Saturday always seems like a such a promise. You wake up with the entire day stretching before you and you can do whatever you wish (within reason of course). The best Saturdays start with the sun streaming in through the window and a slight breeze blowing the curtains. At this point, you have so many options, you can roll back over and go to sleep, you can lie in bed and daydream or you can get up and greet the day.
With a big stretch, I get up to greet the day and slowly amble through to the rest of the apartment. Half of my brain is creating a to-do list with an appropriate time-line and the other half is savouring the moment of expectation. It's Saturday: I don't have to be anywhere at a certain time; I have so many options to choose. What am I going to do today?
I know that I will go to the market and the grocery store to get supplies for the week, I know that I really must vacuum and I know that I really must tidy my room. But for the moment, I have the entire week-end to accomplish it. I put on the kettle and make toast. With my tea and toast in hand, I check my e-mail and the news, the breeze making the curtains dance beside me and the sun inviting me to come outside.
I get ready to head to the market and make a mental list of the stores I wish to browse through and things I need to buy. I grab my shopping tote and I head off.
First on my list of stores is the bookstore. I know exactly which book I want to get but I find myself wandering into the cooking section. My eyes alight on the baking books. Time doesn't matter today and I indulge myself by flipping through the various books. I toy between the purchase of a book full of creme brulee recipes, one on wonderfully gooey desserts like toffee pudding and a more encompassing baking book. As I find myself contemplating the purchase of all three, I force myself to leave the section and I find myself in the textile section. Luckily for my self-control, none of the books tempt my wallet. I pick up the book I came for and march myself out of the store.
My next stop is a stationary store. One of my friends makes scrap books and her own cards. While visiting her, we had gone to card store and spent ages looking through the various cards. At the end, we had decided that we should really send more cards - they're fantastic. The normal birthday cards don't do justice to the cards that are out there. The blank card isn't used enough. A quick note or a lengthy letter inside an appropriate card is always appreciated by the receiver. I spend ages in the card store choosing a blank card for my grandparents. In the end, I find the perfect card. I come out of the store feeling that this is the way that Saturdays should be spent. Accomplishing tasks in the most enjoyable way possible.
At home, I do my cooking stint and I sit down and start writing my cards. E-mail is fantastic because it's quick. A letter is different. Instead of the "Hey" or even no greeting, a letter starts "Dear" and becomes the start of something special. No one sits down to savour an e-mail but upon receiving a letter, one will eagerly break open the envelope and fan the pages. If it's a long one, you sit down and make yourself comfortable to find out what is contained within the its lines. This isn't something that was dashed off but something that was written to be savoured and as you read it, you savour it.
Writing and receiving letters feels like a Saturday, full of promise. There's something about writing letters on Saturday that just feels right. Whereas doing vacuuming just seems wrong.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Dinner for weeks to come
Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of something and you pause and you think to yourself, "how the heck did I get myself into this?" For the second Saturday in a row, I've discovered myself in my kitchen going, "Who's brilliant idea was this?" I take a quick look left and another one right. My cat has already gauged the situation and disappeared. There is no one around but myself. Apparently, I got myself into this. I thought for a second. Nope that didn't seem right.
I knew who to blame. It's that store. Last week, while browsing I discovered pesto and decided that I could make it. I did too. It was good. It still is good. I have no idea how to use it so I still have it. One of my friends explained it as something that you don't need to use, you choose to use it. Thanks, lots of help as always. They recommended making pesto ice cubes until I choose to use it. I now have lots of pesto in frozen cubes.
This week, I wandered in with the idea of making cannelloni. Then in looking at the pasta sauces I came across "Authentic Pizza Sauce." I stopped and looked again. Pizza? I love pizza! And in my momentarily well-stocked kitchen I had everything except the sauce and the pepperoni. I would make pizza at some point in the future. Cans keep. So I scooped it up and kept going.
Then I discovered asiago cheese on sale. I love asiago cheese stuffed inside chicken. Not that I know how to do it but the restaurants always do a really good job. I hovered over the cheese trying to decide whether to pick some up or not. I reached my hand into the bin and pulled it back out again. Really, what was I going to do with it? When I wasn't looking, the cheese jumped into my basket. I kept looking in the opposite direction hoping that it would change its mind and jump back out.
At the deli counter, I got my sandwich meat and paused, "What would you put on pizza?" Ah! Who said that? I'm not making pizza today. Sometime in the future, remember? I discussed the relevant salami's with the deli boy and choose two. I would mix the mild and the hot salami in my pizza. Then I noticed fresh chicken. "I'll have some chicken too, please." I sighed. I knew where this was going. The problem with being a Gemini is you're never sure who's doing what until it's too late.
