Random Wednesday!

{Random 1}

I had a flu shot on Monday, and it's knocked me about a bit. One of the things you're supposed to learn with Addison's is to support your immune system consciously. Normally, after a vaccination, your immune system starts chugging away, making the required antibodies to make you immune to whatever your shot was against -- in order to this, it needs a little extra cortisol. The adrenals normally step up to the plate on this one and provide, but mine are stuffed and I have to take extra tablets. I didn't yesterday, and consequently drifted through the day like an irritable noodle.

Today I managed to pull it together and took some extra, and I feel much more alert and useful, but generally cranky. As if it's an insult for people to dream of asking my help (or, you know, expect me to do my job or make my own lunch) when I should really be getting on with...well, I don't know. Staring at the keyboard, there's a job that needs doing.

So! A random post! I wasn't sure how long I'd hold out in the blog department before I resorted to one of these, so that's that question answered (churning through 'em!).

{Random 2}


My Bendigo Wool Mills order arrived, huzzah! This was awesome: following the shocking realisation that I didn't have that much yarn (shut up) available for whim and impulse, I made a few sizable purchases. My Cascade 220 order we've already admired, and now it's the turn of my Bendigo Babies. Look at those balls! Massive! I love those big balls! (That should scare up a few more Google search results.) There's between 800 and 1000 metres of each colour, so that's enough for some little, snug-fitting sweaters for yours truly, which is nice.

I love it when Internet shopping arrives. I love it even more if it arrives one afternoon, after a tiring day at work, the house is just starting to warm up and the Autumn wind is blowing...

{Random 3}

Now that Wintergreen has made her triumphant debut, I'm realising that a scarf does not a winter wardrobe make. I needs me some woolly tops! And that means it's time to turn my attention back to the Purple Olive, who has been resting while I waited for the appropriate DPNs for the sleeves to arrive. And now they're here, and Purple Olive sleeves are zooming ahead.

I'd forgotten how buttery soft this yarn was, how deliciously smooth plain stockinette is, and how springy and light this hoodie will be when I'm done. Feeling the love.

{Random 4}

Turning my thoughts to socks: there's a lot of sexy sock patterns out there, and I'm not knitting enough of them. I suspect this is part of my recent "I don't own any handknit garmets! Holy CRAP how did that happen?!" moment, because the fact is I am wearing through my cheap socks at a rate of knots, and I would like some woolly goodies for cold toesies.

{Random 5}

I am craving sushi like there is no manana. Unfortunately, in order to obtain said sushi, I have to either (a) go into Woden plaza, which is a personal purgatory; or (b) walk to the shops in my lunchbreak. That's been out of the question this week (see Random 1) and so my life is still, tragically, sushi-less. Sometimes life is so, so hard.

{Random 6}

Today is the first day since I got sick that I'll be doing this:

And I'm a bit nervous. I haven't touched her for nearly 9 weeks, and I'm feeling her reproachful glances.

Wintergreen

May I present: Wintergreen! (Modelled here on the ever-photogenic Mozart.)

This is probably the fastest thing I've ever completed. It's beautiful. I cast on Thursday afternoon, worked pretty steadily on it over the ANZAC Day long weekend -- a day of loafing about with my parents followed by a day of loafing about with M's parents turns out to be the ideal knitting scenario -- and finished it Monday night. I love her to pieces; she's so soft and light and fluffy on my neck. She doesn't itch, doesn't shed and doesn't go all saggy looking.

When I first cast on, I was a little hesitant, because the yarn looked like it was going to stripe terribly, so much so that it would be a defining characteristic. "Can you pass me my green scarf?" I'd say, and my friends would say "Oh, you mean the stripey one?" But it all came out nicely in the end, didn't it?

I haven't blocked her yet, because I badly, badly wanted to wear her today and feel warm and cheerful at work.

FO Report

Pattern: My So-Called Scarf -- I like this pattern; very simple and easy to memorise, but very effective.

Yarn: A handspun merino I picked up at the Gorman House Markets in March. It was a warm, sticky day and I was eating gelati; the cool greens appealed. Now they remind me of spring.

Mods: Yarn substitution. Thought about a fringe, then decided there was enough happening visually without it.






As a bonus, to celebrate Wintergreen's completion, I present an essay in pictures called The Life of the Centre-Pull Ball.

Birth:














Growth:














Maturity:














Old Age:














Death:

How To Have Lunch On An Autumnal Sunday

On the left, homemade borscht with a touch of natural yoghurt and snipped chives. On the right, a Guinness, frosty and fresh.

Anticlimax

For you, that is, not me.

Our Turkish dicking about in the kitchen (I'm reluctant to say 'Turkish cooking', because really all we did was make bread and dips) was a triumph. But it was so good, and so perfect, and I was so hungry, that there are no photos and you're just going to have to imagine it. Sorry.

