Just another day in Seattle.

Note 1: With the holidays approaching, many of my current projects will not appear on the pages of the blog until after they’re delivered to their intended recipients. If you’re looking for finished objects, please check back after the holidays. In the interim, I’ll continue to blog about knitting and life in general.

Note 2: This post is based on an interaction I previously described on Ravelry. Should you feel you’ve read this story before, you’re probably not imagining it.

A few weeks back, I found myself having a difficult morning at the office. As occasionally happens, everything I touched seemed quickly to turn bad - kind of like the mythical Midas touch, except that instead of gold everything turns to excrement. The kind of affliction that one suspects may have fallen upon George Lucas when you consider that he remade the original Star Wars Trilogy. Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney were perhaps similarly infected when they went individually from recording Sir Duke and Her Majesty to - collectively - Ebony and Ivory.

Rather than see just how wretched things could turn out, I decided to take a break at lunch and remove myself from my office and the pile of things on my desk, and go find a place to knit. But where to go?

As readers will note from my last post, I’m not yet fully out of the closet with my knitting. There are a few folks at work who know, but most do not. I couldn’t very well just go to our lunch room, and the coffee shop downstairs didn’t seem like a good option either.

After a bit of thinking, I settled on the Seattle Public Library. As knitting Seattleites know, the library was designed by Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas, and its architecture was the inspiration for Jared Flood’s Koolhaas Hat. Getting a chance to relax and knit in that kind of environment – what could possibly go wrong?

I walked the three or floor blocks from my office to the library, and made my way up to the 10th floor. This is the highest point in the library that is open to the general public, and the floor has an expansive sitting/reading room. The place was largely deserted, except for a few people sitting on the other side of the room. I picked a chair, put my headphones in my ears, and pulled my knitting from my bag.

Less than five minutes in, it happened. While holding a skein GGH Kid Melange and studying the pattern I was starting, I saw her approach. Appearing slightly over five feet tall and in her mid-50s, she didn’t look particularly menacing. She was carrying a backpack, and wearing a long floral dress with the kind of nondescript white sneakers you might expect of someone working as an orderly in an institution. Although I’d seen her initial approach, I focused on my knitting.
She got to within about 2 feet of me, and bent down in order to eliminate any possibility that we might not make eye contact.

“Are you really knitting?” she asked.

“Yes,” I responded.

“Are you British?” she asks.

At this point, many thoughts poured into my consciousness. Several of them were pleasant. Polite even. Unfortunately, however, most of these thoughts were not.

“No,” I said.

“So you’re American, and you’re knitting. Wow. I thought you were British because they’re so into knitwear. I’m reading this book by this British author and they talk about … … .” she frothed.

This continued on for some time. I tried desperately to be courteous. I tried to push from my brain thoughts of using my circular needles as some kind of craft garotte.

Then, unbelievably, things took a turn for the worse. She sat down in the chair next to me. She told me that she likes to make hats. She explained that she doesn’t knit of course, because knitting is too tedious, but she loves to crochet. And of course she complained that she doesn’t use wool because she was forced to wear wool sweaters as a child and all wool is far too itchy. No, she said, she only uses nylon.

I’d seen her hat when she first sat down. It was a tangled mess of novelty yarn, with slubs here and there, in an unremarkable blue color. The window pane design provided innumerable open spaces for her long, stringy and noticeably greasy hair to escape. By the looks of it, whole sections of her hair were attempting to make a break for it.

She opened her backpack and brought out more hats. Lots and lots more hats. Actually, lots and lots of the same hat over and over again, each in a slightly different color scheme. Each was individually and lovingly wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. With each one, she waived it in front of me and then put it on her head to model it. A few times, she told me that a particular hat was more attractive when under or over another hat, and the two would be paired with her unfortunate coiffure in a kind of ménage a crap for my viewing pleasure. Each time, she asked me what I thought of the finished product.

What I thought? I thought I want to put my earbuds back in and try to concentrate on my knitting before I need to head back to the office. That’s what I thought. But of course it isn’t what I said. I was raised right, and attempt to be courteous at all times – even when confronted with a very sweet lady with questionable sanity and reprehensible hygiene who is wielding hats on my lunch break.