Thus I found myself double-tasking through two completely different meals. If I was going to turn the oven on, I was going to make it worthwhile. I put the yeast on while I chopped the pizza vegetables. I put the dough onto rise while I attacked the chicken. None of the cookbooks had the recipe I wanted so I decided I would just do it myself. I figured out that stuffing things inside a chicken breast couldn't be that difficult. I would cover it all with a white sauce and pop it in the oven so that if it leaked, it wouldn't matter. It was in the middle of thickening my sauce and adding the panfried in garlic mushrooms and green onions, while glancing over at the pizza dough, I wondered what I was doing.
My first thought was that I was coping. I had a gazillion things happening and I was actually timing it all correctly. I wasn't trying to cook vegetables but I was managing to make two dishes without it going wrong! I had all the ingredients on hand and I was following some loose mental plan. I grinned. My brother would be proud.
Ok, so one of the pizzas is a bit too brown and I'm not sure the chicken sauce has enough pep but I blame that on suddenly wishing I had white wine to dump in the sauce. I'd put cream in it and I thought that the wine would just add the extra decadence. If you're making a heart-attack in a pan, you might as well go all the way.
I now have dinner for the next two weeks at least. That is a cause for celebration. And I won't be going near that store for quite a while. I made sure to buy two week's supply of lunch meat this time so I could miss a week-end. I'm looking forward to a rational week-end next week.
Oh, I put pesto in the pizza sauce. I chose to use it. I'm choosing to use it up.
I knew who to blame. It's that store. Last week, while browsing I discovered pesto and decided that I could make it. I did too. It was good. It still is good. I have no idea how to use it so I still have it. One of my friends explained it as something that you don't need to use, you choose to use it. Thanks, lots of help as always. They recommended making pesto ice cubes until I choose to use it. I now have lots of pesto in frozen cubes.
This week, I wandered in with the idea of making cannelloni. Then in looking at the pasta sauces I came across "Authentic Pizza Sauce." I stopped and looked again. Pizza? I love pizza! And in my momentarily well-stocked kitchen I had everything except the sauce and the pepperoni. I would make pizza at some point in the future. Cans keep. So I scooped it up and kept going.
Then I discovered asiago cheese on sale. I love asiago cheese stuffed inside chicken. Not that I know how to do it but the restaurants always do a really good job. I hovered over the cheese trying to decide whether to pick some up or not. I reached my hand into the bin and pulled it back out again. Really, what was I going to do with it? When I wasn't looking, the cheese jumped into my basket. I kept looking in the opposite direction hoping that it would change its mind and jump back out.
At the deli counter, I got my sandwich meat and paused, "What would you put on pizza?" Ah! Who said that? I'm not making pizza today. Sometime in the future, remember? I discussed the relevant salami's with the deli boy and choose two. I would mix the mild and the hot salami in my pizza. Then I noticed fresh chicken. "I'll have some chicken too, please." I sighed. I knew where this was going. The problem with being a Gemini is you're never sure who's doing what until it's too late.
Thus I found myself double-tasking through two completely different meals. If I was going to turn the oven on, I was going to make it worthwhile. I put the yeast on while I chopped the pizza vegetables. I put the dough onto rise while I attacked the chicken. None of the cookbooks had the recipe I wanted so I decided I would just do it myself. I figured out that stuffing things inside a chicken breast couldn't be that difficult. I would cover it all with a white sauce and pop it in the oven so that if it leaked, it wouldn't matter. It was in the middle of thickening my sauce and adding the panfried in garlic mushrooms and green onions, while glancing over at the pizza dough, I wondered what I was doing.
My first thought was that I was coping. I had a gazillion things happening and I was actually timing it all correctly. I wasn't trying to cook vegetables but I was managing to make two dishes without it going wrong! I had all the ingredients on hand and I was following some loose mental plan. I grinned. My brother would be proud.
Ok, so one of the pizzas is a bit too brown and I'm not sure the chicken sauce has enough pep but I blame that on suddenly wishing I had white wine to dump in the sauce. I'd put cream in it and I thought that the wine would just add the extra decadence. If you're making a heart-attack in a pan, you might as well go all the way.
I now have dinner for the next two weeks at least. That is a cause for celebration. And I won't be going near that store for quite a while. I made sure to buy two week's supply of lunch meat this time so I could miss a week-end. I'm looking forward to a rational week-end next week.
Oh, I put pesto in the pizza sauce. I chose to use it. I'm choosing to use it up.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Shirt Making VII
So in my last post I mentioned how I was scared to get the right and the wrong sides mixed up . . . . and then when I went to put the next sleeve in, I discovered to my horror that I had put the placket on the wrong side. Besides the agony of ripping out even more stitches, the fabric had been cut! I'm now going to have to flip everything and position it correctly around the slash. Oh dear.
