Family Reunion

I've worked at the birth center for about a year and a half now, and although most women are thrilled with their birth experience, nearly every woman I've met immediately after delivery swears she is never going to do that again. And then, of course, she is back a year or two later again in the throws of labor. Post-delivery, there are two pieces of Jill-trivia that I like to tell women at the center: 1) My husband weighed 12 (yes, twelve) pounds when he was born, and 2) My maternal grandmother is one of 16 (yes, sixteen) children, all single births. This makes my great-grandmother some sort of fertility-goddess made flesh. No wonder I grew up to be a midwife. Birth was in my blood.

Although my immediate family is pretty small, as an adult I'm touched by the unique experience of growing up with such a large extended family. There are literally hundreds of us on this earth because of the union of John and Jennie Hall at the turn of the century, and I have many cousins I've yet to meet. Every summer, for as long as I can remember, the Sixteen (or what's left of them) meet for a week at a WV state park, their children and grandchildren (and sometimes great-grandchildren) in tow.

My memories of childhood are punctuated with weeks spent at "Camp": my flamboyant aunts and uncles playing practical jokes on each other and the kids; white-elephant sales; dimly-lit late night treks through the forest, "haunted" by my older cousins; square dancing with my uncle Louie - a champion caller who taught me to Texas Two-Step to "Amarillo by Morning". I have memories of my Aunt Oleta and her daughter Naomi, both bosomy women who would miraculously pull two or three metallic tubes of lipstick out of their ample brassieres, my uncle Blaine and his foul-talking parrot Zeke, and most of all - hours and hours of my great-aunts lounging in chairs under shade trees, shelling pole-beans, laughing until one of them had to get up to pee.

Oh, and the food. The food. What an singular pleasure it was to spend a week with my relatives, briefly pulled together from the four corners of the world, and share the foods that linked us all as a family. My grandmother, an unrivaled home-cook, makes hot rolls worth fighting over. My Aunt Norma owned a Dairy Bar (like a Dairy Queen) and would bring her chili con carne, Aunt Dee (from NY - she married in) made 6" high cheesecakes, and Aunt Jessie, who married Italian Louie, simmered vat upon vat on spaghetti sauce. We pot-lucked al fresco, sometimes nearly 200 of us, and as a child it seemed as if the banquet tables went on forever.

My favorite Camp tradition was watching my aunts and uncles make huge kettles of applebutter. It was a colonial scene: a copper pot large enough to boil a small child, a wood fire, and a large paddle to stir the mellow, spicy mixture. In the hot June days, a group would form around the kettle, everyone taking turns with the paddle. A batch took all day to create. The applebutter was poured into Ball jars, sealed, and then distributed to the family.

I haven't been to camp in a long time...the tradition carries on, even though many of my dear aunts and uncles have passed away and the cousins I looked forward to seeing all year are grown with families of their own. Three weeks ago my grandparents came to visit and brought me a jar of 'Camp' applebutter. Eating it is a little like a sacred ritual for me. I can taste in it the summers in the woods, the laughter of my aunts, the soul of my family. I love to share it with Andrew, knowing that with every bite, he's more a part of the generations before him.

So, here's to the 16: Lela, Lola, Oleta, Mary, Margaret, Leslie, Ivan, Blaine, John, Norma, Jessie, Virginia, Kathleen, Charles, William, and Helen.

Envy and the 8-hr Quilt

My mother's birthday was last week, and I love to hear her tell the story of when she was about 8 yrs old and she got a new bike for her birthday. She just loved that sucker. The afternoon of her birthday she was riding it around the neighborhood and one of the little kids next door was admiring her new treasure and she said to him, "Don't you wish you had a bike like this?".

To hear my mom tell it, the question was asked not in a boastful way, but simply with the intention of expressing gratitude for her enormous blessing. Unfortunately for her, her father overheard her comment, interpreted it as a completely snotty statement, and took the bike away from her for a month. This is the same man who to this day will drive his pick-up to church because he can't bear others knowing his dirty little secret, his hidden shame.... that locked up in his immaculate garage is a $50K Mercedes. What would God think??

So after receiving 2 huge boxes yesterday from my grandmother marked "fragile" and then unwrapping them to discover a staggering collection of pink depression glass, it really is all I can do not to say, "Don't you wish you had all this pink glass? Don't 'cha? Don't 'cha??".


I am willing to concede that you may not love depression glass as much as I do and therefore have no more envy than if I had suddenly come into the possession of the TV Guide collection my husband procured as a child. But if you do love it, you will understand my glee. And if you come visit me, I promise we will eat truffles and lace cookies off of it.

