Wash Day: My Knitting Heritage

A while ago, I asked my mom to send me some of the handknits that my grandmother made for my brother and I when we were little. My mom sent a smocked coat, two cardigans and three hats. All of the items had seen fresher days after spending thirty-some years tucked away in a drawer, but they were lovely nonetheless.

Smock coat for a granddaughter long grown.

This weekend I was inspired to wash the smock coat and a little garter stitch hat with Scottie dog buttons on it. The little hat was worked flat, seamed, and then pulled into a crown at the top with a delicate drawstring. I realized that the best way to wash it would be to untie the drawstring and flatten the hat, so that the wool wash could get into all the nooks and crannies. I did so very carefully, but it was still a bit bitter sweet. I am sure that the last hands to tie this little string were my grandmother's, over 30 years ago. It was a strange, forbidden-feeling sensation to undo something that she had done. Especially knowing what a perfectionist she was. I persevered only because I knew that it was the only way to fully clean, and thus preserve, her work.

Little Scottie dog hat, close and far.

It has been really interesting to have my grandmother's knitting, so long out of my sight, here in my hands. There were things that I knew already. My grandmother detested setting sleeves and always knit raglan sweaters to avoid seaming the sleeves to the main body of the sweater. She knit with brightly-colored aluminum needles kept in a red plaid tin, which she carried everywhere. She liked texture, and often knit cables into her pieces. She often made those cables into bunnies and owls. (One of the cardigans my mother sent has those owls on it.) The bunnies had little pompoms for tails. She knit a lot of cardigans, and most of the pieces that I remember were in a single, solid color. I never saw her knit lace. I never saw her use circular or double-pointed needles. (Which could explain the flat construction of the Scottie dog hat.) Oh, yes - she liked Scottie dogs. All the women in the family seemed to have a predilection for little Scottie dogs in the 1970's. I'm not sure if that was in vogue, or if it was inspired by my cousin Scott - often called Scottie in his youth. (As an adult he goes by Scooter - go figure. *smile*).

The raglan sleeves my grandmother loved.But there were other things I didn't know. I thought that she knit almost exclusively with wool-like acrylic. All the knits my mother sent are 100% cotton (which is probably why my mother, fiber-snob that she is, saved them). And the perfectionist - the grandmother who was never wrong - knit with uneven tension. I feel a little blasphemous even writing that. But it's true. Now to be fair to her, these knits are cotton, so they show everything. But still. The unevenness didn't come out with blocking, either. It was endearing to me that the woman who taught me to knit, and who was so very strict about how it should be done knit so much less evenly than I do. She even misplaced a few yoke decreases!

I think one of the worst things about losing someone you love is that there are all these questions - silly, mundane things - that you want to be able to ask them about themselves. And, of course, there is the corresponding pain of not being able to share things about your life with them. My grandmother never knew that I became an avid knitter - as passionate a knitter as she was. Although she taught me to knit at six, I completed one small potholderish-looking garter square, and then did not pick it up again until my late teens, when she was already afflicted by Alzheimer's and no longer accessible to her family in the same way. And I never got to talk to her about millions of knittish things - how she knit those bunnies, if she worked from patterns or designed. Was she influenced by Barbra Walker and Elizabeth Zimmerman? Did her mother (also Julia) knit? Many of these questions will go forever unresolved. The one thing I do know is something that she probably would never have told me in real life - she made mistakes. And somehow that brings her more to life than almost anything else I could learn.

The whole shebang, drying alongside a few swatches.

The last time I saw my grandmother was when I stopped to see her on my way back home from Chicago for the holidays sometime during college. She was in a nursing home by then, and had few lucid days. I went to see her with my Aunt Pinky (Scooter's mom - again, go figure!), and we found her in the midst of a "good day". Although she was unable to speak due to a recent stroke, she clearly recognized Pinky as her daughter. I honestly don't know if she recognized me or not. I was still transitioning from child to woman at that point, so it is likely that she did not. But her eyes teared up and she reached for me. We hugged, and as I pulled back she held onto my sweater. It was not a sweater that I had knit, but it was clearly handmade of a chucky, colorful yarn. The link was unmistakable.

2007: My Knitting Year in Review

It always surprises me that it can be so difficult and take so much time to learn what I like and what I do not, and to learn how to spend my time in the way that really makes me the happiest. With knitting, I feel like I was very capable of doing this for many years before blogging, but that after I discovered internet knitting I often followed a circuitous path. It is really interesting to me that the existence of peers has such an effect - positive and negative - on what I do. Both watching and being watched have impacted me in surprising ways.

I have spent a lot of time in the last year or so thinking about how I spend my time - knitting and otherwise - and if spending my time in the way that I do is fulfilling to me. We are only given so many days and so many hours. I want to use them in ways that will make me happy.