The unexpected victory was my baba ganoush! It was so awesome that I'm going to let you know how I did it, then you will rock as hard as I do.

I roasted four long, slender eggplants until they were dark brown and the skin had begun to go papery; while they cooled, I put lashings of garlic, cumin, cayenne pepper, salt, lemon juice and olive oil into my processor dealie and whizzed them all together. When the eggplants were cool enough to handle, I scooped out all the soft, roasted flesh and popped that in as well and gave the food processor a quick whiz -- not too much, because you want it to remain fairly chunky. Taste it and add anything else you feel is lacking. Oy, it was heavenly. I just finished it for morning tea this morning, mopping up the last of it with fresh bread and whimpering because there was no more.

I also made a beetroot dip which rocked pretty hard, but not as hard as the eggplant. I used tinned baby beets, drained, mixed with a generous spoonful of fresh yoghurt, as well as some black pepper, salt, heaps of cumin and lemon juice, and a little garlic and olive oil. We had the leftovers for breakfast this morning, on toasties with goat's cheese and baby spinach.

M's Turkish bread was delicious, but a little denser than we intended. Still, it was hot and had a nice salty crust, so we yummed it up. Today he's talking about making malai kofta for dinner, so I'm trying to eat light for the rest of the day. So far it's not working.

And knitting is plowing on! Using some interesting thick-thin handspun I picked up at the markets a few weeks back, I'm working on my very own My So-Called Scarf. I cast on on Thursday afternoon, and it's charging ahead, and although I was a bit concerned about the way it was striping at first, now I'm in love with it. Here's a pic:

You can see the striping that's starting to come through in this shot, although not the full scope of colours; there's patches of lime, forest, emerald, jade, mint and faintest misty green. I really like it, although as I said I was a bit concerned at first. It's roaring along, though: I cast on Thursday afternoon, and now (Sunday) it's over a metre long, which is pretty good. We had lunch out at Mum and Dad's on Friday, and then spent yesterday with M's Mum and Dad, so that was pretty much two solid days of loafing, talking, drinking and knitting. Not that I'm complaining.

Anticipation

There are a few cuisine cultures that completely elude me when I'm cooking. I'm yet to successfully make anything from the South American cultures, unless you count tacos and burritos (and frankly I don't): I crave pupusas, tamales and quesadillas, but whenever I try to make them I end up with...well...I'm not sure what you'd call them. Mostly like thick fritters with a few beans scattered through, but without the reassuring cohesiveness of the standard fritter. Thick, dry, crumbly and with a few beans sprinkled enticingly in the middle, each with its own fuzzy jacket of crumbly fritter. And my quesadillas are best not mentioned.

And then there's just about every single Japanese recipe ever invented. I've got a beautiful Japanese cook book: one of those ones I read just for pleasure, with a glass of sherry, wistfully reflecting on the intricacy of skill that resulted in such a perfect balance of sushi ingredients. Why do mine always seem to have way too much rice? Or way too much nori, such that you cannot bite through the damn thing, but have to engulf it whole and chew with your mouth waaay open for a time. Nothing so chic and foodie as drooling uncontrollably because the massive cud of sushi you have won't permit you to close your lips.

It's hard, but I've come to accept these limitations: and by 'accept', I mean, of course, 'ignore until I'm ready to try again'. There's probably quite a predictable cycle of cuisine sampling, if I could be bothered to graph it. Indian cuisine has been a long, hard road, but the dhals and naans that M produces now are heavenly. (He has a new kofta recipe to try this weekend. I'm so excited.) But it never seems to matter: it's the anticipation. This time I know what we did wrong. This time we'll add extra cumin/M&Ms/garlic/water. It's a dead cert this time!

But Turkish cuisine? It seems so accessible, so close; and yet, not quite there. My tzatziki is first-rate, but there's not really any challenge there. My hummus leaves something to be desired, but I can't pinpoint what. It's nice enough, but it's not fantastic. And we've had some fairly disastrous run-ins with haloumi kebabs (oy). But today the spirit has moved me: M has some Turkish bread rising, I've got some eggplants roasting in the oven for baba ganoush, and there will probably be a few yaprak dolma before the weekend is out -- there's vine leaves in the fridge.

Meanwhile, M is watching an eBay auction closely: a teensy weensy deep fryer, perfect for those of us who only want to fry the occasional zucchini flower or crumbed brie wedge. He keeps checking to see if anyone else has bid yet. I hope not, because it would be an awesome addition to the kitchen. I keep imagining all the things we could make with it, although they tend to centre around things like fried zucchini flowers, zucchini puffs, felafels, crisply fried filo sticks, etc. etc.

Stay tuned. Next: photos of the feast, hopefully.