On another note, there are things people could say about me that would hurt my feelings. For example, if you said I have bad teeth (not true). Or if you said that I have B.O. (mostly not true). However, if you were to spread the nasty rumor that I am the World's Worst Quilter, I would have no option but to agree. I am.

I decided on Friday afternoon to piece together a quilt from my scraps, kind of borrowing from this color scheme. I'd found this really gorgeous flannel fabric a while ago and wanted something simple for the top - something to cuddle up under this winter.


I cut out all the squares and started to sew them together, and by Saturday evening the whole things was pieced and ready to be sandwiched and quilted. That's when it went south, simply because, to be blunt, I don't give a shit. I cannot seem to sew a straight line when I have about 30 lbs of fabric on my lap and scrunched up in my machine, and then I just don't care. I let the needle go where it may, bunching what it will. I told Pete it was in the quilting style of "Rustic Chic". He believed this is a legitimate genre of craft.


My friend Kerri makes quilts that will be honored as heirlooms. I make quilts that you throw in the back of your station wagon when taking the dogs to the lake.

The Scoop

I guess I must be about to ovulate, because I can't think of anything else that would account for my recent burst of domesticity, an urge so strong it has me just short of propping Pete's feet up on an ottoman, scotch-on-the-rocks in hand, when he returns from work.

Some time last week I borrowed The Perfect Scoop by David Leboviz from our local library. I've mentioned ice-cream making before, but I am a bit suspect of new recipes, especially ones that call for things like Jello and pudding mix. David's recipes are fantastic and inspired by his life in Paris, and it wasn't until I read the back cover that I realized that this was the same David whose blog I just love and have been reading for the last 2 months. Cyber-world and real world collide once again.


Saturday I whipped up a bit of Strawberry-Rhubarb Sorbet and then yesterday concocted Toasted Coconut Ice Cream. Both were so good I wanted to hit the container face-first. It made me a little sad to eat the coconut one because my dear, dear friend Bo just loves coconut and I wish he'd been there to share it with us instead of all the way across the country. He would have flipped. Today I've made some strawberry sorbet for our new neighbors.



Pete even got into the action and whipped us up some DIY pizzas for last night's dinner.



I made this little tablecloth for our kitchen table. I love the ruffle but forgot how tricky they can be to make...my thread kept breaking. To be honest, I probably would have rather bought one, but I looked and looked with no success. Why is it so difficult to find a decent-looking tablecloth out there? They all look like they should be on some banquet table at the Sheraton.



Today Andrew and I were returning from our early-morning jaunt to Trader Joe's and I suddenly became obsessed with the sensation of entering our house and having it smell clean. Like, really, really clean. And cool. It's about 100 degrees here today and I just ached for that feeling I used to have when we'd go to the beach and be tired and hot and then walk into our hotel room which would be almost icy and smell so sanitized.

This could also be due to the fact that I was raised in the Church of Bleach, a cult in which my mother and sister are still active followers. Nothing in our house was clean until it had been doused with Clorox. Today I returned to the fold. I scrubbed our kitchen to within an inch of its life and when I was done, I actually stepped outside on our porch for about three minutes and then walked in the front door to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Heavenly.

Art vs Craft Throwdown

It finally dawned on me this morning while walking through my home that I spend so much time flaunting my craft projects that I have never even mentioned that I'm surrounded by other artists in my life. My mother is a painter and my husband is too, and here I've never really even given them the props they deserve. Shame on me. But it's my blog and I'll dwell on myself if I want to.


by my mother, hanging in our living room



Pete did this one while I was in Paris a few years ago.



Another one by my mother, hanging in our hallway



I really love this one. She did it for our half-bath, of all places.

I've been thinking more and more about craft and art. Growing up, my mother appeared to have drawn a very dark, thick line between the two. Although much may have been lost in translation to my young mind, I gleaned from her the opinion that craft was the purvey of those who crocheted padding on coat hangers and decorated light bulbs as Santa Claus. Art, on the other hand (a camp into which she has two feet firmly planted) was something all together different. It involved a particular vision, a specific subset of skills....it had value just because it is, not because it has a practical function.

As someone who loves to create, this stigma against crafts left me feeling confused. I didn't think (and still don't) that I am blessed with the gift of being a fine artist. I can't draw or sculpt or paint... When I visit art museums I gaze upon the works with the same wonder that I feel when I see a spaceship launch or an Olympic athlete perform - the ability to do those things completely eludes me. But I still had this very strong desire to create beautiful (often functional) things, so where did that leave me? I often felt inwardly ashamed of my passion for craft - like I was playing for the intramural team because I couldn't make the Fine Art Varsity team. (**For the record, I must add that I received nothing but adoration and encouragement from my mother in any creative endeavor, blah, blah...not blamin' anything on Mom.)

