I find it helpful to look at cloth swatches during the appropriate season. It's certainly too late to have anything made up for immediate wear, but what looks smashing in July might be frightening in the stark winter light. The same holds true of viewing lightweight cloths during the height of summer. Here is an abbreviated gallery of Porter & Harding's refined Glenroyal book (14 Oz.) and John G. Hardy's brutish Alsport ((16-22 Oz).
Undaunted by reduced numbers, my jars reclaim their ancestral shelf space.
Something like sixty empty jam jars once buckled a shelf in my kitchen. My then girlfriend (who agreed to marry me a few years later) thought it was weird; in fact before she would take our courtship any further she insisted I reduce my holdings considerably. I obliged, filling my shelves with designer tumblers and, eventually, the cut-glass tokens that uselessly accompany matrimony. For several years I longed for my stout jam jars; if not sixty, then a scant dozen to remind me that a bohemian streak glimmered still beneath the forced conformity that hobbles so many young couples.
Why jam jars? A Swiss father and English mother from an early age inculcated the appreciation of warm toast, butter and jam, a pleasure I practice to this day most mornings. With the jam, of course, comes a jar and a lid, and, when finished, the pressing question of whether to toss both or clean them for reuse. In leaner collegiate times, one could justify the regular purchase of pricey European preserves by making a firm commitment to retain the empties. A collection of half a dozen precluded further glassware; an expanded collection eliminated the need for tupperware. Assuming collegiates still use things like pens, toothbrushes and razors, the jam jar is handy. I understand they keep loose cigarettes fresh, and I had a girlfriend once who kept all her makeup in a few.
I must have consumed jam at a faster rate than my friends smashed or stole my jars, for I found one day in my early working life I had amassed several dozen. For one reason or another, my apartment became a sort of regular meeting place for friends and colleagues, and my jars rose to modest notoriety. I occasionally speak to old acquaintances from those carefree times who recall, if not much else, my jam jars.
I should pause here to specifically address the jam jar’s place as a drinking vessel. Moonshiners once favored the preserving-type jar for packaging their liquor, and similar molded glass cups and mugs have served in busy bistros and beer halls across Europe since the widespread manufacturing of the stuff began two centuries ago. Today’s jam jar is an ideal tumbler: strong, correctly sized, and unprecious. The lid is handy should you have to dash suddenly but wish to retain your drink, say at a house party which disturbs the peace. In more civilized surroundings the lid becomes a coaster, protecting grateful sideboards and mantels. And then there are the ineffable qualities to consider. A jam jar seems to cheer up poor wine; very good wine drunk from a jam jar will feel illicit--as if you’ve stolen the bottle from an oppressive employer.
Other uses. If you have any inclination toward pickling things you will quickly discover large mason-type jars are too big. (Who really is going to use a pint of pickled okra)? The small jam jar is different; its manageable size will encourage experiments with the dregs of your vegetable drawer. Pickled kohlrabi, for instance, is delightful with cold beef, and I credit the jam jar for the discovery.
If you enjoy pottering around the house, try this: firmly glue several lids to the bottom of a shelf. Once affixed, the jars can be screwed into the lids creating transparent and convenient storage for nuts, bolts, clips, tacks and twine. Actually, if you are the crafty sort, you doubtless have other ideas with which to fill the comments section below.
Strangely enough, following a dreary eight year dearth, jam jars once more dominate our shelves. Stranger still is the culprit for the reinvigorated collection: a baby. In a sweet I told you so moment the other day, I glanced over my shoulder to see my wife with two jars. One contained left-over soup, which she uncapped and popped in the microwave for our daughter’s lunch. The other she gave to our daughter who methodically filled it with odd bits of her sidewalk chalk. I couldn’t mask a smile. Perhaps these uses aren’t in the same romantic spirit as those cocktail parties of years past, but it makes me immeasurably happy to think a tradition might have been created.
House Party Dash:
Throw several ice cubes (or a handful of crushed ice) into a jam jar along with two ounces of whiskey, an ounce of lemon juice and a sugar cube. Put the lid on and shake vigorously until the sugar has mostly disappeared. Top with a splash of soda. And keep the lid handy for Pete’s sake.
Bread and Butter Kohlrabi Chips:
Thinly slice some kohlrabi and put it in a sterilized jam jar. Heat up two cups of apple-cider vinegar in a small saucepan with ten whole peppercorns, a teaspoon of mustard seeds, two bay leaves and a a tablespoon each of salt and sugar. Pour the mixture into the jar and seal with the lid. Put in the refrigerator. You’ll notice the jar will vacuum-seal itself as it cools.
