Two Good Things About Wisconsin

1. Penzey’s Spices

This is a company that sells the best quality fresh spices and dried herbs as well as soup bases and basic tools for grinding spices, as well as keeping up a recipe book and magazine whatsit; I am most interested in the soup bases and unmixed spices.

2. Civil War Re-enactors’ Merchants

William Booth sells knitting needles and sewing accoutrements of which I am enamored. A beautiful doom and a gift certificate for my birthday later, I now anticipate a package at my door . Soon.

(Sorry I haven't been around. I know your lives have been poorer in my absence. Compy just now fixed and slew of guests arriving soon.)

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Ok, so I moved back to the USA in March of this year, and have been having trouble keeping my blogs ever since: first it was little or no wifi, then it was household work (painting, sanding, heavy cleaning, yard work) and finally my computer started having problems charging and staying awake.

In the mean time, you might be surprised to know how little my life has changed from one country to another. I am still baking and knitting and cleaning quite madly and, thanks to the crummy economic situation, will probably continue this way for a little while. But I won't lie to you; I'm enjoying myself.

I am taking my computer to the Wizard tomorrow. Perhaps it needs a new heart. However, some spoilers:

1. I went to the Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival in early May.

2. Before we left Venice, I met the last turner with a workshop there.

3. My sister is, as a present for my upcoming birthday, going to teach me how to use a drop spindle. (SO EXCITED.)

4. Since my last entry I have knitted 3 pairs and two half-pairs of socks.

5. We have a real, honest-to-goodness garden at this new house. Soon we will plant vegetables there.

In Other News

Aside from my current interest in Morrissey, my life has continued on in its usual aimlessness. I have finished Travel in the Middle Ages and my third reading of the Aeneid (Dryden's translation this time), and am now on to Bischoff's Latin Palaeography and the Longfellow translation of Dante's Divina Commedia.

[The Friendship Arch in D.C.'s "Chinatown", which is like every other part of downtown except for the subtitles.]

If we don't get the things from our house soon I will be relegated to Kathleen Norris and Graham Greene . . . who'd've ever thought? I met one of Norris' great nieces (who also happens to be one of the best literature teachers I've ever had the privilege of hearing) and found out that my great grandmother used to read those decidedly innocent but swoony romances. Someone somewhere (have the feeling it was a male friend who was attempting to wean me from my medieval literature obsession) once recommended Greene to me and I found The Power and the Glory in a used book pile.

[View from the top of the Old Post Office. I liked the bells, best.]

And I now have a public library card, several job applications to hand in and have already begun a few volunteer-type things. Good to see some of my talents put to use, though. Stupid economy.

[What.]

These are some pictures from the Sunday before St. Paddy's Day--the Americans seem to celebrate all week and with less getting drunk and more turning things green. I really miss good dark beers, and good whiskies. Am having trouble finding any place I'd actually like to get a drink (not get drunk! but a nice pint with friends now and then is nice)--is there something in America against a comfortable, clean atmosphere that does not feel sleazy and greasy? And--seriously, folks--Jack Daniels in the only whisky available?

A contemporary artist of which I am currently fond.

My friends know that I rarely find myself fascinated with living authors or artists, or even interested in contemporary movements. (I'm about to tell you about an artist I really like right now.) This changed a little when I went to Paris a few years ago--something about the place reminded me that it is still possible to see artists as representatives of their art and admirable in their own right for expressing themselves accurately. It takes guts to say what you mean and make yourself vulnerable by telling everyone how you see the world. I know that's not the best way to explain what artists do. I could never claim to "explain" Art. Forgive my bumbling?

But it was my sister's birthday a week ago, and my parents bought her two tickets to the Morrissey concert here AND SHE CHOSE ME TO GO WITH HER. (Which is officially awesome in its own right.) I had heard Morrissey with familiar affection since forever ago--he's been a public figure since before I was born--and my older sister only introduced me to his voice a few years ago when late-night highway drives made it possible for us to appreciate blasting our poor little Honda speakers.

[The day before the concert, we went to check out the venue.]

The Smiths are all quite excellent &c., but have you actually taken the time to listen to Morrissey's voice? Put on your best headphones and anything with his voice in it. Loud enough you can hear his voice properly. Just listen to his voice. Everything else comes in second.

