to bake the grump away

I had a really annoying meeting this morning. To cut a much longer story very short; I made friendly suggestions of very reasonable changes to a website and the guys went all defensive in a totally ridiculous and immature way. Clearly not a place for me, for many other reasons than this attitude, and I do hope that was very obvious to all parties involved.

It took for ages to get back home since the public transportation system in Stockholm leaves a whole lot to be desired when it comes to cross connections.

When I finally sat on the bus home there was suddenly a very pale but visible sun trying its very best - I presume - to shine through the gloomy clouds that have been hanging over our heads for some weeks now. It was so unexpected and lovely and just then the day was golden.

When I got home I baked the cream tea scones - that I had planned to make even before the useless meeting - marvelled over my very sunny lemon dropish amber-silver ring I bought in Gdansk - what's not to love about the fact that I can have the sun on my finger any time I want?

- then admired the ingenuity of some people's free form crocheting - something for which I alas have no real knack - and the fact that I was fortunate enough to get my eager little hands on one pretty awesome whimsical autumnal neckpiece (of which there will be a proper post later).

This post wasn't at all what I had planned for today. But the quite disappointing morning meeting followed by such a waste of time by circumstantial transportation home rather shoved me into another direction of thoughts.

And I liked the fact that there was proper light today. That the sunny ring loved the company of rowanberries and the neckpiece enjoyed to play with autumn leaves. That the scones turned out scrumptiously perfect. And to be able to enjoy a bit of unpretentious cream tea under a pale autumnal sun in the here and now despite the not so fine start to the day, I believe that can be worth a post too ~

el naturalista iggdrasil boots

Ever since I was fortunate enough to get a pair of Iggdrasil Oxfords and found them incredibly comfy - and just what my poor left foot needed to slowly recover, that they are incredibly quirky lovable and mood lifting charming on not only the surface is of course quite important too - I have been coveting the other Iggdrasils models. Especially the winter boots.

I happy to announce that they are now a part of the shoe family in this residence. A year older, perhaps dash wiser, a pair of snazzy red boots owner for sure. As they ooze good quality I'm pretty certain if cared for they will be my autumn-winter season friends for a long long time.

For the El Naturalista Iggdrasil model in general it seems that I have to go up a size - to 41 instead of my usual 40 - that leaves good room for both toes and thicker socks. But at the same time I feel they fit snugly where needed and are roomy where that's needed. I find the soles to be supportive and despite their chunky (but feminine) look and sturdy feel they make for a very springy, energetic step forward.

The boots come in several alluring colour combinations, I went for the red ones. Since nothing says a good day to come quite like red shoes. In an ideal world I would have liked the red to be more of deep dark red rather than this wine red hue, but on the other hand it is a somewhat comforting nuance that's easily combined with most any colours this time of the year. The indisputable fact that they team up very well with wonderful, even magic, socks is of course something that makes walking in my boots even better these gloomy days of Swedish November ~

a mouse in the cupboard

Finding a furry little friend in the kitchen cupboard when you reach for your breakfast mug is t h e way to start the day, the week off on the right track. I'm now contemplating a proper name for a very white mouse that looks like a him. A very white him that has a very spongy tummy and an incredibly clever look. Any suggestions? I'm thinking he may look like a Herbert?

the comfort of saturdays

The reasons for me basically loving this fifth in one of my favourite series of books, the Sunday Philosophy Club-series by Alexander McCall Smith, are the same reasons as I love the series as a whole;

:: I can very much relate to the main character Isabel Dalhouise (philosophy paper editor/now owner and sleuth) and her musings, everyday philosophising, about every thing from the mundane to the truly world turning.

:: there's always something truly memorable and enlightening to quote/ponder about in every book. Many times it's my own thoughts put to paper by someone else. Such discoveries never ever fails to delight and uplift.

:: the main character's love for Scotland and Edinburgh - and I adore learning more from an insider's view on people and matters concerning them both.

:: the quiet kind of wittiness, humour and intelligence wrapped in unpretentious writing.

Thought provoking quotes from 'The Comfort of Saturdays' -

"... were they too brave, with the result that they were imposed upon in the name of vainglorious patriotism, chauvinism, easily led to slaughter? Should one be brave about the loss of one's only son, or should one break down and weep for the waste, the pointlessness of the loss; rail against the whole monstrous system that sent young men off in droves to climb up those ladders and stumble through the mud into veils of machine-gun fire? Why should anyone be brave about that?"

" ... the declaration of love could weaken its mystery, reduce it to the mundane. To say on the telephone, love you, ... was dangerous, .... because it made the extraordinary ordinary, and possibly meaningless."

There is one, not so tiny, recurring part of the books that now starts to annoy me though. That being the fact that a well-educated, well-mannered and kind, interesting, intellectual woman of independent means really shouldn't constantly question why her slightly younger beau prefers her over younger women. My advice would be, cherish and relish the fact that you've found a soul mate and any hesitations and specultions should be dealt with through talking with each other. There's time for quiet solitary musings as well as not.

