30 Mar 2013
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Art Portfolios, Artists, Creativity, Design, Holidays, Spring, Vermont
Tags: covet garden, Easter, easter spirit, Masako Kubo, montreal, nature, Rabbit, Spring, spring weather, Terrain, vintage birdcage
A tiny touch of spring weather is in the air for Easter weekend here (this means sunny and a high of 48 F, with possible high 50s for tomorrow). The snow is receding. The farmyard is muddy. The sugarhouses will be boiling today.
I came across this rabbit artwork by Masako Kubo on the Covet Garden blog. A tea towel of the art is available at Terrain. I was smitten with its simplicity and it, along with the sunshine, are putting me in the Easter spirit. Masako’s illustration is so clean and fresh. I like her simplified palettes and use of words and emblems. Her rabbit may just inspire us to decorate some eggs today.
Yesterday I perused my photo libraries from spring in the last few years. All the blooming crocus, daffodils and tulips don’t show up until the April 20s of later, so I’m going to have to be patient. Tiny tips of green are popping up on the south side of the house where the snow is gone. And in three weeks we’ll be in Ireland where there will be plenty of green and spring flowers.
I leave you with two photographs I took in Montreal last May. A vintage birdcage that I plan to paint in a loose style on canvas (I’ll share if it’s worthy), and a cheery display from a favorite fleuriste.
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19 Mar 2013
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Artisanal Living, Creativity, Design, Housewares, Interior Design, Scandinavia
Tags: Archipelago, Gudrun Sjoden, Islands, nature, Rickie Lee Jones, Sailer's Call, Scandinavia, Sweden, The Albatross
Gudrun Sjõdén opened a shop in Soho the week after we were in New York. I was sorry to miss the grand opening. Her spring and summer collection is full of color and pattern—as I’ve come to expect—but she continues to create settings that are visually poetic and inviting.
In this collection we are welcomed to “the outer edge of the archipelago.” I can barely think of another word that I like more at this very moment. ‘Archipelago’ is the very definition of edges and nuance, isn’t it? And the photos of some obscure Swedish landscape further suggest water and thin curving spits of land reaching out, allowing a view in either direction to the other islands in the chain.
As I write I am humming The Albatross (lyrics here) by Rickie Lee Jones, a song I’ve known and loved for over 20 years, with its repeated use of the word archipelago and its maritime suggestions of a boat’s mast over the garden wall, a family living by the sea, sailor’s calls and echoes.
Another post about Gudrun Sjõdén.
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24 Feb 2013
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in color, Garden, Natural world, Seasons, winter
Tags: cardinal, falling snow, forced forsythia, nature, primary colors, red, winter gardening, yellow
Nine days after I brought forsythia branches indoors I found the first three flowers opening. By today—day eleven—the whole arrangement is showing off. Through the yellow tinged branches I can see a red cardinal flitting around in the falling snow. Two thirds of the primary color group is making an appearance on a late February day.
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21 Feb 2013
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Artisanal Living, Natural world, Seasons, Vermont, winter
Tags: nature, pears, self preservation, Snow covered branches, snow fall, tulips, winter, winter paradise
Two nights ago R and I crawled into bed grumbling about snow and cold and wind. We’ve had our fair share of each lately. We love snow, usually. But winter was wearing us down.
How funny, then, to wake up to winter paradise the next morning. It’s like Mother Nature overheard us and decided to win us back. Well done, Mother Nature. I am in love with you again. At least until the next blustery night when the windows rattle and clumps of heavy snow fall intermittently from the roof.
Winter self preservation: a bouquet of tulips and a bowl of green pears. The last one asked to be photographed and I obliged.
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13 Feb 2013
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in color, Creativity, Design, Garden, Housewares, Interior Design, Natural world, Spring, winter
Tags: Fine Gardening, forcing branches, forcing forsythia, forsythia, Interior Design, Le Creuset, nature, orange, Staub, winter gardening
Photo by Capella Kincheloe Interior Design
As I typed the words ‘forcing forsythia’ I heard them spoken in the voice of Sylvester, the cartoon cat who always chased Tweety Bird.
These metal industrial stools cheered me when I came across them this morning via Nest Design Studio. I do love orange, and a jolly little 1940s milk pitcher, a small le Creuset butter pan and a few Staub shallow dishes are practically glowing on my shelves this morning in all their orangeness.
Then the forsythia filled me with longing for Spring—which is a long way away in these northern parts. Just yesterday I found my secateurs under a dusting of snow in the alcove off the porch. (The wind blew snow into every nook and cranny in this last storm.)
I’ll cut forsythia branches to force today. If you’ve never done this, it’s so simple to do: clip branches close to the main trunk of your bush until you have a bundle to fill a vase (or put single branches into a group of glass bottles).
Put the branches in warm water, then fill your sink with very hot water.
Submerge each branch in the sink and (under the water) recut the end at an angle, then cut a one inch slice through the end of the stem (to help the branch absorb the water).
Make your arrangement and put it out to display. The branches will respond to the water and indoor warmth and blossom in due time. They will last longer if you change the water regularly and don’t have them in direct sun or near direct heat. That can be hard in our house, so I just enjoy whatever blooming comes my way. The yellow flowers are dazzling when lit up by sunlight.
Happy winter gardening.
Image from Capella Kincheloe Interior Design, found via Nest Design Studio.
More great information about forcing branches: Fine Gardening.
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09 Feb 2013
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Farm Life, Natural world, Seasons, Vermont, winter
Tags: blue sky, Drifting, nature, snow, tree shadows, Vermont, winter
Today’s word: drifts.
It’s hard to measure a snowfall on a morning with the wind howling and snow blowing about forming clouds in the otherwise blue sky.
