, it served a good purpose because the completion of her weaving would have meant punishment meted out to the populace. So taking out what she had done during the day was a good thing and served a worthy moral purpose while ensuring the piece would not be finished until Odysseus showed up to rescue her and save his kingdom.

In my case, I’ve taken apart and started the cuffs a number of times, finally getting the gauge right by using much smaller needles, settling on a zigzag pattern for the cuffs that I’ve always imagined making for myself. I thought I was in the home stretch when I sewed up the sleeves and eased them into the armholes. As I sewed two rows of stitching to make sure they would not pull loose anywhere, I remember thinking to myself, “Boy, I hope I won’t have to take this apart,” (an oddly prescient thought in hindsight!) Sure enough, when I tried the sweater on myself, I noticed that the shoulder line of the back and fronts fell below my shoulder so that the sleeves were too long and the whole thing looked even bigger than I had feared it might be. Instead of stitching it together, I should have basted the sleeve into the armhole first. Although technically “finished,” I was not at all happy with the end result.

I decided to put it aside and drove to the grocery store to buy some fresh fish for dinner. Along the way, I briefly contemplated soaking the whole sweater in hot water to shrink it, but even I shrank from this crazy idea that might have ruined it forever. By the time I got home, I resolved to remove the sleeves, hem the shoulder edge to narrow the shoulders, then re-attach slightly shorter sleeves. Along with the prescient foreshadowing that I might have to take apart the double-stitching, a perfectly curved tiny snipping shears appeared out of nowhere while I was looking for some thread which made the undoing task feasible.

corrective surgery on shoulder/sleeve shape

Although this sounds like a serious intervention, it was just the ticket to reshape the sweater!

When C. was here visiting last weekend, we took a look at some mother-of-pearl buttons I had in my stash. The flower-shaped buttons were too starkly, shiny white on the right side, but turning the button over to the raw underside–the side you weren’t supposed to look at– the mottled textured surface looked just like steamer shells incarnate. In fact, the buttons looked so much like the flecked, heathered yarn that they’re hard to see. A match made in heaven, if I do say so myself!

“steamers” yarn with shell buttons

So, that seems to be it! After taking apart the fronts and re-knitting them because the neckline was too low for the collar (which turned out great!), redoing the cuffs numerous times to make them fit properly, and now taking apart the shoulder/armhole sewing; then radicalizing the shoulder line by hemming it in before re-inserting the re-knitted sleeves, you’d think I could have knitted the sweater twice! (which I did contemplate doing on smaller needles, two/thirds of the way through when I feared the sweater would be too roomy.) But all’s well that ends well, I think, and the shoulder/sleeve surgery was just what this piece needed in order to fall into place. I guess you can tell I knit from scratch without a pattern, and perhaps that’s why there is so much trial and error. Huge sigh of relief! I can’t tell why I’ve had to re-knit so much these days (maybe knitting on faith rather than measuring; or mis-estimating needle gauge to yarn?) But, it seems to be a part of my process, and like Penelope, keeps me busy, day and night. I feel good about solving vexing problems in fact. . . as long as I eventually reach a solution that I’m happy with in the end.

A knitting postscript: While I was sorting through my yarns to put them away in the closet with mothballs, I came across a thick deep red flecked yarn with an orange-red sister yarn which looks like just enough yarn to make companion vests for my granddaughter, Josie who is three and her friend, Annika who is closer to five. I’m thinking of making red fronts with orange backs, open armholes and empire length–sort of like a kid’s vest-let. It will go over their heads, and keep them warm without much weight and also last for awhile while they are growing so fast. I thought I’d knit a little heart in a contrasting color to sew on each one too. Since Annika is slightly older and bigger, her mother has been generously providing Annika’s outgrown clothes and toys for Josie since she was born–and what beautiful clothes they have been! It will be so much fun to knit these little pieces for them to wear as big and little sister. Let’s just hope I won’t have to re-do them too many times to get it right. I was thinking of a little seed stitch piece to hold them together on either side. Like a Japanese vest that I made for C. before.

yarn for josie and annika vest-lets!

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October 3, 2013

gift . . .