More of my views on books by Alexander McCall Smith -
Folk Tales from Africa: The Girl Who Married a Lion
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate - SFC
The Right Attitude To Rain - SFC
Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
Careful Use of Compliments - SFC
The 2½ Pillars of Wisdom
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue shoes and Happiness
44 Scotland Street

when magic yarn turned into socks

When I was a child there was a very popular TV-series on - those were the days when there were only two, yes two, TV channels in Sweden. I'm still pondering if that could possibly have been the good ol' days for real. At least one was spared from the overflow of televised craptastic rubbish - called "Pojken med guldbyxorna" (The Boy with the golden trousers).

Based on a Swedish book about a boy who finds a pair of pants in a storage and then discovers he is able to get an infinite amount of money from the pockets of said trousers. I don't remember how the series ended but I remember it was quite a buzz watching the adventures of that boy. Most of us kids back then probably dreamt about finding such a magic pair of jeans, oh the things we could do with such a pair of amazing trousers...

I have long ago stopped dreaming about that particular kind of magic to happen - the inconvenience of growing older - but I do still nurture my belief in magic and dreams. Often the more down to earth but still not quite graspable magic like the incredible beauty of a snowflake or the whole world reflecting in a single raindrop, sometimes the more outlandish kind. Because what would a life, a world, without magic or dreams be? Simply non acceptable.

At an unconscious - so far - level my love for yarn may well stem from the obvious fact that magic has to be involved in such a thing as knitting. Since if one think about it, how can it be described as anything else than magical that with a single little measly thread and some needles one can accomplish such amazing and intricate creations?

Of course it's even better when the yarn itself is positively brimming with magicalness, the magic yarn did keep its promise of extraordinarity, first it turned out to be quite quite and then some delightful to knit with, then it transformed into magic socks.

The mixed red cuties are for me, myself and I. Oh, I can see great deeds being accomplished wearing these weird and wonderful ones. The dark greenish pair - double thread, therefore not quite as magical but more prudent looking unfortunately - have been made for father's day this weekend. Yes, my views on father's day is the same as mother's day, but M insists on remembering both occasions and really, who am I to deny someone a sprinkle of magic in mostly prudent socks? When the yarn sirens call I can but humbly obey.

Plus knitting~creating for others is one of those win-win situations (love them!);

:: I get to play around with whatever yarn I like without filling an already (admittedly) dash too full wardrobe AND
:: make someone (hopefully) happy with a personal, handmade, moodlifting (hopeful again) creation.

The weekend will find myself busy with creating of more magical socks. I'm in a irresistable, weird and rather wonderful magical yarn and sock knitting buzz.

With wishes of a lovely magical
November weekend
for well deserving souls ~

ikea musings and tea towels

Admittedly I am not one of those who swoon from the whispers of the name that begins with an I continue with a K, E and ends with A. A major part of my childhood was lived in the vicinity of the largest and most famous IKEA department store ever - built in 1965 and the second one opened situated in Kungens Kurva in the southern outskirts of Stockholm - and most families I knew back then were pretty frequent visitors to that store.

I think many people found it pretty awesome that good (?) design suddenly was available for all wallets and the siren calls of modern, new, mass produced and cheap were irresistable. The many - now more obvious - back sides to the new and very shiny coin were nowhere to be seen.

Yes, I can see the founder of IKEA, Ingvar Kamprad, as a clever, ingenious and in parts inspirational businessman. But I'm far from sure that I find the fact that the IKEA phenomena has spread over the world like a wildfire, as something Sweden should be all that proud about. For many reasons. Some of the reasons for that are the fact that I wholeheartedly advocate

:: small-scaleness production,
:: long-lived handcrafted quality.
:: add preferably with a quirky uniqueness.
:: not to mention, with those prices, how ethically sourced is the production, what about obvious criterias as organic and fairtrade?

So with few exceptions I rarely frequent IKEA as a grown up. The things the brand stands for do quite the opposite than speak to my heart. Apart from my Billy book-shelves - so far 10 of them, I claim pure necessity - I pride myself in not shopping IKEA.

There are the odd case when the above well advocated criterias meet IKEA and makes sweet love together. One such case being the rather brilliant, previously mentioned, 'I wish we had IKEA' tea towels made by South African designer Heather Moore with her brand Skinny la Minx available on Etsy.

Even if I may say that one probably should not be so unhappy about not having an IKEA store nearby, I do love the quirky thought and end product. The orange towel I kept for myself, the grey one was a gift to someone who actually is a great fan of IKEA - being a woman in her forties whose goal in life still is to be working at IKEA when she grows up. Oh indeed we all have our different dreams - and she loved it, for every reason.

