The Cat Hates My Knitting

Ohhh, Funk!

I have been called a fibre snob and I'm not gonna argue about it. I like nice fibre.  And I will do almost anything to get my hands on nice fibre. Anything legal, at any rate.

Usually my thing is animal fibre. This summer, however, I have a grand experiment growing in my back yard. I have a stand of stinging nettle out there, just waiting to be harvested into soft, lustrous fibre. I can't wait.

So on a warm sunny August morning I prepare to begin my harvest. I climb into long pants, socks, long sleeves, a barn coat and heavy leather work gloves. It's called 'stinging nettle' for a reason, y'know.

I step out the back door to my glorious stand of nettles. "Gee, it's kinda warm out here," I think to myself. And I begin. I'm bundled up to the nose in August, folded in half with a pair of garden clippers, snipping stinging nettle stems off an inch from the ground. It's hot. I'm sweaty. My glasses are sliding down my nose. For two and a half hours. But, eventually, I have the majority of the lovely fibre-bearing stems gathered up, ready for the next step. The hard part's over. Right?

The next morning finds me pulling on the long pants, socks, long sleeves, barn jacket and gloves again. Today my task is to strip the leaves off the stems. Seems simple enough. I gather up my hard won pickings from the day before and grab a big tub to keep the stripped-down stems in as I work. I sit down in front of my tub and my bouquet of nettles and begin. Pull out a nettle stem, grasp firmly with non-supporting hand and pull the stem through my gloved fingers. Well, that's not so difficult. So I carry on. Another hot, sticky two and a half hours of August sunshine pass before I pull the last leaves off of stems which are now looking somewhat less precious. My wrists are stiff. I'm starting to lose the feeling in my fingers. But, the hard part's over. Right?

Now I gather up the freshly denuded nettle stems, still toasty warm in my summertime finery, and place them in a big roughneck tub, bending them around to fit completely inside the tub. My next task is called 'retting' and requires a little water. I'm to first fill up the tub and let the stems sit overnight and then drain them off. I do that, with the help of a couple of bricks, to completely submerge the nettles. The next morning, I emerge from the house in the daywear of mere mortals (shorts and a tee shirt), bail out the water, using an old plastic flower pot, then refill the tub. close the lid and leave it for a week, as directed. That was easy. Oh, this fibre is going to be glorious!

Fast forward one week. I come home from work, and remember that I must now remove and dry my freshly retted nettle stems. Right! Off to the back yard once again. This time, I am  perfectly safe in my street clothes.

I notice an extraordinary number of flies in the back yard. I open the lid of the retting tub and learn two things. 1) This is the source of interest to the flies and 2) retting must be an old Eglish word for really bad smell. Oh, what swampy exhalation is this, which rises slowly from my tub of luxury fibre? Ah well, there's nothing else for it, but to start bailing. I heft the first flowerpot full out of the bin. That wasn't so bad. Another goes over the side. Ohhh, that's not good. Another potful and I now realize that I must reach into this mess and remove the bricks which have been keeping my stems submerged. I grasp the red clay and lift. It's slimy. It drips viscous goo. Which my hands are now covered in. I feel my stomach do a little somersault.

I back away from the whole process for a moment and get a bit of air.

I return to my bailing, while trying to hold my breath. It helps a little. A very little.

Finally, the tub is light enough for me to tip up and drain out the rest of the swamp. Oh. My. Dear. Lord. I take it back! I take it back! Retting is not an old English word for really bad smell. It's an old English word for heinous, stinking rot! How am I ever going to retrieve my beautiful fibre from this foul sludge? I back away and take another few breaths. Then I do the only thing left to me. I reach into the bin and pull out a bunch of my poor, bedraggled nettle stems, dripping gloppy bits of nastiness as I search frantically for a spot to lay them out to dry. It has to be out of the way of the lawnmower, and cannot involve the patio table, where I have been known to feed my family. My now watering eyes light upon the old bench in the garden. That'll do. I swing my sodden whiffy mess up and out, so that the stems will dry somewhat straight, and splash the green muck all over the front of my street clothes. As if the abominable nasal assault were not enough, it would seem I am required to suffer this gunky indignity, as well.

I finally wrangle the noxious mire into it's new home on the bench and begin to hose down the roughneck tub and half of the back yard. I do hope my neighbours are the forgiving sort.

