The Tangled Nest

Even though I found them on the deep discount rack at REI, my Prana cargo pants were quite a splurge.  But in the spring of 2008 I was on my way to East Africa for two months, and the pants were so light weight, had a touch of spandex that made them perfect for everything from hiking to yoga, and had that appealing Prana too-hip-for-you styling.  I bought them, and it was one of those purchases I never ever regretted.

Outside Karen Blixen's house near Nairobi.

I wore them almost every single day, exploring Kenya and Tanzania.  When we entered a village where the women were required to wear skirts, I simply tied a kanga around my waist, over the pants.  In the heat of Africa, where a daypack added a layer of heat and sweat to even the shortest walk, I gained a new respect for my pants’ cargo pockets, which until then I’d though of as an unflattering aesthetic adornment.  On short hikes, my pants could hold lunch and water for Claire and me, a notebook, and my big field guide, The Birds of East Africa.

Lake Manyara, Tanzania

After Africa, I still wore my Pranas several times a week, on all my Pacific Northwest adventures, both urban and natural, and then climbing the ruins of Tulum last spring.  So you can imagine my despair when, while hiking in Joshua Tree a couple of weeks ago (in the Pranas, of course), Claire chimed in with, “Hey mama, I can see your undies.”  Sho’nuff.  There was a hole sprouting on my Prana bum that could no longer be ignored.

Getting rid of the pants was not an option, so when we got home I dug through the scrap bag to find a reasonably thick, but also pretty bit of fabric that would serve as a good patch.  I chose a flowered corduroy leftover from a skirt I’d made for Claire last year.  I wanted to do something a little playful, so cut the patch in the shape of a pear.

To make an applique patch:   draw your design on paper in the size and shape you want, outline this with an extra 1/4 inch, then pin to fabric and cut out your patch.  Clip curves, and press the 1/4 inch under.  Don’t be lazy like me–take the extra 30 seconds to baste the patch in place, rather than just pinning it.  For applique, I  usually like to use a blanket stitch, but since this patch would be on my bum, I thought the extra threads from blanket stitch might get caught on things, so just used little slip stitches.  I sewed the patch on with two strands of embroidery floss in a contrasting pink, then embroidered a little leaf and stem.  If we’re going to bother to repair our clothes, why not have little fun with it?

For more inspiration on clothing reclaimation and whimsy, check out the beautiful new book Sew Liberated, by Meg McElwee .  Her emphasis is not on patching per se, but many of her ideas could be applied in the area of clothing repair.

This Christmas, everyone gathered at our house.  In a quiet moment, my mother-in-law asked my Grandmother Lyanda, who is 93 years old, to tell her about her life–an open-ended question that left the elder Lyanda a bit confused.  But finally she said, “I made all their coats.”  They were my mother and her two brothers, my uncles.  And my grandma didn’t make their coats out of wool from the store, but out of adult coats that had worn through at the elbows or elsewhere.  She took them apart, reclaimed the fabric, and made them into something beautiful and new.

Grandma Lyanda Siglin this past Christmas, at age 93.

She sewed my coats, too, when I was little, also made over from adult coats. I remember a soft charcoal wool with covered buttons, a blue silk lining, and a fur collar that could snap on and off.  She made khaki coveralls for my sister and me, out of her sons’ army clothes.  She was a wonderful seamstress.  I wonder how we came to this day, where the first impulse when something is a bit worn is to replace it with something new?

What have you creatively rescued?  Clothes? Furniture? Fabric?  We’d love to hear about it.

Amdist the brown branches of February woodlands and urban forests in the Pacific Northwest, one native shrub always turns out the first flowers and bright new leaves– the Indian Plum.  The pendants of tiny greenish-white flower clusters fall beneath glowing green leaves that stick straight up, like the ears of a rabbit.

The flowers will mature into clusters of red-purple fruits, and were eaten cooked or dried by various Washington Salish groups.  The bitter bark was sometimes chewed and applied to muscle strains.