*****************************************************************************
So I have ripped out all the stitches and removed the placket. The culprit was pressing the seam allowances on the placket to the wrong side so that everything went wrong from there. I have learned that I am not good at doing things as mirror images of themselves so I shall have to watch that in the future.
I have also learned that it is possible to pull a placket off, re-press it and sew it back in place over the slash. The only tricky part is the diagonal slashes at the top as I had taken them to within a thread of the stitching. It's a good job my edge stitching is getting precise thanks to doing all the seams twice!
*****************************************************************************
So I have ripped out all the stitches and removed the placket. The culprit was pressing the seam allowances on the placket to the wrong side so that everything went wrong from there. I have learned that I am not good at doing things as mirror images of themselves so I shall have to watch that in the future.
I have also learned that it is possible to pull a placket off, re-press it and sew it back in place over the slash. The only tricky part is the diagonal slashes at the top as I had taken them to within a thread of the stitching. It's a good job my edge stitching is getting precise thanks to doing all the seams twice!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Shirt Making VI
I have discovered a problem. My fabric has no clear right nor wrong side. I am flat flelling all the seams. I can't tell which is the right and which is the wrong side of my shirt. It all looks the same. I would be pleased that the inside of the shirt is going to be so nice, but I'm scared of making a mistake due to getting my right and wrong sides incorrect.
The shirt now has an arm. The sleeve had pleats but I think they got placed wrong so I ripped them out and will place them where I think they should go. I don't think there isn't a seam that I haven't ripped out. I'm so determined to get my stitching straight and even that the slightest deviation is becoming grounds for starting again. The flat flelling also means that every seam has to be sewn twice. Making shirts is not a quick process.
Ripping out seams would not be a problem except that my stitching size is 1.5 and everything is gray. I brought in my shirt to show my teacher. His comment was "#^%&!" He covered his mouth and looked at me, "I'm sorry, but those are really tiny stitches. You can't rip those out." "Actually, you can. I've been doing it all week-end." Would I do it again? Probably not, but I'm not having different sized stitches on my shirt.
My mother's comment on the whole thing was to shake her head and to mock me, "Yeah, I can't see but I can rip out tiny stitches." This was followed by a crash course in the appropriate stitch length for different fabrics. This is the lady who refused to teach me to make bobbin lace due to the damage it would cause my eyes. It took several years of concentrated lobbying before I was allowed to get the books and equipment out. At my last eye appointment, my eyes had started to stabilize. I plan to be done this shirt well enough in advance of my next appointment to give my eyes a chance to recover.
In the mean time, I have hopes of attaching a cuff without having to rip out any seams. Perhaps I'll even give it another arm.
The shirt now has an arm. The sleeve had pleats but I think they got placed wrong so I ripped them out and will place them where I think they should go. I don't think there isn't a seam that I haven't ripped out. I'm so determined to get my stitching straight and even that the slightest deviation is becoming grounds for starting again. The flat flelling also means that every seam has to be sewn twice. Making shirts is not a quick process.
Ripping out seams would not be a problem except that my stitching size is 1.5 and everything is gray. I brought in my shirt to show my teacher. His comment was "#^%&!" He covered his mouth and looked at me, "I'm sorry, but those are really tiny stitches. You can't rip those out." "Actually, you can. I've been doing it all week-end." Would I do it again? Probably not, but I'm not having different sized stitches on my shirt.
My mother's comment on the whole thing was to shake her head and to mock me, "Yeah, I can't see but I can rip out tiny stitches." This was followed by a crash course in the appropriate stitch length for different fabrics. This is the lady who refused to teach me to make bobbin lace due to the damage it would cause my eyes. It took several years of concentrated lobbying before I was allowed to get the books and equipment out. At my last eye appointment, my eyes had started to stabilize. I plan to be done this shirt well enough in advance of my next appointment to give my eyes a chance to recover.
In the mean time, I have hopes of attaching a cuff without having to rip out any seams. Perhaps I'll even give it another arm.
Peach Cobbler
I have memories of peach cobblers. They were a wonderful creation. I distinctly remember them being easy and common. The type of thing made to use up peaches that were ripening too fast. My peaches had reached that stage and I wanted cobbler. I love cobblers.
I pulled out recipe book after recipe book. They either didn't have the lowly cobbler or they had up-dated it. I put one recipe book back in disgust. Who asked them to put a modern twist on the peach cobbler? What was wrong with the old one? Cobbler's were supposed to be easy. You dumped in fruit and dumped a mixture on top. I decided to trust the one recipe book that has yet to fail me.