With all the flotsam and jetsam that floats by each day, it is heartening to read a book that engages, entertains and edifies one’s view on life, all at the same time. Such is “The Signature of All Things” by Elizabeth Gilbert. As you might recall, she became famous for her memoir, “Eat, Pray, Love” which sold 10 million copies, was made into a movie starring Julia Roberts and which has made her rich enough to begin rebuilding (including buying houses for friends) a small town in New Jersey where she lives with a husband whom she married to ensure he could stay in the U.S.A. on a green card. You might think that would be enough to handle in the past few years, along with setting up a shop of imported wares like Buddhas and other Asian things that her husband manages.

But no, apparently, that’s not been enough to occupy her time/life. With the publication of “The Signature of All Things,” Elizabeth Gilbert reveals that she has been busy researching 18th and 19th century botanical history, including the commerce of ocean trade between the West and obscure locations yielding up medicinal plants and potions that ebbed and flowed with plagues, fevers, malaria and other illnesses that could not be treated otherwise than with exotic potions and herbs. She has constructed a tale (that’s the only word for it) of a family, and especially a heroine named Alma Whittaker who is not pretty but is very intelligent, feisty and hard-working who perseveres through a life of disappointments and wishes that go unfulfilled in unwinsome ways. That this story is told in a narrative fashion (“telling” rather than “showing” through dialogue) is a huge relief because stories matter and I’m so glad to be able to simply read for pleasure without having to deal with all the annoying current artificial fads in writing/publishing.

That being said, another bonus in the writing is that for me, at least, the narrator’s voice sounds awfully familiar to that of Jane Austen. In fact, I enjoyed reading this book much more than some Jane Austen’s novels because the humor and wit come easy, comes often and is awe-inspiring in its light touch. So, it even kind of out-Austens Jane, but seems so effortless that it’s not a contest, just fun.

To be honest, I read a lot and am one of those readers who, unless engaged and interested, do not suffer books (or fools) gladly. This is the first book in a long time that I marveled at while laughing out loud. I also appreciated the more sobering discussions about the relationships of all things, (never mind the signature as explained in the novel,) and the spirited attitude of the heroine. I can’t wait to read it again, more slowly this time, and savor the writing of someone who has already won the writing lottery with “Eat, Pray, Love,” a book that I wanted to throw across the room numerous times except for the “Pray” section. Now, against some odds, she has succeeded in writing literature. No wonder Elizabeth Gilbert is smiling in the photos that accompany the book. She’s done what many of us want to accomplish in our lives: to be original in our creativity, to persevere until it is finished and to be published. I wish I had come up with something like this. But it’s more than enough pleasure for me just to hold this volume in my hands and to know I can read it more than once and enjoy it more fully after an astonishing first time through. What a gift!

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September 28, 2013

choice . . .

I’ve been thinking about choices lately. That we start making them from the moment we wake up. Whether to squeeze navel oranges for juice (sweet citrus nectar) or to pour juice from the carton. To heat up a flaky croissant in the oven because it’s Saturday morning or to eat cereal with fresh blueberries and two percent milk like the rest of the week. To drink more than one cup of coffee while savoring reading the New York Times?

Then, onto other ones. To be annoyed about goings on that disturb the peaceable morning, or to let it go since it’s really not that big a deal? To limit how much picking up to do because it doesn’t really matter since I’m the only one who seems to notice anyway? And so it goes as the day unfolds.

It seems to me that there are two sides of my brain going on most of the time: to enjoy and appreciate what I see (gorgeous mums glowing in the morning light) or (untidy hose lying near the faucet.) Experiencing the light (gorgeous melody coming out of the piano) or shadow (dissonance from misreading some of the notes.) Maybe if I didn’t think so much of the time, I’d be able to react to things without having to choose which reaction I want to stay with.

Of course, being holistic allows us to see more than either-or options. Our Western culture is bifocal: right or wrong, black or white. We could choose to see all the shades between and see a greater whole, even being at ease with ambiguity and ambivalence.

I guess the biggest choice of all, at least for me, is consciously choosing to be happy. Even if there are still concerns about how some things may turn out in the future. And, when reading the paper can be disquieting almost all the time. Or, seeing how utterly dumb some members of Congress seem to think we, the American public, are. There’s also a thick layer of self-serving earnestness going on with publicity-seekers that our media seems to think is newsworthy these days. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of choice on TV’s new Fall programming that isn’t about revenge, sex, guns, violence or the most vapid of (new!) situation comedies.

So, back to a choice to be happy. I guess that one could choose to stay stuck in a small shuttered vision of what life can be and resign ourselves to it: whether it’s due to a lack of resources, time (we think we’re too old), or we are hung up (frozen by indecision or habit) OR the worst argument of all: that’s the way we’ve always been and we don’t think we can change. Or, we think that other people have an idea of us and we’re stuck with that, even if we’d like to be different.

