Cocktail Knowledge

So I was at a cocktail party last weekend. I don't particularly like cocktail parties. It's not the "cocktail" part, I do pretty well with that. It's the "party" part. I'm not sure how this has happened but I find that I just don't like big crowds of people (even if they are friends and all immensely interesting in all sorts of ways) who are gathered together just to chat.

Maybe it's my itchy hands. I should bring some knitting to the next one, perhaps.

It could be my terribly poor repertoire of cocktail knowledge. I had a high school English teacher called Mr. Weiner who advised us at the ripe old age of 16 to start immediately collecting cocktail knowledge. "Trust me, it will be very useful to you in the future", he counselled.

Mr. Weiner was a brilliant English teacher, well respected by faculty and students alike. He was a British Literature teacher directly out of central casting, right down to the costume - a tweed jacket and tie. He even spoke with a British accent which I always found remarkable given that I was quite sure he'd never spent any length of time on the Island.

In addition to cocktail knowledge, Mr. Weiner felt it was his duty and mission to increase the vocabularies of his poor simple students from our mainly agricultural town in Wisconsin. Weiner Words...that's how we poor simple students referred to weekly lists of vocabulary enhancers that he forced on us. "I remember being on the balcony of a penthouse apartment in Manhattan with a friend. We didn't speak, we just listened to the cacophony of the city", he recounted one day. Wow. Most of us poor simple students had never been to New York much less could we imagine standing silently a penthouse balcony, but I think it's safe to say not one of us missed that word on the Friday quiz.

Anyway, having not heeded wise Mr. Weiner's advice about the importance of cocktail knowledge, I employed my usual strategy at Saturday's party. This involves finding the oldest people in the room, who are usually seated in a quiet corner away from the cacophony of the young, and I listened. I figure that old people are more likely to impart cocktail knowledge than be in need of collecting more. And sure enough, the little old Italian ladies I glommed onto last weekend didn't disappoint.

The ladies were lamenting the changing times. In particular they were concerned and worried about a society moving forward in a direction that was losing the very valuable trades of times past. "You just can't find good seamstresses any more!", commented one. "And what about a materassaia?!", responded the other.

I had to ask for clarification on that one, having never heard of this Italian word before. Some quick translation lead me to understand they were talking about a "mattress worker". Hmmm...what exactly would a woman do who worked in the "mattress trade"? And why were these ladies lamenting their disappearance? Quickly retrieving my mind from the gutter, the ladies explained how all mattresses used to be made of pure wool. The mattress worker would be called into your house periodically, steel comb in hand, to tease and fluff your mattress.

I like that one. I think I will start that collection of cocktail knowledge, after all, and put that at the top of the list. Better late than never, right Mr. Weiner?

Does anyone know what a person doing this combing of mattresses would have been called in English? I'm guessing my "mattress worker" translation is not quite right. I'd like my cocktail knowledge collection to be bilingual.

Note to Neighbor Barb from the comments...thanks for the english word for the door salami from a couple weeks ago, very helpful. I must have forgotten that Weiner Word.

Note to Wayne from the comments (and anyone else who is dying to see the stone wall David and I built)...here you go, pal.





Very impressive, no? I can tell you this, after busting our backs for 4 hours to make that 2'x 3' wall, we have a new appreciation for this...

Earle-in-Denver's comment on my captivity (from the last post) got me thinking about the nature of captivity.

This is a dialog that sometimes happens in my head that came up again today in my pondering on captivity:

Some Random Person asks: "Lynn, if you could organize your ideal holiday, what would it look like?"

Lynn responds: "Well, thanks for asking, Some Random Person. That's easy. It's been a dream holiday that I've had in mind for as long as I can remember. It looks like this. I rent a mountain cabin with a wood stove and a beautiful view. I go there with some great food that can be cooked on the wood stove. I'd have books and magazines, and yarn and needles, beads and silver, and paper and glue. I'd pack sketchbooks and pencils and markers and pens, and maybe a little wine. There would be fabric and a sewing machine, and clay and paint. Maybe I would have some movies and books on tape (or CD, as it were). And I would stay put. I would just BE THERE."

Captivity might just be a matter of inapropriate labling of one's time. Or perhaps, just a slight shift in one's perspective.

In my case, Bead Babe has taken me to heaven.

If you see her




don't follow. I ain't leavin'!

PS. If any of you are, like Carrie in the comments, wondering if I'm nuts. Yes, I am. Totally and comletely. Carrie, you probably had some foresight into this early on...on the golf course in high school. I'd appreciate it if you didn't share!!!!

PSS. Bead Babe let me outside today to build a stone wall for her on her land. She thought that moving my WHOLE BODY would be a respite from constant work with my hands. Boy was she right. I'm coming to love The Babe. Anyway...Wayne (aka: "TFC"), don't worry...photos will be coming.

