One Plain, One Fancy

Last month I wrote a piece for Lion Brand Yarns that mentioned an almost century-old pattern that I've had my eye on. This is it:



Look at that collar. Gorgeous, and perfectly practical for a pencil-neck like me who is prone to agonies of stiffness if I get even a whisper of draught down my back. I saw it, I want it, I'm going to make it.

Mind you, I'm going to change it. It's too long, for starters. As written,* it would hang to halfway down my thigh. Not pretty. I'm adding shaping in the torso, too–a taper from chest to waist.

It'll be gentle taper, because a sweater like this is meant to be a smidge loose. You put it on at home, in your study, when you've finally taken off your jacket and loosened your tie.  It's not for the office. It's for quiet solitude. However, should somebody drop in on my solitude, I'd rather not have it hang on me like I'm wearing daddy's old bathrobe.

So, the Product Knitter within wanted to knit the sweater in order to wear the sweater. The Process Knitter within–which is dominant–wanted to try out the pockets.

Here's a shot of one pocket.



As you can see, not much else happening for acres and acres of stockinette but that pocket. Marvelously smooth opening, no?

You make it by knitting to the point at which you want your pocket opening to lie. Then–without breaking the working yarn–you work only on the stitches that will form the interior of the pocket, knitting and purling back and forth on them until you have a strip that's twice the intended depth of the pocket.

Then you line up the live stitches of this strip with the live stitches you left sitting on your needle and–again, without breaking the working yarn–resume knitting across all your stitches. The strip, now folded in half, forms the interior of the pocket. It's very neat, and just requires seams up the sides when the piece is finished.

Here it is in hasty scribble form.



And here's what the actual pocket (finished except for side seams) looks like from the wrong side.



I like it. The opening is, of course, seamless. The method is straightforward. You must plan for your pockets in advance, of course–so the devil-may-care atttiude I enjoy when putting in afterthought pockets is replaced by the smug satisfaction of knowing that part of the work is done, and I can just motor on toward the front-and-back shaping.

The yarn is proving to be a perfect choice–LB Collection Organic Wool. It's soft (without being so namby-pamby that it'll start to pill before the sweater is complete), it's springy, it's cuddly as a puppy wrapped in polar fleece, and the rustic texture is a welcome accent for a piece that's otherwise so plain.

Really, really curious about the collar, since to be blunt I haven't the faintest idea of how it's going to work after reading the pattern fifty times. Sometimes you just have to buckle on the parachute and jump.

How I Got This Way

Speaking of Lion Brand, the most recent essay I wrote for them–"Inheritance"–talks about creativity running in families–though often your creative family tree will include folks who aren't necessarily blood relations. I enjoyed writing (and drawing) this one...and my mother left a comment. That was a good day.

Turning Weaving Into Knitting

Quick update on the bag that card weaver John Mullarkey and I are collaborating on, using HiKoo CoBaSi. John sent along four band designs to choose from. He'll use the band as the basis for the strap.



I settled on the second from the top. What he wove, I'm going to try to interpret (not necessarily copy) in knitting for the body of the bag. Joy of joys, it's swatch time! I'm thinking mosaic might be the way to go, for the highly scientific reason that I've never tried it and it looks interesting. But first, we chart.

More to come.

*If you want it, the pattern is in the facsimile edition of the 1916 Lion Yarn Book that is available here. Facsimile means it's an unaltered copy of the original–so you'd be working from the period pattern, just as I am.

Entanglements, Various

I was in the workroom, trying to fit this year's books into last year's bookshelves, when Harry rolled in and asked whether he could have a yarn cave.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I want a yarn cave," he said. "I was just watching that house hunting show with Dolores and the man didn't like the first seventeen houses because there was no space for a man cave where he could watch television without his wife. I want a yarn cave so I can watch television without Dolores."

"Dolores," I shouted, "stop hogging the television! I am not going to have this argument again."

"I couldn't agree with you more," she shouted back.

"It's not fair," said Harry. "I want to watch the new Learning Channel documentary about Yarn Pixies and she keeps putting on Emanuelle Goes to Maryland Sheep and Wool and telling me I have to leave the room."

"You two are really going to have to work this out yourselves."

"I want a yarn cave!" said Harry.

"We don't have space for a yarn cave. This is a big city. It's crowded. We live in an apartment. And it's a pretty nice apartment, as apartments go. Lots of yarn would be happy to have as much room to roll around as you have."

"Yarn cave! Yarn cave!"