Well, I’m ready. My cousin Pei-Fen entreated me to “be happy” right before she died. I remember that often because it’s up to me, no one else. I can choose to be happy, with self-awareness and intention. It also entails giving myself permission to break my mold somehow and to be content with being happy. How hard can that be?

Postscript (two weeks later): If you’re at all interested, I’ve found a few behavioral modification tips that have raised my score for being able to be happy (how hard can it be?) It’s kind of hard, actually, unless:

1. When you react to something that feels negative, the first thing to consider is whether it’s under your control or not. If not, let it go and stop thinking about it. Do not brood about it.

2. When something IS under your control, either do something constructive about it, or let it go and stop thinking about it.

3. When something happens that makes you happy or excited, SAVOR that reaction and marinate in it for a little while. Share the good feeling with someone if you feel like it.

4. Get enough sleep.

5. Ask yourself every once in awhile if you are feeling more happy than you were before you started choosing to be happy. I’m happy to report that we are, in fact, happier! Both of us!

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September 26, 2013

a romantic cook . . .

antique carved breadboard

I was reading a follow-up article in the NYTimes this morning about chickens who are fed scraps from gourmet restaurants from NYC (trucked to an Amish farm in Pennsylvania) and how improved the flavor is over commercially fed birds. If it’s true for us humans that “we are what we eat,” then it should be little surprise that this holds true for animals as well, doesn’t it? In any case, I have been comparing the taste and texture of chickens available through our grocery markets ever since the original article was published last week. I try to avoid Perdue chickens in the supermarket because of the documentary a few years ago showing caged chickens in a filthy barn as one of the Perdue suppliers. Wouldn’t touch one after that. I’m tempted to order one of the D’Artagnan Green Circle chickens after these reports of incomparable flavor and juicy white meat, silky dark meat.

One of the letters to the editor wrote about living “on our frugal little farms” which made me laugh. Especially since my recent Bon Appetit magazine which arrived a couple of days ago featured a gorgeous spread about Mimi Thorrison who is half-French/half-Chinese, has beautiful dark hair and a slender figure even after bearing four children and cooks for a family of nine everyday filled with fresh foods from the farm markets, seafood, butter, chicken, cream, calvados and gougeres. In case you haven’t noticed, there is a wide breadth of life between living frugally on our little farms and living fully on a farm in Medoc, France with a husband who is a professional photographer and breeds Jack Russell and smooth haired terriers. At latest count, I think they have forty dogs running around the place. Mimi also favors providing the best wine you can afford, sets flowers all around with lit candles with beautiful bases. And, astonishingly, none of it looks or sounds pretentious at all, that’s the most amazing part of her aura.

It takes a lot to bowl me over since I read a lot and peruse magazines from the U.S., U.K. and Australia at the local bookstore, even keeping up with editorial changes which seem to be happening more often, or at least more quickly these days. There has been nothing close that takes my breath away as much as the description of the Thorisson family and photographs described on Mimi’s blog, Manger. Apparently, this is a shared response because there is a TV cooking show being filmed on site and she is writing a cookery book that will be published by Clarkson Potter in the Fall of 2014. I can’t wait.

Not only are the goings on so evocative and tenderly personal, they are written without being at all self-promotional (her two year old daughter, Gaia’s yearning for blackberries that she could reach [not spoiled by the foxes brushing by the low branches] and not finding them where she was sure there were some; then their father, Oddur [yes, that’s his Icelandic name] speaks earnestly to their son, Hudson, asking him to look carefully for patches of blackberries elsewhere on the property.) Which he does!, to everyone’s delight, yielding ten bowls of blackberries, which Mimi then makes into blackberry ice cream and blackberry souffles dusted with fine sugar and frozen blackberries on the top. It is so beautiful and yet so charmingly described (a fine line to walk) that the reader is entranced. Charmed by reading about and peering into such a very charmed life.