Presents!

Beautiful, isn't it? My new parcel arrived today. It's nothing fancy, nothing schmik. Just half a dozen skeins of Cascade 220. But I love them, passionately.

On the far left of the above shot, you can also a skein of heathered pink, with hints of grey and white and a taste of Spring storms. Also, a skein of dark rose is there, although kinda eclipsed out of the picture, which has enigma, passion and potential. I can't remember why I ordered them, but I'll bet my reasoning was sound.

Here's a close-up: this is the heathered dark green and black that will someday serve to create some gorgeously warm felted slippers for me. I've made the Fiber Trends/Galeskas felted clogs before, as Xmas presents for my parental units. I loved them. I hearted them, as they say in the vernacular. And now that Autumn has come, I want a savoury-coloured pair for myself.

I can't help myself when it comes to online ordering. There's something so enchantingly disembodied about it: I give them my details, and then a few days later someone arrives with a present for me -- and get this, it's just what I wanted! I love it. I got something else, too. Something to help me finish the Purple Olive:

Oh yes.

Deliciously sharp DPNs. In just the right size. I was jealous of those in the continental Northern Americas who could get KnitPicks products easily -- luckily, we've got a couple of stockists here in Australia who can feed my desire for dangerously pointy, sexily slick needle points. Want to see more?

The above package, yarn and needles and all, came from Yarns Online, an Australian online store that stocks Cascade and a few other yarns, at astonishingly cheap prices. A skein of Cascade 220 for around $10 is okay with me. Plus, they stock the KnitPicks needle range, so I'm very pleased indeed. In addition, Meaghan, the customer service rep, is excellent: efficient, friendly, cheerful, keen to please, and prompt to telephone you if you have any hassles. I love working with them, and when there's a few extra pennies kicking about, I try to work out a way of sending them on in exchange for some great yarn.

Looking forward to some hardc0re ball winding this weekend.

Twinkle twinkle!

When I got out of hospital, all I wanted to do was dinky, pretty, dainty things. Those that know me well will realise this isn't really in keeping with my interests. I don't mean to suggest that normally I participate in hobbies best described as "clunky" or "craparse", but I'm not really a twinkly kinda gal. But there was something about the hospital that left me itching for something tiny and twiddly -- I suspect it has to do with the utilitarian nature of everything in the hospital. Everything you see has a purpose, a strict and specific purpose, and there's procedures in place for every eventuality. Even the paint on the walls and the generic artwork in the corridors had an air of "Here For Therapeutic Reasons" about it.

During my week off after hospital, wherein I was bored silly by constant errands, I decided I would make some stitch markers for myself. There were necessary and useful and I had intended to buy some more eventually -- but now I had a reason to go to the bead shop and make something twinkly! So off I toddled. And I can tell you, I can see how people fall hard for the beading.

Bead Street, in Phillip, is like a cross between Aladdin's cave and an old-timey apothecary (not like those newer, more upmarket apothecaries, obviously). The walls are lined, crowded, with shelves filled with wee jars. Each jar is filled with squillions of tiny beads, and the jars are arranged to gradually phase through the all the colours available. Upon entrance, you collect a dinky wire basket and fill it with jars, which you then take to the counter to be measured and weighed. (How do people know how many to order? A million? Four? How many is a useful quantity of tiny beads?) Then, the beads are slipped into tiny ziplock bags and packaged up for you. It was great. I felt like some sort of...I don't know, magician's apprentice or jeweller's supplies gatherer. Anyway, it was cool. I wandered about for the best part of an hour, vague and bemused and lost in the tiny things.

Eventually, I came to my senses and trooped my basket over to the counter. In a fairly spectacular tumble, I had racked up a huge bill. Luckily, the charming store persons had encountered this kind of delirium before. The girl serving me helped me rifle through my booty and work out which was worth keeping and which was worth putting back for someone less greedy and insane. She deftly recalculated the total, which was a far more acceptable price to pay for twinkly doodads, and encouraged me to come back soon.

I took my tiny parcel of beads home, had some lunch and promptly broke M's computer, then settled in for a silent afternoon, crouched breathlessly over the dainties. It was an awful lot of fun, far more than I would like to admit. I made six or seven sets of stitch markers, and I love them all to bits. I'm so proud that I was able to get the wire so neat and tucked in, and I love the way they sparkle, and that I can match them to my yarn when I'm knitting. Simple pleasures, etc.

Despite this, I don't think I want to get too hardc0re into the beading. There's only so many applications for beads before you start making crocheted gumboot covers just to have something to ornament, and then you lose perspective and end up with ginormous necklaces that look like nothing so much as a thousand fat bugs in a spiderweb around your neck. No, I don't think beading is going to be listed as a blog topic any time soon. But still, it was fun, it was calming and pretty, and now I have heaps of stitch markers. And now I have a cache of beads for some beaded knitting, should the mood ever sweep over me.

