Chicken Soup, Part II

So, before I get to the recipe - another toilet horror story, since that's the theme this week, soup and toilets. I got a call from a friend of mine to meet him at the courthouse for lunch, but to hurry, because he wasn't sure when he was going to testify (ssshhhh - don't tell anyone, public defender's and cops occasionally break bread) - so I quickly went to the bathroom, and dashed out of the office. I walked down Broad Street, cut through City Hall, and waited for the light across the street from the Criminal Justice Center. I turned around, and the crime scene officer from the La Salle case was smiling and walking towards me, and I thought we were going to joke around again about him fishing the condom out of the sink, yadda yadda. He put his arm around me, and whispered in my ear "You have half a roll of toilet paper hanging out of your butt." I turned around, and yes, indeed, I was trailing toilet paper -- down to the back of me knees. This is so not my week!

But, here's the end of the recipe for anyone else who needs a little comfort!

Stewing

Ok, I've been stewing about this since Monday (yes, I sense a theme going on, broth on the brain) . . . I came home from Poolside Knitters, which is now Coffeeside Knitters as Chaucer's lightening didn't do it for us, so we moved to Tuscany on Rittenhouse Square, and my cleaning lady - you remember, the one who stole my shoes - was just finishing up my house. So, she was coming down the stairs with a bucket of cleaning products, and my toothbrush in her right hand. Eh, she said, I forgot toothbrush. Just put it on the table, I told her, anxious to scurry her out of my house so I could watch t.v. in peace. But, she would not be hurried, she went on to complain about how sick her husband is, in the nursing home, out the nursing home, yadda yadda . . . and finally, just in time for Prison Break (Note to Robin - my phone kept ringing during the show - Blast! - I caught most of it, but you're gonna have to fill in some blanks for me - like why Michael didn't think about that last thing in the first place???), she left, and as she was closing the door behind her, she reminded me that I needed to get a new toilet brush (what happened to the old one, I have no idea, since I certainly don't clean toilets, that's why I pay her even though she stole my shoes. Maybe she stole my brush to clean other people's toilets while wearing my shoes). So, I went about my evening routine - t.v., knitting, putting together the chicken soup extravaganza. Put my jamies on - brushed my teeth. While brushing my teeth, I started to wonder what she was doing with my toothbrush in the first place. And . . . I looked over at the toilet . . . I thought about the missing brush - I dropped the toothbrush - this is G-d's punishment for talking about blow jobs in front of a jury - I now truly have potty mouth! Please say it isn't so! But what else was she doing walking around with my toothbrush????

Matzo Ball Soup Part I

My friend Beth calls patterns recipes, and while my mom didn't exactly pass down the family knitting technique, this weekend, she did try to preserve the family chicken soup recipe. Anyway, clearly, I have too much time on my hands, but my Hanukkah plan this year (note to Rosies - I'm not doing any holiday knitting - all for selfish little me!) is to give everyone I know, and want to pass on a little Jewish Penicilin to, a copy of mom's medicine. So, here is Part I - Preparing the Chicken and Getting the Soup on the Stove.













Tomorrow: Making the Matzo Balls!

Free John Travolta!

Mr. McGuire: I just want to say one word to you - just one word.
Ben: Yes sir.
Mr. McGuire: Are you listening?
Ben: Yes I am.
Mr. McGuire: 'Plastics.'
Ben: Exactly how do you mean?
Mr. McGuire: There's a great future in plastics. Think about it. Will you think about it?
Ben: Yes I will.
Mr. McGuire: Shh! Enough said. That's a deal.

Clearly, Warminster, PA took this advice, and ran with it. Not only did they run with it, they scored with it, soared with it, taken plastics to completely new heights. Yes, folks, I have spent four days, four whole days in the suburbs, the land of strips malls (and yes, there's even a knitting store in a strip mall, but you can't touch anything because everything is covered in plastic) plastic covered living room furniture and you guessed it, luxury Christmas decorations - that are now, plastic! By day, your neighbor's lawn looks like an innocent place, a pile of leaves here, a pile of leaves there because this year's suburban toy of choice is apparently the leaf blower which everyone powers up at 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, but when the sun goes down, you suddenly hear a whooshing sound, air. Are we drowning? Is there a flood? Do I hear the sound of an inflatable raft? No, of course not! It's Santa. Santa growing to 8 ft., 12 ft., 22 ft heights - leaping from the ground, lawn by lawn, until there are plastic snowglobes, and snowmen, and snowwomen, and Santa's looming down the street, scarier than any Macy's Day M&M balloon:
Has anyone seen this gigantuan monstrosity? The next thing you know, I'm going to see John Travolta rolling down the street in a blowup plastic snow globe!
And, if that's not bad enough . . . before I get to the tragedy of my mom's knitting bag, let me remind everyone what her birthday present looked like: Does everyone remember this photo?















