Feathers on my mind and some other topics

Ezra is having his bar-mitzvah on Shabbat B'reishit, the Shabbat when we read the story of creation. After a whole lot of discussion, some of it on Zoom and some in real life we decided that his tallit would be made up of seven stripes (on each side), each stripe representing a day of creation. Because Judaism has a less than comfortable relationship with imagery we decided that the depictions of what is created each day should skew towards the abstract.

I haven't yet made the first day of creation but I have it designed, at least in my mind. Day one of creation, in case you forgot is the separation of light from the darkness.

I had made the stripes for day two of creation,

the separation of the waters above and below the firmament or horizon.

It was time to tackle some of the other days. In my usual manner, I am not creating these strips in biblical order but in the order that strikes my fancy.

I began work on day five, the day that the creatures of the water and those of the sky were created.

I decided to stitch a series of closely spaced scallop stitches to look like fish scales.

I hadn't yet worked out how exactly to symbolize the birds of the sky. I had thought about making lots of feathered bird wings. I threw that idea into the dust bin of discarded ideas.

I then started looking at various images of feathers. I then sketched some out with watercolors.

I wasn't exactly sure how best to translate the sketches on paper to the fabric. Finally, after lots of deliberation, I decided to stitch the quill of the feather using a tiny zigzag stitch and then to paint the feathers themselves using fabric dye.

The feathers are painted in lots of small stages with time for the dye to dry between each layer of color.

Like nearly everything I do there was a stage during the day when my feathers looked like an unfortunate mistake.

I am actually quite pleased with the result.

Progress is being made on the fourth day of creation.

I still have to make up the lights for the day (the sun).

I am working on Ezra's tallit while I am working out kinks in the production of the baby quilt.

A few days ago I posted about a visit to an antique store. I posted photos of several items including this lovely dresser scarf with crochet ends with the unusual woven detail.

Shari Adams one of my sewing pals sent me these two photos of a crochet collar that is part of her collection.

Yes, it is worked with a heavier thread than the dresser scarf, but it is clearly the same pattern.

Perhaps there was a brief fad for this sort of woven crochet work.it reminds me a bit of Battenerg lace (seen below)

where one incorporates thin cotton tape into crochet work.

I was so happy to see Shari's collar.

Earlier this week this photo was on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.

It reminded me of a painting that hung in our living room my entire childhood.

My parents' painting was by Constantine Arvenites, a Rockport Massachusetts-based painter. When my parents bought the painting they were told that it depicted the Armenian genocide. They bought the painting because it struck a nerve and reminded them of Jews being driven from their homes.

I hope perhaps, being foolishly optimistic that things won't be completely awful in Afganistan.

מְחַיֵּה הַמֵּתִים

וְנֶאֱמָן אַתָּה לְהַחֲיוֹת מֵתִים: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְהֹוָה מְחַיֵּה הַמֵּתִים You are faithful to restore the dead to life. Blessed are You, Adonoy, Resurrector of the dead. That particular line is recited at every single prayer service every day three times a day, unless you use a Reform or Reconstructionist prayer book . In those liturgies instead of praising God for resurrecting the dead God is praised for giving life to all. I am enough of a modern woman, a modern thinker, to not actually believe in the actual resurrection of the dead. I don't actually expect all of the residents of the Workmen's Circle section of Mount Hebron cemetery in Queens to get up and get back to work at their sewing machines. I don't expect the young children buried here or the babies buried here to one day get up and frolic. Yet, every single time I get up to lead services I say those words about the reanimating of the dead with every fiber of my being. Yesterday, I e...

Connecting with the past

A few months ago I had a craving for my father’s chicken fricassee. If my father were still alive I would have called him up and he would have talked me through the process of making it. My father is no longer alive so I turned to my cookbooks and the recipes I found for chicken fricassee were nothing at all like the stew of chicken necks, gizzards and wings in a watery sweet and sour tomato sauce that I enjoyed as a kid. I assumed that the dish was an invention of my father’s. I then attempted to replicate the dish from my memory of it and failed. A couple of weeks ago I saw an article on the internet, and I can’t remember where, that talked about Jewish fricassee and it sounded an awful lot like the dish I was hankering after. This afternoon I went to the butcher and picked up all of the chicken elements of the dish, a couple of packages each of wings, necks and gizzards. My father never cooked directly from a cook book. He used to re...

Food friday - your grandmother's food processor

My grandmother bought my mother this wooden bowl and a chopping knife, known in Yiddish as a hock-messer, soon after my parents got married. Yes, she also got them a dairy set as well. these wooden bowls and chopping knives were a big part of food prep when I was growing up. meatloaf and meat balls were mixed in this bowl. Chopped liver was made in this bowl as well. Sundays we often made chicken salad for lunch made out of chicken left over from Shabbat chopped with vegetables and mayo. That too, was made in this bowl. When I was in college my parents got their first food processor and the chopping bowls were not used as much. Several years ago, my father asked if i would like the bowls and the hock-messers. I was happy to have them. I like the sheer physicality of chopping up a big bowl of stuff into teeny pieces. While the wooden bowls have stood up well to the years of use, the hock-messers had not. The bladed which were bolted into their handles, wobbled. The blades wouldn't ...

sarah in nyc

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