"You know who has lots of room?" I said. "Mrs. Teitelbaum. Maybe you would like to go next door and see if she would let you move in with her and Tinkles."

"Maybe I will," said Harry, stomping off. "Then when I am gone, boy will you be sorry."

Hah. He'll be back. Won't he?

I can't blame Harry for feeling overcrowded. Even though I have a work room, the whole apartment has been a carnival of frenzied fiber activity for the past couple of months. It's good to be busy, but busy + yarn = tangles. By Christmas, after four months of near-constant travel, this place looked like the inside of an old sewing basket that had been shaken by a gorilla.  I conceded that it was time to address the mess when I tripped over a stray strand of merino in the kitchen and it knocked over a lamp in the bedroom.

Happily, a lot of works-in-progress are finished and can be tidied away. There's this, for example.



My first sweater design (in Cascade 220 Sport) for publication–the Men's Color Band Pullover from Vogue Knitting Winter 2012/13, which goes on sale the day after this writing.

I had a ball with it. We (the three guy designers in the story) were challenged to come up with a sweater we'd wear ourselves on a casual day at the office.

I only wish I looked like the model, but the sweater truly is something I'd wear.

It has very little ease, because I (and most men) look terrible in baggy sweaters. It tapers from the chest to the waist, because unshaped sweaters make me (and most men) look like they're wearing feed sacks. And though it has a basis in the traditional male palette of brown/earth/gray, I added purple and lavender houndstooth because life is too damned short wear nothing but brown/earth/gray.

There's this, a hat in so-called Bavarian Twisted Stitch. (Twisted, yes. Bavarian, not necessarily.)



It's a model for one of my new classes, débuting at Vogue Knitting Live! New York in just a little while. (That class is sold out, but a few of my other sessions have seats. Do come and play.)

There's also this.



Why, that's not knitting! That's not knitting at all! 

Nope, it's card weaving. Because I needed one more thing to do with string.

I've felt the urge to weave spring up once or twice, but always ran into roadblocks. A lack of space, for one. Also, the insistence of all my weaving friends and acquaintances that I would have to start with a plain dish towel.

I don't want to weave a plain dish towel. I want to make fabric with patterns. My weaving friends insisted that you cannot start out by weaving patterns, you have to start with a plain dish towel. Apparently this commandment is chiseled onto a stone tablet on a mountain near Taos.

I asked about all those unfortunate children who are forced into weaving patterned carpets. The horrors of their situation aside, if a five-year-old can weave patterns, why can't I?

Because you have to start with a plain dish towel, they said. It is written. Or chiseled, or something.

Then I met this guy when we were both teaching at the same event. He was working with tiny looms. So small they would easily fit on a coffee table. His beginning students were weaving bands covered in patterns.

So I said can you teach me, and John said yeah; and now I have a tiny loom and am making my own patterned bootlaces, which I think is hot.

We've become good buddies (he'll also be at Squam, teaching card weaving) and for the ducks of it we've decided to collaborate on a piece of design: a bag, with a knitted body and a woven strap.

Here's the yarn we're using: Cobasi by Hikoo.



Cobasi is a blend of COtton, BAmboo, and SIlk–get it?) distributed by Skacel. It is, in a word, groovy. The impetus was a desire to offer a really good wool-free sock yarn, and what they've come up with works equally well for knitting and card weaving.

Our challenge is to turn out a project that combines weaving and knitting in a beautiful, practical fashion. We're going to chronicle the development of the bag–for better or worse– right here in this space. More to come.

Lopaprogress

Fan me with a tulip, mother–the lopapeysa now has two sleeves, a collar, and all ends woven in.

Next comes:

1. washing/blocking,
2. sewing in the zipper,
   
3. sewing down the inside edge of the collar (with the upper end of the zipper tucked inside),
4. wearing it through the long remainder of the Chicago winter (i.e., until the fourth of July) feeling warm, snug, and happy to be a knitter.
   

Here 'tis on the form, with the fronts pinned to mimic the appearance when partially zipped.



After playing hunt-the-zipper in and around Chicago, I gave up and have ordered a metal zip in a custom length. It's worth it. The alternatives were a sticky, white plastic piece of crap from Jo-Ann Fabric; or the same piece of crap marked up 50% more at one of our few remaining sewing shops. Before I let anything like that near my knitting, I'll close the fronts with wads of chewed bubblegum.

Learn Along with Franklin: Part II

In our first installment, we learned something about Native American culture. Today, our topic is good manners. The lessons are taken from this tiny volume.