This stylish bag, this beautiful yarn? Can you imagine my heart stoppage when I saw this: And, I opened it to find this! And, when I asked what had happened to beautiful Anne and Kid Silk, my mom said that she had to get this second scarf done. Second scarf???? I choked. There are two of these out there? Oh yes, I'm made one for Laurie, and now I'm making one for Danielle. Mother/daughter puke scarves??? Say it isn't so! And, when my niece saw it this weekend, and she couldn't her 2 1/2 year old hands off of the plastic yarn, I knew I had better get knitting. She needs saving, and needs it now! As much as I hate to knit kid things, it must be done, for the sake of her future.

And mom, well, she did finish Lion Brand seed stitch coat. You'll recall mine, done in Noro:
And here is hers, which although it weighs 5,000 lbs, and I did have to sew the whole thing up, after she somehow sewed the arm up the length of the back, is actually pretty nice, and shows what promise mom truly has
So, what was a girl to do, surrounded by synthetics? Finish Silk Garden Reincarnate of course. Warminster is also the land of Blockbuster and late night t.v., so after sitting around the t.v. watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the evening news, etc., whipping up those last five blocks was a snap, then . . . picking up the 700+ stitches for the garter border in a pretty jewel toned pink a la Grace. That was fun. But, what was even more fun was sewing in the 110+ ends that I hadn't bothered to weave in while I was knitting: And, sometime around 2:00 a.m. this morning, the last little end was tucked away, and I was able to put my feet up: And here is finished Silk Garden Reincarnate, definitely definitely a higher caste than that silly suit:

And, coming later in the week, making Chicken Soup in the 'burbs with Barbara (which of course, I brought home in little plastic containers!)

But I Love Tuesday!

I have heat! I have DSL! And, you know, the Koigu sweater looks possibly reparable. Possibly. Here is a survey of the damage. Warning - these photos are not for the faint of heart. Personally, I'd rather watch open heart surgery on public television than view the following carnage:
I think maybe I can seam the sleeve smaller, and fix the hole in the front, and wear it in the back. That's where my head is, maybe it's in a weird place, I'm not sure. But, at least, unlike the last 2 weeks in my heatless house, it's in a warm place.

Which can only get warmer and fuzzier with the completion of the Silk Garden Reincarnate. I AM SO CLOSE! Only five blocks to go - I am here! ONLY FIVE BLOCKS TO GO! And it looks like this: See, just because I haven't been blogging, doesn't mean I haven't been knitting!
Now, I think I'll get naked and stand in front of my blazing heating vent and make the night complete!

I Don't Like Mondays - Tell Me Why . . .

My DSL activation date has been put off until 11/29, my heat is busted, moths ate my Koigu sweater, the Eagles blew it, and tomorrow, I have to go to the prison to see an incontinent man in a wheelchair.

What else can I say?

A Word from a Stick-Limbed Virgin

Has anyone seen this, in our ever so allegedly open minded Philadelphia Weekly? Yarn Die, Knitting is not/will not ever be cool. by Steven Wells Now, I'm not going to defend my hobby - no need - but I do wonder what happened to Steven Wells that he could be so vitriolic about something as harmless as knitting. What did we, the "savage knitzkrieg waged by bigoted "knitting nazis" who presumably want the uncool non-knitting untermensch (and their knitting-traitor collaborators) wiped off the face of the earth," do to poor Steven Wells?

Well, clearly Steven Wells was probably the kind of kid who was picked last at kickball, and claimed that it was a sport for Hitler youth. And, he was probably the kid would couldn't get a date for the prom, so proclaimed the prom a thinly disguised recruitment meeting for the Nazi fascist cheerleaders. And, he was probably the kid who didn't get into Harvard, and declared the admissions office was run by uber-suit, pseudo intellectuals who didn't understand his "normal, sane" decent, i.e. nothing special, qualifications.