So, the first time I realised how much I loved that sound was when the only track I had on my iPod was Neverplayed Symphonies and I was desperately trying not to be cranky and backseat-drive for my dad as we wound round about places in England we hadn't meant to be. Quite possibly what happened there was me falling in love with a song. That happens, sometimes.

[A really awful picture I took with my iPhone of the Warner Theatre interior before the concert started. Cameras weren't allowed, so I didn't take any during the concert.]

Anyway, the concert was brilliant. I was completely entranced. The music was wonderful, the stage presence of all was really nice--they seemed accessible and (heaven forbid) real. Human. I really could have sat there all night. All week. I'd love to hear Morrissey read poetry, but then that might be even more dangerous than his singing voice. After the concert started the interview and biography readings . . . After the initial obsession (of last week, which was long enough for me as I tend to read and think a lot--and he is still alive, remember), I have decided that I like Morrissey and his music.

Yes. Just like that. A living musical artist that I like. I shall now proceed to buy his music, if I can figure out what media are being used these days . . . mp3, still? Are CDs being phased out yet? I need a record player.

First week back in the U.S.A.: co-op markets, local knitting groups & new technology.

Did you know they don't charge for long-distance calls in the U.S.? And that there are no roaming charges? And that with an iPhone 3G you can access the internet through the cell line? I didn't know any of this, but I have an iPhone now and am loving it. It has saved me from getting lost, losing family members, not having groceries, etc. etc. And I can check my email. The only big problem from my perspective is that the keyboard, while perfectly usable, is still so small that my fingers move across it very slowly and with much stumbling.

[A much more exciting picture of a piece of pound cake my sister and I shared for lunch on our first day back. Someone at the market had simply made a huge cake, frosted it, and was selling it by the slice. Brilliant woman. Heavenly cake.]

On our first day back we went to downtown Bethesda. We did not know it was a rather expensive part of town, but we did have an appointment to buy cell phones and look at a car.

I had forgotten about bagels. Fresh bagels. Toasted and delicious and dripping with everything good and virtuous. We had them for breakfast, and then found a coffee shop called Quartermaine in which the barista understood proper coffee-related jargon.

[This the market up the street where my sister and I found the miraculous pound cake, and also other lovely things.]

Across the street from the market was a yarn shop, Knit + Stitch = Bliss, which was full of luxury yarns and knitting accessories I could not afford. Most of it was not local or pure or practical, so it wasn't really up my alley, but my sister found an incredibly complex pattern which she has already started and is enjoying fully.

[Knit + Stitch = Bliss]

On Monday my sister and I attended a knitting group that meets near the house we are about to move into. I am really very fond of it already--they were so welcoming and so warm that I felt comfortable immediately. Many of the women (it was an all female crowd) were in familiar lines of work and shared hobbies with us. Everyone seemed at home there. Even if it was at a Starbucks, at least they let us stay until closing and didn't get their panties in a bunch about us moving around tables chairs so as to sit together.

I love being able to speak English and understand almost everything that is said to me. I love finding familiar things that haven't been around for ages. Things have really changed, tho--more than what I can glean from having listened to newscasts and reading papers. It will definitely take a while to get used to.

Still no consistent internet; it will probably take me a half an hour just to keep pressing the upload button on Blogger; stupid thing keeps timing out if you load more than one page per hour . . . Soon, my precious, we will have a real connection to the intarwebz.

Personal reflections on the writer's imagination, and also pictures of knitting and cats. You have been warned.

My mother says that people like me build inside themselves a secret world which only they and precious few visitors can enter. The landscapes are detailed and complex, and peopled by imagination and memory (the former being the more prominent by far, according to her). I expect analysts would find a use for it as some kind of mental escape. Figures.

[Clearly, Elanor does not think highly of their opinions. They are, after all, the product of mortal reasoning.]

I have always thought of my world inside and the world outside as having distinct differences not of reality and fancy but more along the lines of faith and imagination, or truth and fact. I'm really not sure why analysts pry, anyway. The world outside has enough problems. It is like an earthly cleric trying to solve faery politics: unproductive, and usually ends with the cleric as a rather bewildered amphibian.