2007: My Happiest Knitting Year Yet.

This culling of activities is an exercise that reminds me of the time I spent making a budget right after law school. I went through college and many lean years afterwards living on plastic and a prayer, so when I found myself with an actual salary (and real-world law school debts that put my college loans to shame), I decided that I needed to take some action and get my financial house in order. I read a lot of articles on how to best go about doing this, and they all suggested going through a year of bank statements and determining how you spend your money. The ways in which we spend our money are often surprisingly unknown to us. Mine were shockingly unknown to me.

I quickly realized that while I had gotten a lot better at staying away from clothing boutiques and spending a reasonable amount of money on skirts and shoes, I was blowing through cash at TAR-zhay! I am pretty sure that I was spending at Target because those purchases seemed both economical and necessary, based entirely on where they were bought. Somehow, spending at Target didn't seem like spending, because Target is for things like toilet paper and cleaning products - which we need. The thing is, I was walking out of there with twenty pairs of tube socks and three shades of toe nail polish that weren't entirely necessary. I realized that if I gave myself a Target spending limit, focusing on actual household necessities, I could reallocate that extra money to higher goals like savings, and the little splurges that I really wanted, like the boutique shoes I had been steering clear of.

With a large dose of discipline to accompany it, that spending self-awareness has paid off. Five years later I am free of credit card debt, with my private school loans substantially paid down, a nice savings account and 401K, and a closet with a reasonable number of well-chosen shoes. I have had to make some choices to get to this point. I've been driving the same beat up pickup truck since 1996, I eat out infrequently (especially compared to most Angelinos), I scour the sale racks (quality brands, low prices), and you cannot shove me into a taxi cab, because I believe that it is a ridiculous way to spend money. My indulgences are yarn, groceries, and books - likely in that order. And that is absolutely fine, because that is how I want to spend my money.

Budgeting this way is not all about sacrifices, because just like dieting, it is impossible to come up with a successful plan if it is not a plan for life. And life should have carrots as well as sticks. My budget has been about my reality. I like cute shoes. I like having three colors of toe nail polish from Target, as well, but that's not nearly as high on my list. So the answer is to reign in the Target spending, put those dollars aside, and after they accumulate, go out and buy a few pairs of fantastic shoes each year. It's not really about avoiding spending, as much as it is about avoiding spending on things that only bring me a modest amount of pleasure so that I can spend on things that I truly want.

It's also about choosing well. I am sure that there are women out there who actually have 10 pairs of shoes in rotation each fashion season and enjoy that. Those women should invest in those shoes if they can afford to. Personally, I have about 2-3 pairs of shoes for the warm months and 2-3 pairs for the cold months, and I wear them into the ground. That is the way that I wear shoes whether I have 40 pairs to choose from or 4. The rest of the shoes in my closet may be beautiful, but for me they are poor choices, because they will never see the light of day.

Over four years of blogging, I have spent a lot of time knitting, writing about knitting, photographing knitting, thinking about knitting, and coding for the purpose of knitting. I have taken several long breaks, and I have seriously considered quitting the blogging scene altogether. This year, I came extremely close to signing off, but as I thought about it, I realized that for me, this blog is a lot like the cute shoes. I enjoy it a great deal - I love the thinking and the writing and the coding, and most of all the friend-making - I just don't need to spread myself thin with it. For me, blogging too much is like having 10 pairs of winter shoes in my closet. The shoes may be pretty, but they go to waste, and I can find myself unable to find the funds for toilet paper! The balance that I have been slowly striking over the years is working for me. I blog regularly, but not frequently, and when I need a break, I take it. I blog for pleasure and not out of obligation. My pace changes as my life changes. Most importantly for me, I spend more time knitting than blogging.

Choosing projects is much the same. I've found that the more that I have in an "active state" on my needles the less happy I am. Having a lot of WIPs makes me put pressure on myself and doesn't give me a lot of room to follow either knitting or designing bliss. For the last few years I have generally had no more than three WIPs at a time, and that has really added to my knitting fulfillment. To counterbalance that discipline in the active knits arena, I have allowed myself to swatch for whatever I please, and I often have many "live swatches" (swatches that may actually become something) hanging around at any given time. This allows me to explore all my knitting daydreams and provides a great starting ground for design ideas without scattering my energy or resources. It also helps me to see the potential of the yarn that is already in my stash. I have nothing against buying new yarn (and I have a stash to prove it), but I really enjoy using what I already have, and I love using things that have been in my stash for a long time in really pleasing ways.

I think I have become much more in touch with what kind of knitter I am. Kathy shocked (and freed!) herself this year by proclaiming that she is an accessory knitter. I have realized over time that I am happiest as a garment knitter. I do like the occasional "meaty accessory," and I am always good for a cute little baby gift, but on the whole I prefer to make things that I can really get lost in for a month or so. The occasional short story is fantastic and palette-cleansing, but give me an epic novel and I will be truly happy.