And, I think that Mr. Wells called for the lynching of my Ann Taylor clad self - "The crazed math-rock and post-pronk noodlings of stick-limbed virgins carrying so many metal piercings they'd set off any half-decent land mine at 200 paces. In knitted uniforms. Shoot the bastards now-before it's too late." I hardly see myself as a "stick-limbed virgin" in a knitted uniform. Aren't I the girl who just argued to a jury that performing oral sex requires performance in, I might add, a Chanel knock-off suit?

I smell jealousy Mr. Wells - you are dying to knit. That "irritatingly chitinous click, click, click" you hear, I think is your tell-tale heart, because you protest way too much. But then again, you are too cool for school, and what would someone like me, a girl on the road to gigantism, know anyway?

I know, I know, my 15 minutes of fame are now over, and I should get back to the really important things in life - like blogging about knitting. Unfortunately, while I was on trial, I kind of forgot to pay my bills. Luckily, as the water guy drove up to my front door to shut the water off, I had a check in hand. Wasn't so lucky about the DSL line . . . but the Verizon guy who helped me with my reorder had seen me on the news and I got the Verizon celebrity treatment - hmm, can't place that order today, will have to call you back tomorrow.

Penitent Knitters met at Cosi on Sunday, sat outside in this oddly brilliant November weather, and watched the world go by. Cosi is down the street from the Wachovia Bank, and there used to be this extremely overweight, blind lady who sat in front of the bank playing her recorder. One night, a couple of years ago, while I was making a withdrawal from the money machine, she said, "can you take me to the bathroom?" I continued my transaction - she couldn't possibly be talking to me. And then she asked again - some other sucker was standing in line behind me, and she asked him to watch her "luggage." So, I took her to the bathroom at Cosi, since she was banned from Barnes & Noble, for making a mess in the stall. I deposited her at Cosi. No, she said, you have to wait, you have to check the stall to make sure I didn't make a mess, or I'm not allowed to come back. Uch. So, I waited, and waited, and waited . . . finally she came out, followed by a stench. Check the stall, she said. I peaked my head in, fine fine, I said - as I tried to rush her out of the coffee shop. But there was no rushing her. She took my arm again, and began her snail-like saunter to the door. I felt like dragging her by her earlobes out the freakin' door before I ended up stuck, cleaning up the explosion in the bathroom. We made it out, and there was her stuff by the money machine, and the sucker behind me turned out not to be such a sucker, and was gone. Is that young man still there? Yep, I said, he's still there.

So, I left her on her milk crate by the bank, and began to wonder, does a good deed count if you hated doing every second of it? Does good will count if it's done without good will? And, I thought about my clients - I don't like half of them, hardly know most of them. Where's the warm fuzzy feeling from helping my poor fellow man through the legal system?

But, there's always a moment, when I'm on trial for an extended period of time - it happens in a second - when you really care, and you'll be absolutely devastated if you lose. Like when I tried the baby shaker's case. We sat in the cell together, while we waited for the verdict. I had put on character testimony through his aunt and a cousin, and I finally asked him, where are your parents? And, it turned out his dad was in prison, a lifetime sufferer of mental illness, and his mother was also in prison, having made three sales of heroin to an undercover cop, for a total aggregate sentence of 15-30 years. And, at the moment, I thought, it'll really suck if we lose, this kid deserves a second chance.

And, during this trial, it happened again. My client was late for court, and I had to go down to the metal detector lines to hurry him up. He went into a panic, and instead of waiting for the elevator, we took the stairs - he took them four at a time. This boyish bounding, the long strides - the striving - and in that moment, I thought, I won't sleep for 4-8 years if this kid goes to jail. And, when the jury had a verdict, and we were waiting for the Judge to come out, he was singing a little song to himself. I asked him what it was, and he said oh, nothing, and I said, as long as it's not Jailhouse Rock. He smiled. And, he smiled the same smile when the jury said not guilty. The paper reported that he mouthed thank you to the jury, but I know I was looking at him, and that thank you was for me.

And, luckily, things turned out better than having to clean up after a blind woman who missed the potty.

