You know those knitters who knit and knit and knit and knit and knit but it's always for other people and they never make anything for themselves because it's about the joy of the process and even if it's a sweater that devoured six months and $400 worth of merino they'll give it to a random acquaintance at the office because it's about the knitting and not about the product?
That ain't me.
If I'm knitting for you, chances are you either gave birth to me or you're closely related to the woman who did. Knitting for family is low-risk. They've seen you at work. They've heard you talk the talk. They know that even a hat represents a commitment of time and yarn. They appreciate the finished product. And if they don't, it's easy to sneak in while they're sleeping and bop them on the head with your nostepinne.
Outside the family circle, I can be moved to knit in cases of either desperate need (aka charity knitting) or by serious and lasting contributions to the Keep Franklin from Throwing Himself Under a Bus campaign.
The most recent contributor is Tom, who cheered and comforted and cajoled as needed all the way from signing my contract for my little book through sending the completed work to press–which happened on Friday.
(It's done. Truly done. At least my part is done, the rest is up to the nice people in Canada who run the big printing machines. I feel like a woman who just gave birth and has been told she can have a close look at the kid in 30 days.)
Tom isn't a knitter, but he became fluent in the language so quickly that he was able to check out rough cartoons as they emerged and offer Informed Comment. He popped the cork on the champagne when the finished artwork was sent to Colorado, and he propped me up at the keyboard when the essays were zipping forward like a hippopotamus dragging a toboggan full of lead up a hillside covered in glue.
So he got socks.
They're the first socks I've ever made for somebody else's feet. And such feet. Big feet. I'm a size eight or nine. He's a twelve or a fourteen or something like that.
I considered calling these "Poetic Justice" because Tom bought the yarn for me in the first place, as a gift. It's lovely stuff, Araucania Ranco Multi. I've never used it before, but hope to again. It's slightly heavier than the yarn I've used for socks in the past and the fabric is nice and squishy. These should stand up well to a Chicago winter, even inside a dress shoe.
Another first: I didn't use a pattern. For the first time, I cast on and worked both feet to the end without consulting any reference material. Mind you, the design isn't going to knock Janel Laidman off the podium–it's plain vanilla with mini-cables added to stop my slipping into a coma before the toe decreases.
Tom says he likes them. He put them on last night for the photo opp and then left 'em on for long time because they felt good. Mission accomplished.
Unless I get another book contract, of course. What if he asks for a sweater?