It doesn't look like much on the outside, but inside it's a Wow.




Etiquette for Little Folks (part of "Susie Sunbeam's Series") was printed in Boston in 1856. It's a model of didactic mid-19th century children's literature.

The sole decoration is an engraved frontispiece showing a young girl literally taking her younger brother under her wing. Behind the kids, Mama contentedly gets on with her sewing.



After that: nothing but ninety-six closely-printed pages of firm, unvarnished admonitions. The upright, emphatic metal type gives the text a bold authority that you won't find in any modern namby-pamby children's book.



A few lessons, quoted verbatim, from the redoubtable Miss Sunbeam:

AT HOME.

If you wish to speak to your parents, and see them engaged in discourse with company, draw back, and leave your business till afterwards; but if it is really necessary to speak to them, be sure to whisper.

Never speak to you parents without some title of respect, as Sir, Madam, &c.

Never make faces or contortions, nor grimaces, while any one is giving you commands.

Use respectful and courteous language towards all the domestics. Never be domineering or insuting, for it is the mark of an ignorant and purse-proud child.

AT TABLE.

Sit not down until your elders are seated. It is unbecoming to take your place first.

When you are helped, be not the first to eat.

AMONG OTHER CHILDREN.

Be not selfish altogether, but kind, free, and generous to others.

Scorn not, nor laugh at any because of their infirmities; nor affix to any one vexing title of contempt and reproach; but pity such as are so visited, and be glad you are otherwise distinguished and favored.

IN SCHOOL.

Bow at entering, especially if the teacher be present.

Make not haste out of school, but soberly retire when your turn comes, without hurrying.

IN THE STREET.

Jeer not any person whatever.

Give your superiors place to pass before you, in any narrow place where two persons cannot pass at once.

GOING INTO COMPANY.

A young person ought to be able to go into a room, and address the company, without the least embarrassment.

CLEANLINESS.

Now, clean garments and a clean person, are as necessary to health, as to prevent giving offence to other people. It is a maxim with me, which I have lived to see verified, that he who is negligent at twenty years of age, will be a sloven at forty, and intolerable at fifty.

MODESTY.

Nothing can atone for the want of modesty; without it, beauty if ungraceful, and wit detestable.

GOOD BREEDING.

Observe the best and most well-bred of the French people; how agreeably they insinuate little civilities in their conversation. They think it so essential that they call an honest and civil man by the same name, of "honnete homme;" and the Romans called civility, "humanitas," as thinking it inseparable from humanity: and depend upon it, that your reputation and success will, in a great measure, depend upon the degree of good breeding of which you are master.

I cannot read this book without thinking of the well-to-do children in my own neighborhood. They routinely call their mothers "stupid" at the top of their lungs, insult their teachers and bully their nannies, kick passers-by, and yell at coffee shop baristas for insufficiently sprinkling their cocoa–all without fear of reprimand. And I weep.

Come back, Susie Sunbeam, come back. We need you.

Steek Geek

The lopapeysa chugged one station closer to Finishville yesterday, after I cut the steek down the front. Snippity-snip. Instant cardigan.



This isn't my first steek, but it's the first time I've secured the edges using a sewing machine instead of rows of crochet. I chose the sewing option because it was for me the less familiar and the more unnerving. Like that nice Mae West, when choosing between two evils I always pick the one I haven't tried yet.

I've only recently started to make friends with my sewing machine. There are still awkward moments, when I'm not sure of myself and she just sits there waiting for me to make a move. We have navigated successfully through a couple of hems, a square pillow and the lower portion of a doll; but never had I run a length of hand-knitting between the presser foot and the feed dogs.

A test drive was in order. I whipped out a swatch* that transitioned (like the lopapeysa) from one color to two. This took ten minutes, and probably saved me an hour's trouble in the long run.



I used the swatch to determine the top tension setting, the stitch length, and the amount of effort I'd need (not much, it turned out) to keep the fabric sliding along the machine bed.

This is not to say there were no bumps. Some knitters like to preserve the illusion of infallibility, but I blew that opportunity years ago. I might as well 'fess up.

The first pass–done with the wrong side of the fabric up, which I'd been told would help me stay on track–was a disaster. It wiggled like an EKG for the first eleven inches, then ran off the steek and and landed in the yoke pattern.

Notice, however, that I am still here, alive, typing this. Notice that the sweater was not wrecked. Notice that the police blotter in the Chicago Sun-Times did not report a man hurling a sewing machine out the living room window and into Lake Michigan.

