Thank you to RJ who shouldn’t feel guilty, because I did tag the entry with “Maudlin Crap”, and to CousinSteve who wrangled invitations to his sister’s house (yes, that makes her my cousin, but I have so very, very many cousins) which I graciously declined. Thank you, too, to the Number Three Surrogate Daughter, who also felt responsible. Even the GirlCousin and the Smithy are feeling vaguely unsettled. I’m feeling much better now, and thank you and I’m sorry to have whined so well as to trigger an epidemic of Jewish Guilt. Snap out of it! I did.

I made four sets of stitch markers to put in the TanteLeah etsy shop. There were actually five sets, but I wasn’t satisfied with one set, so until I figure out what kind of head pins to use, there may not be more sets. There’s this set: huge baroque pearls and vintage Austrian crystal on a copper pin. Fits up to a US size ten needle,

This set is vintage Austrian flower beads, a single modern glass bead and the copper head pins. Again, they fit over an American size ten needle.

And another set on copper, these have African trade beads, vintage Austrian flowers, turquoise blue white hearts. Fits up to a US size ten needle.

Finally, the set I’m keeping for myself: these have the tiniest little dark wooden skulls, coral, trade beads, the turquoise white hearts and wee chips of gaspeite. These only fit up to a size 9, and I think they’re going to be my favorite sock markers.

But wait! There’s more. I felted a piece of the yarn I spun and plied into a very fine cord. I added a carved/painted bone button to one end and made a loop in the other. Now, I’m embroidering it with beads and pearls. I want it to get heavy, but still show the felt in places. I’ve been working on this since last week.

Well. How did this happen? For the first time in my life, I find myself without a place at the Thanksgiving table, surrounded by friends and family and food. Thanksgiving in the early years was held at my grandparent’s home. My grandmother made kasha and lima beans. Not together, but those are the two foods that I remember that were not found on others’ tables. Kasha varnishkas with bowties, and with a splash of turkey gravy/juice are one of heaven’s treats. Grandma’s lima beans, on the other hand… well, except for my Grandpa, I think I was the only person who ate them. She made them from dried beans. They were not baby limas, either. These things were the size of baby shoes, and about as tasty and tender. I swear that you had to cut them with a knife and fork, too. They were grayish, and there was nothing in them resembling a flavor. Still, I loved them. I have no idea why.

Anyway, as my grandparents aged, the holiday moved to my mother’s home, and as the kids grew up and moved away, she and my father filled the empty spaces with their friends. The event expanded until it was a huge buffet, with multiple tables and all sorts of family and friends. My mother and father hosted the “widows and orphans” and it was a magnificent excess. The lima beans disappeared. The kasha varnishkas was supplied by my Auntie Em. My brother and I fought over the turkey skin, and my father brandished his razor-sharp knives to keep us at bay until he’d finished carving.

In time, that scene shifted to the GirlCousin’s home. The RLA and I would arrive with our ice-crusher and he would mix drinks until the elders were giggling like teenagers, and the teenagers were surreptitiously snagging cosmos. The GirlCousin’s husband discovered the glory of the turkey deep fryer, and since that side of the family avoids poultry skin like the plague, my brother and I were happily left to devour ALL the fried turkey skin with no competition and none of Daddy’s flashing cutlery to hamper us.

This year, the GirlCousin has had to take a pass, because sometimes life gets in the way of hilarity. Her sister-in-law has taken up the standard, and the family feast moved another 60 miles north. Which, unfortunately, puts it a tad beyond my reach. There are dogs. There are no dog sitters. There is the 4 hour drive. There is just no way.

So, I called my friends. Star is heading off to her family’s annual Turkeypalooza, taking with her the Surrogate Daughters. RJ and MJ are heading to Homestead to hang with other friends. MizPearl has plans with the Southern Ladies Auxiliary. My brother in law is off the to the northern end of the state to HIS in-law’s lake house. I called my recently orphaned boy cousins, thinking that they would need to be fed and comforted in the bosom of family…they had their own plans. The Renowned Local Artist and I are on our own.

It is, to be honest, freaking me the fuck out. I love him, and I love the dogs and the cat, but this is not the holiday I’m used to. I expect to be surrounded by family and friends and raucous laughter and tall tales and competitive cooking. Wish me luck, because I’m going to cook for two, and then we’ll go spend time with my mummy. Maybe I’ll take her some kasha varnishkas.

I changed my side bar. I decided that with the election over and Obama in transition mode, that the Bush countdown could go. I read the Newsweek post-election edition cover to cover. I know that the next four years are going to be rough because of what was done to us over the last eight, but I want to look ahead to our bright future.

I had an interesting conversation the other day. A woman I work with told me that she’d been at a time share pitch and the presenter asked “how many of you fought for your country?” And she knew (it being just before Veterans’ Day) that the intent was to find out how many veterans of the armed forces were in the audience. But my friend, she thought of what she does day in and day out, and what her political stance is, and she decided, hell… She fights for her country every day. So she raised her hand as her husband poked her in the ribs and said “you’ve never served in the military.” But, she said, I vote. And I write letters. And I talk about issues. And I make sure people at the end of life have the right sort of support and care. I think that means I’m fighting for this country.