Philly Inky

Sports Illustrated

L'Chaim!

I finally took a few minutes (well, 2 hours) away from that maddening trial, and writing my closing (we should close Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning), and worked on Silk Garden Reincarnate. I'm really enjoying knitting this, particularly now. The foundation of the pattern is 18 stitches, and multiples of 18. For those of you who aren't into Jewish numerology, 18 is the equivalent of the Hebrew word, Chai, which means Life, and 18 is a pretty lucky number. So, as the blanket grows, and I pick up 18 stitches, 36 stitches, cast on 18 stitches, I'm constantly thinking, this has got to be a good sign. Every time I turn a corner, and there is another 18 stitches, it's like crossing my fingers, or knocking on wood, or holding my breath . . . it's going to be really unfortunate if I lose this trial - because whenever I raise a glass, and say L'Chaim, I'll remember this trial, this blanket, and wonder where luck took a wrong turn, did I pick a wrong skein? Start a color repeat in an oh so wrong direction? 18 stitches forward will feel like 18 stitches lost, and one big unraveling moment.

One Week Down

Not quite a week, but the judge isn't sitting tomorrow, a little rest for the oh so weary. I'm still on Block 9 of Silk Garden Reincarnate

Daily News
Philly Inky

One Day Down

Openings are over, two days down, G-d knows how many more to go.

ABC News
CBS 3
Philly Inky
Daily News

I think the Daily News article was my favorite. I'm sure my parents are so proud of their little girl standing in front of 16 people (we picked extra alternates in case of a Septa strike on Monday - what a DISASTER that will be) talking about some drunk girl giving head. Wait 'til my closing when I talk about how there's only one way to give a blow job.

So, now I'm off to prep for my cross of the complainant. I hope to get to Rosie's tonight, because after she testifies it's all downhill until closings,

Ode to Silk Garden

Silk Garden Sweater, you have gone on to a better place. I wish I could say your time on this earth was worthwhile, that you served a purpose, that you were a comfort, and a steadfast friend. But, alas, you were nothing but a pain in the ass.

But, life is not really over for you. In fact, you have been reincarnated! You have ascended, and have risen again, this time, not as a misshapen, gauge challenged, problem laden albatross, but as a comforting, toasty, pretty pretty afghan. Behold! We have Silk Garden, the Rambling Rows I have no idea if an afghan is a higher caste than a sweater, but I know one thing, anything is a step above that Noro pattern.

And, the Rambling Rows pattern is very clever:
This combination of squares, rectangles and little squares is as intriguing as Lincoln Logs, as addictive as Leggo. I can't wait to add another block, because every time the thing turns, it looks different. No, I am not smoking crack. I'm not seeing dancing pink elephants, or floating stars and moons . . but every time I add another piece of the puzzle, it looks like a completely different blanket. Neato. Thank you Robin for the inspiration. And, this is technically not a violation of the no cast on rule -- because I always said that rehabilitating the silk garden suit was in the mix.

And, speaking of suits, my brother and my nephew came to visit this morning, while the women from my sister-in-law's side of the family took the girls to see Disney Princesses on Ice (I could have so much to say about that (nothing good, and we all know how much fun that is), but I'm tired, and I do have to try a case tomorrow . . .). He presented me with a check for $120 - he sold my old pink Ipod on Ebay. So much for trying to buy him a present. I quickly converted it into a suit from Ann Taylor Loft, and if you turn on the evening news tomorrow, you might catch a glimpse of my newly suited ass slipping out the courthouse door!

Maybe Leaving a Child Behind Isn't Such a Bad Idea Sometimes

So, I go over to court yesterday to do a guilty plea for one of my serial rapist clients. Of course, the DA isn't there, the sheriff isn't there, and just like every day, it's all about hurry up and wait. What else is a girl to do but pull out her knitting and make good use of her time? So, I'm sitting at the bar of the court, knitting my Rowan shrug, the one that will not be photographed, and in troops 20 fifth grade students from some elementary school somewhere. I raised my right eyebrow at the court staff. I put my knitting down, and pulled aside the teacher. I explained to her that I was doing a guilty plea on a serial rapist, that this plea was about the rape of an 11 year old runaway, that there would be a reading of the facts into the record - lots of penis's and vagina's floating in the air - and well, it might not be such a good idea for her students to sit through it, and wouldn't it be a better idead to go find a nice little drug case somewhere else?

