Apparently cloth napkins are my madeleine.

memoir, history, patterns, technique

Apologies to Proust, and to you for the length, but it turns out I had quite a bit to say, and learn, about this topic. Grab a cuppa and settle in…

I love napkins—specifically cloth napkins. Over the years I have collected them, mixed and matched them, sometimes ironed them and re-purposed them as dust rags. They are my vehicle for testing new weaving designs, and I always have a few on hand to gift.

Like most people, I grew up in a paper napkin household. Those ubiquitous tissue-thin white squares accompanied every meal, with an extra stack on the table if Dad was barbecuing. Aside from unsuccessful attempts to convince my mother to buy the nice paper napkins that were larger, thicker and embossed (!), I never really gave them much thought until I began spending time with my aunt Rae.

Rae was the heart and soul of my father’s side of the family—the cool aunt and confidante to whom we all turned for comfort and advice. Her sweet little Cape was a masterclass in classic style on a budget. Think crisp navy and white à la Ralph Lauren, but with a punch of the unexpected—like the wall she hung salon-style with framed (now vintage) Bloomingdale’s shopping bags (yes, it is a thing)—a collection she built painstakingly, buying one small item every few months, requesting the bigger bag for her purchase .

While my own framed-bag art phase eventually passed, one practice of Rae’s has stayed with me—that of using table linens for every meal, including breakfast. The first time I visited her by myself, Rae set the table with my cereal spoon atop a cotton napkin of cornflower blue with yellow tulips, finished with a coral thread overlock-stitch edge. I recall wondering if she made the napkins but never hemmed them, or was that an intentional “Rae detail?” I don’t remember the answer, but I absolutely remember thinking how undeniably special it felt to use pretty cloth napkins, and at breakfast no less! To my adolescent self, this seemed beyond luxurious, bordering on magical—how could a day that started like this not be absolutely amazing?

I think Rae’s affinity for thoughtful details like table linens stemmed from a desire to impart a sense of beauty and grace into everyday circumstances, especially when beauty and grace might be in short supply. The oldest of four, born to a very young mother and much older, often unemployed, frail father, Rae worked from an early age and effectively raised her youngest sister. She fled an abusive marriage in the early 1960s and fared poorly in the divorce, left to raise two sons by herself on a kindergarten teacher’s salary. Embracing little luxuries as a daily habit—a single flower in a bud vase here, a cloth napkin there—was Rae’s ultimate declaration of resilience and self-respect. At the very least, looking at something pretty and thoughtful of her own making made her feel better. Creating beauty and a sense of “special,” no matter how small, was her way to exercise some degree of control, especially when she felt she had none. “Life will be difficult,” Rae said, “but it doesn’t need to be unattractive.”

Early in my post-collegiate life, I struggled with homesickness, a breakup and a challenging new job in a city I hated. One day a package arrived from Rae—a set of peony and lupine waxed cotton place mats (she was nothing if not practical) and, of course, matching napkins. I ditched my stash of paper squares that night and have never looked back.

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So, this little trip down memory lane piqued my curiosity about the history and popularity of paper napkins. While there exists a myth that Leonardo da Vinci invented them in 1491, their use was documented in the 2nd century BC in China as a component of tea services. Japanese decorative paper napkins debuted in the US in the late 1800s, but gained little traction as using them in social situations was considered a grave violation of decorum.

Post WWII, however, two things happened—Emily Post and burgers. In 1948 the etiquette doyenne declared that a fresh paper napkin was preferable to re-using a linen napkin (as one might, from breakfast). The eradication of social stigma, combined with the drive-thru fast-food boom in the early 1950s, fueled exponential growth in the paper napkin industry which would last for decades.

Now, of course, we understand the environmental impact of paper napkins, both in their creation and disposal. No, they are actually not recyclable—food soils contaminate recycling equipment and the fibers are too short to make into new paper. However, paper napkins (and paper towels) are compostable. In fact, they are a wonderful carbon source, which is necessary for converting kitchen scraps to compost. 

