Jean Fitz’s Weblog

Like going on a long trip to a foreign country and then trying to tell your friends about it when you get back home, it can be nearly impossible to describe the land of the flu.

You have an altered state of mind that no one will understand when you return. You wake up and forget where you are. Your body thinks it’s night when it’s day and vice versa. Food tastes a little different and you’re not sure what’s going to happen if you put it in your system. People start talking to you and you might as well be underwater. You seek drugs. You gravitate towards really bad American television-even Lindsay Lohan becomes absolutely fascinating. You feel like a helpless kindergartener whose nose has been running longer than you’ve been alive. Why travel the world, you say, when you can experience the luxury of the flu at home?

I’m trying to do little winter remedies like, organizing my iTunes categories, lining up my jars of paintbrushes in really straight lines on my desk but not actually painting with them, and contemplating how dry and gross everything is in winter. (I received a radio-controlled clock for Christmas that displays the temperature and the humidity indoors.) I have never been so conscious of my temperature and humidity levels. This is like looking up symptoms on WebMD and realizing that you have 4 fatal illnesses. Apparently I have alarmingly low levels of humidity in the apartment so I’m making something that could help, at least psychologically.

Simmering spices!

Take a big pot and place it on top of the part of the stove where the flames come out…Dump a lot of water inside the pot. Then dump a lot of spices inside. If you are listening to winter-defiant music, the spices are more likely to come alive. Let the pot just simmer with the spices in there: Lots of cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, anise seed, (okay, I didn’t have anise seed so I put coriander in there because apparently coriander has anise seed in it somewhere,) oh! and put ground up ginger in there, too. I hear orange peels are good but I don’t have any. Get in touch with the right side of you brain (not to mention your slumbering sense of smell) by shaking it in there until it feels right and then stop. Do NOT take out measuring spoons. Spices hate it when you measure them.

Fill the pot with more water as needed. I hear you can use this same pot of spices for up to a week. Lather moisturizing lotion on your hands, sip hydrating herbal tea, and stare at the clock as the humidity levels rise.

I went over to my father’s place to make marinara sauce Monday night. We had to measure stuff so it was good in a quantifiable way but not in an intuitive hummus way. It was then that I learned that my Great Uncle Bob had passed away Sunday night at the age of 81. Bob Cunniff was a writer for Sesame Street, The Dick Cavett Show, The Today Show, and others. He won an emmy for his Sesame Street writing. Pardon my youtube-ing here:

or who could forget one of his classics: C is for Cookie? (Watch the whole thing, you know you want to blast C is for Cookie in the workplace right now.)

In 2004, I met up with Uncle Bob in NYC and we walked around Greenwich Village sharing stories and noticing all the pigeons in Washington Square Park, not unlike the pigeons gracing Sesame Street. He interviewed many famous people for his other shows as well. Uncle Bob tells one story, “This man calls me up and says, ‘Mr. Cunniff, I just got back from Vietnam and I’d like to go on your show and protest the war.’ So I agreed and let John Kerry have his television debut.”

I don’t want to name-drop here but you only get one Uncle Bob. He interviewed Dr. King, made phone calls to Charlie Chaplin, was a pal of Barbara Walters and his daughter is the singer, Jill Cunniff of Luscious Jackson. Yup, he’s good peoples.

During my road trip across the country, I wrote long emails chronicling the journey. My dad fowarded them on to Uncle Bob to read. I am very proud to say an Emmy Award-winning Uncle liked my writing and thought it was “breezy.” I’ll take it. I don’t know what Uncle Bob would think of this blogging business though. Please have a cookie today in honor of Uncle Bob.

To get you into the sewing trance, stare at this:

http://craftydaisies.com/2007/04/17/so-thats-how-it-works/

…the mechanics of one of the greatest inventions: the sewing machine. So there was stichin’ going on last night at the apartment. The honerable crafty Stacie cut up an old red tie and made what could be a funny cap but will be a little drawstring bag. Her machine is an oldie but goodie–all metal with grandmother’s sticky notes tucked in the machine. I think we’ve brought another one back over to sewing salvation. Praise.

Natasha demonstrated the wonders of patterns to Thomas. Mary knitted what will be great legwarmers. Bria shared the treasures of her vintage sweater collection. Laura crafted stories. Brianna humored some rad 80s outfits. Part of the evening incorporated a mini-clotheswap with the idea that swapped items could be altered in the sewing portion of the evening. I scored a really great skirt from Liz so I felt I karmically needed to find something for her.

That’s where my old dress comes in. Way back in the day, like 2005, I found schnazzy fabric and stitched together a very basic sleeveless dress that fit me fairly well but…who knew I was really making it for Mizz Liz to flaunt years later? The buttonholes are reinforced with a bit o’ interfacing and the buttons come from the generations-old stash of Fitzgerald buttons hiding in my sewing box. Because I don’t measure, part way through, I needed to put a little more yardage in the dress so I included an assymetrical denim stripe up the side. When Liz tried it on, it almost fit perfectly…but it was in need of some darts at the armpit which we educationally demonstrated to the group. You can also visit my flickr page to see some more images of the sewing extravaganza. I sew very much in the unapologetic manner that I make hummus: no measuring and just doing what feels right. If you’re okay with a little wobbly stitch here and there, just add wine.

After 80 years of incubation in a great grandfather’s basement, the great granddaughter is ready to harvest the desk.