I don't remember my mother's cobbler having alcohol in it. This didn't seem simple. But I decided that peaches simmered in sherry sounded like a good idea. Not that I had sherry. I have port. I have decided that they are interchangable so that when a recipe calls for sherry, I pull out the port. It just makes it richer. More of my port has gone into cooking than I have drunk. I mentally reflect to revisit the rule about not drinking by yourself.
The rest of the recipe whips up easily and I carefully spoon it on top so that I will get the hilly crust. I pop it in the oven. I lick the batter. It's sweet almost like almonds. Nothing like almonds went in it. I"m perplexed. Later when I'm checking on it, I discover that the crust has evened itself out. It does not look like a cobbler. I pull it out and test it. It's still not done. I try a bit of the crust. Hmmm, it's good but it doesn't taste like my memories. I remember it being a rougher creation. The thing is still cooking. I'm convinced that it isn't a cobbler. Port and almonds . . . not my mother's cobbler.
I've come to the conclusion that when you want to make it just like Mum made it, you've got to get your hands on Mum's recipes. And as soon as she comes home from work, I'm calling her. I know she too will be surprised. She always said cobblers were easy and simple. She's probably already made one to use up her peaches. I bet my brother had extra helpings - his and my share. I bet he phones to brag. I'm going to have a glass of port while I listen.
I pulled out recipe book after recipe book. They either didn't have the lowly cobbler or they had up-dated it. I put one recipe book back in disgust. Who asked them to put a modern twist on the peach cobbler? What was wrong with the old one? Cobbler's were supposed to be easy. You dumped in fruit and dumped a mixture on top. I decided to trust the one recipe book that has yet to fail me.
I don't remember my mother's cobbler having alcohol in it. This didn't seem simple. But I decided that peaches simmered in sherry sounded like a good idea. Not that I had sherry. I have port. I have decided that they are interchangable so that when a recipe calls for sherry, I pull out the port. It just makes it richer. More of my port has gone into cooking than I have drunk. I mentally reflect to revisit the rule about not drinking by yourself.
The rest of the recipe whips up easily and I carefully spoon it on top so that I will get the hilly crust. I pop it in the oven. I lick the batter. It's sweet almost like almonds. Nothing like almonds went in it. I"m perplexed. Later when I'm checking on it, I discover that the crust has evened itself out. It does not look like a cobbler. I pull it out and test it. It's still not done. I try a bit of the crust. Hmmm, it's good but it doesn't taste like my memories. I remember it being a rougher creation. The thing is still cooking. I'm convinced that it isn't a cobbler. Port and almonds . . . not my mother's cobbler.
I've come to the conclusion that when you want to make it just like Mum made it, you've got to get your hands on Mum's recipes. And as soon as she comes home from work, I'm calling her. I know she too will be surprised. She always said cobblers were easy and simple. She's probably already made one to use up her peaches. I bet my brother had extra helpings - his and my share. I bet he phones to brag. I'm going to have a glass of port while I listen.
Pesto
It's peach season. I had bought myself a large basket of peaches which started to over-ripen faster than I could eat them. My logical solution to this was to make peach cobbler, which was why I found myself tipping basil in a blender and making pesto. I headed to the market to get week's groceries. I forgot that when you have reached the point where you are willing to roll up your sleeves and enter the kitchen, you find yourself making things - lots of random things.
I was in the Italian grocery store buying my rolls for the week and I stumbled upon pesto. I decided that it would be a nice thing to add to my sandwiches this week. So as I am trying to train myself, I scanned the ingredients and to my surprise, there was nothing in there I couldn't pronounce. Instead of the logical conclusion that the pesto would not harm me, a better idea sprang to mind - I could make this. This was aided by the fact that I had smelt fresh basil when I was in the market. I could buy fresh basil and make pesto. For good measure, I looked at the tapinade which was perched next to the pesto. Heck, I could even make the tapinade.
So I headed back to the stall that was selling herbs. I grew herbs back when I wasn't stuck in an apartment. I know my herbs. I also like to choose my produce. Nothing irks me more than the stall tender who chooses the basket of goods and dumps them into a bag for me before I have inspected the lot. I'm unsure how much basil I need but I decide I will probably need lots. I start inspecting the bunches which annoys the stall tender who is trying to bag a bunch for me. I point out the ripped leaves and leaves with holes. "They're grown without pesticide. It happens." she growls. "That's nice." I smile, "I'll take this bunch. . .. and er, this one." She glowers at me.