Also called osoberry, the Indian Plum is not really very plummish.  The fruits are dry, tart, and pithy. They do gather some sweetness as they ripen, but it’s hard to get a good mature one–birds (especially robins, waxwings, and jays) eat them as quick as they appear.  But heck, almost anything tastes good if you boil it down with enough sugar and drop it into a bowl of ice cream. I’ve eaten Indian Plums that way, and they weren’t half bad.  Worth a try just to say you did, and for the reminder of everyday sustenance in the natural world.

Dear friends, I’ll be taking a short break from all things technological for the next ten days or so.  See you here when I get back.  Meanwhile…

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in the last couple of years.  Friends call a day or two before Valentine’s Day, stressed out. “I have to make 30 Valentines by tomorrow, and I don’t even have the ’stuff!’  What do I do?  Do you know a simple Valentine pattern?  Help!”  (Multiply 30 x the number of school-aged kids in the family for total Valentines needed.) One friend’s Facebook update last February 13th read:  “Midnight.  60 Valentines done, 30 to go, shoot me now!”  Even Claire last year, when she had a big science project coming due and needed to practice cello, exclaimed one day, “Oh my gosh mommy, when are we going to make Valnetines?”  with a note of  anxiety in her voice.  This can’t be right, and it’s definitely not what “handmade” should be about.

Modern Valentine’s Day is a corporate manufactured celebration that might be considered optional for adults.  But it’s different for kids–the exchange of Valentines at a school party, all of them dropped into decorated desktop boxes–is a highlight of the year.  Remember all the tiny heart-and-animal cards with the bad puns?  “You’re Purrrfect, Valentine,” and the squirrel who says “I’m Nuts for You?”  They’re still out there.  Kids love to make Valentines–until they’ve made about five of them.  Then they’re often bored (and someone has to make the rest…).  I’m certainly not arguing that we should all buy our kids’ Valentines, I’m just saying this:  If it brings you and your kids joy, then get out the basket of scissors and paper and glue, and have fun.  But if it brings you stress, then good heavens, store-bought Valentines are not a crime.  Put up your feet, have a nice heart-shaped piece of chocolate, and feel the love that surrounds us all, whether we “get it all done,” or not.

See you in ten days.

Thanks to Flickr user RavenForLenore for the CC-licensed heart potato image.

Every morning it’s the same.  I wake up in the darkness while my loved ones still sleep.  I tiptoe into the kitchen to make coffee.  The Pot sits there on the stove, in the shadows.  And out of the silence, it speaks:  “Well, Haupt, what’s for dinner?”  What a rude question before I am even caffeinated!  I could prevent this inquisition, of course, by putting The Pot away at night, but the thing is too dang heavy.  It’s my 5 quart Lodge cast iron dutch oven.  It’s the pot I use, and (in spite of the morning inquest) love the most.

Cast iron is heavy--for easy lifting, choose a dutch oven with handles on both sides.

I recall a sweet little piece called “The Pupil and the Black Pot,”  penned by a young monk for The Zen Monastary Cookbook:

It is the biggest pot I have ever seen.
It is the heaviest pot I have ever lifted.
It can feed a biblical number of people.
It can empty in an awesomely short amount of time.
It can glisten incredibly tempting.
It is one of the kitchen cornerstones.
It is one of the mute role models of monastic life, never complaining,
always ready to serve, a forever forgiving teacher.

So true!  My mother has a pot like this, and so does my grandmother, and probably your grandmother.  Their mothers had one.  Ma Ingalls packed one in the covered wagon when she traveled with her family from Minnesota to the Dakota Territories.  It’s small wonder that cast iron has endured–a nicely seasoned cast iron pan is as slick as any manufactured nonstick surface, and distributes and retains heat more evenly than any pan but copper (much better than stainless or aluminum!).  But compared to copper or good stainless, it is practically free.

My 5 quart Lodge  cast iron dutch oven was a gift from my mother a few years ago, and you can get a new one for about $30.  My cast iron skillet, which an elderly landlord gave to me in college, was a wedding gift to her when she was married over 70 years ago–it couldn’t be in better shape. Lodge is the only domestic manufacturer of cast iron cookware, still using some of their original molds, which are over 100 years old.  The pans are cast of scrap steel converted back into iron, and pig-iron ingot (an intermediate stage in the melting of iron ore).  You can get cheaper cast iron, but its hard to beat Lodge quality (cheaper pans will have hot spots, and may eventually crack with heavy use or high heat).  I love the look of good cast iron–so rich and rustic.  It moves easily from the stovetop to the oven, and I use it for almost everything.