So, I wish the best for them, and have Manger on my bookmark bar (among the few) where I gain inspiration from people who are living their dreams (along with breeding so many dogs) raising a family with such thoughtful care and looking so beautiful amongst it all. What it has also done is to reinforce my awareness once again of how much beauty and bounty resides within our own homes: old wooden bowls collected over so many years and Shino glazed pottery plates and bowls that we use every day. Old copper pots, one a huge hammered one, is perfect for roasting a leg of lamb, turnips, carrots and onions now that the weather has cooled off. Yesterday, a friend brought a sheaf of freshly picked basil which I harvested and stored in the fridge with a slightly dampened paper towel. Tomorrow, I plan to make pesto with toasted pine nuts and pair it with whole wheat fettucine plus bella mushrooms. Trimming fresh basil leaves off an armful of two foot stems seemed like light work compared to cleaning ten bowls of wild blackberries!

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September 22, 2013

equinox . . .

newly planted chrysanthemums and perennial chinese lanterns

Autumn in New England is one of the most beautiful seasons of the year. This afternoon around 4 p.m. the autumnal equinox will occur: when the sun crosses the equator resulting in night and day being equally divided. A song was even written about it, “Autumn in New York.” Yesterday morning, I passed by a beautiful, huge chrysanthemum plant at the grocery store. It was a combination of russet and yellow blooms, the buds barely showing any color, tightly wound ready to burst into bloom in a few days. I kept thinking about it so I went back yesterday afternoon and bought it. G. and I made a patch for it (at least, G. did) and we wedged it into the front of the stone triangle garden in front of the house. His little stone gargoyle guy was set right under it, gnawing or playing his pipe.

Today, on Sunday, the 22nd of September, the morning began overcast and grey, although the blue morning glories on the deck greeted us from the kitchen window as we had breakfast and read the morning papers. Then, G. went off to Boston to do a couple of piano tunings and I settled back to write a letter to a potter friend in Australia.

I thought how nice it would be to pick up a few smaller pots of mums in different colors and to plant them all (including the huge mother plant) into the ground. There was also a bag of mulch sitting around all summer, too heavy for me to move into place to spread it (or at least that was my proffered excuse to myself.)

At the Stop and Shop, I found three bushy mums in yellow, russet and a warm dusty rose. Putting on my sneakers when I got home, I used a big garden fork and spade to dig holes for the plants. Weeded and cut thick, woody roots. Planted the mums and mulched them with ye old bag of mulch. Swept the porch steps and watered the plants with a fine spray from the hose still outside. It felt satisfying to have acknowledged the equinox with this bevy of mums in the garden, especially with so much human drama occurring all around us every day.

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September 21, 2013

“death be not proud” . . .

In the last week, a close friend and high school teacher colleague of my daughter’s who was fondly called “Doc 5” lingered from a dread rare type of cancer and died on Thursday, the 19th of September as the full harvest moon rose in the sky. He had been a teacher of Classics, fluent apparently, in Greek and Latin which he quoted in a “booming voice.”

Touching testimonials flew in on his CaringBridge guestbook from students near and far. One Dad wrote that he had a four-year-old daughter whom he hoped would be as lucky as he was to have had a teacher as inspiring as Doc 5. Another wrote that she was writing her Ph.D. thesis and that M. in high school had been the best teacher she had ever had. Someone also wrote that the one teacher he always came back to visit every year in person was Doc 5.

Here was a man who found his calling and carried it out, influencing circle upon circle of students year after year. He had good friends too. Loyal and true who stood by him everyday and loved him. In the end, everything seemed to come together on the day he died. He had the gift of reading letters and looking at photographs of weddings and children sent to him by former students. In a way, his was a living epiphany while he was dying. The word, epiphany is used often. But in this case, it seems particularly apropos.

Here is John Donne’s poem, “Death Be Not Proud” as acknowledgement of M.’s passing.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men,

And dost with poison, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

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September 19, 2013

unmasked . . .

Hey, I just discovered something interesting. At least to me. Which is that unwittingly and unknowingly somehow, I have thought it was my job in life to know-it-all. That’s probably because I figured out at a young age that to be able to contribute to a situation or to people was to know more than anyone else so that I could help out. This may also have had to do with feeling that just being myself wasn’t sufficient enough to get along in life.

Guess what? It didn’t work. Oh, in some ways, it did because I was able to provide a living for myself and my daughters when they were in college. I wondered also if it’s a partly cultural thing because I’m Asian. You know, performing in school and getting all A’s because that’s what was expected without anyone ever mentioning it aloud. Also studying to be a concert pianist and wanting to be a neurosurgeon or something when others were playing sports and going to proms.