Sorry about that little break the in the blog action, you see Bead Babe (that would be Wonder Woolman's sinister sister) kidnapped me. Actually, I'm still in captivity so I must be quick before Bead Babe comes back and sees that I'm not making jewelry.



I'd tell you where I am so one of you could come rescue me but I don't know. She nabbed me just after I returned from Venice, blindfolded me, stuck me in a box that felt full of marbles, drove me away. I must be on a mountain top somewhere because during the journey the box I was in tipped over and I spent most of the ride with my feet above my head trying to keep those marbles out of my nose. Duh, stupid me...they weren't marble at all but beads, of course.

Anyway, The Babe (that's what I call her behind her back) has got me set up in this room now that's actually pretty cozy. I have a wood stove for heat, pencils and notepads for sketching and all the jewelry supplies one could imagine. Twice a day a really nice and cute man brings me some food. Oh, that man also brings me a cappuccino in the mornings.



Things could be much worse, actually. But I would kind of like to get home so if you see someone who looks like Wonder Woolman but wearing a ridiculous amount of jewelry (beautiful jewelry, but just too much of it), follow her.

Venice..again

If you've never been to Venice, put it on your list of things to do. The "must do" list.



I've been there a number of times now and it just doesn't lose its magic. Yes, there are hoards of tourists. Yes, there are trinket shops one after another, piled on top of each other selling all variety of useless clutter. Yes, it is outrageously overpriced. Yes, you get lost the minute you step off the boat. And yes, it's all completely and totally worth the price of admission. The city is magic - pure magic.

So I guess I'm saying that we had a magical few days.

The main purpose of the trip was to buy beads for Maberga Designs. "Work". It just makes me giggle in a guilty pleasure kind of way that "work" is wandering the alleyways of Venice and Murano, meeting artisans who create amazing, little, colorful glass pieces of art and I have to buy them. Crazy.



The train ride from Maberga to Venice is about 7 hours. Train travel is the best. I read. I slept. I knit a sock that was big enough for an elephant so I unraveled it and knit a fingerless mitt. I ate a ham sandwich at 5.30 in the morning. By noon we were getting on a traghetto (water bus) to the island of Murano.





Murano is one of the little islands off the main island of Venice. It's the home of the glass industry that Venice is famous for.



Murano is like a mini Venice with way less tourism. Everyone there is involved in the production or sales of glass art.

Meet Alessandro.



He is my main bead artist. We spent a lot of time with Alessandro. I had a lot of work to do with him.



Here's Alessandro at work.



I wonder if he giggles that he gets to play with these beautiful glass tubes



and fire, making little, colorful pieces of art.



Other postcards from the holiday, um, I mean business trip...

a birthday picnic on a Murano curb



gathering inspiration and sketches in a Murano church



And when the work was done, off to the big island.

San Marco Square...



15 euro glasses of wine and some dancing in the Square...



the gondolas



A little note -- you don't have to pay the price of a gondola ride to experience Venice. We rode the traghetto all the way around the Grand Canal after dinner...awesome and way less expensive. Venice at night is awesome.

It's pretty awesome in the morning, too.



And it's way more awesome without two lively dogs.

PS. All the photos are compliments of my bead buyer guide and in house photographer (aka: David). Aren't they great? I have more if anyone is interested.

PSS. If anyone wants to see the beads I got...stay tuned here, or on my website (www.mabergadesigns.com) or my etsy shop (http://www.etsy.com/shop/mabergadesigns). If you're in the southern Wisconsin area, you can find the finished Maberga Designs products at a great store in Lake Geneva called Abbellimento.

We're off to Venice!!! Murano to be specific. Bead buying and birthday celebrating (yes, I am still taking about and celebrating my birthday...celebrations that, yes, began 3 months ago with pal Mette and das Needle girls).

I'm thinking that it will be a more relaxing trip than the last one we went on.

a dopo!!!

an old roommate, a new sweater

Guess what?



Yep. David's home. Home for the winter season. Home with a station wagon full of stuff from his apartment in Tuscany.

Maybe that would explain why I've been knitting like a mad woman on this sweater.



Did you miss that segue? Don't really see the connection between David (and his stuff) being home and my manic need to knit?

That's ok. Your confusion is understandable. Let me explain.

Here are our closets (armadio).








That's it. In the whole house. Three closets in the whole place. We did have a forth, this one




I know, I know...white trash, just leave that old furniture any where in the yard...anyway...

We had that forth one but I really didn't like it. It was cheaply made, rather ugly and when we rearranged my studio I decided it had to go. It had been David's closet.

D: "So where am I supposed to put my stuff if we trash (white trash) this armadio?"

L: "You can have my armadio. Look, it's bigger."

D: "And where are you going to put your stuff?"