I secretly have held onto those childhood prejudices until very, very recently. Being a part of an online craft community has literally changed my life, and I become very emotional even writing about it. For the first time I feel that my craft is art. It may never hang in a museum or be auctioned by Christie's, but I am proud of what I create and it makes my home a richer place. Moreover, I now see the crafts of others and experience that "museum" feeling - I am in awe, moved by the expression of their talents. The work that other fine crafters produce has somehow liberated me, validated my own creations, set me free.

Ghosts

Have I mentioned how much company we've had this summer? Sooooo much company. Pete and I were counting last night and we have had only 7 days in almost the last 5 weeks without visitors. It's been really fun and boy - has it made the summer fly by - but now the last of our scheduled company is gone and I am without purpose. No real incentive to keep the house tidy, no meals to prepare, no pillowcases to iron. It's both a relief and a disappointment.

A while back I posted a picture of this banner:



It's a design I came up with after admiring similar types of pendants and banners. Yesterday I took one that I had designed specifically for The Red Hen to DeeDee, its owner, and she wants to start selling them in the store. I'm still making the baby cloths like gangbusters too, but it's always nice to diversify a little. Keeps me from sleepwalking through my studio.

I guess I am going to go and get to work on them, alone in the house, save for a sleeping baby and the lovely energy of ghosts of visitors past.

Total Joy

Ooooohhh, boy! It has been busy in our little house! It seems like we've had one big revolving door this summer, with friends and family stopping by to stay a bit and then off on their way. Last week Pete's brother and sister-in-law came with their two kiddos for several days. The "little ones" are now 11 and 13, ages that seem incomprehensible to me since they were in our wedding 5 years ago and seemed to be getting too big then! They were a total joy to have about and Andrew thought he was in baby-heaven with all the activity and attention.


I'd made French vanilla ice cream for dessert the first night they were here and both of the kids exclaimed that it was the best vanilla ice cream they had ever eaten (emphasis theirs). So I got busy the next morning and stuck them both in the kitchen with me to make the best chocolate ice cream of all time. It then, of course, became the best chocolate ice cream they had ever eaten. They flatter me so.


Of course we went to get BBQ (or just Q, as it's known around here) and then we took them to the Museum of Natural Science in Raleigh. Hard to say who enjoyed that museum more, the kids or their biology-major-dork aunt. I think that place is so amazing because everything is fantastically larger than life, exactly the way all my memories of childhood seem.


This is from a butterfly exhibit. Some of these are chrysalises. Chrysalis. Prettiest word ever.

Oh, couldn't you just melt? This is a photo of a photo taken by Brooks de Wetter Smith. It's called Whiskers.

We had pizza parties and played poker and monkey-in-the-middle in the pool. It was fantastic to have some older kids around as it gave me an itsy-bitsy gimpse of what it's like to have older children. So, so much fun.



I made Lemon Bread Pudding French Toast which I found on the delicious food blog Cream Puffs in Venice. It was to die for.


After they left on Sunday we took Andrew to a big birthday bash for the 5 babes in our playgroup who are turning one this month. It was such a sweet get-together and tons of fun was had by all. Check out my mama friends - aren't they just beautiful??



I want to thank those who sent me such kind words about my little quilt. Craft blogs are filled with such gorgeous creations that I am often insecure about showing mine, but you've given me a boost of confidence! xoxo to you.

Suzanne's Quilt

Things are really busy here right now since we have a houseful of delightful company, but I wanted to post a quick pic of the little mini quilt I made for my sister. I first saw this quilt on Hillary's site and was so appreciative that she pointed me in the direction of the pattern at BHG. I pieced it all together in one day (one evening, really - after which I scurried off to the birth center to assist at a late-night delivery...how's that for productive?) and then tried my hand at the quilting part. I'm not very good at that. I can't figure out how to drop my feed dogs and lessen my foot pressure without getting really tight stitches. Any suggestions?

But the important thing is that my sister just loved it, and I am so glad that she'll have something hanging in her room all the way back in LA to remind her just how special she is.

The Good Ol' Days

I remember my mother telling a story of the summer she worked at a Piece Goods store to raise spending money for college. She learned to sew then, because the mannequins in the displays all wore garments made of in-stock fabrics and the employees were expected to know how to sew. Ahhh....does anyone out there long for that time?