I learned what happens when (horrors!) your sewn steek goes astray. What happens is you get your seam ripper and you un-pick the stitches. I decided to undo the entire twenty-inch seam. It took thirty minutes. I watched half an episode of Monarch of the Glen while I was doing it. There are worse ways to pass time.

The second and third passes (with the right side up) were uneventful, and whatever jitters attended my maiden voyage with this technique will bother me no more.

Before starting the sleeves, I decided to run a row of single crochet up each selvedge.



I'm so happy I did. The edges have more body, look spiffy, and will provide a more stable base for the zipper.

Sleeves are next. I know I can do sleeves.

*I felt compelled to post a photograph of the swatch to prove that I had done it. I think not swatching and saying you did is one of the dirty little secrets of knitting. It's like flossing your teeth. Maybe you do, maybe you don't; but either way you're going to give the dentist the same answer–which is never "Oh, frankly, I just couldn't be bothered."

Little Man, Big Sweater

The lopapeysa isn't the only thing I've been knitting, but it's the one thing I can show you.



Having now shown it, I will confess that almost everything you see below the yoke has been ripped back and is being re-knit.

One of the great advantages of working from the top down is that the sweater can be tried on while still in progress, without any danger of this happening. For interim fittings to be of genuine benefit, however, the knitter must be able to make honest assessments of his work and correct as needed. I, perhaps due to an excess of enthusiasm, was unable to face facts until I'd nearly completed the ribbing at the hem. Denial, as I was saying to Kevin Spacey and Ryan Seacrest the other day, is a powerful thing.

The problem? The front was fine, but the back had enough extra room to park a couple of minivans, one of them pulling a trailer. It looked like that flap of skin mother dogs use to carry puppies around. This, in spite of my attempts to head off exactly such an outcome by dividing the work at the underarms with considerably more stitches in front than in back.

Man knits; God laughs.

It's startling for a guy to become a knitter, take stock of his measurements and realize that he requires what his dressmaker grandmother taught him is called a Full Bust Adjustment. Even if it does indicate that all those bloody bench presses haven't been for naught.

In a ready-t0-wear sweater, I might have let it pass. I'm accustomed to store-bought clothes not fitting properly. Commercial menswear lines consider stocky fellows under five feet, seven inches to be flights of fantasy, like the Loch Ness Monster or Mitt Romney's moral compass.

But there's no such excuse when I'm making it with my own hands. Rip I must, and rip I did; and the results will be worth it in the end.

I can't sign off before drawing your attention to the length of insipid pink yarn that's holding the live armhole stitches–you can see the ends hanging down. It came from a gigantic ball of shoddy acrylic I picked up years ago, when I still believed that yarn was yarn was yarn. I made three baby gifts from it, taught myself lace by using it for swatches, and have sliced off what must be miles of it in bits and pieces to use for class demonstrations, provisional cast-ons, stitch holders, and stitch markers.

The ball is still exactly the same size it was when I bought it. When Bill Clinton was in the White House.

This never happens with cashmere.

New York Calling

Online registration is open for my early December classes at Lion Brand Yarn Studio in New York City. This will be a first visit for me, and they'll also be hosting a talk/book signing the same weekend. The place is a kick–come and join us.

Yoked

For knitters, one of the staggering things about the streets of Reykjavik is that they are so full of people wearing handknits that you almost stop noticing. The lopapeysa is everywhere. What's more, it's on everyone. The hip and the dowdy, the young and the old, the ample and the spindly all hike about with the signature patterned yoke around their shoulders.

On day one, spotting them was sport enough. "Over there," Stephen would hiss in my ear, "by the coffee shop." Mike would snap a surreptitious picture with his iPad, if a photo taken by waving a large, flashy piece of electronic equipment in the air can be said to be surreptitious.

By the end of the trip, we had moved along from mere sighting to identifying according to which Lopi book they'd been published in. "Number 26," I'd say, casually nodding my head in the direction of a passing specimen. "That's four this morning," Stephen would note. Stephen is good at counting things. Mike would snap a surreptitious picture with his iPad, if a photo taken by waving a large, flashy piece of electronic equipment in the air can be said to be surreptitious.

You can attribute the universal popularity of the lopapeysa to many things. It's warm. It's handsome. It's durable. You can buy the yarn for it at the grocery store for thirty bucks.

But that's not the whole story. It also turns out the damned things are addictive to knit. I started my Vetur three days ago with a swatch to test the colors. I have already finished the yoke,



and I'm having trouble setting it aside so that I can eat, sleep, bathe, engage in human contact.



