Consider this little piece of lacework, dear friends. It is pretty to look at, innocuous, quiet and soft; it should not be the stuff of spitting rage, self-loathing or dog-collared existential despair. Yet this little section of this little project turned me from a more-or-less normal person into a gibbering maniac. I woke up at 8 o'clock yesterday morning, all prepared to finish knitting the last four rows of the body of the shawl and starting the first of the 25 decorative patterns along the border. I knew down to the marrow that it would be a good day: I had the shawl, I had the beginnings of a dishcloth I had started the previous night when I couldn't knit one more row on the shawl, I had, for the first time in months, a burning desire to write about the development of egg bread recipes in Central Europe. I had the fixings for waffles for breakfast, I had two pounds of asparagus, I had pasta and creme fraiche and lemons and soft cheese and shallots. I had rhubarb, the rhubarb for which I had waited patiently for months, four pounds of it: my original plan had been to make rhubarb jam for Bakerina Kitchens, but as I spent the early morning paging through my cookbooks, I began to have other ideas. Rhubarb compote enhanced with frozen raspberries, from Mollie Katzen's Sunlight Cafe? That would be nice with a little Greek yogurt. Buttermilk coffee cake with rhubarb filling, also from Mollie Katzen? Oh, mais oui, bien sur. Rhubarb basin pudding, from Mary Norwak? Just try to stop me! Better yet, doesn't Ken Haedrich have nearly an entire chapter of recipes in Pie devoted to rhubarb pie? Baby, baby, baby! I had coffee, I had movies, I had my man, who could ask for anything more?
Six hours later, during the monologue of Roger the Shrubber in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I brushed the edge of my hand absentmindedly against a needle and dropped half a dozen live stitches. It is an old chestnut that if you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans. Apparently my plans, particularly those of the "I'm sure that if I just follow the pattern of the lace, it will be easy to fix!" kept God laughing for three solid hours. By the time I was done, I was thankful that I had roasted the shallots for the cheese pie that morning, but the thought of putting that cheese pie together made me grit my teeth in frustration. Onto the digital scale went my mixer bowl; into the bowl went flour; all over the kitchen table and my front went a full cup of flour that I had somehow managed to aim everywhere but the bowl. I stopped, swore, cleaned everything up, added water and wine and oil and the fermented sponge to the mixer bowl, attached the bowl and paddle to the mixer -- and promptly turned on the mixer to a too-high speed, shooting wine and olive oil all over my hair and the shirt into which I had just changed. Take three. Once the dough was safely in the bowl, I announced to Lloyd, "Everything I have touched this afternoon has turned into nuclear war." Fortunately, Lloyd had the presence of mind to reassure me that I was not as clumsy and stupid as recent events would indicate, and to remind me that a nice hot spice-scented bath would fix me up a treat.
Of course he was right. Of course the cheese pie was superb, thus cementing my longtime crush on Dan Lepard. Of course the lace mishap was not nearly as catastrophic as it seemed to be during the siege of Castle Arrrrgh. Of course the pasta we had for lunch, fusilli bucati with roasted asparagus, creme fraiche and lemon zest was the very essence of spring, and dead easy to boot. For all my mewling and puking, even with three hours of teethgnashing and wailing, it was a sweet day.
I still have four pounds of rhubarb, though.
(Recipes will follow tomorrow, dear friends, for the cheese pie, the pasta and the gingerbread waffles we had for breakfast.)