The Great Dyeing Adventure, Part 2

Despite the sheer volume of cooking I undertook over the weekend, I hadn't forgotten my commitment to dyeing yarns!

I'm glad I've discovered the opportunity to dye with things like food colouring, because I think if I tried to use the hardc0re acid dyes, we'd just end up with bits of hand skin hanging off cupboards. I'm on the sloppy side, and don't put a lot of work into ensuring the workspace is completely cleared and sterile, etc. etc. Nor can I afford to buy a whole new range of dyeing-only crockpots, saucepans and implements. I've been doing all my dyeing so far in the huge stainless steel stock pot, over the gas cooker. Perfect!

So, here we go. Step one, procure the yarn you wish to dye. In my case, three skeins of Peach Twist and one of Cream Twist. These were remnant balls, handed to me in a job lot of leftovers when I first started knitting. They're quite nice, in a flecky way, but they're not the kind of colours I'm ever likely to wear. I skeined them on my niddy noddy, measured them and estimated how much I had of each. I made them little secure ties using some leftover sock wool -- colourfast, natural fibre, nice and loose, unlikely to felt. This stops the skeins tangling too much. Then I washed them, and soaked them in a pot full of water and white vinegar for a few hours. The idea behind this is to 'open' the fibres; the acid makes the yarn more responsive to sucking up colour. Or something. When using Kool-Aid to dye, which those lucky fruits in the US get to do, the citric acid in the Kool-Aid powder takes care of that.

After its wash and soak, Peach Twist (right) and her shy cousin Cream Twist (left) were ready to be dunked. I filled the stock pot with a few litres of water, making sure that the temperature of the water in the pot and the temperature of the yarn weren't too different -- after all, Peach and Cream Twist are mystery yarns, and I didn't want to risk felting them. Into the stock pot I liberallty squirted some green food dye, procured from the local exotic food emporium (Woolworths) and swirled it all around. I was clever enough to not use a wooden spoon for this, since the wood would stain to a pretty green and who needs that? After the dye was evenly distributed through the water, I grabbed Peach Twist (Cream could wait for now) and squinched out as much fluid as I could. Without twisting, of course, because what does that do, children? That's right, it breaks the wet fibres! Into the pot she sank, and I turned the heat on underneath (nice and low -- if the heat goes up too quickly, protein-based fibres tend to get a bit shirty and retaliate by felting) and wandered off.

I checked the pot regularly to make sure that it hadn't begun to boil, and when it started looking too hot, turned the heat off and left the lid on, so that the remaining heat would do the work. So exciting, this magical transformation; I imagined wussy old Peach Twist coming out verdant, lush, and altogether desirable. As you can see in the before photo, Peach Twist is so named because half the plies are peach-coloured, and the other half is cream-coloured. I imagined they'd take up the green dye differently, and I'd have a rich, varied green yarn on my hands. Yum.

After a few hours, I went back to gloat. Peach Twist hadn't done a thing.

The water was still dark green, and the dye simply hadn't taken. I huffed about, plunked the wet yarn into a strainer and gave it some squeezing to get the liquid out. After some sulky Googling, I decided I had found the problem! It's not an animal-based fibre! Of course. Apparently, the mild dyes in food colouring are really not strong enough for plant-based fibres, which Peach Twist clearly was. I smiled ruefully and chalked it up to experience. After all, the yarn was more or less the same as it was when it went in (except for a slight tinge of green through the cream part of the twist), so I would simply dry it out and try again with a proper clothes dye.

Here you can see Peach Twist drying, thinking about what colour she wants to be. You can also see the skein ties I used, which have enthusiastically adopted the colour I had in mind for Peach Twist.

Foodin' of the finest order.

Today, M and I answer the ultimate question for the 21st century: Is it possible to prepare too many deviled eggs for a get-together?

Today was my day to catch up with all the chums I had missed since I got sick -- people I haven't seen for over a month or so. It was awesome. But one of the best parts was the food prep. I love this kinda thing: preparing food on a big scale, going through a huge range of dishes and exploring different options. While I was unwell, I came up with the plan (probably part of the whole
getting-out-of-hospital-let's-do-something-dinky backlash) for a vaguely 70's-inspired afternoon tea. Actually, it originally was going to be some dainty teacakes and things, and then I thought of deviled eggs and the whole thing got wildly out of control.

Speaking of deviled eggs, this has been the central bone of contention in our food preparation. M dislikes eggs in general and hates boiled eggs in specific, and so any dish that involved their widespread application was always guaranteed to invite comment. M claimed to have called all our invitees and asserted that they had all refused to enjoy deviled eggs. I claimed he was talking out his trousers. Fortunately, he was distracted by a small, contained bread fire and so the deviled eggs continued apace!