I head into the house to remove my organically infused wardrobe and change into something a little more presentable, when I realize that the smell seems to have developed legs and has followed me into the house! A quick sprint to the bathroom, with the briefest of stops by the laundry room door was executed, after which, I launched myself into the shower. The whole action was performed  in twenty seconds flat.

After steaming my redolent hide until the water ran cold, I am now clean, toweled and dressed in clothes that smell of laundry detergent. I reflect upon this grand experiment I have undertaken and I think about how resourceful, and possibly desperate, people were to create really nice yarn from a field of weeds.

And I still don't have actual, usable fibre yet. So the experiment continues.

But the hard part is over. Right?

 

 

I am Golden

While most of Canada spent Friday at the beach or on the deck, enjoying hot dogs and cold drinks and celebrating Canada Day,  my time was spent doing something a little different.

You see, today, I turn 50. Early last week, I was told I needed to make sure I had nice, casual dress clothes ready for Friday. Always open to the opportunity to go shopping, I complied. New blouse? Check. New pants? Check, again. New shoes? Of course. I even threw in a manicure and a pedicure. I will arrive wherever it is that I'm going, dressed to the nines.

Well. Where AM I going, anyway?

The Teenager is at a friend's cottage for the weekend and the cat

didn't much seem to care, as long as there is food in the dish.

Our GPS (whom we affectionately call 'Kate') wasn't telling.

Neither was the Man with the Plan.

He does know that I don't function well without my breakfast, so our first stop was, oh, so appropriate, for breakfast on Canada Day

Yup. That's me eating a breakfast biscuit, at Tim Horton's.

From this point on, I'll leave the scintillating 2-hour drive along the 401 to your imagination. I can tell you that I was told to pack light. This, I'm pretty good at. (That bag is for both of us.)

Things started to get interesting when we exited at Woodstock. I was by this time completely flummoxed, since I know that nothing terribly exciting is happening in Woodstock, around Canada Day, that can't be enjoyed at home. Right?

Well there might be a shepherd or fibre processing plant out here, somewhere.

We spent a very nice hour on the back roads of New Hamburg

and Tavistock.

And I was still totally confused and wondering what we were doing, all dressed up in farm country.

Well, they say patience is a virtue. I wasn't feeling very virtuous, and just as I was about to yank the steering wheel out of the Man's hands and demand, "Tell me, TELL me TELL ME!!", I started recogizing where I was.

So, we did a little shopping, because we had some time before the totality of my birthday surprise was to be revealed. There was a really fun toy store,

and hats to try on, seemingly wherever we looked.

And then...

Is that...?

It IS! This is Stratford, after all, and that's the Festival Theatre!

Oooo! What's playing? Do we really get to go in? Pleasepleasepleasedon'taskmetositstillandbeladylikeanddecorousbecauseI'mabouttoexPLODE!

This is what's playing:

And this, (Oh, be still my beating heart!) this is where we sat:

In case you missed it, that is one of a pair of front row seats. I very nearly cried, I was so excited. An extraordinary performance followed -- including a walk-on performance by a hawk. (Or, would that be fly-on? Hmm.) It was an amazing show, with music, costumes and choreography up to the calibre you'd imagine from a world class stage company, as well.

Umm. I think I might be babbling.

The show ended around 4:30, and dinner reservations weren't until 7:00 (The Man of my Dreams still had a surprise for me, and I had no idea where we were going for dinner), so we went back to the motel where we were to stay for the night.

Wait. Wait, that's not the right setting. Here's a better idea:

That's more like it. The Swan Motel. A neat, spacious, comfortable, quiet room, with coffee and muffins available in the office for breakfast. And did I mention the gardens?

There are beautifully kept lawns and gardens all over the property, and just when you begin to wonder if you should be allowed to pitch a tent in a botanical garden, the driveway opens up and you find yourself  parked at the door to your room. Yes, that's a gazebo, and there's a great swimming pool, too.

Plus lots of places to just sit with a cold drink and chat. And there are lots of people to chat with. We checked out the muffins-and-coffee at breakfast, and discovered some lively conversation with Colleen (the lady of the manor, so to speak) and some of the guests.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. We spent a little while walking the grounds at the hotel before I was whisked off to dinner. And where was I to dine?