I now need pine nuts. I head to the grocery store. One of the nice things about being out early is that the shop clerks have just started their day - they haven't had time to have a bad day. I haven't put the numbers on the different bulk nuts so she's guessing at what the codes are. Trying to be helpful, I suggest that I could go look them up and holler them back at her. She thinks her way of looking them up would be easier, but I can tell she's open to the idea. I comment on how expensive the pine nuts are and that I'm not sure I'll let anyone eat the pesto when I'm done. She responds, "That's what I do with my pies." I look at her. She moves into a blocking position, "Yeah, I say I just spent $40 bucks making that pie. You can't eat it."
At home, I crack open the recipe book. To my astonishment, all you need to make pesto is basil, garlic, olive oil, the gilt-covered pine nuts, Parmesan cheese and a blender. I dump it all in and all of a sudden I have pesto. I also have another massive bunch of basil. I suddenly realise I don't know what one does with pesto. But I have it. I decide I'll deal with the rest of the basil at a different time. I have other stuff to make.
I clean out the blender and start again. This time I'm dumping olives, capers, garlic, olive oil, walnuts and lemon juice in. All of a sudden I have a tapinade. I feel smug. I have pesto and tapinade. I am amazing. Then it hits me. I have no idea what to do with them now. If I had a baguette, I could smear them on that, but I don't. And I still don't have a peach cobbler. I have accomplished nothing. I do have a new party trick for the next time I have guests. I can make home-made pesto and tapinade in about five minutes each. The guests will be impressed, once I figure out how to serve it, of course.
I was in the Italian grocery store buying my rolls for the week and I stumbled upon pesto. I decided that it would be a nice thing to add to my sandwiches this week. So as I am trying to train myself, I scanned the ingredients and to my surprise, there was nothing in there I couldn't pronounce. Instead of the logical conclusion that the pesto would not harm me, a better idea sprang to mind - I could make this. This was aided by the fact that I had smelt fresh basil when I was in the market. I could buy fresh basil and make pesto. For good measure, I looked at the tapinade which was perched next to the pesto. Heck, I could even make the tapinade.
So I headed back to the stall that was selling herbs. I grew herbs back when I wasn't stuck in an apartment. I know my herbs. I also like to choose my produce. Nothing irks me more than the stall tender who chooses the basket of goods and dumps them into a bag for me before I have inspected the lot. I'm unsure how much basil I need but I decide I will probably need lots. I start inspecting the bunches which annoys the stall tender who is trying to bag a bunch for me. I point out the ripped leaves and leaves with holes. "They're grown without pesticide. It happens." she growls. "That's nice." I smile, "I'll take this bunch. . .. and er, this one." She glowers at me.
I now need pine nuts. I head to the grocery store. One of the nice things about being out early is that the shop clerks have just started their day - they haven't had time to have a bad day. I haven't put the numbers on the different bulk nuts so she's guessing at what the codes are. Trying to be helpful, I suggest that I could go look them up and holler them back at her. She thinks her way of looking them up would be easier, but I can tell she's open to the idea. I comment on how expensive the pine nuts are and that I'm not sure I'll let anyone eat the pesto when I'm done. She responds, "That's what I do with my pies." I look at her. She moves into a blocking position, "Yeah, I say I just spent $40 bucks making that pie. You can't eat it."
At home, I crack open the recipe book. To my astonishment, all you need to make pesto is basil, garlic, olive oil, the gilt-covered pine nuts, Parmesan cheese and a blender. I dump it all in and all of a sudden I have pesto. I also have another massive bunch of basil. I suddenly realise I don't know what one does with pesto. But I have it. I decide I'll deal with the rest of the basil at a different time. I have other stuff to make.
I clean out the blender and start again. This time I'm dumping olives, capers, garlic, olive oil, walnuts and lemon juice in. All of a sudden I have a tapinade. I feel smug. I have pesto and tapinade. I am amazing. Then it hits me. I have no idea what to do with them now. If I had a baguette, I could smear them on that, but I don't. And I still don't have a peach cobbler. I have accomplished nothing. I do have a new party trick for the next time I have guests. I can make home-made pesto and tapinade in about five minutes each. The guests will be impressed, once I figure out how to serve it, of course.
Closet Clean-outs
My friend was staring at my feet and then back up at my skirt. "Your shoes match!" she said in some disbelief. I was busy trying judging whether the shoes matched or went with the skirt so that I didn't completely hear her next comment. To me it sounded like, "You're a walk-in closet!" I protested loudly, "I am NOT a walk-in closet! I just happen to have two items in the same colour!" I think what she actually said was, "You have a walk-in closet!"
This brought up visions of a closet bursting at the seams which isn't true. My closet is well-organised and has lots of room left. I was browsing a magazine last night that had the standard tips on clearing out your closet. Does it fit? When did you last wear it? Are you keeping it for emotional reasons? I scanned the article feeling smug. Yes it fits, yes I wear it all and no I don't have any clothes for emotional reasons. Ha, no reason for me to do the dreaded closet clean-out.