We braved the weather to feed the animals, shovel some paths, clean off the cars. And now we’re warming by the fire and watching the snowscape shift and reshape itself under the sunshine and tree shadows.
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23 Dec 2012
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Christmas, color, Garden, handmade, Holidays, Natural world, Seasons, Vermont, winter
Tags: christmas eve, felt beads, home, lemon curd, nature, sewing, snow, White Christmas, winter, winterberry
Winter kept us waiting. But yesterday seemed to seal our chances for a white Christmas. Curtains of snow fell, finally blanketing the last of the kale in the garden, and coating each branch with nature’s best holiday tinsel. Even the animals seemed to enjoy the snow.
The last of the bold red winterberry—uneaten by the birds—shone out against the monochrome sky.
I strung a collection of felt beads into a garland and hung it from the cupboard above the teapots and bowls. 
The world is still after a windy night. I filled containers to make ice lanterns (how to make them here). The mercury will dip well below freezing tonight.
A friend sent me a lemon curd recipe and the house filled with the sharp crisp scent of citrus as I zested three lemons this afternoon. Sun streamed into the kitchen—a welcome sight after a gray week—and the curls of zest cast their own inner glow. 
From the eve before Christmas Eve I wish you and yours a festive holiday time of togetherness, warmth and gratitude. May the peace of the season be with you all.
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22 Oct 2012
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Autumn, color, Eating and Cooking, Farm Life, Garden, Local Food, Natural world, Vermont
Tags: autumn dusk, fall garden, nature, planting, planting garlic, plants, sun goes down
My husband came through the door about 30 minutes earlier than usual this evening. “Quick!” he said, “Let’s plant the garlic before the sun goes down.”
I was fiddling with an image in Photoshop and the glow of my computer screen temporarily blinded me. Hadn’t the sun already gone down? But there was still time.
We raced to the barn where the garlic was drying in the rafters after we pulled it up in late July. Grabbing the best bunch of the largest heads (R had marked these so we wouldn’t eat them), we bee-lined down the hill to the garden, the sky darkening in strips of purple and magenta behind the tree branches, turning them from dimensional forms to flat silhouettes before our eyes.
R husked the cloves, papery chaff falling across the grass like wedding confetti. He had the furrows hoed in a flash and I started tucking in cloves, six inches apart. Fingers in the dirt—an instant cure to stresses from the day—from the last week that still linger. The soil just soaked them up, thank you very much. And left my fingertips muddy and skin dry and smooth.
I was glad that we ran out of cloves and I had to run back to the porch for a few more heads. It gave me an excuse to grab the camera. All before the sun went down.
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10 Oct 2012
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Autumn, England, Family, Natural world, Seasons, Sewing
Tags: arts, bed of leaves, Born Yesterday, Midsummer Night's Dream, nature, Northern Stage, Shakespeare, Stage plays, Stage sets, The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Theatre
An autumn bed of leaves under our maple tree reminds me of a performance of Midsummer Night’s Dream that I saw in Stratford, England, when I was 19. It was the later 1980s. Life was my oyster.
Before the woodland scenes the stage crew rolled out a carpet of jumbled textile pieces, layered and sewn to resemble the forest floor. Puck, Oberon or Titania flitted about in the nets and branches that were suspended above. The stage lights cast dappled shadows onto the rumpled cloth collage and you could almost smell damp leaf mould. I thought at the time that I’d love to carpet a room with something like that someday.
Now it is that someday, and I sew lots of out-of-box things. No reason why I shouldn’t try t0 sew a textile carpet of raw-edged fragments.
Last night I saw the stage play Born Yesterday, produced by Northern Stage, and here I am looking at fallen leaves that remind me of a play from twenty years ago. When three friends invited me to join them last night I jumped at the chance, and this morning I’m basking in the starry afterglow of being to ‘the theee-uh-tuh.’
My parents were avid theatre-goers during my childhood, but I haven’t made it a habit. I completely forgot the thrill of sitting so near, seeing and feeling the energy come from the actors, and reacting with gasps or laughter in a collective way with the audience all around.
So many kinds of artistic expression are right here to grasp. I plan to book a seat for next month’s production and get back in the theatre habit.
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05 Jun 2012
by Sue Schlabach 129twigandvine
in Family, Friendship, Garden
Tags: biennials, foxgloves, garden, home, ireland, love, nature, plants, seeds, travel, wedding
I’ve been on the road. And up to my eyeballs in work and life. It’s a fine savory stew, my life, with many ingredients I wouldn’t wish to remove. If only there were more hours in the day to do all the things I long to do.
This weekend we witnessed a beautiful and moving wedding. I took part in designing the dress for the bride who is now my sister-in-law. Seeing two people profess their love helps renew your own commitments, at least it does for me. So I look at my husband with fresh eyes, not wishing to allow familiarity to turn to boredom. Look for the surprises.
We came home to a bounty of foxgloves ready to burst their pods into pinks and whites. As a gardener I’ve learned to be a little heartless with some of the flowers that seed themselves voluntarily. But I’m a wimp with foxgloves because I love them so much. They remind me of the acres of pink spires of foxglove seen in County Down, Ireland, along the edge of a lake. And more in the woodlands of County Galway and Kerry.
It’s taken me 17 years to get them to seed themselves enough for me to be satisfied. They are biennial—meaning they grow as a green plant the first summer and bloom the next. I learned that if you allow them to spread their seed enough you’ll have them blooming each summer. Even so, I have a bigger yield every other year. And this is THE big yield year. Never mind that I need to step over them in the pathways. {They seem to be particularly fond of pathways.}
I will be cutting them for the table. And watching them from the windows. I will share them with friends. And I will think of lasting love through the years. How it also has its ebbs and flows of dormancy and blooms. Many many blooms.
Pictures of the wedding dress coming soon.
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