At the close of any other blogging year I could give you a list of favorites - winners, losers, what I would make again or wear forever, what I would not. This year is different. There will, of course, be some items that have more staying power than others, but this year was by far my favorite knitting year ever. I made enough items to keep me engaged, but not so many as to overwhelm. There are gifts, designs of my own, patterns written by friends, several pieces that incorporate some very old stash yarn, and a few that employed techniques that I hadn't used in ages. Most of all, each and every piece, for its own unique reasons, has real substance for me. This year my resolution is simply to enjoy doing more of the same.

I hope that your knitting for 2007 has been equally fulfilling, and I can't wait to see what all of us do in 2008. Happy New Year and Happy Knitting!

Woman on the edge of her 40's

I got a letter from my mom the other day, and inside there was a photo of three older women and one older man. Before I even read the letter I wondered to myself "Why did she send this picture?," because I didn't recognize anyone in it. And then I looked again and realized that I was staring my own mother in the face and hadn't known it, which was rather shocking. Apparently she thought this might be my reaction, because the first line of her letter was "Who are all these old people, anyway?" In my defense, mom is sporting a new 'do that looks pretty different from her usual hairstyle (Ma - Mox says you're looking good!), and it has been a while since we've seen each other in person. But still. Pretty crazy.

I find that I remind myself of my mom in weird ways now. Last night while reading Malcolm Gladwell's Blink (which I stole from my mom last time I was at the house), I fell asleep on the couch in my robe and slippers with a raggedy old blanket and two cats on my chest. This is exactly what my mom would do in the winter. Even worse, it was her 30-year-old couch that I fell asleep on. She had the couch that we grew up with re-covered and sent out to me several years ago when I was couchless, and I still haven't replaced it. Like hers, the arms are in tatters where the cats have sharpened their claws on it. (Not exactly a huge incentive to buy a new couch.)

Then this morning I made stove-top hot chocolate, as I do every morning in the winter. Just like my mom did. (Hey ma - do you still have the yellow ladle with the black handle? That just came back to me.) And retired once again to the couch to read for a few hours before work, under a sea of cats. (And dogs, too - that's my own personal addition, though I am working on getting my mom a dog. She's still not sure, but if you live in the LA area, pop over and look at Kate. She's one of my favorite rescues and she needs a loving - knitting! - home.)

I have looked like I'm in my twenties for at least twenty years - from about puberty until fairly recently. One of the really interesting things about taking photos for the blog is that I occasionally get a glimpse of myself in a whole new light. This morning I realized that, at least in the closer-up photo, I look like a woman in her 30's, which is pretty good, because I'm actually getting closer to my 40's by the day.

Many of you have lived a few more years of life than I have and will consider this old hat (and maybe even just plain silly), but it is weird when in your mind you're still on the edge of 17 and the person you see in the photo is quite a bit older than that. (Old enough, even, to have a 17 year-old of her own.) I remember my parents at my age and I think they looked younger than me. I'm happy, though. I see myself with a gentle, more approving eye than I would have in earlier years. Many things become gray over time - opinions, perspectives, and hair, and I think that is for the good. Even love becomes an accepting shade of gray, and pulls together the things that we thought had fallen apart. I'm doing pretty well, and it will be interesting to see where this body takes me next.*

I meant to talk to you about the Mishka process this morning, but that will have to wait. It is done (!!!), and I am very happy with it. For those who asked, I do plan to publish it independently, although I am not sure exactly when. The pattern is complete and in a nice format, but only in my size. It still needs to be re-sized and tech-edited.

I did end up using the slipped stitch crochet edging along the hem, which smoothed it out just enough. It was too organic in its loose, wavy incarnation to properly mirror the tidier neckline. The edging brought it into more harmony. Anyway, I will leave that for another day. For now enjoy the photos. Thank you all, as always, for your warm encouragement and great advice. Sometimes it takes a village to build a hemline.

*I'm hoping for snow white - my dad is snow white - and if I don't get that naturally I may have my hair stylist hook me up!

Leaving River

River in repose over the window.
Click here to see the entire length.River has gotten quite long now, and I'm noticing that my progress has slowed lately. I have not lost interest in her. I have become attached. I have noticed this phenomenon in myself with really great, really long novels as well. When I get near the end, I stall. I enjoy the reading, and I want to know what comes next, but I know that as soon as I finish I will have to leave the world that I've been in while reading, and I don't want to. I know that River is going to be lovely when it's blocked, that only blocking will let me know just how much length I can get out of 2 skeins of kidsilk haze, and that I can't wear my stole in its current balled-up state with the needles hanging off of it.

