Where does the time go? It’s hard to keep track, especially if you keep knitting the same thing over and over.
This is the nice clean carpet in the airport in Madison, where I spent 5 hours of serenity on Sunday, waiting for LaGuardia to work through its storm delays. Just me, a Spotted Cow, a baggie of cheese curds (from the newstand; this was Madison), and a freshly-acquired hoard of Sophie’s Toes famous hand-dyed sock yarn, which I had scored at the marketplace of the Madison Knitters Guild’s fantastic Knit In 2010.
(One could ask the impertinent question: Kay! Honey! What about those 2 shawls you just cast on, one of them in freakin’ CASHMERE?
Well. The circs I had were just not working out for me. Snaggy joins (need I say more). Also, counting those uneven repeats on the Volt? –Not something I am capable of while drinking a Spotted Cow, munching on cheese curds, or blabbing my head off with the Extreme Adventure Knitters of Mad City. I do not mean, by any means, to abandon my Volt. Volt is on the way!)
But back to my new log cabin. It started many moons ago, when I saw photos of Emily’s sock-yarn Barn Raising. I had always liked the Barn Raising. Now, with Emily’s brilliant soft centers of color, I lurved the Barn Raising.
Problem: I once made one of those miters-in-the-round. I did not enjoy the around-and-around on either 2 circs or 5 dpns. Just not my thing; hurty on the wrists of a sock weenie. So I thought I’d change my Barn Raising to a Cabin Raising.
It’s totally different this way. The centers of the squares don’t have the exquisite blur of Emily’s version. But I like it anyway. I’m a garter stitch person and must accept the limitations of the form. It tickles me, perversely, to be knitting a BLANKET on Number 2 needles. Quel fabric. Quel drape. Quel long time this is going to take me. But to paraphrase Wisconsin’s most famous knitter (and let’s face it, its most famous citizen), “Elizabeth” as she is known in Madison, a garter stitch blanket on bitty widdle needles just means more of my favorite hobby! How could that be a bad thing?
Here’s a secret about Emily’s yarns: the neutrals are amazing. I know! She’s known for the fabulous drenchy colour colour colour! But the Pewter and the Oatmeal and the Latte are plenty stimulating to the retinae.
The Piercing of the Dale (Sensitive Persons Strongly Cautioned)
When I arrived in Madison, Connie My Guide took me directly (with just a quick stop at Culver’s for a restorative Butter Burger and frozen custard) to The Sow’s Ear in Verona.
The Sow’s Ear is your destination for Nordic Beer Cozies (bottle or can), and a selection of North American and European yarns that we can only dream about in New York. Also serves delicious coffee.
This would have been great but for the traumatic event I witnessed there. I remember it all in slow motion.
Meet Gail, or at least her t-shirt. (Sorry Gail! In real life, you have a head!)
I will put it to you straight: Gail was about to CUT INTO A DALE OF NORWAY SWEATER. (With embroidery on it for Pete’s sake! I know!)
Why was she doing this? It was an emergency: the appearance of a woman’s bottom was at stake.
To wit, the hem of the pullover extended below her bottom in a way Gail deemed unflattering to the said region. (The cowards in attendance felt we could live with the length. We LOVED the length. Dale of NORWAY! Finished! Wear it with pride and move ON!)
With the courage of the damned, Gail snipped a stitch, and without mercy or consideration for onlookers, stuck her finger through the hole. She proceeded to rip to a bottom-enhancing length.
There was much murmuring in the crowd about whether Gail should pick up and knit the ribbings down, or cut the ribbings, too, and Kitchener them on. (I know! Lord Kitchener intended that technique for 10 stitches at the toe of a sock! Let’s not exaggerate!) Gail decided to knit down (phew).
The patient survived. This was a bracing start to a delightful weekend. Thank you, knitters of Madison! Thank you, mighty Madison Knitters Guild! Thank you Kate and thank you Connie! Thank you Franklin for the nonstop giggles! And thank you vendors at the market!
P.S. of Pedantry: In the title, I misspelled deja vu on purpose. Translation of the fractured French is “do you deja?” For extra-credit sticklers and French majors out there, I also realize that deja is missing an accent. There is only so much time in the day.