You inhale and exhale with the weather. I open your drawers and you stick shut in protest. Is it my estranged grandfather whispering? “You can’t make art today, little Jean.” So I rub candle-wax on the insides of the drawer to make you more cooperative.

You’re a cave where my childhood sketchbooks rest safely. You’re a cellar of images that are waiting to be drunk. You’re a graveyard to ideas that have run their course. You’ve seen the Depression but didn’t wake up until 2006. You’re a waiting room for heavy thoughts. Sometimes you give birth. We sleep a lot, don’t we, Mr. Desk? You’re definitely a male desk. You look out the window all day and collect dust. But you clean up real nice and like to show off your brass handles. We’ve got a lot of living to do, Mr. Desk.

This blog space certainly sets out to be an inspiration to any and all creative pursuits but I couldn’t help but see the irony in the view out my kitchen window yesterday. On the day I wrote my first blog on “making things,” this is what I saw.

I was making coffee and watched in amazement as this snazzy machine took away this house’s last breath. I proceeded to take my first half-awake photo of the day. Its claws smashed through the walls like they were cardboard and debris went flying. The workers hosed the house down (gave it morphine) to keep the dust at bay as it got clawed.

I met a neighbor walking her dog who knew the couple that used to live there. (We met as I was getting into my car. If you paint your car in polka-dots, your neighbors will talk to you.) Apparently, when the wife died, the man continued to live there for years. The house fell into disrepair as so sadly often happens to old folks living alone. The man apparently made his living repairing pens. That’s right. Pens. I know you’re out there, buying new pens when you could save the earth and keep this man’s business afloat by taking in your old pens for service. SHAME. But no, you had to get new, shiny ones at Wal-mart while the pen cobbler’s house gets demolished. He has, seriously and sadly, moved to a retirement home though–the status of his pen repair business remains unknown– and his son has decided to do what you see here. I imagine old pens waiting for new life in box after box inside the house. (If these pens could talk, I mean write, what would they say?) Who wants to bet the new structure will be of cheaper quality and as hideous as a strip mall? And its new owner will sell mechanical pencils?!? I hate mechanical pencils. I could be wrong about this house. Maybe it had ghosts?

In any case, I will keep everyone informed of this lot as things develop.
Last month, I was building a tower with my 2 year old niece out of toy wood blocks. Well, I was building the tower. She watched mostly and waited eagerly for me to complete the last block. When it was completed, she karate-chopped and slid stomach first into the tower laughing hysterically. The tower was destroyed! Yes! Let’s build again! The taller the tower, the more fun the destruction will be! Yes! Don’t think about stability and aesthetics, just slap it together, Aunt Jean. It’s time to knock something down!

Boo-yah!…or something.

I think it was John Cage who said, “Not knowing where to begin is a form of paralysis. Begin anywhere.” So that’s where we’ll begin.

I made hummus yesterday for the soul collage group (more on that another day) that comes over every other Sunday. I’ve been making this hummus in its current form for several years and don’t remember ever using any measuring tool for god knows how long. This might go a little like those grade school assignments where you had to write out a how -to manual for something useless using appropriate grammar. First, you gather your ingredients, Furthermore, you spread the peanut butter onto one piece of bread…..Finally, you eat your peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Yum!

With that fine primary education under my belt, here goes how-to hummus-

I like to use the larger 29oz. can of garbanzo beans/chick peas. You can buy them cheaply from Chicago’s finest: Harvestime foods on Lawrence, just west of Western. You can also use 2 smaller 16oz cans. This would cost you about 40 cents more than the big can and that’s just a sin. But I won’t judge; you’re already saving heaps by not buying the tiny preservative-ridden store bought containers at outrageous prices. Since they’re already soaked and need no cooking, open a small hole in the can and drain the water out. Then open it completely and dump them happily into the food processor. In no particular order, drizzle tahini paste (ground sesame seeds found in the Mediterranean aisle) into the processor. Then drizzle olive oil in there, too. I don’t know the difference between extra virgin and the unchaste stuff, so pour some slutty oil in there. Maybe two tablespoons? Pour in what feels right. I’m serious. Then take 2 or 3 cloves of garlic, and take off its skin. Throw them in there and let them get chopped up. Don’t be afraid of garlic! It’s great for the immune system and makes you feel alive in more pores then usual. Pour in about a quarter cup of lemon juice. You can always pour more as you go if it’s too stiff or dry.

This is where it gets really fun: Add these spices in whatever amount the spirit moves you to shake in there….cumin, coriander, paprika, salt. I like to make a dusting all around the surface of the mixture already sitting in the processor. Paprika is a good red color. Fresh parsley is the best but I rarely remember to pick it up at the store so I have stale Jewel brand parsley flakes sitting in the cupboard…possibly from two roommates ago. The parsley is purely for color quality now as I think plastic confetti has more flavor at this point. Shake that parsley in there very liberally, like you’d want to vote for Kucinich again. Or for you foodies (who are gagging reading this) get your damn fresh parsley and toss in the whole leaves and stems.

Now if you’re like me, you dropped your food processor from the top of the cabinets and the lid is cracked. So lock everything into place and cup your hand over the huge crack so hummus doesn’t take flight in your kitchen. Let her chop away until it is a creamy smooth paste. Because color counts, dust that paprika on your finished product and maybe drizzle more olive oil. Pretend you own a Lebanese restaurant as you cut tomato wedges and display them artistically around the perimeter of the bowl. Dip with crackers, pita, carrots, etc. If it’s lacking something, add more of one of the above ingredients in an intuitive, one-with-the-universe, manner.

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