I had to force myself to put it down so I could photograph it and write this. In fact, I'm tempted to stop writing immed

Directions

In order to compensate, in part, for no longer being surrounded by this,



or this,



(click to embiggen; it's worth it)

I have begun working on this:



It's Vetur, a lopapeysa by Védis Jónsdóttir, from Lopi 28. I left Iceland with a sweater's worth of yarn (thanks to Ragga of Knitting Iceland), and had thoughts of designing my own yoke. There's lots of other work on the table, however; and I decided following somebody else's instructions for a change would be a vacation in itself.

So I'm knitting Vetur as written, aside from changing it from the two original colors to four completely different colors.



And using Létt-Lopi (a spun yarn, with a finer gauge) instead of Plötulopi (which is unspun and slightly bulky).

And trimming some of the lower edge of the yoke, since I don't think a large yoke flatters a small person.

And eliminating the pattern from the body and sleeves.

And altering the neckband.

And making it a zippered cardigan instead of a pullover.

And working it from the top down instead of the bottom up.

Aside from that, I'm absolutely going to sit back and let dear Védis do the driving.

Whee.

Lopapeysapalooza

A flock of lopapeysa (traditional Icelandic yoked sweaters) caught on the fly during a community inspection of rams.











Check out the size and spacing of some of these motifs. Notice that strands are often carried for far more than five stitches–and nobody died. No weaving on the wrong side, either. When I asked about this, I was told that Icelandic wool felts so readily to itself that with very little wear, the long floats pretty much disappear into the fabric.

The longer I knit, the more I realize that Elizabeth Zimmermann was right: there are no rules in knitting that cannot be broken.

The tour company that brought me here has produced a thoroughly charming instructional video about these sweaters. Highly recommended.

Buncha Buncha Bohus

First, a follow-up to the previous post. The lovely people at Schoolhouse Press graciously allowed me to spend some alone time with the samples from the upcoming book of unknown and revisited patterns by Elizabeth Zimmermann, and to photograph them; but I've promised not to show any until the book is nearer to press. I promise they're worth the wait.

What I can post right now are a few snaps I took of the Schoolhouse Press collection of sweaters from Bohus Stickning, the Swedish high-fashion knitwear house whose products were all produced by home-based handknitters. Meg brought them in for us to examine and paw over (which we did, while emitting uncontrollable squeaks of delight).

I won't undertake a history of the Bohus, as you can find a neat and authoritative account here. The book Poems of Color, happily back in print, will tell you the full and inspiring story–and probably tempt you to try your hand at emulating the talented Swedes who crafted the originals.

Look at these.



All are worked in light DK/fingering weight yarn, usually an angora/merino blend. The light halo softens the transitions, rather like blended watercolors.



It's common for a single round to incorporate three or more colors,



and purls periodically mix it up with knits for a fascinating texture.



The interiors are as neat and finished as the exteriors.



Each one is a masterclass in color mixing.



I can only hope that anything I create will look this fresh half a century later. Amazing.

(Won't You Take Me to) Geekytown

I've been working on the Fair Isle vest. No, I haven't.

I've been messing around with the yarns that I hope, pray, intend shall at some future moment become the Fair Isle vest. I have so far produced 1) a Photoshop chart of small test patterns, and 2) most of a small swatch, which are but the primoridal protoplasmic ocean-dwelling ancestors of the finished vest.



These are to help me decide what to do and, more importantly given my dismal track record as a colorist, what not to do.

Here's what I've figured out so far about color:

• In the palette of yarns I have darks and brights. Within the darks and brights, the colors divide themselves about equally into browns and blues.
  
  
• Patterns made entirely with browns look dull and mushy.
  
  
• Patterns made entirely with blues look gaudy and mushy.
  
  
• Patterns that mix the browns and blues have a nice jig to them. Since the plan is for bright patterns on dark grounds, the finished motifs should be bright blues on dark browns, or bright browns on dark blues.

And regarding gauge:

• I thought after the recent spate of socks, lace class swatches, pence jugs, teeny oranges, and that frigging lace-weight Victorian nightcap that it would make a nice change to work on something heavier, like a sweater vest. And after a couple of experiments, it's clear that this thing will have to be worked on a US 3 (3.25 mm) circular. My biggest piece of in-progress lace is on a US4 (3.5 mm). Oh, the irony.
  
  
• The swatch is still on the needles, so I haven't definitively measured the gauge, but it looks to be somewhere in the region of 8.5 stitches/inch. I have never been so happy to be so short.