Pickled things, plus several ounces of rendered bacon fat.
The navy suit in question, made of Lesser 13 ounce hopsack.
Several years ago, in the intimate ballroom of Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, I stood and delivered a best’s man’s speech to the guests of my older brother’s wedding reception. It was a mixed crowd; a younger set expected the groom to be well roasted; the aristocratic forehead of the Bride’s father, prominent and frightening even from a distance, reminded me, however, that his friends filled a majority of the seats and they expected banal brevity lest the consommé cool.
I found my solution in my inbox. For the better part of the previous year my brother and I had exchanged dozens of emails concerning the commissioning of a dinner jacket for the occasion. This had not been an ordinary exchange. My brother is rather particular, and as even a casual reader here may gather, I too have my opinions. Among other preferences, my brother does not tolerate any cloth that even remotely itches. He wishes to be swathed in gossamer, and though I do not understand the compulsion, and tried mightily to sway him toward stouter stuff, it was his wedding, not mine.
And so what developed was a semi-technical exchange concerning microns and mohair, barathea and grosgrain, peaks and shawls--the sort of discussion to which anybody who doesn’t count themselves as a clothing enthusiast might raise an eyebrow. My brother’s illustrative written style made my job easy when it came time to deliver the speech; why tell jokes when direct quotations, delivered in a controlled deadpan, prove far funnier?
At the heart of this light-hearted moment though is a debate about cloth. The opposing camps could not be clearer: the majority seeks the finest, lightest and most ethereal cloths, whatever the cost, whereas a small but vocal minority rejects the modern efforts in favor of heavier, drier and more durable suit-stuff. In many ways, it is the familiar “new” versus “old” debate in which one side (from behind German, rimless glasses) suggests technological innovation and the other (briar clenched between teeth) bloviates about longevity and tradition. In short, I love my brother but he has despicable taste in cloth. I imagine he would say the same of me.
I suppose wool itself must shoulder some of the blame. It really is too versatile for it’s own good. Italian firms in particular can make worsted suiting of such fineness one might easily confuse it for sheer linen. Conversely, I have held 18 ounce semi-milled worsteds that might prove useful should one suddenly need to refinish a wooden skiff. Confusing things is price. Fine super cloths can be very expensive; the ready-wear market pushes suits in these cloths as luxury items and charges accordingly. Of course a suit made of quality heavy British worsted is also an expensive item, albeit not one adopted by the ready-wear market. There is another layer of complexity too: proponents on either side have launched propaganda campaigns. One side suggests anything heavier than eight ounces is obsolete since the advent of central heating; the other responds with tales of split trousers and sleeves being ripped clean off by a determined enough breeze.
The first suit Chris Despos made for me began life as a navy blazer. I had wanted something sturdy for travel and weekly wear and had considered cloths from twists to serges. I settled eventually upon a 13 ounce hopsack from Lesser’s 303 book. The swatch seemed magical, rebounding from however I crumpled it in my hand and had a deceptive sort of weight at once greater and less than what the book’s cover indicated. I’m not sure we made it to a second fitting before we decided to add trousers.
I realize opinion on a 13 ounce, densely woven hopsack suit might be divided. It would positively send my brother to the funny farm. But I must admit an obsession with the garment. The depth of color is remarkable, managing to be unmistakably navy and not black or blue, a fate many a “navy” suit suffers. The subtle weave is dead-matte in daylight, with enough surface interest to seem at home with madder, knit or woolen neckties. It transforms at night, though, when that surface awakens with lustrous depth and richness enough to set off the sheen of foulard and satin. Most importantly though it feels to me like a suit of clothes rather than a set of pajamas, a quality that should not be dismissed considering this suit has become my favored choice for more serious affairs where one might appreciate not feeling so exposed.
Speaking of pajamas, a few months after his own wedding my brother was invited to an old friend's own nuptials, another Brit living in New York. He was looking forward to the event until he learned the bride wished the groomsmen to wear morning suits. My brother has lived in the States too long to necessitate morning clothes and so was compelled, along with five other saddened individuals, to rent. On the day, the itch from the burlap-like cloth became so severe he felt he had no choice but to stop at a mid-town discount mall and purchase flannel pajamas which, despite a high in the mid-80s, he wore beneath for the duration.
Oh how I wish I had that gem the night of my speech.
Texture and depth: just two of the benefits of heavier cloth.