Perhaps it was the heady excitement of the day, or the scent of deviled eggs in the air, but we got caught up in the 70's atmosphere and made vol-au-vents. We used frozen puff pastry, and then cut out rings and bases -- in the picture on the right, the rings are being cut out. We made a corresponding number of bases (same sized discs, but without the bit cut out of the middle) and then stacked 'em up and baked them. Then we were faced with the challenging decision of what to put in them...tough battle. By now, the deviled eggs were in the fridge, so I considered that argument won. But then we brought the vol-au-vent cases out of the oven and they looked awesome! Golden brown, crispy, puffy. Perfect. And then we made the filling: half we filled with spinach and goat's cheese, half asparagus and mushroom. Mmm. Filled 'em up and popped 'em in the oven to warm through. Oh yes. In the interests of not over-catering, we only made about 10 of each flavour, but ohhh, it was hard not to chow down on them while we waited for our guests. (Who promptly chowed them down anyway.)

While the vol-au-vents were cooling (and the deviled eggs were laying low in the fridge), we made sandwiches.


Lots of sandwiches. Miles of sandwiches. Delicious, fresh cucumber sandwiches. I bought little baby fresh cukes from the markets that morning. Lovely and fresh, with plenty of butter and salt. Oh yes again. And we made some tomato and avocado ones, some egg and cress, some avocado and cress, and so on and so on and so forth. Plenty of avocado, cress and cucumber, that's what I'm talking about (apparently).

In addition to which, we had spent the night before making lemon tarts, honey joys and other tasty things. And plenty of 'em. The lemon tarts were inspired by a recent attempt to make lemon butter, which was a little too thick -- but ideal for lemon tarts! Behold!

But the piece de resistance (I know where the accents go, but I'm not sure how to do them in blogger) was M's pumpkin pie. He was pretty damn proud of it, and, oh boy, he should be. The smell was heaven; the pastry firm and light; the filling plump and thick and not at all runny. The entire house smelt like warm, wholesome, autumn pie. The guests agreed. There was only one slice left, and that was only because it was ferreted away in a secret coat pocket.

It was exquisite.

I have been an over-caterer for most of my cooking life, and today I thought was the ultimate compliment: all we had left was a couple of sandwiches, a slice of pie, and a few honey joys (which are going to work with me tomorrow, to be circulated among co-workers). It was awesome. I'm so happy with how the afternoon went. It was so wonderful to catch up with our friends, and I felt proud for doing all this cooking and food preparation and it coming off so successfully.

Oh! I almost forgot, we also served champagne, orange juice and rosewater coolers (rosewater, lemonade, gin, lemons...oh my, yes). Refreshing, tasty and completely gone by the end of the afternoon. Yes indeed, a triumphant catering.

There was one last thing: M's canapes. Beautiful (that's them above). He came up with these at the last second, and whipped them together in the space of about fifteen minutes. The guy's got brains coming out of his fingertips. Checkout a closeup:

Pretty good, huh? Those are rounds cut out of toast, topped with tomato, avocado, cayenne pepper, chives and mayonnaise. Bee-yew-tiful. And they disappeared pretty damn quick.

Oh, and the deviled eggs? Forgot to photograph them. Gone within the hour. Je ne regrette rien.

Food, glorious food, and also photos thereof. And such.

My laptop cable is here now. There's going to be a lot of photos in this post.

I've missed my laptop so much. M has let me use his computer and laptops while the Mac has been indisposed, but it's not the same. Anyway, just because the laptop's been AWOL, doesn't mean I've been slack. During my week off sick, following my discharge from hospital, things were pretty damn boring. But not pointless -- I did some cooking.

I made cookies! Delicious, chewy M&M cookies. They were splendid, as well as a perfect way to use up the huge quantitities of M and/or M's that I had in a bowl (M brought me three bags full while I was in hospital. He's great.).

Wanna see more cookies? Try to ignore the filthy oven, landlords. Mmm, tasty cookies. They were perfect, too. The blend of brown and white sugar gave a subtle caramelised flavour, and the crispy shells on the M&Ms remained crunchy and tasty. I loved them.

Also, I made bread! First time I've ever made bread, and I saw no reason to be cautious or even mildly restrained. Full-on, delicious, spinach and cheese bread. I made sure I used all the cheeses I could get my hands on: marinaded feta, cream cheese, shredded mozzarella and parmesan, all mixed with some minced spinach and a little salt and pepper. Oh yes. It took ages to rise -- the only reason I was patient enough to let it rise properly is that I had forgotten it was in the bread-maker, rising away happily for nearly three hours. I stuck it into the oven as soon as it was risen and presto:

Beautiful, isn't she? I kept ducking into the kitchen and gloating over it, refusing to cut it until I was satisfied it had cooled enough to be safely sliced -- no squishing!