Next, she told me of all the other hats she’s made, where she was when she made them, how long they took to make, and who had each one. There were 42 in all (including the ones she showed me). Apparently more than a few went to massage therapists in payment for services rendered.

This lasted for between 25 and 30 minutes. Then, without so much as a word in parting, she sauntered off. I quickly gathered up my belongings, and left the library to return to my office, wondering if there was a cure for my Ebony and Ivory Touch.

~TSMK

Staying in the closet

Note: With the holidays approaching, many of my current projects will not appear on the pages of the blog until after they're delivered to their intended recipients. If you're looking for finished objects, check back after the holidays. In the interim, I'll continue to blog about knitting and life in general.

When I was in high school, I had a friend named Chad. He and I were in a number of school theater productions together. In my senior year of high school we managed to go to state drama festival with a production of Nice People Dancing to Good Country Music - a fantastic one-act show about (among other things) a former nun with Tourette Syndrome. The climax of that show involved my character pitching Chad's character over the railing on the roof of a bar down to the street below.

Chad was a nice guy. He was also different somehow. In many ways he was more like my female friends than my male friends. He wasn't at all into sports, openly wished he could be on the marching band flag corps, and was generally pretty effeminate.

A few years later, the future Mrs. TSMK ("FMTSMK") and I ran into Chad on our mutual college campus. We hadn't seen each other in quite a while, and we asked Chad what was new.

"Well," he said, "I'm gay."

Without mising a beat, FMTMSK said "I know."

"When did you know?" Chad demanded.

"I've always known" FMTSMK responded.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Chad asked.

Clearly, we occasionally fail to see things within ourselves that others notice quite readily. It's a bit like having garlic at lunch and then returning to the office. You may notice that people around you are uncomfortable, but you may not put two and two together and find yourself some Altoids.

So how is this related to knitting? Well, it isn't really. It's actually related to finding yourself in the proverbial closet, and how comfortable you are with coming out. Please don't misunderstand, I don't for a moment equate clandestine knitting with hiding a sexual preference which could (and in many cases and parts of the world) does result in discrimination and mistreatment. Also, I don't mean to imply that homosexuality is an avocation, or even that it is a choice. From my perspective, it seems fairly far-fetched that Chad, for example, would have knowingly chosen to be gay. He and I grew up in the deep south, in a relatively tolerant university town, but that town was in the deep south - in a part of the world where cross burnings still occur. No, I suspect Chad had about as much choice in his being gay as I have in wanting to join the Bacon of the Month Club. Some things are simply innate.

Knitting is a choice. But my own brand of knitting is still a bit secretive. And in that very limited sense I have an understanding of what Chad must have felt when "coming out" to FMTSMK and me. He wanted to make the announcement. He wanted to be in control of the message.

In the last few weeks, I've now had several people "out" me as a knitter. Once was at the office, when a coworker who is aware of my proclivities mentioned my "Fishbonacci" Hat to another co-worker who was previously unaware of this aspect of my life. On another occasion, I had a very sweet lady (a near stranger) ask me for pointers on Jared Flood's Grove mittens while I was sitting on a crowded ferry. She and I had attended the same circle some days before, and I'd mentioned that I'd started (but not finished) the mittens.

In each case, no harm was done. But my anonymity may be waning. For me, that's worrisome. Not so for Chad, who I believe is now fully in the open. He's part of the DC Cowboys.

~TSMK

K1, P1, H1N1

Fall arrived at the TSMK household, and with it the typical cadre of welcome-back-to-school ailments. This year, however, we were pleased to host an especially exciting visitor: the H1N1 "Swine Flu" virus.

The timing couldn't have been much worse. Mrs. TSMK and my two older sons received the live-virus nasal spray on the Wednesday before Halloween. They probably could have received it earlier, but unfortunately none of them currently work for Goldman Sachs.

The day after Halloween (i.e., four days after receiving the vaccine), my oldest boy complained of feeling cold. The thermometer confirmed what Mrs. TSMK's hand had already detected on the boy's forehead: fever. Fever of 102 degrees, in fact. We had a sick kid on our hands. The following day, he stayed home from school, but all else in the house went about business as usual. That afternoon, however, I developed a headache and some mild nausea.