But still. We've had a nice ritual. I get up early, grab River and the i-pod, and sit on my front deck for a few hours before work, listening to either Knitcast or Fibercast, drinking my tea, and knitting away. I've worked through a lot of my mohair issues with River. Prior to this, I've collected mohair at an almost frightening pace (thank you, Suzan), and yet rarely knit with it, because I hate knitting with mohair. By perservering through Birch, and now River, I think I understand where my issues lie.

I'm a very visual knitter. I work off pattern at the earliest point possible by reading the rows below as I knit. I rarely need stitch markers or a row counter, because I can simply look at what I've already done and see where the next increase or decrease lies. Most of the time, this is a great way to knit, but it does not serve me well with mohair lace. I find that mohair is easiest to knit when all the stitches are bunched up close to the ends of the needles. This means that a 17 stitch repeat will be shoved into a space of about 2 mm - not great for viewing what's gone before.

Detail of the lower edge rippling.
Through the course of knitting River, I've learned that the method that works best for me is to place stitch markers between repeats (since the repeats undulate horizontally this is not exact, more on that with pattern notes), and engage in a mantra of continual counting. On the pattern side I count off stitch repeats - 4 sets of 5 plus 2 knit stitches; pattern repeats - 4; number of lead and end knits - undulating, with positive and negative values, and edge stitches - 3 at each end. On the resting rows I count off stitches between markers - 22, 17, 17, 23. The process is unique to the pattern (and this one is unique to my version - this River has 4 horizontal repeats rather than 3), but it works. Break the components into logical categories, count the categories off, repeat. I'm sure I've lost many of you with this gibberish that has no application for anyone but me, but the main point is that it works, and that the counting in this odd little system has become a kind of Om for me. I count. Sip my tea. Count again. It's morning and the sun is coming up over the mountains. Count again.

I will miss it. Perhaps this means more of my mohair will get knit.

Thank You

To everyone who has kept me on their bloglines subscription, stopped in on the blog, e-mailed to see how everything is going.... It constantly amazes me that you all continue to check in and to be so caring. Your interest in this blog and in me are an honor. I am so happy to have become a part of this wacky little knitting community.

Cleaning River's house.I would love to say that I've been off doing amazing things during this hiatus, but the simple fact is that I've just been dealing with everyday life. I've been re-prioritizing, taking care of the basic things, bringing my little world under control. Breathing out, breathing in.

During that period it was hard to find my voice, and to be honest, I wasn't always interested in it. Sometimes the work we do requires silence. I know that all of you who blog must understand. Although we put much of ourselves out here, we also strike a daily balance between the things we say and the things we don't. When there is too much of a tension between blog and life, person and persona, the writing just doesn't work. You have to take the time to recalibrate, and find that truer voice again. Come into synch with yourself. It's a process that I actively engage in from time to time.

If you're missing me, know that I'm cleaning house.

In the process of this personal house-cleaning, I've decided to do some blog house-cleaning as well. Over the last week I've been working on streamlining the site so that it's more in keeping with my own freshened state. Not suprisingly, that has taken a good deal of work as well, and I imagine it will be another week or so before the construction is complete, or at least livable enough that I can unveil it while I continue to paint the walls. When it's done I will be back to blogging again - nothing crazy like you daily bloggers, but hopefully writing a few days a week - and I hope you'll be there. Although I've been quiet with my comments as well, I've been checking in on you guys and watching your progress, because, after all, we are friends.

Sunday Spin?

And now there are two:

I have a little confession to make. Up until recently I have been in love with the idea of spinning. I've read several books on spinning and dyeing with relish, I've savored the process of choosing spindles and roving, but when it came down to the actual process of spinning itself, I've felt pretty inadequate.

When I think of a spinner in my mind's eye, I have a vision of a person who works in a continual motion, with the spindle in a constant and perfect rotation, fingers gently moving along the fibers making the most minute adjustments with ease. This vision has not been lessened by watching Marnie, who spins with a lovely fluidity, or Mindi, who got me started on my spindle, and is a beautiful spinner.

My own spinning is a slow, if not inelegant process. I am a regular park and drafter, and must confess to spending a lot of time "parked". I give the spindle a good whorl, park it and spend a good deal of time making adjustments to the roving - backspinning thicker parts, smooothing twist, predrafting long segments, backspinning and spinning again.

I don't often spin in front of others, particularly other spinners, because I feel like I have to justify my methods - "I'm new, if you were to watch a more experienced spinner they wouldn't do it this way," etc., etc. I can be quite the apologist.

I've been spinning the Tahiti with my new spindle, a Cascade Mt. St. Helens, pictured in the thumbnail above. Here it is next to my trusty Cascade Pilchuck. The Mt. St. Helens is the smaller spindle. The Pilchuck is loaded with Wildflowers BFL, pictured again in the thumbnail below.