• The test patterns are far too small to read effectively at a fine gauge, so I'll have to spend many more hours playing with charts in Photoshop–and then do more swatching. I am so vibrantly excited about this that I know I will never again be able to roll my eyes at anyone whose idea of a good time involves Star Trek trivia, golf or computer code.

I've known for decades that I'm an irredeemable geek, but it's still alarming to have it confirmed by a swatch. Shut up, swatch.

Going to Carolina

I'm tickled to bits to announce that arrangements have been made for a trip to North Carolina. On Saturday, February 21 from 5:30-7 p.m. there will be a talk/signing/reception at Yarns, Etc. in Chapel Hill; and on Sunday, February 22 from 9 a.m. to noon I'll be teaching "How to Photograph Your Fiber" at Great Yarns in Raleigh. The class is a repeat of the session that was such a hoot at Purl Diva back in December. For complete information, click here.

Speaking of Knitting

October, 2008. Never have I ever had such a busy month–not even in college, when our final exams were painfully stretched out over multiple weeks.

After nearly fifteen years I still contemplate those two dreadful swatches of winter and spring with undiminished horror. One was either sleeping, eating, prepping for a test or taking a test; and both sleeping and eating were curtailed in order to leave more time for prepping.

Once, halfway through the ordeal, a friend persuaded me to unwind by leaving campus and heading into Boston to spend the afternoon at the Museum of Fine Arts. Unfortunately, I was an art history major. Instead of losing my cares for a couple of hours in the loveliness, after fifteen minutes I had a panic attack in front of a Renoir and fled back to my books.

October has felt a bit like that. I was either traveling to something or from something; or packing something; or shipping something; or drawing something; or photographing something; or writing something; or signing something; or writing about traveling or packing or shipping or drawing or writing or signing.

Notice, among all those -ings, the absence of knitting.

Not that there wasn't any. It's just all been small and simple, and some of it (like the patterns for the next column in Knitty) I can't show you in advance or Amy Singer will get all huffy.

But I am heartily sick of not blogging about knitting. Today, although a gaggle of -ings has clustered around my ankles to scream for attention, I'm shutting them all in the bathroom so I can show you the latest sweater for Abigail.

The knitting itself is as plain as plain gets: Baby Pullover #214 from always-reliable Knitting Pure and Simple. Top-down, raglan sleeves, highly recommended without reservations. My only changes were to work a seed stitch collar and cuffs, instead of rolled stockinette.



The yarn, Lorna's Laces Shepherd Worsted in "Aslan," was pretty all by itself. But when the sweater was finished I wasn't happy with it. Handsome, sure. But dull. No dash. No surprise. A dish of ice cream with no cherry on top. Rock without roll. Mary-Kate without Ashley.

During my infrequent, unoccupied moments at home I'd pick it up and turn it over and squint at it, and then throw it back into the workbasket. I briefly considered slicing the front to make a cardigan with Fun Buttons, but I've had no time to shop around for Fun Buttons.

Then I opened one of the doors on the stash cupboard to hunt for something and three or four small balls of leftover Dream in Color from Abigail's Tulip Jacket fell out. The memory of a bird I'd seen pecking at a bush on Fremont Street knocked up against the memory of a embroidering the Baby Kimono, and a Eureka Moment ensued. (Passers-by in the street heard only a soft popping sound, but for me it was a great relief.)

I consulted briefly with my embroidery books, made a few preliminary sketches, and turned the pullover into "Bird and Berry."



One sleeve, the back, and the front all have the same sort of vine growing from the bottom up. It's just a feathered chain stitch with two-stitch "berries" sprouting at random.



On the front, one of the vines has a little brown bird perched on top, with a berry in its beak.



If you haven't tried embroidering on a piece of knitting, I highly recommend it. I liken it to working cables. For example:

• a well-chosen motif can add immensely to the success of a project;
• it's much simpler to do than it looks, given a little study and practice, and;
• to the uninitiated, it looks like magic, and you are not required to disillusion them.

By happy chance, there's an article by Pam Allen about embroidery for knitters in the new holiday gifts issue of Interweave Knits. (The same issue is absolutely crawling with Panopticon sheep, by the way.)

Little Book News

The hometown launch for It Itches happened on Sunday at Arcadia Knitting an oh, what a merry crowd. It was a charge to stand in the same spot where'd I'd seen Debbie Stoller and Stephanie Pearl-McPhee talk about their work, and read aloud from mine. I wanted to hug everybody who took the time to come say hello. I think I probably did hug about three-quarters of you. I'm turning into the Leo Buscaglia of knitting.