I didn't think too much about my symptoms at that time. After all, it was a Monday, and I often find Mondays to be slightly unpleasant. I powered (ok, staggered) through the day and went home. We put the kids to bed, with the oldest guy still running a fever.

At precisely 11:37 that night, I awoke suddenly. This by itself wasn't unusual. I often awake abrubtly if I've heard an odd noise, or if I suddenly realize that the dog needs to go out. Often, the dog helps me understand this point.

This time was different, however. This time I had a mouth full of vomit. It's funny what goes through your mind when you wake up with a mouthful of vomit. For me, I immediately found myself thinking about John "Bonzo" Bonham. They say that Bonzo died after choking to death on his own vomit.

But was it my own vomit? As any mockumentary fan will tell you, you can't really dust for vomit.

All these thoughts went through my mind as I raced to the toilet, or at least away from the bedroom carpet.

The next five days passed in a blur of sleep, nausea, fever, aches and, strangely enough, knitting. I'd recently finished a hat for a friend's sister, and had a fair amount of the yarn left over. Probably not quite enough for a scarf, but definitely enough for mittens. After looking through some possible patterns, I decided on Cruiser. After making the first one, however, I didn't much care for the way it turned out. Something about the fact that it was far too long, but with an extremely stubby thumb. So, what's left to do but start again, and by doing so potentially make three of a kind.

Today, a full week after attempting my own Bonzo departure, I'm still coughing and showing odd symptoms. My oldest boy is back in school, but the middle son is still out. The baby is on Tamiflu as a preventative measure, which makes him pleasantly sleepy and snuggly but which he doesn't particularly like.

But at least now we have mittens. Shown below are my version of the Cruiser, as modeled by Mrs. TSMK. They'll be delivered to their new owner soon.

~TSMK

An open letter to breasts.

I have always loved you. I remember every pair of you I’ve ever seen, whether in person, on film or in print. Some men (and women) believe that you are only beautiful if you adhere to a standard of perfection in terms of proportionality – but they are mistaken. Whether pendulous or perky, small or large, you are all beautiful. Some also believe that you are only lovely if completely natural. They too are mistaken, for there is nothing so lovely as confidence, and if by augmentation your owner feels more confident then you are lovelier as a result.

My first wondrous vision of you is seared into my memory. I was in fifth grade. A classmate’s mother was sunbathing in her backyard. She had removed the top to her swimsuit and was lying on her towel. As we unknowingly entered his backyard, my classmate was instantly embarrassed. I was entranced. I wanted to stay, but this was of course impossible. I knew at that moment that I wanted to see more of you, although I wasn’t sure exactly why.

My second glimpse did nothing to curb my interest. I was visiting my grandparents’ house. A cousin, much older than me, was also visiting and had brought along her infant son. I was playing in the front yard, in a makeshift fort inside a large camellia bush tucked up on the side of the house. I heard a noise from behind me, and turned to see my cousin, inside the house and in the bedroom that adjoined my fort. She was sitting on the bed with her eyes closed. Through the open window I could hear the contented gurgles of the boy as he nursed at his mother’s breast.

I remember vividly the first time I touched you. My date and I had escaped from a dance, only to find ourselves on a deserted baseball diamond. My nervous fingers fumbled at the clasp that held you back. The night was cold but you were magnificent.

This fascination has stayed with me for many years, and I am not alone. I know this because I have heard others whisper tales of exposed skin. I have seen the furtively respectful looks of men who quickly avert their eyes when presented with an unintended glimpse of your complex curves. I have witnessed the lecherous leering of those who seek out such sights. And I have done both of these things.

Your power is immense. Your mere presence can change the nature of polite discourse. When the future Mrs. TSMK introduced me to her father he was eating dinner at the kitchen table, while watching Lethal Weapon 2. At that exact moment, the action of the film gave way to a love scene. You were plainly exposed. And what was my future father-in-law’s response to “Dad, I’d like you to meet [TSMK]”? Unable to avert his eyes from the screen, all he could manage was “That’s a breast!” Even my father-in-law is not immune to your siren song. Fortunately for me, I was able to deflect his comment and save us all significant embarrassment by commenting on the lovely breast of fried chicken sitting in his plate.