I had a most unsucculent experience yesterday at a large chain fabric store. The employees might as well have been working in an ice-cream parlor, that is how little they knew about fabric, notions, and sewing. I think this is a trend in the larger fabric stores I frequent and it makes me sad. Maybe turnover is high or employee training is lacking, but it's always disheartening to visit a fabric store, so ripe with possibility and rich with sensory stimulation, only to see employees looking bored, often irritated, and worse of all - completely uninformed.

The obvious solution to this, of course, is to patronize small, locally-owned fabric shops staffed by active quilters and textile aficionados. And I do, with frequency. However, due to budget constraints, these sprees are largely limited to times when I am working on an extra-special project and am in need of only the finest fabrics. I really cannot afford to spend $9/yd on solids or interfacing, tempting as it is.

I think I am going to write these corporations and in my little voice encourage them to select and train their employees in a way that enhances the shoppers' experiences and just the general vibe of the store. There is actually one guy who works at said disappointing fabric store who is just *awesome* - so knowledgeable and passionate and helpful. He wasn't there yesterday and was obviously very missed.

ahhhhh...that feels better.

Goodwill, on the other hand, it a totally different story. I love it. I love, love it. I dabbled in some thrift shopping several years ago with great success, and for some reason took a break when we were in Manhattan. Now I'm addicted. Look at all of the beautiful things I found yesterday for less than $17!!! (2 exceptions in this picture : the pitcher was found at an antique show for $5, and I got the creamer/sugar on sale - they're Nigella's - at a local gourmet kitchen shop.) The little painted pitchers are Vietri and usually cost a pretty penny. When I saw them there for $1.98 my hands started to shake.




My sweet niece is coming to visit next week and I wanted to make her a little something (since I am her only crafty aunt!) and so I again attempted a project out of The Crafter's Companion and here it is - a little clutch designed by Lyn Roberts. She'll love it - if I don't keep it for myself!


I hope all of you have a most lovely weekend, filled with tender moments and little treasures.

Bonne Nuit

The last time I was home I went rummaging through my mother's linen closet and found a pair of pillowcases that my grandmother had embroidered for me when I was about 10:


I have very vivid memories of evenings spent at my grandparent's house, my grandmother and me sitting on her couch embroidering while watching ice-skating and eating popcorn with pecans. One of the first things I ever embroidered was on a little towel for my father. I carefully transferred and stitched a design of bowling balls and pins on the bottom corner of the linen. This is a funny gift to me now, since I have not even one memory of my father ever bowling.

The pillowcases stowawayed with me back to NC and the very same week Alicia posted an entry on her blog about the pillowcases she had done. Not to ignore a directive from the embroidery goddess, I immediately set to work gussying up my plain sheets and cases.



This is my first little project, for the sheets on my guest bed, and it turned out okay, I guess. I'd forgotten almost everything I'd ever learned about embroidering, like how many strands of thread to use and how to fashion a french knot, and these cases are Exhibit A of my learning curve.


This is my current project and I am really pleased with how it turned out. Isn't that just the sweetest little pattern? I have one down, one to go. There is just something so quaint yet sophisticated about sleeping on adorned linens...like with so many forms of art, improvement of the aesthetic can elevate a common event. Last night my dreams were filled with George Clooney, so something must be working.

On The Bandwagon

I feel a bit about blogging as I do about popular TV shows - I never seem to get into them until they are in syndication. But I am feeling so motivated by some of my favorite blogs that I wanted to give it a shot. I assume that a first paragraph of a blog is most likely the hardest to write, just like with a term paper. Only, with a term paper, of course, you can go back and write the first paragraph last. Bear with me.

Yesterday was mother's day, and I have to say, this year even more than the last, I feel as if I'd earned it. I was awakened by Pete throwing Andrew in the bed to cuddle and then invited to a breakfast of popovers and insanely-priced butter and organic preserves.

Later we trekked it into Raleigh to do some flea-marketing. When we lived in DC, I thought the Georgetown flea market could not be topped. I stand corrected. The Raleigh one is absolutely fabulous and for $24 I amassed the menagerie you see before you:



Pete took a shot of this scary little dog.


We came back to the house, visited with neighbors, and after Andrew was in bed treated ourselves to what we call "Sideways" night - a dinner of (cheap) wine, cheese, bread, etc. And usually the movie. We didn't rent the movie this year because, wonder of wonders, it was supposed to be on TV. at 7 pm. I checked. not 5 pm. so we missed the film. but the evening was a big hit anyway, making ourselves sick on cheese and delicious farmer's market finds.


Really a perfect day in the midst of what has been a very difficult year.