Kneading and weaving come together.

I have been spending time weaving and baking and sometimes mixing the two. I have tried the '00' flour Napoliano pizza once more, and it is truly delicious, but still we don't think it beats the pizza I have been perfecting for a couple of years. I generally use 7-grain bread flour (which is used in the just kneaded 'ball' above) and it does give the pizza a wonderful texture and crust. I knead it loose with plenty of hydration, and it rises with bubbles aplenty...something desired in bread baking.


This has risen all day, then overnight in fridge, and is filled with bubbles. I will use this dough for bread and the pizza below...

which is the traditional pizza I have been making with the 7-grain flour for two/three years (though I have been making pizza for more years then I care to count). This one has fresh mozzarella and fresh basil on it.

Without giving much forethought to the next rug on my double-weave warp, I started merrily along, then decided I'd like to experiment with some rya after seeing some lovely photos in a magazine at Susan's shop. After I'd done several inches, I realized it was foolish to do the rya on a double weave, as it would not be possible to actually use the rug on both sides, but I was too far into it to stop now.

Working on the pizzas and the rug simultaneously, I was inspired to weave some bread, and further inspired to add a little bread bird. And for some reason, I believe it has something to do with the added amount of surface and the 'flatness' of this bread, Freddie and I deemed it the best tasting bread I had ever made.

After finishing the rug on the loom, I realized it made a better wall hanging then it did a rug. I appliqued the burgandy 'waves' on the top and the bottom. I really like this piece. As it isn't hung against a flat surface, it looks a bit uneven, but it actually falls quite straight. It reminds me of Mexico for some reason.

Vines to grapes to wine...and lots of work.

Unweildly, unpruned St. Croix vines. There are several rows of these grapes. Despite the work, the vineyard is a lovey place to be.



These are the vines after being pruned.


And this is the wine, though not made from our grapes.



As much as I have wanted to be in the workshop weaving on my days off this week, it is the vineyard that has demanded my attention. This is the 9th summer for our organic vineyard that started as 1/2 acre and has grown to 2 acres. Growing grapes is no easy task under any circumstances, especially in the midwest, trying to do so organically tips the scale of sanity. Mostly for us it means hoeing the two acres by hand rather then using herbicides. But that is only one of the chores that demands hour after hour after hour of backbreaking work. As our vineyard is located in a 'bowl' that ferociously holds the cold air, we have put off pruning , which is generally done in March, until April, hoping to delay bud break and avoid that late spring hard freeze. Now it is very late and we are madly trying to get this accomplished. It is heartbreaking work because the vines don't look all that good to begin with, having suffered major winter damage the year before, and we are positive again last winter. I don't think anyone loves a glass of wine with dinner more than I, and having grown up surrounded by vineyards, I was eager to enter this venture, but at this juncture, I can no longer claim eagerness except to perhaps let it all go. We'll see, this coming fall's harvest or lack thereof, will tell the tale. Still, as I sit in the workshop and look out the window at the vineyard, I can't help but be struck by the beauty of it. Sometimes Freddie and I sit on the deck of the cabin with a glass of wine, a loaf of bread and some cheese and gaze at the leafed out vines and wish it would all work out.

Onion Skins, Eggs and My Grandmother's Floursack Dishtowel.

It is difficult to know if anyone really reads this blog, but perhaps I am doing it for myself anyway. Today it was time to put away the Easter things...bunnies, birds, 'grass' and colored eggs. I have tried many natural dyes over the years, but none have intrigued me quite like using onion skins. There is something quite magical about wrapping each egg in damp onion skins, tucking them all into the floursack dishtowel handed down to me from my grandmother, (my grandmother's dishtowel has, over the years, become so beautifully mottled with ochers, browns, yellows, golds, and rusts that it is itself a thing to behold) and placing that into the bottom of a kettle filled with water. Bring it all to a boil...and then the real thrill, holding each warm egg in the palm of my hand, and peeling the onion skins gently away to reveal how individually those skins took to each egg. I took one last loving look before shattering the shell and making those three eggs into salad.

(After previewing this I realize it is time for a new camera...the colors shown here are far less vivid and intense.)

Easter flowers and Easter children.

What could speak of Easter season as well as flowers

and children.

The flowers, white ones brought from a dear friend, and the yellow daffodils I just could not resist buying.

Iris feigns sleep so as not to have her picture taken yet again! Little did she know it would not deter Nonna. She and Nora, the doll her mom made, decked out in a outfits that Nonna made are a beautiful study on Easter morning.

An abundance of breads.

I remember Saturday mornings growing up, when my grandmother, with whom we lived, made bread. I remember how my grandmother rubbed butter on the crusts as the hot bread just came from the oven. I remember the aroma. I remember the thick slices she cut for each of us kids, drizzling olive oil across the steaming slice, and sprinkling black pepper all around. How we loved that Saturday morning treat, and of course the thick slices of fresh pizza we would have for lunch.
I started to make bread in ernest when we lived in South Dakota, and realized almost immediately that it was truly a part of who I was. One of the first bread books I got was James Clayton's Complete Book of Breads. It was thick and detailed. I wanted to make every loaf in that book, and actually came pretty close to doing just that. It was while on that journey I began, at Easter, to make Easter Breads from around the world. It was a wonderful way to celebrate with friends; breads, cheese, wine and good conversation. I have done this most years since though there have been a few years where I've made less rather than more. However, this year I made more, it was fun, filled with laughter and camaraderie.

Some surprises are 'hot' but unwelcomed!!

These are just two of the many fire engines that spanned the space between our neighbor to the west and our farm last evening. These two are parked in front of my cabin.






Just out of the bath after an energetic workout at Zumba, eggs just coming to a sizzle in the frying pan as I notice a lot of smoke to the east of the farm. Now that is precisely the direction our newly refurbrished rental (having sustained a bad fire in October) is situated. It was a LOT of smoke, so I was a bit worried. At this moment a vehicle pulled into our driveway. It was the neighbor to the west of us, who announced that they had started a 'little' grass fire which might be out of hand. Not long afterwards he returned with his mother as the fire had reached the top of the hill behind my cabin, and was approaching our large stand of pine trees alongside our garage. Needless to say, 911 was called. Then with rakes in hand we proceeded to make a firewall around the back of my cabin. As the La Farge fire department was already out on two other calls, it took them a bit longer to get here then would normally be the case, although some of the firemen remarked that they could see this fire from the one they were already fighting. They worked long and hard at extinguishing the fire (Viola fire department was called as well) which left many charred fields, a burned off garden, some consumed trees, but thankfully no burned structures. Somewhere around 9:00 they were packed up and headed back to town.

The smell of smoke permeated our house, the cabin, and my sinus', and lingers rather strongly even this morning. But to say I am grateful this morning is like dead grass that has been burned off, absent of color and intensity.