Even today, married some 13 years to Mrs. TSMK, I feel giddy when I catch a glimpse of you as she readies for bed. A fleeting image and I am transported back to that afternoon in my classmate’s backyard. A touch and I am again a beardless boy on a baseball diamond. And a vision of my son, eyes closed and pressed against your creamy white skin and I am once again reminded of the smell of camellias.

All of this makes what I need to say to you that much more difficult.

I must give you up.

This is not because I have fallen out of love with you, because I have not. It is because you cannot be trusted. If pain and suffering may be likened to terrorists, then you are Waziristan. You run with a dangerous crowd.

I first became aware of your willingness to harbor criminals when your “friends” claimed the life of my Aunt. My father’s sister, she would have been in her late 40s. Perhaps she might have fared better if you hadn’t so effectively hidden her assailant.

You betrayed BF in her 20s. She’s healthy now, but still bears the scars from the surgeon’s work.

My friend WK’s mom wasn’t so fortunate. She fought mightily, and it actually appeared that she’d win out. But your friends returned. They were stronger the second time around. When they finally won, WK was devastated. That was less than five years ago, and WK has devoted himself to fighting on your behalf and against your friends.

You turned on S (“SoD”) K just last year. She’s healthy now I’m pleased to report, but you could have saved us all a lot of heartache if you’d have just told your friends to stay away.

Now I hear that you’ve been at it again. This time it is my friend SS’s sister. She’s 38, with a husband and young children. Mrs. TSMK likes her very much, and my middle son is friends with her daughter. Why would you allow this to happen? She’s a beautiful person. She didn’t deserve this.

I can’t convince you to change your ways, and I can’t fend off your friends. But I can do what’s in my power to help keep her comfortable. I will help her fight your friends. The doctor tells her she should expect to lose her hair, so I’m making her a hat. The weather has turned cool up here, and she may need a scarf to go with it. Or maybe a pair of mittens. Together, the large number of us who care about her and her family will help give her strength to fight your friends. She will make it though this.

But my relationship with you? Well that is another matter. Keep your friends away from Mrs. TSMK, my mom, my sister and all my friends. And all my friends’ wives, mothers, girlfriends, sisters, daughters. Come to think of it, why don’t your friends just leave us all alone.

I’ll miss you.

~TSMK

Dangerous appetites

About 15 years ago, I worked for a short while delivering pizzas. It wasn't really a job I wanted, but seeing as I was a college student, every little bit of extra cash helped. Plus, at the end of an evening I could consistently plan on bringing pizza back to my apartment. The pizza would be breakfast, lunch and dinner over the next day or two, helping stretch my food budget that much farther. Since I loved pizza - that last bit seemed like a win-win.

The place was called Road Dogy's Pizza, and I think it has since gone out of business. It wasn't the best pizza in the world, but for a little bit extra they'd also sell you a pie with just the crust and cheeze [Note - cheese : cheeze :: diamond : cubic zirconia], with garlic butter and marinara dipping sauces. For some reason I've always been a sucker for food you dip - a proclivity which I suspect started with Lik-m-Aid candy as a child - and am therefore incapable of resisting cheeze bread with any kind of dipping sauce.

By the end of about a month of doing this, my girlfriend (now Mrs. TSMK) began to complain that my car smelled strongly of pepperoni and other assorted toppings. She was right. And, although pizza delivery was actually more lucrative than I'd expected, I'd already had one uncomfortable run-in with a drunken and chain-smoking woman in her late 50s, wearing a negligee and asking me to step inside for my tip. I've always enjoyed The Graduate, but this lady was no Anne Bancroft. In short, I was beginning to tire of the glamorous world of the pizza delivery driver.

Then, something remarkable happened. The night manager, my boss, struck up a friendship with the night manager of the restaurant next door. That restaurant was a Dunkin' Donuts.