Then later I started thinking of previous closet clean-outs. I have cleaned out at least two pairs of pants that I have since ransacked my closet looking for. I was going hiking and I needed my blue cargo pants. I couldn't find them anywhere. Then I remembered that in a previous misguided closet clean-out, they had been let go along with my black cargo pants with a thousand and one pockets. I have since had to go and buy new hiking pants.
I spent ages looking for a pair of shoes that I couldn't find. I was worried that they had been thrown out in a closet clean-up. I phoned home. "Mum, my brown sandals? Have you seen them?" She thought. "You haven't worn them in a while." My mental calculation was that I hadn't worn them in two years but I wanted them now. She promised to do a search. "I've found them. I've also found your clogs. Do you want them?" I asked her to send up just the sandals. I also told her not to throw out the clogs. "You never wear them." "Doesn't matter. I will."
Last time I was home, I was quizzing my mother. Her work wardrobe was fantastic. She had suits that we know by name. The pieces that she passed onto me are vintage treasures. No one else has a vintage wool Christian Dior turtle neck that matches the colour of their eyes. Thanks to my mum, I do. I've been wearing it since grade school. I wanted to know where the rest of the wardrobe went, what happened to it. I wanted to do a closet plunder. It turned out that what the moth didn't get, the closet clean-out did. I could have cried. I know my father does each time he discovers she pitched one of his favourite outfits. "You threw out the grey suit!?! How could you? You didn't ask me, did you?" Playing the consultation card normally gets a rolling of the eyes and then my father starts to think through the repercussions of this clean-out zeal and panic sets it, "You didn't touch my closet, did you?"
There are those who should do a closet clean-out. They are those who don't keep a mental inventory of everything they have in stock. They should downsize to a level they can handle. For those of us who keep a catalogued mental inventory, easy to browse by style, occasion, article of clothing, colour, fabric, the closet clean-out leads only to stress and havoc. For when you pull out your mental index card for an event and discover half the items missing, you quickly reach the state of "Having Nothing to Wear," which rapidly leads to, "Being Incredibly Late" and makes everyone else, "Unbelievably Unsympathetic." If only you had refrained from cleaning out your closet.
This brought up visions of a closet bursting at the seams which isn't true. My closet is well-organised and has lots of room left. I was browsing a magazine last night that had the standard tips on clearing out your closet. Does it fit? When did you last wear it? Are you keeping it for emotional reasons? I scanned the article feeling smug. Yes it fits, yes I wear it all and no I don't have any clothes for emotional reasons. Ha, no reason for me to do the dreaded closet clean-out.
Then later I started thinking of previous closet clean-outs. I have cleaned out at least two pairs of pants that I have since ransacked my closet looking for. I was going hiking and I needed my blue cargo pants. I couldn't find them anywhere. Then I remembered that in a previous misguided closet clean-out, they had been let go along with my black cargo pants with a thousand and one pockets. I have since had to go and buy new hiking pants.
I spent ages looking for a pair of shoes that I couldn't find. I was worried that they had been thrown out in a closet clean-up. I phoned home. "Mum, my brown sandals? Have you seen them?" She thought. "You haven't worn them in a while." My mental calculation was that I hadn't worn them in two years but I wanted them now. She promised to do a search. "I've found them. I've also found your clogs. Do you want them?" I asked her to send up just the sandals. I also told her not to throw out the clogs. "You never wear them." "Doesn't matter. I will."
Last time I was home, I was quizzing my mother. Her work wardrobe was fantastic. She had suits that we know by name. The pieces that she passed onto me are vintage treasures. No one else has a vintage wool Christian Dior turtle neck that matches the colour of their eyes. Thanks to my mum, I do. I've been wearing it since grade school. I wanted to know where the rest of the wardrobe went, what happened to it. I wanted to do a closet plunder. It turned out that what the moth didn't get, the closet clean-out did. I could have cried. I know my father does each time he discovers she pitched one of his favourite outfits. "You threw out the grey suit!?! How could you? You didn't ask me, did you?" Playing the consultation card normally gets a rolling of the eyes and then my father starts to think through the repercussions of this clean-out zeal and panic sets it, "You didn't touch my closet, did you?"
There are those who should do a closet clean-out. They are those who don't keep a mental inventory of everything they have in stock. They should downsize to a level they can handle. For those of us who keep a catalogued mental inventory, easy to browse by style, occasion, article of clothing, colour, fabric, the closet clean-out leads only to stress and havoc. For when you pull out your mental index card for an event and discover half the items missing, you quickly reach the state of "Having Nothing to Wear," which rapidly leads to, "Being Incredibly Late" and makes everyone else, "Unbelievably Unsympathetic." If only you had refrained from cleaning out your closet.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Shirt Making V
I held the scissors over the placket and looked at the instructions. I mentally turned the placket in my mind. Something wasn't right. I looked at the previous instruction. Pin right side of placket to wrong side of sleeve. #%^&@%^!!! I was looking at the right side of the placket. Wrong @#$^$^ side.