And such people, the ones who frequent IKEA a lot, do know their way around the product-names (imagine that) thus spotted a misspelling on sweet towels; table Leksvig 's proper name is table Leksvik.

Despite me being an upstanding member of the spelling squad wouldn't have spotted that for the world and I really don't care - see I can be as word mellow as the next one - because the towels are quirky and personal, cute and snazzy. And a pretty darn perfect gift to anyone who happens to think (imagine that) that IKEA is one of the most amazing places for shopping there is. Plus, the tea towels have been thoroughly paw approved.

Dotty kitty prefered the grey version

Whilst liquorice fellow chose orange
(a cat after my own heart)

Upon receiving the tea towels I also had a revelation of the uttermost Malte kind. The little loafie extraordinaire has obviously made a firm paw print at IKEA too - there's a bar stool pluming the Malte name. Of course nothing like the real deal on four legs, and a comfy arm chair had been a better choice for the distinguished name, but still cool cats dig bar stools as well as tea towels.

the daring scandinavian photographer and the paw approval squad

As I was feeling better - still is, touch wood - I thought it was prudent to try and make the most of the measly amount of daylight us Northeners get this time of the year. Hence a photo session in garden was called for today. It was a gloomy day - which made the photographing unreasonably tricky, I couldn't believe how dark the camera adamantly told me it was at noon already. Darn, darn - and not only gloomy but windy, oh so windy. And the nasty winds made the reasonable temperatures of around +7 C drop. A lot. And the photo objects didn't want to cooperate.

And as I am notoriously everyday lazy (and proud of it!) when it comes to things like (not) putting on proper clothes when having my wee camera in garden sessions it soon became unbearably cold out there - picture the crazy snivelling, coughing, babbling to herself lady in a worn dressing gown with a magpie's nest on top (my sorry hair these ill days) and a camera in hand, that can just possibly me, the scarecrow on a mission - and yes, there was a short an unexpected moment of hail too.

So I totally blame the weather for not being all pleased with what I managed to capture with camera - because it can certainly not be the one behind the camera, oh no it can't - and I think there'll be a new try on a not so gloomy day (hopefully soon to come).

A few of the things captured was the incredibly sweet and personal package with letter I got from my gifted, multi talented swapping partner in the great letter writing swap. That most splendid of ideas and far, far from shabby see through is something that certainly calls for a grand post of its very own later, but for now - this post can be read as a tentative way back to writing after some horrible all revolving around a sore throat days, poor, poor bunny - I will give you a glimpse of one of those things that rarely disappoint in this residence situated at a place on the globe where autumns and winters are long, rather gloomy, cold and grim;



the ever trustworthy intervention of the paw approval squad ~

These teas with magical sounding names have travelled through forrests, over the ocean from Portland, Oregon to Stockholm, Sweden and I can't wait for the perfect moment to try them (I hope they blossom with milk?). Apart from bearer of magical names they certainly look good in autumn colours and gets the paw plus liquorice nose approval. I take that as a prosperous sign.

the spelt ~ wheat ~ feta ~ cheese bread

A while ago I wrote about a spelt-cheese bread that turned out so fabuously. The recipe (in Swedish) comes from an excellent little café book I bought on Åland. One recipe from each café, 20 of them. So far I've tried two of the recipes, both turned out lovely. As far as I'm concerned these two grand recipes in this nice, unpretentious wee book with fine photos makes the book well worth the purchase, even if the other 18 recipes turns out to be not so appealing.

Anyway. I did tweak the original recipe (seven ingredients);

:: since I like to substitute wheat flour with as much spelt flour as possible. You do need a whole lot more spelt than wheat flour to form a doable dough. A lot. It will be a runny mess otherwise. Keep those measure cups coming until the dough is light but firm.

:: I didn't have any feta cheese spread at home (not even sure it exists ready made in Sweden...?) so I used the 150-200 g ordinary feta I had and just crumbled it instead.

:: And grated some more vegetarian cheese.

spelt-wheat-feta-cheese bread

1 L water
50 g fresh yeast
1 tbs salt
700 g wheat flour - this I took less of
300 g spelt flour - this I took more of
250 g fetacheese spread - I took less + ordinary feta
2 dl grated cheese - I grated a bit more
ca 2 dl flour for the shaping

Mix the yeast with tepid water, add salt. Add the flour, little by little, let the machine work/stir constantly. The dough shouldn't be too firm, yet not too loose, when it doesn't stick to the bowl it's about ready to go to rise. And rise it will. A lot. So don't use your best towel or let the bowl stand in the mixer while rising... Leave to rise under towel for about 30 minutes.