The Dunkin' Donuts was open 24 hours, whereas we closed our doors at 2:00 a.m. As a gesture of good will, and in recognition of the close kinship we shared as purveyors of late night and early morning artery-clogging sustenance to the local student, trucker and/or marijuana-user population, we began to arrange an evening exchange. We would make an extra pizza or two, and deliver it to our friends next door. In return, they would give us a few dozen donuts, which we would split among us as we headed for home. From that day on, I would go home from work not only with a pizza, but also with 6-12 donuts.

The sad fact is that my life hasn't been the same since. I only worked at Road Dogy's for about six months, and the pizza/donut combo diet was only a part of my world for approximately half of that time. But I gained over 35 pounds as a Road Dogy's employee - and over the ensuing decade and a half, I've never quite gotten rid of all the weight.

All this is a long way of saying, you should never try to eat something bigger than your head. At least not in one sitting. It should go without saying, but people frequently forget.

We have a tradition at my office of taking our summer law clerks out to one last lunch toward the end of the summer. Each of them is informed of the amount that the firm covers for reimbursement of summer-clerk lunches, and is then put to work in a contest to see who (if anyone) can eat enough food to actually go over the reimbursement limit. This is, of course, made more difficult by the fact that we take them to Red Robin. As often as not, someone ends up leaving the table to be sick.

Animals forget as well. Who hasn't seen the news article of the Burmese Python found dead in the Everglades after ill-advisely attempting to swallow an alligator. Here at home, we had a similar episode in Mrs. TSMK's fish tank, when our resident Cyphotilapia Frontosa male of approximately 6 inches in length made an attempt to swallow a Neolamprologus Leleupi of the same length. I walked in to the surreal site of seeing 3 inches of south-bound Leleupi sticking out of the mouth of a north-bound Frontosa. Odd. Odder still to see said Frontosa give up, release his grip, and the Leleupi wriggle out and swim away like nothing had happened. Sure, she was missing a few scales, but she's since gone on to successfully spawn in the tank on two occasions.

Fish can be strange creatures, and their willingness to eat anything and everything (unless you're trying to catch them of course, in which they feign anorexia with ease) is a source of constant amazement. It is also a source of knitting inspiration, as with Thelma Egberts' wonderful Fish Hat [dead or alive?] pattern, featured in Knitty last winter. I've just completed one for each of the two older boys. The younger fellow's hat most closely follows the pattern, although I played with the shaping of the fins a bit. The older fellow's hat diverges from the pattern in a number of areas, including the length of the fish, and the shaping of the tail and the fins. Plus, the striping of his hat follows the fibonacci sequence for no apparent reason. Here they are, although the discerning reader will note that the older guy has not yet learned the dangers of large appetites; his donut is bigger than his head.

~TSMK

There is no spoon

In the climax of The Matrix, Neo is finally able to see through the "reality" of what is appearing before his eyes. Instead of seeing Agent Smith he sees a stream of cascading information. He sees that the walls of the tenement building in which the scene occurs are actually luminous bits and bytes of data. And he sees that the bullet that has been fired at him is also data: data which can be manipulated however he sees fit. Neo has finally realized that there is, indeed, no spoon.

Usually, knitting lace is a lot like that scene. Honestly.

It sounds strange, but I typically find that somewhere in the course of a lace project, the pattern suddenly makes sense. I am able to see where I am in the pattern. To see how my current stitch relates to the pattern as a whole, and to see how one change of that stitch might change the pattern in significant ways. This is a kind of epiphany - and I always enjoy the chance to play "Neo with Needles".

Except, of course, for those occasions when the epiphany never arrives.

Unfortunately, that was my experience with the Curved Shawl with Diamond Edging from Jane Sowerby's Victorian Lace Today. Frequent readers of this blog will note that I've complained of this pattern before. The piece is now done, and I'm pleased with the result, but I have to say that I never did have an opportunity to express my inner-Neo with this one. The pattern simply never made sense.