But we were told to come here, she says, and points to her schedule, which resembled a movie theater time table - now showing in Room 702, Waiver Trial in Progress. Well, I said, that's not right, we have a plea, and as I've explained it's really inappropriate for children. Well, I was told to come here. Yes, I know, look, I'll check out a few other courtrooms, why don't you go down to 706 - it's just a misdemeanor room. Well, I was told to come here.

Alrighty . . . I think this gives new meaning to no child left behind.

Rocky Needs a Wheel

Yes, indeed, I tucked that wheel under my arm, walked the ten blocks across town to my little house, and gave my little wheel a home.
Dexter, not to be outdone by the Bach beagles, had to check out his new roommate:
















Dex is a little skeptical, but he seems to be giving Wheel a chance. For whatever reason, he has accepted Wheel without a bark (he's a little yappy dog, he tends to bark - at EVERYTHING) or a little whiz on the treadle (he's 14, he's been known to have, shall we say, a little accident). And, he hasn't tried to devour the yarn (he's really not a chewer, shoes and other paraphernalia are safe in my house, however, the mail that comes through the slot at the bottom of my door is another story. Dex tends to stick his snarling snout through the slot in an effort to annihilate the mailman. So, my mail always comes with little teeth marks, and that's why I have my New Yorker delivered to the office).

Wheel, as I mentioned before, came in one piece, so I did not have to assemble it. But, when I checked out all of the parts after my trek through the city, I realized that the threading hook had fallen off. I didn't know if it was during the walk, or when we took it out of the box, so I ran back to the office hoping to get to the box before the cleaning crew. I arrived seconds before the box was going to be crushed. I told the maintenance guy what I was looking for - umm, it's about the size of a paper clip. He looked at all of the peanuts in the box, scratched his head, and then, literally, dove head first into the box. It seemed like hours before he emerged, sans hook. Oh well, there's always a teeney crochet hook. He was like, whatever, crazy girl, can I throw the box out?

So, I went home, and tried to get the wheel to spin, along with the flyer/bobbin. The flyer/bobbin, however, was not budging. I spent about an hour fiddling with the tension before I realized that the bolts on the motherboard had to be tightened. So, being the very prepared homeowner that I am, I could not find a screwdriver, and had to settle for a dime. The dime did the trick, and we had spin! I attempted to thread the thing with the crochet hook, and take off spinning, but that was an unmitigated disaster - let's just say the fur was flying, and I have tufts of wool all over my living room to prove it. So, I spent about an hour just practicing treadling. I think I've got it. By the way, does this count like a Stairmaster? Do you think I'm burning any calories, and I can therefore forgive myself for the oh so good slice of Joe's Pizza I had for lunch, and the Korean Barbecue I had for dinner (yes, that's where I was when I was missing knitting circle; a public defender can NEVER turn down a free meal).

And, so I have a whole box of wool to spin (at least a 1000 calories worth, don't ya think?): and, when spun up, it looks like this:













The bobbin is nearly full, so I decided to give it a rest for the night. Along with the wheel, I also got a set of carders, a lazy Kate with three bobbins, and another drop spindle - don't think I'll be using that any time soon -- it's like Rocky II grabbing the chicken - speed! we've got speed! (by the way, Rocky 6, or Rocky Balboa sounds like a REALLY BAD IDEA - he won't be hitting a side of beef, he'll be lucky to get a poke in at the Michelin man, he won't be running up the Art Museum stairs, he'll be shlepping down Broad Street with a walker. As Mickey once predicted, "you're going to eat lightening and crap thunder" - well, only with Maalox for this ol' head. And, when asked why he fights, Rocky replied, "Because I can't sing or dance." Yes, we know Sly can't sing or dance (remember that movie with Dolly where he just stares at her boobs over his geetar the whole poignant film), but it doesn't mean he's gotta get back in that bigscreen ring. And, if you must must must, why oh why kill Adrian - I'm sure Talia Shire could use the work. Yo Rocky - get a wheel!).

We've got speed (although, I hope I don't crap thunder), we've got yarn, we are so on are way! All Dex needs now is a niddy noddy to cuddle up to, and our happy home will be complete!