And here's the most recent pair of socks I'm knitting. These are on smaller needles than the last and so are taking a little more time--not much, tho! With any luck I'll be able to wear them on the big transatlantic flight. When I take off my shoes to walk thru security lines people will faint in jealousy, I know it.

Thinking about medieval travel and material objects.

The past few weeks have afforded me little time for anything but coping; when you have dust and mould allergies and the task at hand is to do the final cleaning of a mouldy, dusty house, things can get rather amusing. Then there are the social aspects of saying good-bye to the neighbourhood: though we have several weeks before us, we are already having last dinners and last meetings and last tastes and smells and experiences. The general goodwill of the village and the exemplary hospitality of the individuals therein still amaze me.

[With wool from France; very warm! Just finished these the day before yesterday.]

Still, somehow I end up dreaming. Or, not exactly. Just thinking. I've been slowly changing my daily routines to include medieval material culture; my hair products are all natural now (even my comb is made of horn and not of plastic), I knit my own socks and hats (ok, fine: this is debatable--but it is highly plausible!), bake my own bread, eat my breakfast out of hand-turned wooden bowls, and drink my coffee out of a comfortable little stoneware mug my mother found at a little shop in Glastonbury. All this done while wriggling my toes in their crocheted slippers.

What makes me laugh is that it is so much easier to pack for the relocation process with these things. I don't have a huge hairbrush and large bottles of commercial shampoo to worry about getting caught on things or opening and spilling in my suitcase. I am never bored when I have a knitting project--socks, in particular, are very portable indeed and one can fit in a jacket pocket for those frequent five or ten minute-spans spent waiting or talking. Crocheted slippers are infinitely scrunchable and completely washable, unlike their plastic-soled counterparts. My wooden bowls don't need padding or wrapping in my bag because they are extremely durable. All of these things are comfortable and customisable and familiar.

It makes me feel more sane to have these small amenities amongst so much plastic and mass-produced nonsense. Also it gives rise to a new respect for medieval travel (be it merchant, royalty, or pilgrimage), because I had thought that at least domestic details like these would be more difficult.

[GUESS WHAT KIND OF PIE THIS IS. Oh I am so funny.]

Sock knitting plans & a baking stone & Pushing Daisies.

I'm almost finished with the socks I'm knitting for my father, for Christmas. I shall then knit a hat for one of my dear friends here who has asked me for it (she never asks for anything so it is a special gift), and then I shall knit some socks for myself.

Nearly all the machine-made socks I have presently are becoming swiftly holey. I don't want to buy any more; my conscience would have difficulty with it now that I have such an enjoyable alternative. I love the feeling of working towards something practical. And my best friend just sent me enough gorgeous yarn to knit half a dozen pairs of the best socks!

One of my sisters gave me a Christmas present early; a baking stone. It is rather like an unglazed stoneware tray. I've read a little bit about wood-fired ovens and medieval bread-baking and without an actual oven like theirs a baking stone is the best way to replicate the experience.

The principles of cooking with it are very much like my cast iron dutch oven and saucepan. They need seasoning and are quite thick but are excellently non-stick-y and generally easier to use than plasticised aluminium with calibrated edges, &c., &c. I've made two loaves of bread on it already and the crusts have turned out much better than they do in our best loaf pans. I'm so pleased. I must ask her to find me a soup stone next.

While I've been baking and knitting I've also been listening to a recording to Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, which is depressing and feels like a showcase of witty statements Wilde couldn't fit into ordinary conversation, and watching a TV show that has amused me greatly. The premise of Pushing Daisies is silly and did not appeal to me. I would not have watched it at all if it had not been in a fit of restlessness (there are times when one simply must get away from Oscar Wilde) and it had not been easy at hand.

Once I began to watch it, though, I really enjoyed it. Not for the overall plot or feeling, but for the moments. The colours are marvellously bright and the events perfectly ridiculous, and the actors obviously had fun in the making. That, and I never doubt the ending. It is fun and funny and altogether comfortable. Also the hero bakes pies, and all readers of this blog know that pie-bakers are suitable heroes.