Each individual stitch made perfect sense. Also, each of the rows was relatively straight forward, but the relationship of one row to the next consistently confused me. Partly, I think this is because there really aren't any rows of rest. Most of the lace work I've done has been in either straight stockinette or straight garter stitch - meaning that the wrong side of the work is either straight-across purl stitches or straight-across knit stitches. This pattern is arguably garter stitch in nature, but the wrong-side works a number of yarn-overs and decreases as well. Incorporating those into the work made it very difficult for me to see where I was at any given time within the context of the four-row repeat.

Also, once you manage to get the central section completed, you have the opportunity to work the edging all around the piece. Because the 16-row edging repeat connects to four rows of the central section, this takes quite a while. I managed to frog the edging section multiple times before getting it right.

All that said, I'm pleased with the result, and Mrs. TSMK seems to be as well. It came off the blocking this morning, and she immediately threw it over her shoulders to head out the door.

So, here it is. Curved Shawl with Diamond Edging - done in Plucky Knitter two-ply lace weight cashmere - Color is "Mouse of Madrone."

~TSMK

Jenny’s Scarf

Some time ago, my mother sent me an email, telling me how much enjoyed the blog, but posing a troubling question. Her email stated, in relevant part:

“Just a thought - - why is only Mrs. TSMK reaping the benefits of your beautiful work? Why not the TSMK’s Mother?? . . .

I remain
Your unadorned mother.”

What My Unadorned Mother (“MUM”) failed to mention, but which I subsequently pointed out to her, is that she was actually the recipient of one of my earliest knitting efforts, a fuzzy garter stitch scarf made from Trendsetter Blossom yarn (black with red flecks – available here). What I did not mention at the time was that I was already in the process of making her something else.

As frequent readers of the blog already know, I’m a big fan of Nancy Bush’s book, Knitted Lace of Estonia: Techniques, Patterns and Traditions. Long before TSMK’s dog savaged the lace peacock feather and fan scarf, I’d already begun working Bush’s extraordinary Lily of the Valley motif scarf.

By and large, the pattern is fairly easy and straightforward. That said, this piece was my first experience with the misery known as the “nupp.” For the uninitiated, nupps are made by knitting into a single stitch multiple times (typically 5 or 7 times) and then purling all of those newly created stitches back into one stitch on the next pass. The effect is to create a raised bump (more than a purl bump but decidedly less than a bobble) on the right side of the fabric. For someone with my general lack of manual dexterity, successful nupp-execution is about as difficult as playing Bach on the banjo. This difficulty was of course made worse by my choice of yarn: Rowan Kidsilk Haze.

As an aside, I might mention that I’ve now heard Kidsilk Haze referred to as “Kidsilk Crack” on several occasions. While this is an interesting concept, I find myself wondering what serves as the “gateway yarn” which leads you to Kidsilk Haze. As a secondary issue, the cost analogy doesn’t seem to work. Although stunned to find out that there exists such a website, a quick Google search suggests that the street value of crack ranges from approximately $100/gm to $160/gm – depending upon the size of the “rock”. Kidsilk Haze, on the other hand, seems to retail for around $15 for a 25 gm ball, suggesting an overall price of around $0.60/gm. Granted, my source for information about crack pricing is Canadian and my source for information about Kidsilk Haze pricing is US, so there could be some exchange-rate effect going on (or even some manner of nepharious crack and/or Kidsilk Haze arbitrage). Still, given that crack is approximately 166 to 416 times more expensive than Kidsilk Haze, the crack moniker seems overblown – or perhaps I’m just overthinking the issue.

Anyway, I soldiered on with the nupp-laden scarf. After much moral support at my LYS, I achieved détente with this infernal Estonian stitch, and managed to finish the scarf.

But there was a problem. Once finished and blocked, I looked at the scarf and realized it didn’t look anything like something I thought MUM would wear. MUM generally wears things that are brightly colored, and the scarf wasn’t particularly colorful. Also, although it hadn’t occurred to me before starting, I can’t say I recall ever seeing MUM wear lace. . .

So, MUM didn’t get the scarf. I held on to it for a number of weeks. After much thought, I realized that scarf looked a lot like something our good friend Jenny would wear and enjoy. So, one evening when Jenny stopped by the house, I offered her the scarf. That was this summer, and I’m pleased to say that now that our Pacific Northwest has turned cool, she’s had a chance to wear it a few times. In fact, earlier this week Jenny and Mrs. TSMK went to a book club together – Jenny wore the scarf.