Every sewer knows that you don't sew well when you're tired, you don't sew well under pressure, and you don't sew well when you're distracted. I had decided that I could.
My machine is playing up. The thread is cotton so it keeps breaking. When you're in the middle of an edge stitch and your thread breaks for the umpteenth time, you decide to move on to the next item. The machine, me and edge stitching the yoke were not seeing eye to eye. The needle kept jumping on the seam allowance as in retrospect I cut it too thin. The machine kept binding - oiling it didn't overly help - so I've decided it needs a tune-up but I need the machine now. I moved onto the placket which I have now have to unpick. However, since this morning and this afternoon, my seam rippers have disappeared so I'm picking seams out with a pin and scissors. On the bright side, my can opener has recently reappeared. I feel like I've been picking seams out all day.
We all know it and we all do it. But say it once more all together:
DO NOT SEW WHEN TIRED.
Every sewer knows that you don't sew well when you're tired, you don't sew well under pressure, and you don't sew well when you're distracted. I had decided that I could.
My machine is playing up. The thread is cotton so it keeps breaking. When you're in the middle of an edge stitch and your thread breaks for the umpteenth time, you decide to move on to the next item. The machine, me and edge stitching the yoke were not seeing eye to eye. The needle kept jumping on the seam allowance as in retrospect I cut it too thin. The machine kept binding - oiling it didn't overly help - so I've decided it needs a tune-up but I need the machine now. I moved onto the placket which I have now have to unpick. However, since this morning and this afternoon, my seam rippers have disappeared so I'm picking seams out with a pin and scissors. On the bright side, my can opener has recently reappeared. I feel like I've been picking seams out all day.
We all know it and we all do it. But say it once more all together:
DO NOT SEW WHEN TIRED.
My Store
I pushed the door open and the bell jingled. As I stepped inside, the boutique owner came forward to greet me with a huge smile on her face. "You've come home! How long are you visiting for? Where's your Mum?" I was a bit taken back. I barely recognize myself in the mirror right now and yet she knew me straight away. This is my store. This is the person I keep coming back to because I know that with a bit of effort and patience, I 'll find exactly what I want.
She sold me my dress for my graduation. I didn't like any of the dresses. None of them were quite right. The owner kept thinking and the last dress she found I bought. I love that dress. It was exactly what I wanted - not that I knew it until I tried it on.
She sold me my interview suit. She knew that I didn't want a traditional suit, but was going into a more traditional environment of work. End result was a pin-striped pantsuit - except it was white with red and black pin-stripes. Matched with red shoes and a red bag, it was perfect. I got the job.
When I couldn't find any clothes for my summer work wardrobe, she agreed to send up with my mother a selection for me to go through. She pulled out the right sizes and sent them up. She sent loads and loads of things. It was all colour co-ordinated so that multiple items went together to create many outfits. All of a sudden, I had a summer wardrobe.
I love shopping at this store. Shopping becomes a collaborative although a long process. This is what happens when you have youropinion , your mother's opinion, the shop owner's opinion, the shop owner's mother's opinion (who is hard of hearing and approaching 90) and the shop assistant. However, it means that when you push open the changing room door, the sea of expectant faces tell you everything you need to know.
The first stage is browsing the clothing racks. I pull out things I like, everyone else starts pulling out things that they think will be useful or look good on me. I don't think they care whether I like it or not. All of it is added to the stack of clothes to be tried on and I can dismiss items later. When everyone is pulling out items, the stack grows exponentially. My mother will realise how large it's become and do a mental calculation. A stack that large is going to take at least an hour to go through. "You'd better start trying things on." At this point, she sits down, I enter the change room and everyone else keeps looking.
I now have a large and growing stack of clothes to try on. My goal is to diminish the pile by separating it into two categories: yes and no, so that the number of clothes being taken out of the pile are greater than the number being added. I normally lose this battle. I also lose the hanger battle so that I end up with more hangers inside the change room than I've passed back out.
"You mentioned a dress? Here's four to try on." I start working my way through the dresses.
First dress was a white shirt dress. I come out. Unanimous reaction, "Too short." Reaction to the second dress, "Too much dress." Third dress, silence. Then a "That's smart. Go look at yourself in the mirror." Unanimous approval. It goes in the yes pile. The fourth gets dismissed.
