Catching Up

We meet again!

Another summer has come and shall soon be gone. The ferns in the field have begun to turn brown, and the treetops across the pond have the fintest tinge of red to them. Can it be?

Of course here in Maine they're already quoting the Farmer's Almanac. "Gonna be a bad one this year," says the woman at the antique shop on Congress Street. "They say heavy snow starting in October," she says, only it comes out as "stahhhting" and "Octobah." She continues, "They says it'll be snow through April."

We stare at each other silently, each picturing our own version of cold winter gloom.

I'm not ready, I never am. But we already have our bushels of potatoes, harvested from the garden and curing in the barn. I'm waiting for the onions to bow their heads in final surrender, which should come any day now. The peach tree, so fecund in the past, yielded just a handful this year. The green beans made up for it, prolific enough they were to feed a family of six.

We abandoned it all last week, speeding away suddenly in the dark of early morning, bags barely packed, to be with Clare's sister in the hospital. We both packed black, but by all forces of grace and luck, we didn't need to wear it.

Now comes the grand end to the summer, the Blue Hill Fair. Its creaky Ferris wheel punctuates the skyline, beribboned quilts and tomatoes and gourds proudly on display, hawkers urging you to step right up, just give it one try, win a prize for the little lady, one toss is all it takes. The bumper cars are my milieu, and I have big plans.

This is E.B. White's fair 62 years later, the outlines somewhat changed but the heart still intact. Last year I even spotted two plump happy little pigs snoozing in the shade. Wilbur?

Falling into Fall

Wait, huh? September 3rd? Did you see that thing go by? What was it, anyway? A bird? A plane?

And so another summer appears to have drawn to a close. An utterly beautiful, whirlwind summer of family visitors, splashing in ponds, sailing in the ocean, pulling sweet-smelling things out of the oven, taking deep breaths and repeating, again and again, "It is just... so beautiful here." Few gifts are as precious as a full Maine summer.

My lovely little dogwood bloomed for me again. My cakes rose, my granola turned crispy and brown. The strawberries were succulent, peaches smaller but sweeter, the entire kale crop devoured overnight by a mysterious garden visitor. The tomatoes have never been more abundant or flavorful - these, along with the jalapeño plants, are the only ones that really enjoyed the hot dry weather.

Now, pitchfork after pitchfork of goat manure is being mixed into the soil in preparation for another long winter's nap. They say it's going to be a cold, wet one this year.

In August, I took a hard look at my calendar and realized that I needed to back away from my baking job. It was utterly sad on so many levels, but my grown-up self knew it needed to be done. I need baking to be my avocation, not my vocation. I wasn't doing anyone a service by drifting in and out of the kitchen, forcing their schedule to bend to my ever-tightening one.

They quickly absorbed my departure and hired two new bakers. The world goes on. But it was one of the best things I've ever done, and I am forever grateful to Cathy for saying "yes" to my improbable request, and for giving me a chance to try something new. We should all be so lucky.

And now, I'm taking a deep breath and preparing to dive under the giant wave that is fall. In one week, I travel to Cleveland to shoot the next season of Knitting Daily TV (pardon the annoying pop-up - their site, not mine). And in two weeks? Iceland. I can barely believe it.

From there, more and more awaits. Big things, woolly things, meaningful and vulnerable wordy things, all pulling us forward to the future.

Shall we dive?

Wanderlust

Last year at this time I was packing for Knit Nation - a week in London, comfortable shoes, a new camera, and an insatiable appetite to devour every moment of my precious time in that city.

Maine is at its most glorious right now. Stunning. The air almost knocks you over, so rich and thick and sweet is its fragrance. We've waited all year for this.

Yet in my fickle mind I'm back in London, taking pictures of wisteria-covered windows I wish were mine...

And people going about their daily lives, unaware...

I'm sipping a short cappuccino at Monmouth...

And I'm still enchanted by this little orange car that I spotted in a Notting Hill restaurant window.

You know how you can be in a room full of people and feel utterly alone? For me, that's how wanderlust works. It usually hits when I'm at my happiest and most settled, surrounded by the kind of beauty that is Maine in July. 

Does that ever happen to you? And where would you go? 

Seeking Stability

Your comments about lessons learned were so beautiful and inspiring. I am honored to think that such good people come here - voluntarily, no less - to read my own mutterings. Thank you.

I went to TNNA, that big trade show for fiber folks, and returned as I always do: inspired yet somewhat muddled. It's a challenge to be someplace where everyone's radio frequencies are turned up so high. I can't help but pick up lots of static where I'm used to getting a strong, clear signal all my own.  It's as if I came back with about six heads sticking out of my own. Removing them feels like thinning seedlings from the garden, but it must be done.

I've planted too many ideas for the future, and they simply cannot all grow in the space allotted to them. I always wish I could ask a neighbor to come over and thin my seedlings for me. Right now I rather wish some wise person could stare at the mess in my brain, say, "That one, that one, and that one," pluck out the rest and toss them on the compost pile before I can protest. Of course that's the absolute worst way to make decisions, so I'll continue to muddle my way through and trust rightness to prevail. Self-doubt is a mighty foe.

In the meantime, the strawberries are already done. How did July get here so quickly? I picked the last harvest and am making some ice cream for family that arrives this evening. It's always grounding to be around kids. You're too busy making fart noises and grabbing fragile things out of small, swift-moving hands to dwell on bigger questions like, "What should I do with my life?"

Plus I no longer need to dwell on that particular question, because the answer has come to me in the form of STABILIZED WHIPPED CREAM. I'm not a huge fan of regular buttercream frosting. It's always too thick and goopy and buttery for summer. Even for me, it's just too much butter. But whenever I try to do a simple whipped cream concoction, it always goes runny on me.

Well, my friends, professional bakeries have a trick. If you didn't know already, they stabilize their whipped cream with gelatin. I experimented a few days ago and am in love.

Dissolve 1 teaspoon of gelatin in about 4 teaspoons of water, let it sit until it gets goopy, then heat it on the stove just until dissolved. Whip 1 cup of cream like you normally would, but just as the cream starts to thicken, drizzle the cooled gelatin into the cream. If you're really gluttonous, add a dollop of lemon curd.

With stabilized whipped cream you can do things like this, and it won't instantly topple:

I was so fascinated the process that I over-whipped the cream (you can see it's a little globby) but HOLY COW, between the extra texture and the lemon curd I was ready to bathe in this thing.

I think I'll set aside some strawberries and try pureeing them and folding them into some stabilized whipped cream. Ohhh, maybe alternate lemon and strawberry creams in a trifle? Oy, my arteries are hardening just imagining the possibilities.

What about you? Were you hit by the horrible storms earlier this week? Is your power back on? What's on your stove, in your oven, or chilling in the fridge? And how do you thin your own mental garden? Please, I'd love to know.