I'm not sure when the tide changed exactly, but sometime over the last few weeks, I became more comfortable in my spinning. When I say that, I don't mean that I've changed my methods much. I still spend a lot of my time in park. I'm just less embarrassed about doing so. I think one of the major reasons that I'm feeling more confident is that all of a sudden I can identify what amount of spin it will take to make a single balanced. It's not an easy thing to articulate, but I can now feel when the yarn has the right amount of twist to hold it together and not so much that it's loaded like a spring. It's a feeling akin to understanding whether a knit stitch is properly seated, and if it isn't, instinctively knowing to simply knit through the back of it rather than having to perform some more complex manuever on the needles to correct it.

I've also been reminded - by a few wonderful books which I'll write more about later and a new friend at the Knit Cafe - that spinning, like knitting, is a craft. What this amounts to for me is that there is not a right or a wrong way to spin, as long as a I achieve the results that I want and enjoy myself. I remind my beginning knitters of this in classes all the time and am constantly encouraging them to experiement and to make mistakes. Sometimes it is hard to take my own advice, I guess!

The two skeins of Tahiti BFL above are fairly balanced singles - the one in the foreground is a little more so than the one in the background. (I'm getting more consistent, but I still can't match skeins exactly.) These are my fourth and fifth skeins of yarn (and the first that I consider to be real skeins rather than "skeinlettes") and I'm pretty proud of them.

Like Marnie, I finally had a "D'oh!" moment and figured out how to measure yardage on these puppies. I unwind onto my leg - knee to foot and round again. To measure yardage, I measure the distance around, count the number of times I loop each hank, and multiply. These two skeins represent 2 ounces of roving and approximately 65 yards of finished yarn. With 4 ounces left to spin, I can look forward to 195 yards of Tahiti yarn. Now I just have to figure out what to do with it.

Just Ducky Pattern Notes

This post is a suprisingly hard one to write. It's a round-up* of the Christmas presents that I made for my estranged parents. I made these gifts for them in an attempt to reach out and do something personal that might be meaningful for them. I thought at the time that it wouldn't matter if they didn't do anything for me in return, and perhaps in the long run, it won't. I have a wonderful husband, in-laws who spoil me rotten, and a "chosen" family of friends who are always there for me. Parents are people, and perhaps they cannot always do the things that we would like them to. Someday I will learn to accept them as they are. Giving is the important part, and I did feel good making these things for them.

The guest bed at my friends' house in Pasadena. Stately, yet it coordinates well with the duck.

Why the Duck?! (or is that 'What the Duck?!')
Long ago and far away, when my younger bother was about eleven, and life was slightly less complicated than it is now, he wanted with his entire little prepubescent heart to have a duckling of his own. I am not entirely sure how this desire originated in my brother (though I suspect that it had something to do with my mother's stories of growing up in the country with baby ducks and chicks), but it reached a point where my mother felt that it could no longer be denied. He had to have a duck. She promised she would get him one.

So we piled into the station wagon (a Chrysler LeBaron with fake wood panelling - you remember the 80's), and headed for Wilson Seed & Feed on Richmond, Virginia's south side, to procure ourselves a duckling. What we did not know when we set out on this quest was that Richmond, booming metropolis that it was, had a bit of a duck problem. Apparently many little boys of my brother's ilk had a need in their hearts to have a duckling of their own. Until, that is, the duckling in question grew up, reaching a height of approximately two and a half feet (much bigger than a cat) and produced sounds not unlike that of a group of third graders practicing for marching band. The grown (and hence outgrown) ducks of new height and impressive noise capacity would then be whisked away under cover of night by the soccer moms of our town, and deposited in the park (ironically "Byrd Park") to fend for themselves, disturbing the neighbors with their trumpeting and harassing park-goers for food.

To protect its citizens from the menace of the abandoned ducklings, the city had enacted an ordinance geared to limiting the purchase of duckings to only the most serious of buyers (restauranteers): it was ordained that ducklings could only be purchased in quantities of six or greater.

Most mothers might find themselves daunted at the prospoect of owning, not just one, but half a dozen ducklings. In fact, I believe that in THE GREAT BIG BOOK OF PARENTING DILEMNAS there is an entire chapter devoted to broken promises, and how to explain that in this life mommy and daddy cannot possibly keep every promise that they have made, because if they did, their house would be over-run with ducks. Needless to say, my mother has never taken a chapter from THE GREAT BIG BOOK OF PARENTING DILEMNAS. She instead, almost without pause, purchased six ducks.

And, for about two months (the time period required for the ducks to reach their full adult height and lung capacity), we owned six ducks. I think I have said before that we lived within the city limits. We did not have an inordinate amount of land, and the land we had was not fenced with anything, let alone the kind of fencing that would be required to contain six ducks.

