The Jasminian Devil

At some point in the last week, my grey cashmere Looped Loop cowl went AWOL. It might still turn up, but I've already gone through the five stages of grief, and at this point I'm assuming it's gone. Forever.

The problem is that this cowl has essentially been part of my neck on every day where there was even the slightest chill in the air, and due to it's fabulousness, I can't imagine life without my precioussssss Looped Loop cowl. Even now, I clutch at my neck and feel the absence of a Looped Loop.

Last night, as I determinedly moved through the phases of my grief at Warp 9, I decided to deal with this loss the way any healthy knitter would.

I would knit a rebound cowl. This cowl would be *more* fabulous than the original cowl. This cowl would *really* show the Old Cowl what it was missing by being gone. The Old Cowl would see me in a crowd with my New Cowl and desperately wish it had never left me. This New Cowl would help me get over the Old Cowl, and would be BETTER.

I went stashdiving, into my Bag of Cashmere. I pulled out the two contenders that I had envisioned for the New Cowl, and checked the color in the mirror. (I bought most of the cashmere pre-pink hair. Matching color can be an iffy proposition, sometimes.)

They looked AWFUL. With my natural hair they would look spectacular, but until that point, they clashed something fierce. The whole point of the New Cowl was to look spectacular. This would not do.

I contemplated my options. I remembered some bulky Debbie Bliss yarn that I bought from WEBS in 2005- deep teal Merino Chunky, to be specific. I had given a friend of mine half the bag to finish her Cleaves, so I knew that what I was going to make needed to be smallish. (As opposed to a sweater.)

Teal is one of those colors that I've always worn very well. I wouldn't necessarily call it a neutral color in my wardrobe, but it matches a good cross-section. I love teal, and I don't wear it nearly enough.

I dove into the depths of my stash, and found the yarn pretty quickly. Five balls of the Merino Chunky. Perfect! I grabbed a set of 10 1/2 needles, did a little quick match, grabbed my skein of Fugly Acrylic for the provisional cast-on, and got in bed.

For those of you playing the home game, it's now 10:15 PM. Andrew has - very patiently - said NOTHING about the impersonation of the Tasmanian Devil I have been doing for the last hour and a half - running around the house, leaving messes and angry smoke in my wake. Perhaps "Jasminian Devil" is more apropos. For your safety, this is what the Jasminian Devil looks like, avoid her at all costs:

You'll know the Jasminian Devil by the crazed look in her eyes. Also, note the bared teeth. 

I climbed into bed, Elphie sprawled across my lap, Niki laid down on my feet, and I turned on an episode of Battlestar Galactica. Lest you think all Elphie does is bring me fabulous gifts, she is also a wicked snuggler - but there's a catch. Once Elphie is snuggling you, she usually decides (at some point) that she is done snuggling, gets up, and lays down elsewhere. We have a policy of staying put for snuggles.

I start trying to do the provisional cast-on, which I have done no fewer than one million times, and something is wrong. I can't get it. I have a dog sleeping across my lap and feet, and if I get up I will RUIN EVERYTHING. Seventy-plus pounds of dogs will be displaced, and the chaos of bedtime politics will ensue. After one episode, I finally figure it out, and get the New Cowl started. The dogs are still there, sleeping soundly on my feet and lap.

At this point, I fire up the next episode (I <3 Netflix Instant Watch!) and start knitting. In one episode, my cowl grew TEN inches. Bulky yarn and big needles are awesome. It is now Very Late, I am Very Tired, and neither of the dogs has gotten up to shift or get more comfortable. I am also out of yarn, since I only brought one into the bedroom.

Doing my best impression of an earthworm, I slowly wiggle myself down into bed, without displacing or disturbing either dog, give my New Cowl a longing glance, and turn out the light.

There is nothing like waking up to a beautiful new project on your nightstand. Take that, Old Cowl.**



**Old Cowl? I don't mean it. Come back. I love you.

Bourdain, beets and bed

Since Monday night, I have been doing a fabulous impression of a zombie. I came down with the flu, and like every other time I get sick, I *might* have been a little melodramatic.