Word is that the book is hitting the store shelves and (finally) landing in the mailboxes of those who placed pre-orders back when it was nothing but a pile of crumpled, ink-stained paper with a terrified cartoonist in the middle.

I spotted it in the wild for the first time at the Borders on State Street, and because I am a shameless, sentimental geek I took a picture. Sue me.



Holy crap. Right there next to Louisa Harding. And me, just a simple girl from Kansas with a pair of tap shoes and a dream.

Meanwhile, several folks have been kind enough to write about it, including The Knitting Scholar, who gave me the royal treatment–an interview and a review. I've also chatted about it on "Ready, Set, Knit," the WEBS Podcast; and the KnitPicks Podcast.

Shop News

The Guys with Yarn 2009 Calendar is back in the Etsy shop, and a new batch of prints and gift enclosure cards will follow on Monday. The 2008 tree ornament and its ancestors are still available in the Cafe Press shop, where I'm hoping to launch new variations on the 1,000 Knitters bags and shirts this week.

It's a Knitter's Prerogative to Change His Mind

Have you ever started a project that absolutely should have worked, and then didn't? It just happened to me with the lacy Elizabeth Zimmermann baby sweater I'd started for Abigail, from the February chapter of Knitter's Almanac.

It wasn't the fault of the pattern. The pattern is delicious, classic Elizabeth. It starts out odd, turns strange and grows positively bizarre before what's coming off the needles finally reveals itself to be cleverly constructed and beguiling.

Neither was it the fault of the yarn: Jo Sharp DK left over from my Seneca Sweater and left over again from Abigail's Dragonfly Kimono. Susan loved the fabric in the latter, so I felt another little bijou in the same yarn would be a surefire hit. It's soft, lightweight, and firmly spun–it ought to show off simple lace to perfection.

In theory, perfect. In practice, more like a blind date where the two parties seem like a perfect match because they both love opera; but then one of them turns out to be a die-hard Wagnerian and the other one has a thing for Rossini and even before the salads arrive the waitstaff have to wrestle the butter knives away from them.*

So I frogged it just after I finished half an arm, rewound the yarn and let it sit. And then one morning, I woke up with an unaccountable urge to knit a sweater with cut steeks. Aside from a brief lesson on a swatch at Knitting Camp two years ago, I haven't climbed that hill.

By the time I got out of bed I'd decided that if Abigail could talk, she'd ask politely for a traditional Norwegian pullover, and by happy chance traditional Norwegian pullovers have steeked armholes. How could I say no?

So I picked up some coordinating yarn (Berroco Ultra Alpaca Light) at Arcadia Knitting and set off, with Elizabeth and Meg Swansen (via the Knitting Around book and video) as my sherpas.

It was extremely pleasant to zoom around the lower body, using both colors to create the tradition "lus" (lice) dotted pattern,



meanwhile daydreaming about what to put on the chest and shoulders. I've finished it now, and for a first attempt I think it will suit. The fabric is very slightly puckery, but I took care to strand the floats loosely across the back of the work and expect that a good wet blocking will smooth everything out.



Next, the sleeves. And then...the cutting. Yeehaw, baby.

This is why I knit, dudes. Adrenaline. Pure adrenaline.

*Based on a true story.

Rally 'Round Dolores

I didn't really want to hear the answer, but I asked anyway.

"Dolores," I said, "Why did the front desk just send up 400 yards of red, white and blue bunting?"

She was too busy talking on her Bluetooth to answer, but Harry chimed in.

"We're having a rally!" he said. "With cookies and balloons and speculating pundits and everything! What's a pundit?"

"Harry, shut up," said Dolores. "I can't hear what Mr. Gore is saying."

"Mr. Gore?"

"Yeah," Harry whispered. "He decided to throw his weight behind Dolores because she's the only candidate made entirely of natural fiber."

"Does he realize that's the only natural thing about her?"

Dolores shot me a look.

"Could you please," she hissed, "take this into the kitchen or something? I'm hammering out my stand on the environment. Go ahead, Al honey. No, nobody important, just some people I hired to set up the folding chairs. What are we saving this week, rainforests or whales? Both? Who the hell has that kinda time? Pick one."

The kitchen was full of cookies. Mrs Teitelbaum, smeared liberally with red and blue frosting, was attacking a lump of dough with my best rolling pin and humming "We Shall Overcome." I reached for a cookie and got a rap on the knuckles.

