Incoherent Scribblings

Metric Pansies

Here is my latest pansy in my SAL with Susie. It was a nice break from backstitching the Model “A,” and as with all of the other pansies on this piece, it stitched up pretty quickly (4 ½ hours). The weather here has turned cold and rainy, so it was refreshing to stitch a spring flower with lovely colors on such a gloomy day.

When I got this piece, I bought it as a kit that included the linen and on the package it claims that the linen is 14 threads per centimeter. By now I have lived in Europe long enough that I am used to the Metric system in my daily life and can actually use it quite well. However, I really hate it when I get Evenweave that gives me the fabric count in centimeters because I have not yet memorized what inch count is equal to what centimeter count.

I have a couple of pieces of 11 count per centimeter Evenweave and the only way that I could really figure out what count it was was to physically put my ruler on the fabric and count how many threads I had in an inch. It turns out that 11 count is more or less equal to 28 count.

Until today I had not actually used the ruler on the fabric that came with the pansy kit, but I thought that 14 threads per centimeter should be equal to 32 count. However, today it seemed to me that for 32 count the stitches in my pansies were kind of little.

Of course, I have been working on 14 count Aida cloth for the past few days and I do notice that whenever I work on 32 count after working on 14 or 28 count the stitches always look kind of small, but the stitches in my pansies just looked really small today for some reason.

Because the stitches looked so little I thought perhaps I was stitching on 36 count fabric instead of 32 count, so I decided it was time to get out my ruler. Honestly, it was no big deal to me if I was stitching on 32 or 36 count, but it started bothering me that I didn’t know for sure what size I was working on. So I measured and found out that apparently 14 threads per centimeter is more or less equivalent to 32 count.

I still think that those stitches look awfully tiny though… but then again, maybe I just need new contacts.

Book Worm

I take my seat on the S-Bahn in preparation for my 30 minute journey into town, guiltily pull the new English-language book out of my purse instead of the German one that I have less than a hundred pages to finish, open the cover to page one, and begin to read. I quickly scan the first paragraph and determine that I am intrigued enough to continue, so I settle back and begin to read The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.

At first the story is merely good, but by the time that I faintly realize that the next stop is my stop I am quite engaged. I put the book back in my purse, disembark from the train, and spend the next couple of hours running my errands.

Eventually I decide it is time to go home and proceed to the station to wait for the train that will return me to my little village outside of Munich. I have about ten minutes before my train arrives, so while I wait I peer into my packages and am satisfied that I have purchased all the items that were on my list. I think that since I started the English book on the way into town, I should be good and read the German book on the way home. But there are still about eight minutes before my train comes and because I must concentrate so hard to read German, obviously not enough time to properly continue reading it.

Therefore, I choose The Time Traveler’s Wife instead, thinking that once I get settled on the train I will replace it with the German book. Seven minutes and 59 seconds later when the train pulls into the station the German book has been forgotten. Niffenegger’s story has my full attention and I don’t even mark my place as I walk to the train: I keep reading and only glance up to verify that I am not about to trip when I embark.

I sit down, hastily arrange my packages, and am quickly reimmersed in Henry and Clare’s story. The journey home is strangely silent and the electronic voice that announces the stops along the way seems tinny and far away. The train makes its stops one after the other, but I am completely oblivious as to how many we have made because I am greedily turning page after page as I follow Henry as he drops from one time into another.

The train stops and seems to be briefly suspended in time. Curious, I glance up and suddenly realize that I have reached my stop. With the book still wide open, I hurriedly finish my sentence as I gather my things and disembark seconds before the train continues on its way.