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small is beautiful

I'm a big fan of keeping it local and supporting small family-owned businesses.  Like the CSA from which we get fresh vegetables throughout the growing season.  And the nearby farmer who raises cows, one of which we split with neighbors and friends this winter and will feed us through the year.  And the farmers cooperative that brings eggs with the richest of yolks to our food cooperative each week.

Last night I happened upon another way to support a small farmer.  The Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm is offering shares of the first-ever wool CSA.  Buy a share and you get a portion of this fall's shearing.  How amazing is that? 

I'm taken by this concept for many reasons.  The small part, of course.  But also the fact that I'm currently knitting the tangled yoke cardigan with yarn that is from sheep that grazed in pastures next door to my parents house.  Each stitch seems to have a bit more significance, as I wonder how it will feel to go back to knitting with the equivalent of 'big box' yarn.  And too, while the Fiber Farm isn't local if you consider my current location, it is located on the island where I grew up. 

But as much as I really want one, I'm not going to buy a share.  It's beyond the current budget.  And I know that there's more interest than the farm will be able to accommodate, as they're receiving some well deserved press, and selling the limited number of shares like hotcakes.  And I know that I'll be able to purchase some of their yarn when I visit the island this fall -- I'll be able to meet the farmer, pet the animals, touch the yarns, see their colors and hues.  And too, I know there are probably plenty of fiber farmers (though not CSAs) in my own backyard that I could support through the purchase of their yarns.  I just need to find them.

rising

I haven't been taking many photos lately.  Things have seemed too cold.  Too gray.  Too dirty.  And honestly, my head had been too stuffed up for me to feel inspired to do much more than knit and watch Netflix.  Thank goodness for the miles of stockinette stitching in the tangled yoke and movies like these.

But the winds are shifting.  As the little one says, it's getting warmer and warmer every day.  And just as the bulbs and perennials are starting to push themselves out of the softening soil, I feel myself stretching toward the sun.

And the sun has made its way into our kitchen.  In the colder months there isn't any direct sun in the room, but in the early evenings from now until September, the sun peeks through the window in the back door.  Today it helped ready the dough for another simple and yummy recipe from this book.  It's the European peasant -- flecked with touches of whole wheat and rye. 

My new favorite way to eat all of this homemade bread is slathered with chevre and ginger spread.  Now that I think about it, I wonder if this, in and of itself, could be responsible for pulling me out of the recent funk?

snow drops

A 'frozen hurricane' rolled into town this weekend, blowing gale-force winds off the lake and dumping over a foot of snow in the area.  The power decided to cut out soon after I put a loaf of the no-knead bread from Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day into the oven.  Had I actually spent time making the bread, I probably would have been disappointed.  But alas, no-knead and slow bake somehow brought forth bread so good that it was gone before it could be captured by the camera.

Today, amidst the melting the snow the first flowers appeared in the garden.  They're called snow drops.  Perfect, don't you think?

spring up and down

After a week of each and every flu symptom cycling its way through the family, we finally were all able to get out of the house together.   The sun called us outside.

Friday we went up.  Up to the ridge to walk through the woods.  The snow was deep off the trails, but the creeks were flowing strong with muddied green water.  The snow was pocked by leaves, stones and pine cones warmed by the sun, accelerating the melt.  The willows were pushing forth their furry buds.

Today we went down.  Down to the point to walk by the lake.  The last bits of sandied ice were melting fast, lapped by the cold blue waters. The sand was soft, almost calling for bare feet.  And the grasses in the dunes were donning shades of green.


Tonight thunder, lightning and snow.  Spring indeed.