We do skirts and we do pants. We go through the tops that will work with the skirts and pants. We go up sizes and we go down sizes. We have an intense discussion on which way round one skirt is supposed to face based on it's cut and the placement of the pockets. It's unclear whether I've got it on backwards or not. We discuss the potential places to wear items and how many seasons you can make them do.
At this point, I've lost control of what I'm trying on. I'm trying on everything I'm being passed. I end up putting a leopard print blouse with black vest in the yes pile. I would never have picked it off the rack. With black pants, it's an amazing look. Theunanimous reaction is "Wouldn't have thought it, but you can definitely pull it off." There's a skirt that I could pull off but no one's too sure where. It goes back.
Slowly the pile goes down. The rejection to approval rate tends to be about seven to one. It's one of the few stores where they don't try and convince me that everything I try on looks good. It's only when it's amazing that it gets the approval rating and gets put in the yes pile.
A couple hours later, I now have several items that will blend into my wardrobe. They can be dressed up or down. They can take me from summer into fall. They're useful and they look good. They're exactly what I want. My mother, the shop owner, the shop owner's mother and the shop assistant all approve of my choices. They're my harshest critics. I know everyone else is going to love them and even better, no one else in town is going to be wearing them. This is why I still shop in my hometown and why this is my store.
She sold me my dress for my graduation. I didn't like any of the dresses. None of them were quite right. The owner kept thinking and the last dress she found I bought. I love that dress. It was exactly what I wanted - not that I knew it until I tried it on.
She sold me my interview suit. She knew that I didn't want a traditional suit, but was going into a more traditional environment of work. End result was a pin-striped pantsuit - except it was white with red and black pin-stripes. Matched with red shoes and a red bag, it was perfect. I got the job.
When I couldn't find any clothes for my summer work wardrobe, she agreed to send up with my mother a selection for me to go through. She pulled out the right sizes and sent them up. She sent loads and loads of things. It was all colour co-ordinated so that multiple items went together to create many outfits. All of a sudden, I had a summer wardrobe.
I love shopping at this store. Shopping becomes a collaborative although a long process. This is what happens when you have youropinion , your mother's opinion, the shop owner's opinion, the shop owner's mother's opinion (who is hard of hearing and approaching 90) and the shop assistant. However, it means that when you push open the changing room door, the sea of expectant faces tell you everything you need to know.
The first stage is browsing the clothing racks. I pull out things I like, everyone else starts pulling out things that they think will be useful or look good on me. I don't think they care whether I like it or not. All of it is added to the stack of clothes to be tried on and I can dismiss items later. When everyone is pulling out items, the stack grows exponentially. My mother will realise how large it's become and do a mental calculation. A stack that large is going to take at least an hour to go through. "You'd better start trying things on." At this point, she sits down, I enter the change room and everyone else keeps looking.
I now have a large and growing stack of clothes to try on. My goal is to diminish the pile by separating it into two categories: yes and no, so that the number of clothes being taken out of the pile are greater than the number being added. I normally lose this battle. I also lose the hanger battle so that I end up with more hangers inside the change room than I've passed back out.
"You mentioned a dress? Here's four to try on." I start working my way through the dresses.
First dress was a white shirt dress. I come out. Unanimous reaction, "Too short." Reaction to the second dress, "Too much dress." Third dress, silence. Then a "That's smart. Go look at yourself in the mirror." Unanimous approval. It goes in the yes pile. The fourth gets dismissed.
We do skirts and we do pants. We go through the tops that will work with the skirts and pants. We go up sizes and we go down sizes. We have an intense discussion on which way round one skirt is supposed to face based on it's cut and the placement of the pockets. It's unclear whether I've got it on backwards or not. We discuss the potential places to wear items and how many seasons you can make them do.
At this point, I've lost control of what I'm trying on. I'm trying on everything I'm being passed. I end up putting a leopard print blouse with black vest in the yes pile. I would never have picked it off the rack. With black pants, it's an amazing look. Theunanimous reaction is "Wouldn't have thought it, but you can definitely pull it off." There's a skirt that I could pull off but no one's too sure where. It goes back.
Slowly the pile goes down. The rejection to approval rate tends to be about seven to one. It's one of the few stores where they don't try and convince me that everything I try on looks good. It's only when it's amazing that it gets the approval rating and gets put in the yes pile.
A couple hours later, I now have several items that will blend into my wardrobe. They can be dressed up or down. They can take me from summer into fall. They're useful and they look good. They're exactly what I want. My mother, the shop owner, the shop owner's mother and the shop assistant all approve of my choices. They're my harshest critics. I know everyone else is going to love them and even better, no one else in town is going to be wearing them. This is why I still shop in my hometown and why this is my store.