Here:

This is Raja Fine Indian Cuisine. See all those hanging baskets? They are camoflaging a beautiful deck

Even though there was a Canada Day parade going by, less than a block away, this dining area felt secluded and private. And when the last of the pipe and drum corps passed by, it was serene, too. But pretty and quiet do not a fine dinner make. The chef and his staff definitely know their stuff. First came papadums and condiments (I may have eaten most of the pickle):

 followed by a glorious dinner.

We chose Vegetable Samosas for our appetizer. Dinner was Tandoori Chicken, with Peas Pulao, and Mixed Vegetables. I had a glass of Riesling with dinner and The Man had a Kingfisher beer. And I must confess a weakness for Naan. I can live without dinner rolls most of the time, but there is something about that tasty Indian flatbread that just makes me happy to be within breathing distance of it. It's even better when I get to eat some. And I did. It was Garlic Naan. So, so good. Everything was incredibly good, actually. It was a great birthday gift to me, that's for sure. And after I finished the seconds of veggies, and personally inspected the very bottom of the dish of mixed pickle, I realized that I was going to have trouble finding room for dessert. I shouldn't have worried. The dessert menu was filled with house-made sorbets and mango ice cream. I chose lemon. And asked for two spoons. I wish I could remember to take pictures of my food before I start eating...

We topped our dinner off with liqueurs

What an amazing birthday gift. A surprise trip to Stratford, Camelot, Raja Fine Indian Cuisine. I am one lucky person.

This was Day 1. I was treated on Saturday and today, too. But more about that, later.

Now you know why I call him the Man of my Dreams.

Beadless in Bowmanville

Four rows.

I am four rows away from finishing Eiki, by Janel Laidman Last night, I looked at my handiwork, and thought to meself, "Self, this shawl needs bling" So off to the bead stash I trotted, with a specific pack of rose coloured beads in mind.

Sadly, 6º seed beads do not fit on doubled sport weight yarn. (SRK On Your Toes Bamboo, thanks for asking) sigh

So, I shall have to forage for some. Tina might have something. Marla might,too.

Meanwhile, I have another project on the needles.

I have been looking at the Dark Mark illusion scarf for a few years, now. I've always thought it would look good on the Man o' My Dreams. But, really, I know better than to launch into a full size project, in order to try out a new technique.

Ravelry to the rescue!

And here I am, rocketing my way through the Maple Leaf shadow knitted dishcloth.

I stressed about this? I feel kinda silly, now.

Also, I may have created something new.
More to come a little later.

Oh, look. I have ferns!

and roses (Explorer series, Samuel de Champlain)

and peonies

The one and only, Miss Sarah Bernhardt!

You're not distracted at all. Are you?

Fall, Winter, Spring, and...

Wednesday morning, I looked out my front door to see this:

Yup. It's construction season. And my street has, after 18 years on the waiting list, finally been deemed to be in bad enough shape to require repair. So, for the next 8 weeks, I am going to live every 5-year-old's dream. There are gonna be Mighty Machines in my front yard, nearly every day.

Yippee.

This was also in my front yard, this morning:

That would be Dark Ginger. A misunderstood and brooding, supervillian, imagined by the Teenager, for Superheroes Day at school.

Last evening was Arts Night, at the Teenager's school. And the Junior Improv Team got to participate. The Teenager got the dramatic role of a lifetime:

That's her in the turquoise, playing the part of the microwave oven. As one of her friends pointed out to me, last evening, it takes a rare talent to play an inanimate object. I kinda  liked the kid who got to play the frozen pizza, too.

There was also a performance by the Senior Improv Team,

and music,

lots of music.

You may be forgiven for thinking that last one looks a little old for High School. That's the inimitable Miss Witherspoon, reliving the glory days of her High School Prom, while dancing to "Careless Whisper", performed by the students.

There were some interesting displays, outside of the theatre, as well:

Those are, indeed gargoyles -- part of the Grade 10 Gothic Art Unit.

The heart and talent demonstrated by all of the participants was, truly, inspiring. Bravo, CCSS. Bravo.

All this talk of construction, and Spring Concerts and Proms got me into a hopeful, summer's-on-its-way kind of mood.

And, this morning, I may have bought something very seasonal:

This is, after all, the official first weekend of Summer.

Happy Victoria Day, everyone. Don't let the black flies getcha.