And, oh, wasn't it delicious? A perfectly even, well aired, fluffy, light bread, riddled with cheesey goodness and tasty spinach. It was heaven. Delicious toasted, spread with goat's cheese and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. Or even just with slices of blue cheese. Oh, I was so proud. I thought about getting t-shirts printed with "I Made The Bread" across the boobs, but then I ate all the bread. Delicious.

M and I are preparing for a tea party! We've been cooking up a storm, getting some splendid things ready for my "I'm Not In Hospital Anymore!" party with some chums. I'll take some photos to show off the platters of heavenly food we've prepared. (You should see M's pumpkin pie. Exquisite.)

The Grand Dyeing Adventure - Part 1

To dye, as Peter Pan once said, will be an awfully big adventure.

Armed with little more than some spare yarn, a packet of food colouring and a few too many glasses of excellent merlot, I decided upon a new venture: dyeing my own yarns. You see, I bought about 8 balls of Cleckheaton's Angora Supreme off eBay, and when I saw them in the light of day I realised that the colour wasn't quite what I was after - as a purple, it's a little too much. Not the kind of colour that would look good all over, on a jumper or something. At first, I thought about trying to swap it on Ravelry for something better, and then I thought "screw it".

And then I read a few articles on dyeing with Kool-Aid (not really an option here in humble Austraila, although the results are excellent), and from there decided food colouring was the next step. I spent some time "researching", by which you can assume that I did a couple of Google searches and followed M around talking about it incessantly, using heretofore unused words such as 'mordant' (is that a verb, noun or gerund?) and talking rubbish about 'opening the fibres'. And then I got things underway. I have lots of yarn in my stash cupboard, but there's a lot of good stuff I don't use because it isn't quite...y'know...there. So now I want to change that: I have visions of fine russets, glowing scarlets, lush greens and mystic blues. How I expect to achieve this through the use of supermarket food colouring and white vinegar eludes me for the time being.

I have a few yarns ready for the first round of experimentation. They've been skeined, weighed, measured and had their meterage estimated through some really tricky maths, and I've got lovely before and after shots of the first round of dyeing.

Alas and gnash my teeth that my laptop cable is still on the fritz. No photos yet. Be brave, gentle readers. The time will surely be soon that I can show off my splendid yarny yearnings.

Bad Dreams, Tight Jeans

I don't get bad dreams all that often. I get lurid and bizarre ones from time to time, as well as ones so beautiful and melodic that I don't want to wake up. I sometimes have lovely happy dreams that leave me floating on Cloud Nine for the rest of the day. But I had two bad dreams the other night.

The first was that I was all bloated and sick, and that M had invited coworkers and friends around to give me injections. I was sad, scared and embarrassed. That was horrible. I woke up shortly after with very bad indigestion, which I think may have been related. The second bad dream I had was that I was in hospital again, and my hands had swollen up hugely, but I couldn't get any of the nurses to help me. They kept leading me off into dangerous places (like the drying-out room for junkies, who all tried to get me) and leaving me there. It was very scary.

Of course, they're ludicrous. I knew that as soon as I woke up. We don't need to get our nation's top pyschologists on them. Simple anxiety dreams brought on by a combination of indigestion and memories of my stay in hospital. Man, did they suck.

And the tight jeans? Well, hospital food is terrible, so I was basically mainlining M&Ms the whole time I was there. When I got home, I was feeling a little bored and tired, and so chowing down even more M&Ms seemed logical. And we've had huge servings of curry two nights in a row now, so I feel like I've eaten an awful lot of food lately.

I promise you that this blog will soon get back to its two favourite topics: knitting and cooking. My laptop power cable is brokened, so there are no pictures to upload yet. Have no fear, I'm still knitting and cooking. I'm still working on the Olive Branch Hoodie, in dark purple. The Purple Olive! The sizing is a bit screwy: it goes 34", 38", 42", etc. etc. Apparently bust sizes come in units of four inches. I'm in between 34" and 38", such that neither is much good. Luckily, it's a top-down raglan, so I'm just bunging a few more increase rounds in and making it a bit more accurate. I'm at that comfortable point in proceedings where I think I'll have enough wool, but I'm not really certain. It's lovely wool, though; a springy, buttery merino. Luvly.