~TSMK

It sounds better than "Klugman"

In my last post, I mentioned an unanticipated peril of working with cheap yarn. I’d undertaken the original attempt because, after reading the instructions to the Jared Flood’s Quincy pattern in the “Made in Brooklyn” book, I wasn’t entirely sure I understood the construction. Plus, I was honestly a little bit concerned about the name. I mean, seriously, why would you name a hat after Jack Klugman’s intrepid coroner? Honestly, I’m not sure the hat fits the shape of the man’s head.

I thought I’d give the Quincy (a/k/a Klugman) a test run in some especially lousy yarn – get out all the mistakes – and then make one for real. All of this was of course ruined by a bad case of degenerative yarn disorder (or DYD). (http://thestraightmaleknitter.blogspot.com/2009/09/swatching-for-primates.html)

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried about construction. Quincy knits up nicely.

Although I worried a bit about grafting the two ends of the moebius together, and also about picking up the stitches in and around the moebius overlap, it was actually very easy and worked well. The only thing I would change if I made another version in the future is the size needles used for the crown.

The pattern calls for you to use US size 10.5 for the moebius strip and US size 10 double-points for the crown (all assuming you get the appropriate gauge). Candidly, I got a very different feel in my garter stitch between the moebius and the crown. Some of that is related to the needle size. Most of that, however, is probably related to the fact that my double-point knitting tends to be looser (i.e., worse) than when I use circulars (which I prefer and used for the moebius).

Shown below is my Quincy, completed in Rowan Cocoon. Mrs. TSMK has indicated that she approves of the result.


-TSMK

Swatching for Primates

A few weeks back, I attended a class on gauge. The class was split over two Sunday mornings, with homework assigned between the sessions. The homework consisted of preparing two separate swatches (one on size 7 needles and one on size 8) each knit from the same skein of yarn. In this case, each of us in the class was using one of my favorite all-around yarns: Cascade 220. The swatches themselves would consist of a set number of stitches in stockinette (the theoretical number which according to the manufacturer would result in a 4 inch swatch), with a two stitch border of garter stitch on the sides. For rows, we were to simply knit until we had a finished swatch slightly longer than 4 inches.

The point of the exercise was simply to point out that even with the same yarn and operating with the same sized needles, everyone would get a slightly different gauge. Sure enough, in the second class session everyone had a slightly different gauge. My own work was fairly close to the gauge anticipated on the ball band. I attribute this happy coincidence to the fact that I try very hard to use almost no extra tension when knitting - simply laying the stitches in place - although perhaps it was just luck.

I wanted to take the gauge class despite the fact that I really dislike swatching. Strongly. In fact, I'm prepared to say that it is my least favorite part of knitting. All in all, I'd rather spend hours untangling a ball of two-ply lace weight silk yarn (http://thestraightmaleknitter.blogspot.com/2009/07/dogs-and-lace-story-of-canine-betrayal.html) than spend much time swatching. No, I wanted to get better with my gauge because I'd recently completed a sweater for my not-yet-then-born youngest son. Although I followed all directions in the pattern for the sweater, I failed to check (or perhaps refused to check - given my distaste for swatching) for gauge. The sweater looks nice enough, unless you happen to see the sleeves.

Now, we haven't discussed it before, but it is worth noting that neither I nor any known member of the TSMK extended family is actually an orangutan. It is true that I have occasionally been accused of being slightly too furry. It is also true that my two older sons greatly enjoy playing in trees. Nevertheless there are important chromosomal and morphological distinctions between the members of the TSMK family and most (if not all) orangutans. For purposes of my youngest son's sweater, the most important of these distinctions is in arm length. Orangutans are known to have arms which are occasionally twice as long as their legs. Humans, even if they are members of the TSMK clan, rarely have such an impressive armspan. By failing to check gauge (and adjust as necessary), I had inadvertently knit a garment for an infant orangutan.

Interestingly, I understand that the sweater might have fit an infant version of Michelangelo's David, as his arms are unusually long.

