Where have I been? On a very long Amtrak ride from San Jose to Santa Barbara, to take part in the first-time-ever Color and Couture knitting workshop! Long train rides, like long flights, are premium knitting opportunities, and our group took full advantage of the time. Our train was incredibly comfortable – far more so than the economy section of any plane I’ve ever been on. The seats were enormous, leg room was generous, and there were wide pull-out footrests to ensure total traveling comfort. The train had an observation car with floor to ceiling windows and swivel chairs, the better to appreciate the landscape shifts outside:

We passed through the Central Valley:

Lots of farms, some with cattle grazing on the hillsides, some with vineyards marching as far as the eye could see, and some with fields planted with strawberries and other colorful crops. What a way to see the California countryside! And about an hour outside of Santa Barbara we reached the coastal tracks, where it got a bit nerve-wracking as we traversed bridges that appeared to be cantilevered over the ocean cliffs.

My good friend Sandy accompanied me for the weekend, so it was a girlfriends’ road trip as much as a knitting retreat. Sandy moved away from the Bay area about four years ago, and our town has never been the same. She works at Jimmy Beans Wool in Reno, so she has the inside track on all the new yarns and pattern books coming out each season.

Here are two of our instructors (and the coordinators) for the retreat, Susan Schlesinger (L) of  Bonita Knitting Store near San Diego and Erin McGee (R) of Bobbin’s Nest Studio in Santa Clara. They did an incredible job with their workshops on Color Theory and Updating Your Knitting Repertoire. In addition, the take-aways from this retreat were outstanding! I came home with several free skeins of luscious yarn (and that’s not even including the ones I purchased at the “boutique” set up in our conference room), at least a dozen free patterns and a couple of new books, as well as a fabulous assortment of knitting notions, needles, and more. It was a challenge to zip up my suitcase, to be honest, even after I opened up the expandable section!

If you’ve never had an opportunity to take a pattern fitting workshop with Joan McGowan-Michael of White Lies Designs, I encourage you to seek her out. Her seminar on achieving the perfect “couture” fit for any hand-knitted garment was masterful. Joan has a comprehensive design background, and is the author of Knitting Lingerie Style, one of the books I refer to often in my knitting library.

Here is Joan’s trunk show featuring just a handful of her original designs… every single one of them is gorgeous; beautifully finished and outrageously feminine.

Not everybody made it into this group photo – there were about 30 of us altogether. Lots of different knitting skill levels, but everyone benefited. A great group of women from both northern and southern California, brought together for one glorious weekend.

For me, the high point of the weekend was that I finished re-knitting and re-assembling my striped Noro V-neck sweater. It’s hard to tell from this photo, but it really does fit me much better. My mods were to add 2 x 2 ribbing to the hem, and long ribbed sleeves (wrist to mid-forearm), as well as a 2 x 2 ribbed neck band. These small touches gave the garment just a bit more of a finished look.

Among the vicissitudes of aging, I was prepared for the AARP membership invitation that recently hit my mailbox. As prepared as I could ever be, I guess, for the sample AARP magazine issue on newsprint-quality paper that practically begs you to lick a finger before turning each page. I’ve embraced my laugh lines with good grace, mostly, although the aches and pains that follow my gym workouts, somewhat less so.

What I never expected was that once I hit fifty, my light brown eyebrows would fade into a nearly invisible shade of white-blonde.

Or is that simply white? It never occurred to me that I might finish out my days with a look of perpetual astonishment on my face, but that is exactly the expression looking back at me in the mirror. For if eyes are the windows of the soul, then eyebrows are definitely the bold signposts of the emotions. Summon a mental image of the great screen actresses from the 1940s like Joan Crawford or Claudette Colbert, and which defining feature comes to mind? That’s right! Whether arched in surprise, cocked in skepticism, or furrowed in anger, for those femmes fatales their eyebrows were the most emphatic punctuation on their beautiful faces. And I’m not talking about the current high fashion trend seen on the runways for painted-on “eyebrows” that are too thin, too high, and too dark to have even a fraction of the assertive grace of their forebears’ eyebrows. 