What we did have was an unfinished basement (cement floors with a drain in the middle - thank god for small favors), and several very deep bathtubs. So for these two months we kept the ducks in their space in the basement the majority of the time, with several daily jaunts up and down the stairs (all in single file, following my brother) to the bathtub for a little swim. It was an idyllic time.

The only one who was not pleased with this state of affairs (I was 13 at the time, so old enough to know that my mother's decision was a little off, but still young enough to think of it as "cool"), was my father, who did not find the copious duck poop that then lined our basement to be the most charming addition to what had previously been his personal wood-working shop and sanctuary.

He blew off steam by occasionally shouting out something vaguely accusatory about all the damn 'duck butter,' which was his euphamism for the duck poop that was rapidly filling our house. Why my father chose this instance to wax poetic and euphamize I will never know. He has never been a man to mince words and he has the mouth of a sailor, so this was certainly a strange time for him to hold back. In his position I am quite sure that I would let fly with the explitives. But while the ducks did not stick (they were finally and tearfully sent to a friend's horse farm equipped with a pond out in Goochland), the Duckbutter did. It was a nickname that my brother christened him with (most likely in retaliation for the departure of the ducks), and that my father grew to love over time and feel was symbolic of their bond.

We have called my father Duckbutter, Duckie or some variation of the two for over twenty years now. It's hard to remember a time when we referred to him as 'dad'. The name became even more precious with the passing of my brother about four years ago. It is one of the small legacies of my brother that continues to live on regardless of the passing of time, or the changes in our lives and relationships with each other. Hence, the duck.

Just Ducky Pillow
MindofWinter Designs
Knit with two skeins (123 yards/skein) of Rowan's Wool Cotton (50% Merino/50%Cotton) in French Navy (909) and one skein in Mellow Yellow (942) on Addi Turbo 24" circulars in size US5 (3.5mm). I honestly can't remember the gauge (it's on a scrap of paper somewhere!), but I think it's about 20-21 sts per 4 inches in Stst.

Size: One. About 7"x10"

The Pattern
I've been inspired by several intarsia charts lately (read this post for links to cool free charts and my quick instructions on how to make your own), so I decided that I would make Christmas my opportunity to brush up on my intarsia and charting skills, which are pretty darn rusty. I did almost all of the tough work for this pattern myself. The only part of it that was created by someone else was the duck outline. I'm not much of an artist, so I scrounged around on the internet to find an image that would work for me. I did a gauge swatch, charted the duck, and knit the resulting pillow.

I got a little off course, and ended up with a duck that has a rather primitive look about the head and bill. One of my knitting buddies at Knit Cafe, Denise Boutier (aka "Grandma Hollywood" - but that's another story), referred to it as a ptera'duck'tyl - which I love! I considered ripping back and revising it, but decided that my parents, who have some primitive art here and there, would probably like it as is. I did a little stitching around the edges to even things out, but I have a feeling that might have made it more, rather than less, dinosaurian.

I loved dong the intarsia on this piece, and I've realized, to my own complete suprise, that there is more intarsia (just a little, tastefully done) in my future. I had a great time!

Finally, one of my favorite details is the border. To make it I simply picked up stitches very close to the edge of the front of the pillow (before sewing it up!), knit a single round through the back loop, and then bound off using the I-cord bind-off method. For a long time, I've wondered why I haven't seen knitted pillows with a piped border, since this is so common in sewing. Mary Heather has wondered this as well, and did a wonderful pillow with piping earlier this year for an upcoming book that we both have projects in, so I got to see a sneak preview of knitted piping in action. Her method was different than mine, and gives a lovely traditional result. (You'll have to wait for the book to see it!) This version creates a small lattice below the piping. It looks really professional, and I'm pleased with it, though I did wonder a bit if it out-classed my pteraducktyl!

Impressions of Rowan's Wool Cotton:
I've used Rowan's Wool Cotton several times this year, and it's definitely a favorite of mine. As I think I've said before, this yarn is a real staple, like Karabella's Aurora 8, though it is worked at a finer gauge than that yarn. Wool cotton is an excellent choice for intarsia. It works up crisp, and yet somehow seems to adjust for all your knitting 'sins'. If only we could bottle such properties. Wool cotton is an especially good choice for this kind of color work because it can be worked on smaller needles - somewhere from US4 to US6 is ideal when you want to preserve a little drape - but it can also make a mighty cushy sock or footlet if you use it on size US2 or US3 needles. I think that a fair isle sock would be just lovely in this stuff. It has great versatility.

*I had plans to write about my mom's gift as well, but after a post of this length, I'm tuckered out. I'll post some pictures later this week.

Thanksgiving on the Hill

Although I am a HUGE proponent of Southern California and all its weather has to offer, I have to admit that I prefer to be in DC for Thanksgiving. The air is crisp, the leaves are still colorful, and the bounty that is Thanksgiving can be found only a few blocks away from our house in Capitol Hill.

