Slow Stitching

It’s totally OK if this isn’t for everyone.

But I have taken an interest (again) in hand embroidery. It’s certainly not something I want to do all the time, and of course quilting is always in the back of my mind.

I’m not entirely sure what the attraction is. For me, it’s a form of painting or artwork I’d moved away from years ago. I don’t really want to drag out my paints again. (Heaven knows it would go much faster to paint than to embroider by hand.)

Still.

When I am working from my own picture, my own drawing and not using anyone’s pattern, I find it very freeing. There’s a time for everything, as you know. Some days, I just want a pattern, and I just want clear directions and I just want to mindlessly sew.

Other days, I want to put something of myself into the project and own it.

That’s where hand embroidery comes in for me. It’s a disciplined form of expression. Takes time. Takes devotion. Takes thread, for pete’s sake…a lot of it.

But I can do it while listening to music, or a podcast. I can do it while I’m catching up with someone else on the phone.

Find your peace of mind. Whether that’s quilting, by hand or machine, reading, sewing, drawing, cooking, taking pictures, woodwork or crafting, literally anything that brings you joy.

Find it and hang onto it. And never let anyone tell you that you should be doing something else. The world only gives us one chance to live and to process it. Be sure you take your chance, and do the things you love and the things that color and fill your world.

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Farm…

I didn’t grow up on a farm.

I grew up on the south side of Chicago, spent countless hours on the CTA as a kid. I rode the bus to go to the library, school, the movies, to meet friends and to visit relatives. I knew every stop on the 62 line, from my house through Bridgeport and Chinatown and into the city.  I knew when I could catch an express bus and when it might be just as fast to take the local.  After that, I went to college across the street from the Water Tower downtown.  And then I got a job at the Sears Tower, where I worked for years til the corporation moved to the suburbs.

I know the city.  I am a product of the city.

But.

My grandparents on my Dad’s side had a dairy farm in northern Wisconsin.

We traveled there a couple times a year and almost always during haying season, because my Dad (and other uncles) helped them to bring in the hay and get it into the loft.  For those of you who don’t know, August is usually the best time for that sort of thing.  Hot, dry, with long days. Fill up the hayloft with bales so the cows have enough to eat all winter.

Me, I could not wait. Could. Not. Wait.  To wake up early with Grandma and Grandpa, around 5 – 6 am to milk the cows. I would wear a little head scarf (like Grandma) and follow them around the barn, play with animals and taste fresh milk.  And by fresh I mean straight from the cow before it goes into the strainer while it’s still the temperature of the cow.

I spent hours in the milkhouse afterward having conversations with Grandma while she cleaned all the equipment. I watched her hands, I studied the underground “cool pool” where they kept the milk cans up to their necks in cold water til the milk man came to pick them up. I fed and petted cows, guided them into the pasture, shoveled poop, chased kittens and chickens, and sat down to true, hearty meals.

farm1farm2I was a farmgirl.

To this day, I live as far west from the city as possible, on the edge of the suburbs, where the land becomes fields and the fields become grain and the horizons are long and rolling.

I drive past farms every day. I shop at their stands, I take cooking classes there, and in these long, last, few hot days of summer, I miss the work of the land and the animals.

But I remember the farmhouse kitchen, where my mom and aunt always had a hearty breakfast waiting after milking time. I remember the canning and the baking and the processing of fruits and vegetables. It was a tiny room, so well-organized, and was the absolute heart of the house.

Yesterday, I made a blueberry croustade.

I have been tweaking the recipe for awhile.  For a long time I fiddled with making my own pie crust every time.  But I soon grew tired — and frustrated — by that, and these days I mostly settle for Pillsbury which gets me 80% of the way there in .0001% of the time.

Here’s to farms and haying and long summer days. Here’s to fresh baked pies cooling on the counter top. Here’s to whip cream made from actual cream. Here’s to homemade goodness and the people in our lives who make it good.

Blueberry Croustade (Pie)

–2 pints (large) or 4 cups  blueberries

–1/2 cup sugar

–3 T corn starch

–2 tspns lemon juice

–1 T fresh ginger

–1 package Pillsbury pie dough.  You need 2 rounds.

Be sure to use enough corn starch…3 teaspoons is too little.  Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.

Line the dish with your pie dough.  I cut up the second round to use it to curl up over the top. One pie round is not enough. You need both.

Combine the rest of the ingredients.  I use a cheese grater to shred the fresh ginger. I would not recommend substituting powder. At all. Use the actual ginger, peel and grate.

Bake for about 30 minutes but keep an eye on it.

The whole prep takes a total of about 5 minutes. Seriously, maybe 10 if you include rinsing the blueberries.

Whipped cream is a must, ice cream optional.

Have a great end of summer season.

blueberry1blueberry2