The day after the day after Thanksgiving may be one of the most delicious days of all. Here in Nashville, the spectacularly mild weather has given way to something damper and cooler, which suits me. Family is still here, but the conversations are getting juicier now that we have all validated that our children are indeed bigger than they were last year, that we are all still doing things not unlike the things we were doing last year, and yes, brother, you should get yourself a colonoscopy for heaven’s sake.
The windows were open for Thursday night’s dinner. It was a big group, and the little cousins were once again reunited with their impossibly glamorous older cousins.
Friday meant a ramble with Mary Neal and Susan down from Paducah—two able companions who know how to make the most of a balmy day with no schedule. We stopped by Craft South for a hello to proprietor Anna Maria Horner and otherworldly phenomenon Juliana Horner, who is at work on a project we are DYING TO SHARE WITH YOU. Please stay tuned.
Craft South is located in the dead center of 12South, a Nashville neighborhood that has been overtaken by hordes of wandering folk with Frothy Monkey coffee cups, Draper James bags (Reese Witherspoon’s new dress shop), and bespoke denim from Imogene & Willie. Craft South is an oasis amid the muchness.
Rebekka Seale’s Camellia Fiber Co. yarns are a sigh come to life:
A snack-sized Koigu shrine.
A wall of Appleton tapestry yarn. Yes, Kay, we dug out all the shades you need for your needlepoint pillow. Shall post them posthaste.
Love Your Gear, Chapter 203
I bought a new crochet hook. It’s a Boye 2.25 mm. It’s the second crochet hook I ever bought, and I’m having the feeling now that I have wasted vast amounts of time trying to make my big old crochet hook pick up dropped stitches in socks, lace, and other small-gauge projects.
It really delivers when you’re trying to get a dropped stitch of Kidsilk Haze back into action.
Last night I made the horrifying discovery that the eight people staying upstairs at our house have been brushing their teeth and washing their hands in the bathtub. They had one sink for the whole group, and somehow the sink was not working. They are such exquisitely polite people that they didn’t want to bother me with the fact that they had no operating sink. The water was a drippy trickle—not the mighty firehose of water that was supposed to be coming out of the new faucet I’d had put in to replace a Brady Bunch-era faucet.
I awoke this morning with the realization that the faucet probably had debris stuck in the aerator because the plumber had replaced a crappy rusted pipe under the sink when he put in the new faucet.
The mighty Boye fished out the gunk, and a mighty stream of water poured out. This is the worst AirB&B ever. My fear is that next year they’ll all bug out to the Hampton Inn, and I just don’t think I could bear that.
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