The disappearance of my own eyebrows into a state of pallid neutrality has rendered mute an integral feature of my expressive repertoire. Now I’m beginning to appreciate why eyebrow restoration, coloring, and even false eyebrow sales are a multi-million-dollar component of the cosmetics industry. I’ve realized why my elderly parents – eyebrow-less like me – seem to regard the world’s craziness with nothing stronger than mild amusement. And why my octogenarian neighbor – the one with eyebrows so bushy, so lush, that they hang like silver awnings over the tops of his glasses – seems so fierce in comparison.

It’s all in the eyebrows, and given the choice I’ll take fierce over mild. So as soon as I pop that AARP membership form into the mail, I’ll head out in search of an eyebrow pencil that can restore the faded focal point of my emotions to their former eloquence.

Shadow quite likes her eyebrows, just as they are.

Anyone visiting New York City this fall will undoubtedly be urged to fit in a visit to the High Line, the elevated park (and former rail line) that runs from Gansevoort St. up to 20^th . It will eventually continue up to 34^th St. as funding and time allow, to be completed in 2011 if all goes according to plan. I’m here to tell you those urgings should be heeded, even if all you have is an hour to spare.

With a free morning during my visit a couple of weeks ago, I headed straight over to the West side without having any idea what to expect. I climbed the stairs at the 20^th St. access point and when I reached the High Line my first thought was, “This is it? This is what all the fuss is about?” Because there is a walkway with plantings on either side, and railings over which one can see varying street views. The old rail lines have been left in place, where they now form ground-hugging industrial sculpture that snakes around the plantings in wonderful patterns.

As I began my stroll south along the wide path, I began to focus on those plantings that had at first seemed so pedestrian; no different, really, than the weeds one would find in any abandoned lot anywhere in the city. Gradually, though, I began to appreciate the incredible variety of the plant life all around me… yet all of it seemed to be native to the area – or at least it could be if cared for and allowed to thrive. And then I became aware of a delicious fragrance that reminded me of my herb garden at home… only better. Birds, bees, and butterflies were flitting around among the flowers and grasses.

Not only was the plant life captivating, but the architectural details were equally noteworthy. Especially remarkable were the colored glass panels that represented all the colors of the river…. done by an artist who had blown up photographs of different sections of the river and isolated a single pixel of each, until he was able to assemble a collage of colors, and light, and mood – and then transpose them all to glass panes.

There were uniformed, hatted employees working throughout the park, weeding, watering, and fertilizing the plants. When I inquired about the fragrance, I was told that it was the “drop seed grass,” which smells similar to the herb cilantro. Ahhh, yes. Every once in a while, I’d pull over to the railing to see what I could see. And the views were wonderfully diverse: road, overpass.

Water, boats. Parks, skyscrapers. People, people everywhere. It was the the life of the city from a quietly fantastic, more-serene-than-usual perspective, and I could easily have spent all day taking it all in.

And I was not alone in that. Although when I first arrived I felt almost as if I had the place to myself, by the end of my visit there were many other people enjoying it with me, strolling along the path, sitting on the benches that had been placed thoughtfully about the park, leaning up against the railings to admire a particular view, taking photos. Lots of tourists speaking French, German, and other languages, but just as many New Yorkers taking a breather from the energy of the city. I can’t wait to return at a different time of year to see how the High Line’s atmosphere and views change with the seasons.   

Every curve in the walkway seemed designed to provide a different angle, to offer a new perspective on the park, and all of its geometry was softened by the thriving, fragrant plants. In its own subtle, quiet way, it was quite thrilling.

How did it get to be October already? And when did I realize I am oh-so-ready for fall? Maybe it was that final day last weekend, on my DD’s college campus, when the weather suddenly turned from sunny and in the 70’s to raw, rainy, and in the 50’s. Having brought nothing but sandals and short-sleeved tops on the trip with me, I was ill-prepared for the change. But if nothing else, I developed a new understanding for how the university sells all those unlovely navy and screaming orange sweatshirts (yes, those are the school colors) in the campus bookstore. I, too, added one to my wardrobe that day, and wore it gratefully as the temperature continued to drop. 