An early autumn soup with the last of the garden tomatoes, the first of the winter squash, and lots of pretty chard. Even Claire will eat chard if I serve it with biscuits.

People fuss about seasoning, which sounds mysterious and time-consusming, but is actually very simple.  Heat the oven to 350.  Wash and dry your pan, then heat it gently over low heat on the stovetop (don’t forget about it!).  Rub the pan evenly inside and out with a neutral oil (corn is great, canola is fine), then bake in the oven for about an hour, and let it cool there before removing it.  Done!  Repeat a couple of times a year, or do a booster-seasoning if your pan seems to need it, or if you cook a particularly acidic dish.  Wipe off excess oil after seasoning, especially if you aren’t going to use the pan for a few days–you don’t want the oily surface to become sticky and rancid.  Many Lodge pots now come pre-seasoned, but it’s still nice to give them a light washing and seasoning at home before use.  The finish will just become lovelier over the years.

There is a looming myth that you will forever ruin the seasoning on a cast iron pot if you scrub it with soap.  While it’s true that a light wiping is all that is normally needed and rigorous scouring should be avoided, a little scrub with mild soap now and then won’t hurt a thing.  Dry the pan and lid well after washing to prevent rust, and if some turns up, gently remove it with steel wool.

Cast iron adds a small but measurably healthy trace of iron to our cooking.. The lid of the dutch oven is lined with prongs, which collect condensed moisture and drop it into the pot, so you can steam many vegetables without an insert, including sturdy greens like chard and kale.  Can’t beat it for sauces, soups, and stews.  In addition to stovetop frying, the skillet can be used for frittatas, quiches, cobblers, even pie– and of course it is the pan of choice for corn bread.

Simple buttermilk-cornbread accompanied last night's chili.

Cast iron is heavy, which is one of the reasons that elderly people sometimes stop using it, and beautiful seasoned cast iron will turn up at yard and estate sales, or sit unused in the back of our grandmother’s cupboard–have a look.  Expensive modern cookware gleans much of its appeal from marketing and television chef endorsements.  Cast iron will most often perform just as well (or better), and looks just as good.  I love that we can stand in this historical cookware lineage, have wonderful pots, spend very little money, and cook healthfully all at once.

For more than you could ever want to know about the care of cast-iron (including the repair of cracks), check out this website.

Dear friends, I hope you won’t mind an off-topic post this week.  Many of you know that Tom, my husband, works for a global health program at the University of Washington, and that his group has an office in Haiti with more than thirty local staff.  Because of this, we’ve been receiving queries from friends and family asking for Tom’s thoughts on the best way to be of assistance.  He wrote a post about this for his blog, Bikejuju, and I’m sharing it here.  As a family, we are also paring down a little–eating simple meals from things we find in the pantry and winter garden, trying to use less water, cutting out unessential shopping.  I know this doesn’t really help, but it does keep us mindful that our tangled nest is part of a tangled world.  Peace to all, and here is Tom’s post:

For the past two days I have spent most of my work hours focused on the situation in Haiti. The organization I work for has an office in Haiti, with 33 staff, all of whom were deeply affected by the earthquake, including the loss or injury of loved ones, and catastrophic property destruction.

This isn’t a bike post. This is a simple request that you pitch in. I have selected Partners in Health as the medical organization I think is the best recipient of your support at this time. They have operated in Haiti for over 20 years, are fully equipped at multiple sites, operate with low administrative costs, and are scaling up very rapidly on the ground. I have visited their main hospital site in Cange (featured in the book Mountains Beyond Mountains), and I know the quality of their work first hand.

Partners in Health has set up a new website at StandWithHaiti.org.

There are also other good agencies working rapidly to respond in Haiti, including Doctors Without Borders.

Please stand with Haiti.