With this experience fresh in my mind, I enrolled in the gauge class and, having completed the class, I now feel compelled to check gauge early and often.

I first put my newfound gauge-testing mastery to work in preparations for making a hat. Specifically, I'd recently purchased Jared Flood's great new collection of patterns: Made in Brooklyn (available here: http://www.woolandcompany.com/made-in-brooklyn-jared-flood.html). Many (almost all, actually) of the patterns in the book are stunning. So much so that Mrs. TSMK has already requested several pieces from the book. The first piece she requested is the hat on the cover: "Quincy".

The hat has an interesting construction, with a garter stitch möbius bounded by built-in I-cords, from which you pick up stitches and knit the crown. Too cool. Anyway, I hadn't done anything quite like this before, so I thought it made sense to take a test trial. I grabbed from the deepest darkest recesses of the stash some ugly blue yarn of questionable parentage but roughly the correct weight and set to work.

Like the good student I am, I first knit a gauge swatch. I counted my stitches and rows over four inches, and decided to move down one needle size.

But the fates were aligned against me.

Roughly nine inches into the garter stitch & I-cord portion of the hat, something unusual began to happen. The diameter of the dreadful, scratchy and completely inorganic yarn began to change. Specifically, what was coming out to 15 stitches over four inches was now around 20 stitches over four inches. This had never happened to me before. Although in my efforts to learn to spin I've recently had occasion to make yarn of erratic diameter, I've never before bought machine-made yarn with this characteristic (i.e., flaw).

I'll be ripping out the offending yarn tonight. I may have some trial and error in my future for construction of the hat, but I'd rather do it with a yarn I enjoy and that I can depend on. Now if only I could get some Cascade 220 in a heavier weight. . .

-TSMK

Sometimes, a Viking just needs a nap

We come from the land of the ice and snow,

from the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow.

The hammer of the Gods will drive our ships to new land,

to fight the horde, singing and crying:

Valhalla, I am coming!

In my house, this tune is known as the "Viking Song" - although I kind of chuckle at the more overt xenophobia (or perhaps its just tongue-in-cheek) of Led Zeppelin's original title: "The Immigrant Song." Anyway, it's a big favorite of my two oldest, who are known to wail along with Plant as he garbles the chorus:

On we sweep with threshing oar,

our only goal will be the western shore.

Usually, hearing the song prompts my oldest guy to want to talk about Vikings, and in particular about Berserkers. History tells us that Berserkers were fairly terrifying - clad in the skin of wolves or bears and fighting with a ferocity that was seemingly unmatched in the ancient world. It has been suggested that the word "berserker" itself comes from a perversion of the ancient Norse words meaning "bear shirt." To me, that seems like it is a bit too convenient. What is clear, however, is that one of the lasting legacies of the berserkers' trancelike fury is our modern word "berserk."

Every May, our neighboring town of Poulsbo hosts Viking Fest. Billed as a celebration of the town's Norwegian heritage, it is actually little more than a street carnival and an excuse to eat funnel cakes and ride spinning rides (with occasionally disastrous results if you do both in rapid succession). Also, there's the swag. By far the most popular item seems to be the plastic viking helmet, complete with horns. They must sell thousands of these things, and I confess that my two oldest boys each have one.

Honestly, I've never understood the horned helmet. If you were going into battle, it seems to me that having horns affixed to either side of your head would just give your enemy something extra to grab onto. Anyway, who am I to argue with the historical accuracy of hundreds of years of Viking stereotypes?

The one problem with the Viking hat, at least as far as I can tell, is that it doesn't come in a small enough size. Also, metal and horn (or extruded plastic if you get your hat at Viking Fest) is kind of scratchy on delicate skin. What a guy really needs is a kindler, gentler Viking hat. One that pays homage to the fiercesome legacy of Viking warriors, while still being snuggly. One that works even if your idea of pillaging is rooting at your mother's breast.

Problem solved. Here is my youngest, in Viking hat made from Berroco Comfort. Snuggly and - since its a nylon/acrylic blend - washable. That last bit is really important - pillaging can get messy.

- TSMK