Cheap Cheap Cheap

While living frugally isn't really a central part of my life, I admire those who do so. But there's frugal and there's stingy: I know people who hate going out for meals because they believe that it's not worth paying for more than the cost of the ingredients. But I also know people who will spend a fortune on clothes and blithely claim that it adds to their career prospects.
So what does frugality mean? I think frugality means learning not to spend money on stupid things. It's a pretty sorry thing to point out - it really ought to be obvious not to get sucked in and buy stupid things, but 'stupid things' means something different for everyone. A gym membership, for me, would be a many-hundred-dollar waste of money for me. I hate gyms and I know myself well enough to say I wouldn't follow through with a commitment to going. On the other hand, I have no problem shelling out a fair bit of my grocery budget on nice cheeses. Or a nice meal out. Or champagne. But I don't buy clothes unless I kinda have to, and I don't buy meat (if you're looking for an easy way of reducing your grocery budget, I recommend that!), and I don't have a schmik car.

Spending money carefully on things that matter to you is important, but it's also important to question why you want those things. Do you need gadgets in the kitchen, or are they just going to end up gathering dust? Do you need new shoes urgently, or are you just trying to stay trendy? Wouldn't you rather put the money away and see if you still want whatever it is in a week? Could you get a book from the library for that instead of buying a new one?

So I've gotten interested in a few financial blogs, especially those that advise on frugal living. Here's a couple I like:

• Get Rich Slowly - I really like the philosophy of this site.
• Stop Buying Crap - The excellent 'How to stop buying crap' lists are worth reading alone.

That's enough to be getting on with, and they're all worth a read. I don't know I'll ever earn the compliment 'frugal', but I try very hard not to consume too much. Apart from the issue of finances, I do think that most Western cultures consume far too much: people seem less interested in planning a purchase, repairing what's broken and reusing what they can and more interested in the thrill of a new toy or purchase. I think I want to stop playing that game.

Cabin Fever

I go back to work on Monday morning. This is a break with a three-week tradition at this stage, and frankly, I'm looking forward to it. I'll bet I'll be ready to chuck it all in by lunchtime on the first day. But even that will be a welcome change from the immaculate ennui that I'm experiencing at home every day. I've had about all the washing up I can handle, and I'm snacking voraciously between meals out of, mostly, boredom. I had no idea I got bored so easily. If anyone asked, I would have said I had a rich inner life. But clearly, lack of stimulation pretty much wrecks me. I end up kicking the furniture and whining about having nothing to do.

And is there anything more tedious in the world than 'running errands'? All week, I've had odd jobs to do in relation to getting out of hospital: GP appointment, procuring all my meds, arranging for a MedicAlert bracelet, letting friends know, etc. etc. And doing the groceries and what have you -- and by Christ it's boring. You spend an hour or so walking around shops 'running errands' and by the end of it, the most you can hope for is that you no longer have any errands to run. I'm bloody sick of it. I think I'd make the worst stay-at-home Mum (or primary caregiver, or homemaker, or whatever) in the whole world. The house would be immaculate but I'd be biting chunks out of the carpet. And since this is a rental property, we'd lose the bond. Hopefully it's all done with now. I mean, as much as errands are ever done with.

The first day after I was out of hospital, my Mum came and spent the day with me. It was lovely. She took me to the supermarket and pushed the trolley for me, while I looked around nervously and shied at loud noises. She sat and gossiped with me and even let me show her all my yarn. There's not many people I can show my yarn stash, so I'm always grateful for an appreciative audience. And since her fabric stash can outstrip my yarn stash any day, I think she understands. Mums are pretty great.

I don't know what to expect when I get back to work. Whenever I've missed this much work, it's always been planned (like for holidays) and I've got people taking care of things. This time, it's just been "I'm not coming in. Deal with it." I think it'll be fine, but part of me is always a wee bit anxious that everyone's going to be cross with me for taking so much time off -- or, worse, hasn't noticed. I think it stems from the time I got sacked from a summer job for taking time off sick. Good times.

I've been knitting pretty steadily while off sick. Actually, I need to hunt down the pattern for the purple hoodie I'm working on. I remembered I was supposed to make raglan increases for umpteen rows, but I can't remember how many, and I've just been continuously working the increases while I look for the pattern. At this rate, I'm going to have a splendid leg-of-mutton sleeve hoodie. So chic! No photos yet because a) the laptop cable is in the post and b) it's too, too boring. Seriously. Acres of purple stockinette with raglan increases? Who cares? Wait till I get to the cables. Then we're talking excitement! Zazz!

Jiggety Jig

Being discharged from hospital was a decidedly unique experience. Nevermind the visit to the 'discharge lounge', a tasteful name if ever I heard one, where we were required to wait while the discharge paperwork was filled in -- that was unique enough in its own right. A bunch of patients sitting around, waiting for doctors and comparing the drastic nature of their ailments. But coming home was weird. I suddenly had a lifelong condition I had to learn to manage, and I wasn't surrounded by highly capable staff who were ready to catch me if I screwed up. My mother likened it to coming home with a new baby for the first time: a period of unease and readjustment and acceptance. M took me around to his parents' house for a bath -- we don't have a tub at our place -- and it was bliss. The hospital ward had made me so stiff and weary, and a hot bath was ideal.