I told her that I agreed. She does. I do. All of us who refused to stand by quietly during this last administration, as it teetered to fascism and stripped away our rights and tore up the constitution, all of us were members of the resistance. Freedom fighters. So yeah, let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.

Or, you know, spin, spin, spin. A few weeks ago, Star and I made a road trip to the Palm Beaches, where I purchased a used spinning wheel. In case you wonder, yes, spinning wheels are still produced. This isn’t an antique, merely a gently used Ashford Traditional. I brought it home, and have been teaching myself to spin. Why? Why not. Actually, I wanted to spin the tzitzit for the Rose Garden tallis. Didn’t happen.

But here we have, in the golden light of my studio, my first handspun yarn.

It’s lumpy and uneven, but I love it. The roving (the stuff you feed into the wheel) came from The Yarn Wench (over there on the right in my links). That’s it on the far left in the picture, that fluffy stuff. On the far right, we have the single, or the first stuff I spun. In the middle, that’s called 2 ply, and it’s what happens when you take two singles and twist them together. It’s real yarn. Maybe even enough to knit the edge on a hat.

I haz a new addiction. Perfect for South Florida. I love my spinning wheel. I love the whir and the meditative state I can reach. Well, the theoretical meditative state I can reach. At the moment it’s more like the level of frustration I can reach. But I see it in the not too far distance.

GAH!!! I put cute little cedar balls in my sweater box. So today, I’m wearing something that smells to me like cedar cat litter. I mean, it only smells like cedar. But for some reason, that smell reminds me not of my mummy’s cedar chest, but of that organic cat litter that my cats would never use. Why this is now hard-wired into my brain, only my brain knows.

In other news, one of the folks in my neighborhood who had sported a yard sign for McCain/Palin is now sporting a hand-made sign. Black background, red letters that read: God Bless America. I thought you were supposed to keep the pointy hats and sheets in the back closet, and not on the front lawn? Maybe it isn’t racist. Maybe it’s just a sore loser who thinks that we’ve gone to the dark side? Oh. Dark. Racist. Uh, maybe it’s just a sore loser who thinks that the country has gone to the infidels? Which would be bigotry based on religion? Whatever. Bigotry is bigotry, whatever triggers the hatred and fear. Color. Religion. Politics. Country of origin.

My niece was bat mitzvah’d two weeks ago, and when she and her mom started planning this, they asked me to make her tallit. I was sooooo thrilled to do it. The Niece studies dance. She’s a member of her school’s troupe. She wanted pink. Not necessarily ballet pink, but pink. The Niece is a red head (Gorgeous red. Coppery red. With a pony tail as thick as my wrist.) She’s also tiny, and with skin like porcelain. So this was an easy call: she needed a tallit that was like English roses in the rain. I had some shrimpy-pink dupioni with an all-over embroidery of vines and flowers in old silver. And I had a length of moss-colored velvet that I wanted to use for her bag. She loved both swatches. Easy. All I had to do was put it together.

So I added some dark olive dupioni to the pile, and an embroidered sheer ribbon in soft mossy slash seafoam green that had beads, and another sequined ribbon. I had the smallest scrap of a green and orange Chinese brocade, so I tossed that on the pile of fabric, too. Some different threads in greens and pinks. Digging further into my fabric stash, I found a very Ralph Lauren sort of green/pink/apricot dupioni plaid. All I had to do was put it all together. Easy.

Off to the fabric store to see if I could find a pattern for the tallit bag, because the dozen or so patterns I have and have used just weren’t right. Found a pattern that allowed for patchwork and various fabric combinations. It even had a pocket and a zipper. So I bought a few zippers, in pinks and greens and some more embroidery threads. Easy. I had a couple of months. No worries. Just had to put it all together.

Did I mention that I’d only used velvet once before? That was for RJ’s tallit bag and it was a heavy, rust colored cotton velvet. Yummy. This green was nylon? Rayon? Something shiny and soft. No problems. I started with the tallit, and put together the stripe. I had to keep pulling back, and editing myself, because my first instinct is always that more is better and if a little bit of glitz is good, great heaping piles of it is better. One by one, the extra ribbons and embroideries got taken away. I finally ended with just the dark olive with the plaid layered over it, then the sheer ribbon over the plaid.

I laid the stripe to one side and started on the bag. And fought with it, tooth and nail for the next six weeks.

I machine basted. I pinned everything with great, long quilting pins, every inch. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried hand basting, and the quilting pins. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried a walking foot. But first, I had adventures in my sewing room wherein it took me hours to tear my studio apart and find the foot and others where the tension on my machine needed hours of tweaking to get the stitches to hold firm.I found the foot and… the fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried hand sewing. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried any number of combinations of all of the above. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and then all of my hair out. I drank. I smoked cigarettes. I thought about it some more. I tried a steam-set bonding tape. It flattened the velvet and didn’t hold the fabric together when I tried to sew it.  But then I discovered that the zipper and the gusset just wouldn’t set in correctly. I bought shorter zippers and re-drafted the pattern. Repeat most of the steps above regarding hair pulling, drinking and smoking. I had to go to a funeral, and lost work days. I cried on a stranger on the train whom I know to be a sewer. She suggested tissue paper between the layers. It worked.

I tied the knots on the tzittzit at midnight on the Thursday before the Saturday service. It was perfect. My niece was perfect. Happy endings all around.