The only time to eat diet food is while you’re waiting for the steak to cook—Julia Child
Even if you are not a fan of cooking shows, Julia’s was the best. Even if you’re not a fan of French cooking, you can appreciate her dedication to the art.
And her philosophy of excellence in what she did can so easily be translated to knitting and beyond. Below is an excerpt from an editorial column in yesterday’s NY Times by her grandnephew by marriage, Alex Prud’homme:
One didn't simply whip up a homemade baguette or champignons à la grecque any old way; one must make them the "right" way. Julia's method was to spend hours on "scientific" research, learning how master chefs approached a recipe. When she found an approach she liked, she'd "submit it to the empirical test." By this, Julia meant: "Find out if a recipe is any good by doing it. If the mayonnaise doesn't 'catch' properly, then try it again until you get it all right - the temperature of the bowl, the type of oil, the vinegar, the speed at which you whisk it all together. A little extra effort shows your guests that you care about the food. It's always worth it."
A little extra effort is always worth it, no matter what you’re making or doing.
NYC Fashionistas Eschew Ponchos
That’s right, gang. I’ve been working two days a week up on Lexington Ave. and 43rd St. and I have seen exactly one pink poncho. Worn by a young girl who was clearly not a New Yorker. Or perhaps recently arrived from another state.
Ponchos are not “in.” Well, at least not in the Big Apple. Further proof of this came to me when I picked up the latest New York Magazine, their annual Fall Fashion issue.
No ponchos to be found there, either. However, there was a beautiful handknit cabled cardigan/coat modeled by Brooke Shields (yeah, she’s still around).
Your cost? $2,725. The Hermès bag that accessorizes it? $5,600. No fiber content noted on the coat.
I’ll wait for the Target knock-off. Or one could lift the pattern easily from the photo.
Knit List Newz
:: How Much is That Doggie In The Window With the Tibetan Silk Chewtoy?
I’m really loving the Knit List these days, wherein a KLister posted about being asked to leave her dog out of a knitting store. In high “dungeon” the aforementioned knitter declared that she’d never return to the yarn shop again.
Such a pity. Every yarn shop needs a dog visitor. Besides the leaving of dog-hair tufts, the liability issue of dog biting scarf-knitting customer is one that’s just so easily ignored.
Yay knitting. Yay dog in knitting shop.
:: For the Love of Numfar
Have you read the posts about this one?
I’m just mentioning it because all I want to say is: Just have a nice cup of shut-the-fuck-up.
Knit U Newz
None, as usual. Except that once again, a virus has struck down the message portal of the Knitting Universe. I guess in that universe, the server stands unprotected. Good thing I get it in digest form, I suppose. And good thing I delete said digest after skimming the uninspiring table of contents.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Where’s the Spun Gold Already?
I did what Loopy suggested and plied the domestic with the Romney. It’s OK, I can live with it. When I get it skeined off of the bobbin today, I’ll take a picture of it.
I’m working on finishing the Taos. Knitting on the train to NYC helps. This may actually be finished in time for Stitches.
Happy Birthday, Eleanor
Today is my mother’s 81st birthday. Here’s to the original knitting curmudgeon, who taught me more than I can ever thank her for, including how to knit. She’s my best knitting pal, my shoulder to cry on, and my personal role model.
So I want to apologize to her publicly for being such a bratty kid. Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to take the old lady in the wheelchair for a ride down the hill. I didn’t mean to wander off on the SS United States when Grandma was leaving for Europe, thus holding up the ship’s departure while everyone looked for me. I didn’t mean to break the candy dish when I was watching “Hopalong Cassidy.” I didn’t mean to ride no-hands down the middle of Valley Rd. while you were driving in back of me (I didn’t see you, I really didn’t). I didn’t mean to throw temper tantrums on the pavement in New York while Aunt Helga was babysitting me. I didn’t mean to let that grass cut bleed down my leg so that I could walk into the kitchen nonchalantly, red running from knee to ankle, knowing you hated the sight of blood.
My mother is an amazing woman, no doubt about it.
I mean, who else would have said to me at age 5, “Shut up, I’m counting”? I love her more than I could ever say.
She’s the most rare and handy person I know, a breast cancer survivor, survivor triumphant over life's tough times. May she have many, many more years of knitting and opining.