Even returning home to the Bay area, I was struck by the decidedly autumnal shift in the air. Mornings are dark now when I awake, and dusk comes much earlier. The official first day of fall has come and gone. Seeing my daughter so happily ensconced on her college campus reminded me of Rod Stewart’s bittersweet song, Maggie May. It was late September, and I really did feel as if I should be back at school.

Maybe it was picking the last of the figs from our tree, and realizing that fig jam and desserts are over for the season – although I did take some of these and combine them with Braeburn apples and dried Montmorency cherries to make a delicious fall crisp for dessert last night.

 Maybe it was that enormous pot of Tuscan kale and bean soup I recently made, stirring it with images of cozy winter dinners in mind.

Back at home after last week’s travels, I picked the last of the tomatoes and started harvesting the first fragile lettuce leaves from the fall planting a few weeks back. Radishes and beets are still weeks away, but the baby greens are a tender addition to salads. The large tomatoes are ripening on sheets of newspaper, and a few last pounds of the cherry tomatoes ended up on a puff pastry and parmesan tart for dinner the other night.

There’s nothing I’d love to do more right now that knit, and it has been incredibly frustrating not to be able to. I sit and watch TV in the evenings, and it feels strange (not in a good way, either) to have no knitting in hand. I suppose I could hold my last WIP in my lap and fondle it while the programs unfold before me, but it just wouldn’t be the same. I’ve been dreaming for weeks about new sweater designs I want to make, and once my bandage came off I even sketched them into my design notebook. But recuperation from my hand surgery continues slowly (and working on the computer does nothing to aid my convalescence, I admit), with my hand still swollen and somewhat weak. I can’t make a fist because the scar tissue is still tender. However, between that  “Oh, it’s September – time to learn something new” mindset and my growing acceptance of the limitations I may continue to have post-hand surgery, I’ve made what feels like a very big decision. 

I’m going to invest in a knitting machine and in the lessons to learn to use it properly. Although it will never take the place of hand-knitting, it will give me a fighting chance of creating all the new designs I’ve had in mind. And it just may save me from further surgeries. And that, I’ve gotta say, would be really nice.

No trip to New York would be complete without a visit to School Products, one of my favorite yarn shops, located on Broadway around 29^th St. And so with an hour to spare one afternoon, I made my way there. In addition to a range of Karabella yarns, they stock gorgeous cashmere and other luxury mill ends from Europe. Berta Karapetyan, the owner, was there that afternoon – she is the author of Runway Knits, and is a gifted hand-knitter and designer. I never leave School Products empty-handed, as you can see.

 This rustic-looking, Italian-milled charcoal tweed wool demanded to go home with me, and with roughly 2,000 yards on the cone it will probably end up as a new sweater for DH, who supports my yarn and knitting addiction so graciously. The surprising thing about this yarn is that considering its slightly rough and nubby appearance, it is deliciously soft. 

 Two skeins of this plied 80% cashmere/20% silk blend hand-dye amounts to about 300 yards. It also feels wonderful to the touch with a slightly dry hand from the silk content, and the steely blue-gray color with sparks of light (again from the silk) is truly a winner.

 A final indulgence – and I really do mean indulgence – is this 100% cashmere. Hand-dyed in the U.S., it is the richest possible shade of garnet (quite a bit deeper than my photos would suggest) and is divinely lofty and soft. I took home three skeins, enough for a hat and mitts, or possibly a hat and cowl. Bliss, pure bliss. I think we need to see this one close up, don’t you? (Wipe that drool off your chin, please…)

I was in New York City last week for a specific, very exciting reason: the photo shoot for my upcoming knitting book, Brave New Knits . Never having participated in such an event, I was not about to miss the chance. And since my hand surgery a month ago has required a depressingly long hiatus from actual knitting, this was two days of blissful compensation. 

What an amazing experience it was! Everyone from the models to the photographer (that’s you, Jared),

from the stylist and make-up artist to Rodale’s art director and editor, were on hand in the studio to make sure the shoot went smoothly. Having a stylist and models with experience modeling knitwear made a huge difference; they really understood the need to make the knitted projects the focus of each shot. 

I can’t show you much, but I can give you a peek:

      It’s all in the details, right?