I had the rest of the week off work, thank heavens: I don't know how I would have coped going back right away, since I was still adjusting to the medication and still trying to get my head around all of it. I expect that my first day back at work will have me recounting my experience half a dozen times or so, before finally, blessedly, returning to normal. I've missed working. The house is eerily tidy, which comes from boredom. I've decided it's a very bad sign when I do the dishes every day.

Today I filled in the hours by baking (no pictures as yet: my laptop cable broke and I'm blogging from someone else's computer). I made a spinach and cheese loaf, which is a gamble. I don't think I've ever made bread before, although M is a whiz at it. Still, it looks the part and I keep ducking into the kitchen to gloat over it. I'm waiting for it to cool, and then I might have some with cheese on it. Mmmmm. I also whipped up a batch of M&M cookies, which found favour with visitors and used up the last of the M&Ms satisfactorily.

And I've been knitting! Retrospectively, I think I must've been getting sick for some weeks prior to, you know, being sick. I haven't felt this keen in all my projects for a while, and it's good to start working on long-idle projects and bring them up to completion. Today I finished a piece that I will felt over the weekend, which is the exciting gamble part. I love felting, which is weird; it goes against my favourite thing in knitting. I love knitting's undo-ability, and felting really is one of the techniques that you simply can't undo. One way only. But you can make some really funky things with felt, and it's got a robustness lacking in knitted fabric. The knitted clogs I made my parents for Christmas have been among my favourite projects ever - pictures after the laptop is up again.

What happened?

Oh, sweet, nectar-like irony. Remember in the last post I mentioned I would bet a bottle of red they wouldn't find anything wrong with me when I did the blood tests? I was so wrong that it was ludicrous. I failed the blood test. Gave them some blood on Monday morning, as well as a jar of wee thrown in for good measure, and then retreated back to bed, the world still gaily spinning and my stomach dancing a pretty funky beat with it.

On the Wednesday, the GP at the drop-in clinic asked us to drop in, and while we were there, he briefly explained that we needed to get to emergency/casualty ASAP. That was scary. M was excellent; commented that we were just being sent over for more thorough testing. I was so dizzy and feeble. M dropped me outside the emergency entrance and went to park the car. My job was to go inside and present myself. I was too addled and confused to do this. I had to have rests (plural!) on the 5-metre walk to the doors, and when I got inside, I was too baffled and dizzy and scared of puking on someone to really get anything done. Fortunately, M parked the car quickly and hurried in, and took things in hand.

Next thing I know, I'm staring at the ceiling from a bed in the Resuscitation wing, with a drip in my left hand, ECG monitor plugs all over my boobs and tummy and someone removing some of my blood from a vein in my right hand. What happened? M was whisked away to formally register me as a patient in the hospital, and this was strangely comforting. I figured that if I was dying, they'd let him stay.

So I was wheeled off to the Emergency Medical Unit (EMU! Lol!) and spent the night trying not to upset the ECG machine and make it beep wildly. And since it beeped wildly if I breathed in too deeply, it wasn't a restful night. The next morning brought more blood tests and a group of friendly endocrinologists who prodded me and asked me odd questions ("Do you crave milk?" "Is your vision blurry?" "How many angels on the head of a pin?") and left me to mull things over in my dull bed.

The result? I have Addison's disease. I cried when they gave me a diagnosis: I was so happy there was something obviously wrong, something we could fix. I wasn't just being feeble and my body wasn't just stupid. Addison's disease is an auto-immune disorder; it means the body has invented antibodies to its own adrenal glands. It turns out that my body no longer recognises its own cortisol -- the hormone secreted by the adrenal cortex which regulates blood pressure, blood volume, fluid and salt retention and all manner of important things. Without it, you can't do much, as I learned in the weeks preceeding my admission to hospital. It's pretty rare, and there has to be a genetic predisposition for it. Then, during a traumatic incident last August, my body OD'ed on its own cortisol and decided to invent antibodies. I'm paraphrasing this from memory.

They plugged huge quantities of cortisol into my drip (which was my constantly beeping companion everywhere in hospital) and I began to feel better almost immediately. I'm on much lower doses now that I'm home, but I'll be glad to reduce the dose even further. My current dose is about four times the daily dose I'm working towards, if that makes sense. I'm tapering off towards a specific target of miligrams of cortisol per day.

I don't want this blog to become Addison's-obsessed, any more than I want to define myself by this condition. It's been a lot to take in, but gradually it will become another part of my lifestyle, like playing the clarinet or knitting or shouting at the radio newscasts. I'll probably discuss the whole thing in more detail over the next couple of posts, but I've been doing other stuff, too, and I can't wait to show you.