Although this is only our second Thanksgiving here, I feel that I have a ritual in place, which includes waking early and walking down a few beautiful blocks lined with historic homes to Eastern Market to pick up my fresh turkey and a few other essentials, so that I may begin cooking. A morning outing is essential, because by noon the market is swamped and by afternoon it's downright crazy. The market closes for Turkey day and the day after, so it's important to stock up on all the fixins while you can. The two-day wait for groceries can be a long one if you've planned poorly. What is Thanksgiving if it's not all about the food?

This Thanksgiving I thought that I would photo-document my trip, so that you guys could come along with me. I'm thankful for many things, including the things that you'll see in the pictures here. I'm also thankful for all of you. It's great to have such an extended family of cyber-friends to share with, and to hear from on a daily basis. You make my knitting and life much richer. For those of you who are fellow Hillers - shout out! For those of you who don't know these places - take note! If you ever have a chance to do Thanksgiving here, this is a great way to do it.

My first stop at Eastern Market is the Sweet Shoppe. They sell $2 bags of cut up bread for stuffing - it's an economical and quick way to put together a side. This place is also famous for its excellent bearclaws and pesto. My own pesto recipe was inspired by the Sweet Shoppe's use of spinach and parsely as dominant ingredients. It's good stuff.

Stop number two is Paik Produce. I was a good girl and did most of my market produce shopping last weekend, but I did need to pick up fresh greens. The brothers Paik (as I think of them, who knows if they are) always have good produce at a decent price, and if you buy in quantity or bring along a small child, you get a banana for free as a bonus.

Next is the biggie. I hit Market Poultry (scroll down for info!) to pick up my fresh turkey, which I ordered ahead of time. By this afternoon the pick-up line will be around the block. That's because Market Poultry carries the best, the freshest, the most amazing turkeys anywhere. You haven't had turkey until you've had theirs. Their poultry is just that good. Plus its a family-run operation. Everyone there is a son or a cousin or a close family friend. They're good folk, and they'll take care of you. You can get all kinds of goodies there - from game birds to alligator (can you say gumbo?), and great turkey bacon. And can you beat the mascot? Pretty season-appropriate.

Finally, on my way out I pass another Capitol Hill institution - The Sweet Nuthouse. It's run by a husband and wife - she makes sugar-coated nuts and he sells them (and hands out free samples!) and they are good. Everytime you pass, you're treated to a little sweet goodness.

When I arrive home, I can see that the animals are observing their own Hill rituals. Although the world outside may change - leaves fall, the weather gets colder - there are certain things you can count on to stay the same.

Happy Thanksgiving Knitters! May you shop like Hoolias (that's me - phoenetically speaking) and nap like Tunas!

So this is why they call it Crack-Silk

I am a woman of strange talents, and one of the talents that I have is the ability to see connections between things that other people might not notice. (Or aguably, connections that may not really be there.)

Today I've been knitting cracksilk haze and pondering the similarlities between knitting lace in a fine-gauge mohair after a long hiatus and, say, mountain biking up a steep trail after a similar lapse.

Kidsilk in the window on a fall morning. Looks benign.

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away in The Time Before Moxie*, I had a boyfriend who was a kick-ass cyclist. We met while I was training for my very first sprint distance triathlon, and to this day I credit my ability to complete that race to this boyfriend, who was surprisingly sweet and patient in the face of myriad newbie triathlon problems, such as how to get one's full-length wetsuit off fast enough to race into the port-a-potty without losing considerable amounts of time and how to pretend to be a competitor while dog-paddling in the swim portion of the race, etc.

This boyfriend ("The Cyclist") raced mountain bikes and road bikes, and it was inevitable, especially given that I was presumably training for a triathlon, that we should start riding together. Soon, one of our favorite places was Kettle Moraine in Wisconsin, where there are some wonderful single-track trails on rolling hills through the woods, with lots of fun trees, rocks and other woodland obstacles to hop over as you race along. During the year that I dated The Cyclist we went out riding almost every weekend, and after a while I became a respectable mountain biker (for a girl), if not a good one.

The thing about mountain biking the very first time, or any time after you've had a bit of a break, is that it is SCARY AS HELL and REALLY SUCKS. For some reason I forget this, and am seduced back by its siren call every once in a while only to remember when I am in the midst of careening down a mountainside at top speed saying to myself:

"FeatherthebreaksFeatherthebreaksFeatherthebreaksForChissake!!!!"

If I can make it past the phase of total and complete fear of death and get back out on the trail a few more weekends in a row (which I also spend careening down a mountainside at top speed saying to myself "FeatherthebreaksFeatherthebreaksFeatherthebreaksForChissake!!!!"), I can actually do alright and get to the point where I am not thinking of my immanent death at every moment and maybe even manage to have some fun.

So, too, kidsilk.