I can’t honestly tell you that cloth napkins, whether handwoven or purchased, have zero environmental impact. Every act of product creation has consequences, from the growing, processing, transportation and, in this case, laundering. But in the spirit of making small changes that can nip at the problem around the edges, cloth napkins have a long useful life, can be re-purposed and will decompose in weeks (linen) or at most, months (cotton). They are really not high-maintenance. You do laundry anyway and no one says you need to iron them -- if you haven’t already, please consider giving cloth napkins a chance.

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Thanks for indulging me thus far, dear weavers -- now on to the patterns.....the Vanishing Point napkins woven in Mallo Cotton Slub (no ironing necessary).

Vanishing Point Napkins: 4-shaft version

Vanishing Point Napkins: Rigid Heddle version

Weaving, by definition, is structured on a grid—warp and weft, X-axis, Y-axis. This implies a rectilinear design (spoiler alert: weaving circles is most definitely possible, and the topic of next month’s post), but this doesn’t mean grids need to be boring.

For these napkins, I wanted an active, interesting design using only two colors. Interrupting blocks of the warp’s main color with an accent at increasing, and then decreasing, intervals created a sense of movement. Weaving the pattern as it was warped (also known as tromp as writ), produced a square that appears to have a sphere at center, thanks to the grid lines converging in each corner:

For the rigid heddle version of this pattern, I warped the main color in decreasing blocks to the midpoint, and then increased the block sizes. Similarly, I experimented with the weft order to shift where the grid lines converged. Woven tromp as writ created a diamond shape in the center:

Reversing the weft sequence created an hourglass effect:

Say it with me, folks—grids don’t have to be boring!

Nb: You may notice that the accent color in the 4-shaft version appears to be a single strand; it is actually two ends threaded through separate heddles on the same shaft. Threading both accent colors through the same hole or slot on a rigid heddle loom distorts the width-to-length-ratio, so in that version the two accent ends are threaded in a hole and slot, which is why they present as two threads.

Also be aware that due to the weight of the beater, it easier to achieve a balanced beat on a shaft loom than a rigid heddle loom. As a result, the rigid heddle napkins may be slightly longer than they are wide.

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When making these napkins, you may find the following techniques helpful: 

Cut, Tuck & Stagger: despite how tedious cutting and tucking each accent weft can be,  it creates a much cleaner design than carrying it up the selvedge. To prevent bulk from building up in any particular area, stagger the overlapping ends diagonally as follows:

On the first accent pick, leave a long tail. Beat, change sheds, then tuck the long tail into the warp, exiting beyond the previous tail:

In this example my sequence was heddle up, shuttle thrown right to left, beat, heddle down, tail pulled through the shed, exiting between a pair of accent warp threads one block to the left of my previous accent wefts

On the second pick, bring your shuttle through the shed, overlap the tail by 1-2” and exit between a pair of accent warp threads:

Continue in this manner, moving your tails across the warp, on a diagonal:

Trim the ends flush to the cloth after wet-finishing.

Even Fringes: I am an inherently lazy hemmer. If I can get away with machine-stitching a raw edge and leaving a short fringe, I will. The yellow threads in the photo above show how I achieve a neat and even fringe.

Once I reach the end of my napkin, I weave about 1/4” in waste yarn in one shed, then change sheds and weave another 1/4” before beginning my next napkin. I leave the waste yarn loose at the selvedges so it is easier to remove later.

When the cloth is off the loom and I have straight-stitched my ends, I cut between the waste yarn picks where I changed sheds:

Once separated, the waste yarn comes out easily, leaving an even fringe:

People have asked if the fringe fluffs much with laundering. It does a bit, but since the fringe is so short, I don’t find it to be a problem. Of course you can hem these if you prefer—I always encourage people to make a project their own.

Personally, I like the well-worn, long-loved look of a slightly fluffy fringe. In some ways, it reminds me of Rae’s overlock-stitched edge napkins that may or may not have been left unfinished, but nevertheless lent a touch of special to a simple bowl of cereal.

I hope you enjoyed the history, the tips and the patterns. Thanks so much for reading and see you next month!

xx,

Christine

PS: One of my first weaving projects was a placemat and napkin set for Rae. This pattern was designed to be woven in wool so the long floats would felt to each other; woven in cotton, the floats are inherently unstable and prone to snagging. Why my weaving teacher let me do this remains a mystery, but it didn’t matter—Rae cherished the set—she used it for breakfast.