Malibu coastline

Yesterday I played hooky from my life for just one day, thanks to a super-cheap plane ticket that took me to Los Angeles in time for breakfast. I went to visit my friend Jill, who moved down there more than four years ago and has been missed by many old friends in the Bay area ever since. It had been way too long since our last visit, and the timing was right, so off I flew. Breakfast was the first order of the day, right on the beach. Didn’t hurt that it was 75 degrees and sunny with a light breeze blowing off the ocean. You can understand why people are willing to take the risk of  The Big One (earthquake) to live in such a paradise.

Random father and son; who is cuter? Hard to tell.

Paradise Cove in Malibu; breakfast on the beach, toes in the sand!

Once we took off along the beach for a hike (across packed sand that is only accessible during low tide), we saw all kinds of sea creatures both in the tide pools and walking along the sand, some two-legged, and others many-legged, and some with flippers.

Starfish in the tidepools

This little guy got beached in the rocks at low tide. We stuck around long enough to make sure he made his way back into the ocean.

It was an amazing day; not only did I take a wonderful hike along the fabulously scenic coastline with a dear friend, but I walked off my breakfast omelet, as well as the Pinkberry double scoop, the Delicious Bakery chocolate babka (just a slice, honest – to keep us fortified for more walking), and an authentic deli dinner before Jill returned me to the airport for my flight back up to San Francisco. I was home by bedtime… wondering if it had all been a dream.

A last bouquet of these dinner plate dahlias, my favorite, has graced the kitchen table this week. The blooms are spectacular, and this year I actually remembered to stake them before they got too tall.

The lemon cucumbers were not as prolific as I had hoped they’d be, but the few we got were delectable. Next year, I’ll have to scope out a sunnier spot for them, which may be a challenge now that the next-door neighbor’s maple tree is three stories high and blocks the sun all summer until noon. In retrospect, it’s probably a minor miracle that we got any lemon cucumbers at all this year! I fantasize about sneaking over there in the middle of the night with a gigantic bottle of Round-Up, and “accidentally” spilling it all around the trunk of that tree… oops, my bad! But then, what makes them think it’s okay never to prune a tree that has at least a dozen large broken branches dangling over their own yard as well as mine?

Over the weekend, I had a helping hand from DH to replant the vegetable garden with cool-weather produce. He dug out the beds and raked in the bone meal and fertilizer. I, hand bandaged and be-gloved (is that even a word?) for protection, had the onerous task of sprinkling seeds into the ground and covering them up with a half-inch of soil, and of planting seedlings into shallow holes. To be fair, I really ought to say that DH had the helping hand from me, since he did all the heavy lifting. The only thing that hurt afterwards was my pride; not such a tough cookie after all, I had to go inside and ice my hand as soon as we were finished. Yeah, I guess I have a bit of a tendency to overdo it.

Here’s what we planted: three kinds of lettuce, two kinds of chard, radishes and beets, sugar snap peas, and tuscan kale. Yum!

Speaking of tuscan kale, we bought some at the farmer’s market over the weekend, along with savoy cabbage, leeks, and swiss chard. Back at home, I raided the cupboard for cannellini beans and stock, and turned all those luscious veggies into this Tuscan kale and bean soup, which should warm us happily on several winter nights (since the recipe made one and a half gallons!!!):

Although the full size tomatoes are not impressive in the garden this year, the cherry tomatoes are going like gang-busters. Both the Sun Gold and the Chocolate Cherries (so named for their dark burgundy-brown color, not for any resemblance to chocolate in the flavor department, unfortunately) have been prolific, and look as if they’ll keep pumping out the fruit for another month or so.

A person can eat only so many tomatoes. I’ve had more than my share, to be sure. They go in the dinner salad every night, and accompany my tuna or hard-boiled egg, or whatever I’m eating for lunch that day. But my basket overfloweth. Over the weekend, it was necessary to take drastic measures – again. These:

after oven-drying for two full hours at 250 degrees (thanks, Anne, for the recipe!), ended up in a freezer baggie so I can scoop out as many as needed to add to soups and other recipes. Halving all those tiny tomatoes without too much discomfort to my hand was a major kitchen triumph.