Sunday, 29 December, 2019
Quite honestly, I’m not very good at making things. This would make my friends and everyone who sees my ‘things’ laugh really. They’d tell me I’m creative and talented. I can see how that happens.
I would say, though, that I have five thumbs on each hand, or that somehow the messages from my brain don’t get all the way down to my fingers when I create. In my head is a beautiful image, which by the time it gets down to my hands becomes a muddled mess. But then I’m messy – let’s get that out in the open right now.
What I can do is make use of my mistakes. Take my dolls – the end result is good, sometimes great, because I cover up the mistakes with lace, ribbon, bits of fabric… and I smile a lot and don’t let a mistake interrupt or stop me.
And so messy becomes ‘me,’ ‘my style.’ I think or hope that people see that the end result reflects me. And yet…
I was recently interviewed by a woman who is writing a book. As far as I can tell, she is taking photos of older people and writing about them. We talked for about an hour, I told her all manner of things about me, holding very little back and at the end, it was the dolls – something I mentioned only briefly at first – that caught her attention, even though I suggested she photograph me in front of some Hackney Stik art. And so in January I’ll be taking all of my dolls to a studio where she’ll artfully display them and take my photo with the whole lot. I hate having my photo taken so we’ll see what comes of it. At any rate, her eyes lit up when she saw the colours and personalities I’d created – forget the travels, forget the search for street art and local culture, forget the foodie obsessions – this, apparently, was it!
In November I took a course on how to make rye bread. Somewhere in Dalston, down a less-travelled alley, is the Dusty Knuckle Bakery. I went one evening to their classroom, which is across the yard from the bakery/cafe, in a container. The instructor was Tomek, a somewhat serious man, who knew a lot about bread.
There were only three of us! A woman, her daughter, and me. This was perfect. We could each do our own thing, and the mood was unhurried and personal. Rye bread, it seems, is the simplest bread to make. We were learning the slow method, which uses a sour dough starter instead of commercial yeast. The starter at the Dusty Knuckle is called Marta. She sits in a large plastic container with a cracked lid, growing and being used to start hundreds of rye loaves. Bits of her have been shared around the students and bakers, and now a bit of her is in my fridge, waiting to be woken up when I need another loaf.
Yeast, Tomek, explained is natural and it’s everywhere. If we had special ‘yeast glasses,’ we would see yeast covering everything and it might be horrifying. So Marta picks up that natural yeast and. when fed, grows. My Marta is different than anyone else’s because it’s picked up the yeast in my environment, including from my body. If I gave some to you, it would change again. Yeast is pretty special.
We created one loaf of sour dough rye bread, one loaf of quick (soda) bread, and some thin rye crackers that use buttermilk and honey. All in three hours. I am not used to weighing on a scale or with grams, British-style, and that may be the reason that, after the sour dough loaves had risen (proved) to be ready for baking, mine was smaller than the others. I was a bit devastated. Why mine? Of course mine! Messy me strikes again. Out of the hot oven, mine was still the smallest. At home? Tasted delicious! Job done.
How do you make rye bread, you ask? Well, you take some starter, add rye flour, salt, and water, mix just till the flour disappears, plop the whole lot into an oiled loaf tin and you’re done! Seriously, good bread is made with flour, water and salt – that’s it. (Even the starter is made with just flour and water and allowed to ferment.)
In December I went to a Christmas wreath making workshop. I’d done the same workshop the year before and, despite how many hours it took I loved it. So I was back. It was at the Geffrye Museum – recently controversially renamed to the Museum of the Home! While the museum is being renovated and enlarged, workshops, front garden events, and almshouse visits are continuing.
This year there was less greenery than before so my idea to make a wreath with some bare twigs, trailing eucalyptus and flowering branches and such, evaporated. However, I had lovely tablemates this year, Heather was her usual helpful, competent, and friendly self, there were chocolate bicuits, tea, and mince pies, and I happily – and more calmly than last year – got to it.
To create the trailing effect that I’d seen on Instagram, I chose some lighter pine in with the sturdy spruce. The messy result ensued and people must love mess based on the number who came by the table and remarked on how they were soooo going to copy my ideas. Another job done.
To create a wreath, you start with a wire frame and pack it tightly with live moss, which you firmly wire to create the round shape. Then you staple a plastic backing to protect your door. You take your greenery and push it firmly into the moss to create the wreath, and then add finishing touches – ornaments, ribbons, spices… Mine this year was made with spruce, pine, pine cones, artificial red berries and a subtle white and gold bow. It’s bigger than I’d planned – second time that’s been the case – but it looks good on the living room door.My friend Lisa and I had booked to go to Somerset House to see the Gingerbread City exhibit. I also wanted to go to see the lights and then meet my other friend Susanne for dinner. And then the rain had other ideas. It was a particularly cold, wet, and windy day. I braved it on the bus and went early so I could pick up a SIM card for my new phone. With a bit of time to spare, I went up to Covent Garden to see the lights there.
They were the same as last year but still beautiful. There was an addition of a Tiffany exhibit on the southern end of the piazza. A snow globe, a bridge … all very wintry – and branded. It attracted a bunch of young women and I took some photos and then edged back down to Somerset House to meet Lisa.
I realise I’m a tough critic. I think I’m a glass half-full person but, at the same time, I tend to be dissatisfied. I expect more out of just about everything. It’s not something I’m proud of. It just is what it is. However, the Gingerbread City did seem a bit of a let-down. The photos that drew me to it were amazing – great PR work! ‘In the flesh,’ the city was small, occupying just one room and two tables. When I get closer, some of the bits of it were intriguing, clever, even inspirational. As whole, though, I had an ‘is that all there is?’ minute or five. I’ll include some of the best bits, though.
Not a loss, though! I got some great ideas from it – particularly the last photographed above, since it matched my crazy style. I came away thinking about how it had been a while since I’d made a gingerbread house and this year would be a good time to try my hand again.
I left Lisa and decided to travel up to Leadenhall Market which also disappointed me this year. The incessant rain didn’t help but the arcade seemed dull, lifeless, filled now with franchises and not the great little independent shops that used to be here. I checked it off my list and went on to Spitalfields.
Spitalfields is a constant. It does change but each time I go there, I know what to expect and where to look. In Flying Tiger I found a little box of gingerbread cookies, shaped to make three small houses and I snapped them up. Perfect timing!
The first time I made a gingerbread house, my friend Denise and I went to a workshop in Robin’s old school and we each made a house. Hers was whimsical and neat, mine was messy and chaotic. In a good way.
This year was no different. On Christmas Day, I made my houses. I whipped up the icing, made a base and started dipping (I’d done away with the icing gun method years ago) and sticking, chucking on as many different candies as I could manage. By evening, the little village was done.
I’ve not mentioned my pasta courses or cooking class in Torino but it’s all in past blog posts. And remember my pottery classes and my dismal pots – chaotic but in a bad way!
So what’s next? I want to go to a fermentation workshop at The Dusty Knuckle when there’s a space. Then I’ve had an idea since my first Torino summer – to do a barista class. Let’s see what this year brings.
As I said, I’m not very good at making things, but I do enjoy it.