Wow, those were high expectations of another era, or a bunch of eras ago. Now, nobody cares about knowing stuff because all you have to do is click onto Google. The fallout for thinking one’s purpose in life is to be the smartest one in the room though, is that people run away from you as though you have the plague. Nobody seems to like being told what to do, even if I’m just being a Chinese Tiger-Mother to my kids. Poor things.

As for my husband, G., I am in awe realizing his love for me because he has kindly borne with me and my opinions for over two decades. Now that I realize that I don’t have to know it all in order to fix things, I can relax and maybe begin to enjoy life a little. All those romances on TV where people look into each other’s eyes and say that they want to get married so that they can grow old with each other? Well, that’s what G. and I are doing right now, being married and growing old together, a lifelong dream. Lucky us.

Roast chicken and twice-baked potatoes for dinner tonight. Along with yellow string beans, his favorite.

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September 15, 2013

zen day (sun-day) . . .

One reads about the middle way, neither too yin nor too yang. Not one extreme or the other, but follow the golden mean. Take not gain nor loss to heart. Stay calm and do our best. Every day. Fret not about what we can’t affect. Influence modestly when we can. Doesn’t that sound calming? It takes the struggle from contention. It neutralizes fear because if we do our best, fear becomes a waste of energy.

This weekend, my daughter, C. visited and we made blueberry muffins because it was Sunday morning. A new recipe I found online with small bits of unsalted butter mixed in with the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Then eggs and milk. Blueberries and orange zest. Baked and sprinkled with lemon zest and sugar on top: the crowning glory of flavor. They were delicious, especially with cups of hot coffee while we read articles aloud to each other from the New York Times. Not too big like supermarket muffins sometimes are. C. remembered when we used to make blueberry muffins from Duncan Hines box mixes on Sundays when the kids were growing up. I forgot about that somehow.

We talked about friends, some in need, and what we might be able to do to help. Played some Scriabin and Beethoven on my incandescent Steinway grand piano (“Victor”). The tone so clear as a bell and resonant too. Then we ordered a small mushroom pizza, getting gas for her car on the way to pick up our lunch. More munching and talking about teaching, kids cyber-bullying and wondering what comes over girls during adolescence?

C. folded up the sheets, blankets and quilt in a neat pile which will be put away until her next visit. . . soon we hope.

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September 12, 2013

easy . . .

You know how sometimes life can feel like it’s really hard? Well, recently, I’ve decided that it would be a lot nicer for it to be easy instead. Not to worry, you know? Not to run around as if you really have to. Just look around. Take it easy.

Not try so hard. Be thoughtful. Give things a second chance. Or a third. Give up old grudges. Especially since it doesn’t do any good to have them anyway. To think about those who are old. Consider the people we know who are really sick. Wonder whether people would be helped simply by seeing if they have a deficiency like iodine or potassium that might help their bodies rest, regenerate and balance out instead of stuffing themselves with chemo, anti-depressants, sleeping pills and the like. Appreciate being able to be cool inside when it’s sweltering hot and humid outside. Be honest and true. It’s easier than pretending anything else.

Watched part of the new version of the film, “Anna Karenina” yesterday. Saw parts of it where Keira Knightley is SO MISERABLE. Paranoid she will lose her true love. Shunned by everyone. Yearning after what she can’t have. Not wanting to give up even though he can’t make up his mind. Until she falls in front of a train and dies. Boy, was I glad that G. and I married each other after seeing that movie! We didn’t have to but we both wanted to after a few years together. It’s been over twenty years now since we met because the lyre on my Steinway piano wasn’t put back by the movers properly. Fate or Karma or something like that. Destiny. Shows you don’t have to make that much of an effort in life because surprises are the things that change its direction anyhow. And it’s not of your own doing. Many of the most important things that have happened to me have been due to events outside of my control, both good and bad. Not on the radar screen by a long shot. So, why worry? Maybe taking it easy a long time ago might have increased my life span. I’ll never know, will I?

I know of people who can’t sleep because maybe they are worried they won’t wake up again. I can understand that fear in the very old or in the very sick. But, it’s not up to our will. So we might as well sleep. Slumber. Give into life. It will hold up. It always has, come to think of it.

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mulberryshoots

October 5, 2013

knitting . . .

October 3, 2013

gift . . .

September 28, 2013

choice . . .

September 26, 2013

a romantic cook . . .

September 22, 2013

equinox . . .

September 21, 2013

“death be not proud” . . .

September 19, 2013

unmasked . . .

September 15, 2013

zen day (sun-day) . . .

September 12, 2013

easy . . .