Prepare the work surface with flour. Pour the dough onto the surface, it will be quite soft (at least if you've used a lot of spelt flour). Knead it, then use a roller to shape it into a larger rectangle. Spread the feta and the grated cheese evenly onto the dough. Fold one half of the dough over the other. Then cut 2-3 cm slices and twist them (I got about 10-12 baguette shaped breads). Place them on the baking sheet and leave to rise, uncovered, for 15 minutes. (After rising you might want to brush the bread a bit with water or sunflower oil before it goes into oven.)

Preheat the oven to 200°C, bake the breads for 20-25 minutes. Remove, let cool uncovered on a rack.

Still warm eaten with a dollop of butter this is heavenly. The bread freeze well and is perfect to thaw in the micro for an instant quick meal with some fresh veggies on top.
-

Recipe from Pettas bakery & café on Åland. Very much worth a visit if you happen to be in the neighbourhood.

the historian

"The Historian" by Elisabeth Kostova is one of those books I bought on a whim just because I loved the cover. That was well over two years ago. I do find that I often adore books I've bought for the cover almost only, this one was however sadly one of the exceptions.

The story promised an intellectual and unique take on the vampire/Dracula lore. And even if I granted had difficulties to sleep well and turn of the lights after reading it late at night my overall impression was of an ambitious story that was turned into a not very well written (or badly translated as I read it in Swedish) brick novel. The story told was just too long winding, what started out as an interesting, intelligent, strangely creepy Dracula story entrenched in ancient Eastern European history very soon turned into a rather simply written story, with far far too many words - words are lovely, but I also find that they should also be used discerningly and not for words sake in themselves. Less can truly be more -, jumping back and forth in time - which worked well for "The Time Traveller's Wife", but that's another story -

parallel stories with different narrators and travels all through post WWII Europe in search of answers of Dracula's true dwellings. I found all those travels back and forth, both in time as well as in Europe, rather tiresome and more of a bother than essential for the story. The characters, their features and behaviours were annoying and quite incomprehensible. To me.

Add some loose ends, tiresome side notes, a terribly anticlimactic and unimaginative ending, hey presto, clearly not a recommended read as far as I'm concerned. The only reason for me finishing this book - over a very long period of time - was pure stubbornness. Can't say that was a good choice. But still, all 600 plus pages are read. And for some reason that alone pleases me in some weird and word nerdy way.

november sunday grump with a few delights

I wish the month of November could find me in a better mood. I wish I could say hallo, welcome , so nice to meet you again. But alas I can not. As the beginning of a cold I thought I had on Friday turned out to be tonsilitis. Enter and sigh of enormous proportions. Having a sore throat is definitely my number one h a t e thing on the average flu-cold-scale of simple illnesses. With a normal cold you get to 'enjoy' the sore throat feeling for 1-3 days before it turns into sneezing, snivelling, fever and such. With tonsilitis the whole darn thing revolves around that same sore throat, and cough, for days and days and... Did I mention that I h a t e it?

Eating spicy food, toast, drinking tea and apple juice seems to help a bit. For a while. The rest of the time I'm feeling seriously grumpy and dwell in self-pity. Because having that surprisingly short cold some months back and having survived the tin can woman april I did hope and think there would be no more throat nastiness this side of new year's. How sadly wrong was I.

On the bright side - see, I am at least trying to be reasonably positive despite my unfortunate state - I'm glad I was able to go on that marvellous little get away - yes, one guessed on Gdansk, Poland and that was certainly it. The Place of Surprising Marvel. A place I will of course write a lot more about later. And show pictures. When in not so crabby mood - without feeling ill, that the birthday and the major part of October - after successfully finishing the course - was enjoyed illness-free with me in an overall rather pleasant mood. And with nature showing off its diversity and most gorgeous face in every colourful leaf.

When this weekend haven't been spent time in bed, reading, sleeping and feeling sorry for myself - poor, poor, bunny - there have been a disproportionate amount if time spent in front of the TV. Only good stuff watched of course. But even good stuff needs non idle hands so I have been knitting a lot. One shawl in this gorgeous rainbow wool yarn nearly finished (pictures of end result to come) ~

and couple of teal socks - one in black, obviously not my own idea of fun or usefulness, and one pair in the pretty mixed red yarn - have been undertaken. It's been ages since I knitted socks, I can't say I enjoyed it then, but now, apart from the needles being ridiculously thin and me finding the instructions initially sigh-worthy intricate, it is kind of fun. Lots of fun actually. At least when knitting in lovely colours. And imagining what to wear with them.

So instead of over-dwelling in self-sore-throat-pity I try to dwell in books and yarn delight. And with every purl I hope the tonsilitis will be on its way soon, soon, soon and if not I will have to go see Doctor Feist and get some magic medication. (And if it wasn't for the cost and me not liking the idea of medicating I would not hesitate to go see her, because she certainly has a benefitting and moodlifting manner.)

For now I will take comfort, as so often, in the magic of yarn. And tea. Add spicy food, a good book and something pleasant showed on TV.