The River, she prefers not to be photographed in bed. It does not suit her.

Just as there is a beautiful Jamis mountian bike in my basement collecting dust, there is a pile of gorgeous mohair in my yarn closet that grows every day without hope of being knit. I am seduced by its gorgeous colors and lovely halo even though I know that if I am honest with myself I will admit that I hate working with it.

And yet. It's there, right? And it's beautiful. So I must. And after at least a year has passed and I have forgotten the last round of trauma, I do. And so the farce that is Julia Knitting Mohair (very similar to the farce that is Julia Mountain Biking) begins.

The black background, it is classic. It better shows what the first repeat of the River, it should look like.

Inevitably, I boff. Boff, for those of you who do not know, is a technical term that describes a very complicated manuever on a mountain bike, which entails falling uphill and is usually the result of a combination of large boulders and tight toe clips (those wonderful contraptions that secure you to your pedals so completely that it can be impossible to free yourself from them as you topple from the highest heights over the roughest terrain. Thou shalt not be seperated from thine bike, even in the falling). The knitting equivalent of the boff is the yarnover or yo! (as in "Yo! you forgot to put me in again!)**

It usually takes a couple weeks of boffing, yo!ing, tinking, frogging, ripping, cursing, knitting? (yes, occasionally there is knitting), boffing, yo!ing, tinking, frogging, ripping, cursing, and knitting (yes! knitting!) before the light appears at the end of the tunnel, and I can begin to think to myself (quietly, in a whisper): I might just be able to do this again.

Then slowly after more weeks of knitting, still tinking here and there with the occasional boff, but mostly knitting, I think to myself (louder this time): Well, damn, I think I am doing this.

And then finally, finally I shout (often in the middle of the night, just to give those crazy f*ckers who call themselves "neighbors" a dose of their own looney):
YeeFrickin'Haw! Wooooooo! Hooooooo! We're riding in the Big Ring boys! We have a Repeat!

And it becomes a little addictive. And I find myself thinking: I AM HAVING FUN. I LOVE THIS. I WILL DO THIS ALL THE TIME. MOHAIR IS GREAT.

The fresh air of the window, it is best.

Until I look down and I notice that the downhill, it is very very steep. I have one repeat. It took me four weeks to make the one repeat. The pattern has twelve.

And that, folks, is why knitting lace is like mountain biking, with the notable exception that lace-knitting, unlike mountain biking, can be performed from the safety of one's bed while having a morning cup of tea, which is why I did not find myself on the single-track today.

*When I was a virgin.

*And, yes, I know you can pick up a yarnover on the purl row that follows it, so please don't give me any great advice on how to fix things on the next row. My problems always occur several rows down!

Socks are the short stories of knitting

Alternately Titled: Why I Am Not Really A Sock Knitter

The cutest short row heel ever

My knitting life closely parallels my reading life (and, for that matter, the rest of my life, but that's another post). My favorite kind of fiction is epic in scope - a huge honking tome of a book (or even better, series of books) that you can really get lost in. There is nothing that makes me happier than a book that takes a really long time to read and makes me feel empty afterward because I miss the world that it has created. The Lord of the Rings trilogy springs to mind. So does John Hersey's The Wall. (That's why I'm waiting with such anticipation for Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell to come out in paperback next month.)

The knitting equivalent of these books is an Alice Starmore sweater, a really complicated lace, or anything a bit clever that I have to work out for myself. These are my absolute favorite knits. And when they're done, even if they turn out wonderfully (so wonderfully that I have to get up in the middle of the night and look to make sure they're really as fabulous as I imagine), I miss them when they're over. Because honestly, after a knit like that, where is there to go?

However, there are large swathes of time, "seasons" as I refer to them, when no matter how much I would like to, I just can't manage a book (or knit) of this scope.

I have, mmmm..... completion issues.

Sound familiar?

At that point I usually have to turn to a short story to get me through. I love short stories, but at heart, I'm a girl who reads novels. The short stories just allow me to keep reading when the little brain is feeling littler, and can only concentrate on small chunks.*

For me, socks have come to serve the same function. They keep me entertained and generally interested in the medium. They are complex and satisfying in a very contained way. I've knit a lot of socks this year. This is my fifth pair. Still, they'll never be novels for me.

Which is why I'm not a sock-knitter.**

Though I do knit socks.

*I just finished Vintage Murakami - it's a wonderful series of short pieces that will launch you right back into novels again. Murakami novels in particular.

**Real sock-knitters are those people like my comments buddy Mary. These stalwart devotees never leave a knit shop without a skein or two of sock yarn, continually have multiple socks on the needles in various states of completion, and can happily knit socks for years without so much as a glance at a sweater. This, despite the fact that many of the intricate stockings they produce contain as many stitches as an afghan. Now that's a sock-knitter!