"Those are for members of the media only," she said. "You have to show me your credenza."

"Credentials," said Harry.

Mrs Teitelbaum bristled. "I don't care if this is a political setting," she said. "There's still no excuse for that kind of language."

I gingerly picked a sample off the pile. "What exactly is this supposed to be?"

"Well," said Harry, "Dolores wanted them in the shape of the Fibertarian Party logo but we couldn't find a sheep cookie cutter, so Mrs Teitelbaum used Rainbow Brite instead."

"And she made the eyes out of–"

"Olive pits," said Harry. "That part was my idea. We had bunches left over after Dolores's martini fundraiser last week."



The candidate herself bustled in. "Numbers," she snapped. "I want to know how many, and who. Gimme the big names first."

Harry riffled through his spiral notebook.

"Well, I'm still waiting to hear back from a couple of people. We have 'maybes' from Aerosmith, Donna Summer, and the guy who played Schneider on 'One Day at a Time.' Julia Roberts says she still hasn't forgiven you for what you said about Mary Reilly to the Washington Post so forget about it. Laura Bush is a yes, but she'll be wearing a blonde bouffant wig and please remember to put 'Carmelita Dupree' on her nametag. And Mrs Teitelbaum's friend Rose is coming and says it's okay if you want to use the folding tables from the senior center, but they need them back the next morning for the poetry slam."

"Word," said Mrs Teitelbaum.

"This not good, " said Dolores. "I need a halo of celebs around me for the big speech at the end. Get on the horn to Julia's people again and tell them if she doesn't show up smiling in something sexy I'm going on 'The View' to talk about Dying Young."

"Check," said Harry.

"And did you go through the entire A list in my address book?"

"Yes."

"Who's left on the B list?"

"Winona Ryder, Anne Murray and Yo Yo Ma."

"Shit. Okay, if we can get Julia and Aerosmith that should fill up the frame pretty well, but I want one of those goggle-eyed Obama-style choruses weeping joyfully in the background. What's the estimated turnout as of this morning?"

Harry tap-tapped on his calculator. "Not counting you...eleven."

"Eleven hundred? I'm glad we booked the bigger party room at the Best Western"

"Um, no. Eleven. But with you it's an even dozen!"

"Eleven? How the hell am I supposed to demonstrate my overwhelming groundswell of support with eleven people?"

"Well, it's ten people, really, because I was counting Tinkles and he's a cat."

"He's very politically aware," said Mrs Teitelbaum. "Every time Mary Matalin says something on 'Meet the Press,' he throws up on the rug."

"Dandy," said Dolores, munching morosely on a Rainbow Brite. "I have a handful of nobodies, an incognito first lady dressed as Dolly Parton and a vomiting cat. This isn't a political rally, it's a new season of 'The Surreal Life.'"

Knitting Up the Cabled Sleeve of Care

Given the state of the household, knitting is more than ever a refuge. I'm almost finished with the first sleeve of the as-yet-unnamed Lorna's Laces Fisherman Yarn sweater. (The basic pattern is Elizabeth Zimmermann's percentage sweater from Knitting Without Tears, Knitting Workshop, et al.–like the Seneca Sweater, but this time I plan on saddle shoulders instead of raglan.)

I knew I wanted to put cables into this project, but I didn't want to knit a cabled sweater. Not yet. So I decided on a little Aran braid running up the outside of each sleeve from wrist to elbow, a simple four-row repeat from Barbara Walker's Second Treasury that appears far more complex than it actually is.



If you look carefully, you'll also find I've worked the paired increases on top of the sleeve, a Joan Schrouder innovation I read about in Janet Szabo's fantastic book, Aran Sweater Design Putting the increases above instead of below apparently yields a more anatomical shape. I also love the look of the new rows branching out from the central motif.

Knitting the braid was so diverting that I reached elbow-length in a flash–and realized I hadn't considered the transition to plain stockinette. After frogging several half-assed solutions that I didn't even bother to photograph, I decided to try 'unbraiding' the braid so the individual ribands would appear to flow upward and melt into the fabric. It proved to be quite simple, really. An outward twist here and there, a sneaky purl increase to separate the two central strands, and voilà.



Eureka, dudes. Here was not only the smooth transition I wanted, but additional width (from the releasing of the previously cabled stitches) exactly where I needed it.

I'm not the first person to do this, but it was the first time I've ever done it and I figured it out on my own. It was one of those savory little knitting triumphs, the likes of which non-knitters will never know. Doesn't it just break your heart to think of those people?