L: "I'll use that little one."



In the middle of 95 degree June, when the only clothes that I had were a couple of sheet skirts, a linen dress and my bikini, it seemed like a really good solution.

Now, in the 50 degree days of late October, with anticipation of freezing to come, I'm questioning my decision. No, questioning is not the right word. That would imply that I might undo my decision. This is not possible. Remember that other armadio in the back yard? Yeah, it's not coming back in the house unless it's in pieces the size of our wood stove.

In the past few weeks before David came back, I stole a couple of shelves back from my old armadio, his new one. I needed some place to put my sweaters. There's no room for Swish Bulky, roll neck wooly goodies in my own space.

Perhaps by now in the reading of this post you've forgotten about the connection between David being home and my knitting a sweater. Perhaps now you're wondering why I'm prattling on about closet space. Yeah, that's a reasonable ponder.

I've decided that, given my lack of sweater storage space, I would have to select just a couple of sweaters to wear all winter. Now, let me tell you, this would be a difficult task for anyone. Well, maybe not my brother-in-law Paul whose wardrobe includes 5 sweaters that are exactly the same. For him it would probably be easy to pick two. But he's probably in the minority of the sweater colling ability group. For a knitter...this task is near impossible. Like asking a mother to pick just two of her kids to live with her in the house, the rest being packed in boxes and sent to the shed...ok, bad analogy but you get the point.

SO I've decided to knit a reversible sweater. With one sweater I will get 4! Isn't this ingenious?! If the idea in my head shows itself in reality, this dream creation with be able to be worn forwards, backwards, rightsideup, AND upside down. Wait! That's not just 4 sweaters! that's, um, like, yeah, ok, that's 4 sweaters. Sorry I got a little confusioned with the variations there in my mind.

4 sweaters that only take closet room of 1. I'm a genius.

note: I am of course taking full credit for this idea because I am of course knitting the thing from my head. Truth be told, the idea actually came from these geniuses here, in the book Reversible Knitting.

breezes, salamis, and parents

Is it already Thursday? Wow. Seems as though rain and cold weather has taken a few days from me.

Does anyone know what this is called in English?



In Italian it's called a "salami". This confused me a little last spring when Eugenio was installing my new doors and suggested that I get one.

The conversation between Eugenio, Augusto, (my construction guy, in case any of you have forgotten) and me went something like this:

E: You will need a lip on this little step outside the door to stop breezes from blowing in under the door.

L: But if we put a lip there how will the door open?

E: What?! The door opens in, not out! If it opened out a passing car would take it off.

L: But what if there's a fire and David and I and Ruffino and Q and Yellar are all trampling each other to try to get out and the door opens in?! That's illegal in the US.

A and E: ???? (blank stares)

L: I'm just kidding. (sometimes my humor is lost in translation)

A: Yeah, anyway...she won't be able to clean the floor properly with that lip.

L: Lips? Cleaning? BREEZES???? I thought I was doing all this work so I wouldn't have breezes.

A: Ah...you WON'T have breezes coming from any of the walls, windows or roof. None.

note -- this is true. That dude built this backroom to last a Roman Empire epic.

another note -- Eugenio and Augusto started having the rest of the conversation about my lips, cleaning and breezes as if I wasn't present...maybe I should stop making stupid jokes.

E: Ah, it's not a problem. She just needs to get out the electric broom.

note -- in my quick thinking I realized he was talking about a vacuum cleaner.

At this point Augusto and I looked at each other and laughed. Augusto has seen my house. He's knows my dogs. He knows how I clean.

A: It's better if she can just sweep. With a lip all the dirt will get stuck at the lip.

E: (who hasn't seen how I clean, argued his point). No. It's much better to clean with the electric broom. It's cleaner. And it's so easy.

At this point I started laughing. I can't be totally sure but I'm pretty sure that neither of these men has ever used a broom, electric or otherwise, inside a house.

L: No lip.

E: No lip? What about the breeze under the door?

At THIS point, I'm thinking "what the hell kind of breezes are going to be coming into this tomb that Augusto has just built me? And if there happens to be one, it CAN'T compare to what we'd been living with for the past 5 years.

L: No lip.

E: Ok, well, you'll just have to get a salami.

Now I was visualizing an actual salami lying across the floor of my bedroom and thought about saying, "but my dogs will just eat it!". Then it occurred to me that he must be referring to something else, something that is called a salami but isn't really a salami. I decided not to make a joke...that would of course be lost in translation.

L: ok. I'll get a salami, if I really need one.

Flash forward to late October when the temperatures drop and the cold winds kick up, which happened to happen at the very same time that my enthusiastic dogs decide to rip to pieces one of our patio cushions.

I made my own salami.


On a completely unrelated note...I had a great time with my folks and their terrific friends who were visiting last weekend.