I *might* have told Andrew, "This is the one that kills me. I just know it," to which he lovingly responded (while rubbing my back and fetching and carrying for me) with something like, "That's okay, go into the light. I'll catch a new wife with your stash."

In any case, when I'm sleeping, I'm incredibly suggestible. Meaning, if I fall asleep watching The West Wing, I dream I'm working for President Bartlet. This goes doubly for when I'm sick. If I'm watching the Food Network, I dream about cooking, and if the stupid TiVo flips over to a show with zombies in it, I have wicked awful zombie nightmares.

Recently, I've been watching a fair bit of Food Network, mostly because of Laura'nge, the Joy of Cooking Fairy. Good Eats, Chopped, Cupcake Wars, Ace of Cakes, and No Reservations are all on the TiVo. Mom happened to be watching No Reservations, which is a great show, whether you're lucid or not.

In my case, I have been falling asleep to a No Reservations marathon (thanks, Netflix Instant Watch!) - which is not a comment on Mr. Bourdain's charisma or content, more a comment on how utterly wiped out I have been. I have had dreams of incredible foods in incredible places I have yet to go, usually with Tony. This is odd, since my chef of choice would ALWAYS be Richard Blais. (I *heart* his mohawk! And his mad skillz in the kitchen. Molecular gastronomy is the next thing I try.)

In one of my fever dreams, I was in Eugene, Oregon (one of my favorite places in the whole world), picking beets off of trees next to a stream with Anthony Bourdain. I know that this is a deeply flawed dream, the first issue being that beets don't grow on trees. Chances are also good that they don't grow by streams. And that Anthony Bourdain wouldn't be using kitchen shears to cut them down, even if they DID grow on trees.

But who knows? Maybe in a world where beets grow on trees, I'll be cutting them down with Anthony Bourdain. In my dreams, at least.

Elphie's Gift

This post is two weeks old, mostly because Stitches managed to take over the better part of two weeks. 

Two weeks ago, I sat down at my computer with my cup of coffee, and proceeded to start my day the way everyone should. I drink my cup of coffee, download podcasts, check Ravelry, and then go get dressed and start my day. It's a very civilized way to begin your day, and I highly recommend it. That goes doubly for knitters.

It's not uncommon for the dogs to come and go through the dog door as they please; that's why we installed it. It's also not unusual for them to take a toy (or five) out to the patio to play on a nice day. That's just how our house works- and they also usually bring their toys in and put them away. (They put them under the table instead of the shelf, but I'm not about to complain.)

We have one TERRIBLE dog toy, which I'm 99% sure Andrew picked out. It's an elephant, and it's supposed to sound like an elephant trumpeting, but it really sounds like someone screaming like they're being put through a wood chipper, feet first. It's loud, startling, and naturally, the dogs love it. (I'm not saying that the dogs deserve to be limited to squeaky toys, but I'm also not keen on jumping out of my skin for their entertainment. Selfish, I know.) The elephant is small and grey, and is an important part of this story.

As I was enjoying my Civilized Morning Routine, Elphie went out the dog door with the elephant toy, and shortly after, came back in with something in her mouth. At first glance, it looked like the elephant toy. Then she turned towards me, and there was an eight inch tail.

Tail? My brain processed slowly. She proudly dropped it next to me. In my kitchen, at my feet.

RAT.

I screamed. I don't think I've ever screamed like this in my whole life, mostly because I've never been so startled.

I didn't stop screaming. I pointed at the dog gate (which they got behind) and continued to shriek at a pitch and volume that threatened to shatter every window in the neighborhood.

I took a deep breath, stopped screaming, and thought about packing up the dogs and going elsewhere with them until Andrew became available for body disposal. This was a BIG rat.

It might still be alive, said a voice in my head. You need to get it out. Now. Before it wakes up.

The thought of an R.O.U.S. loose in my home was enough to help me screw up the courage to put on my grown-up pants and do it myself, right away. I refused to spend one extra second with this thing, so I ran through the kitchen and garage, opening every door (and the lid to the trash can) in order to create a speed course (which is the opposite of an obstacle course, and I might have invented it).

I grabbed my biggest dustpan and it's accompanying broom, and I was ready. I took a deep breath, ran around my table to get to my maximum speed, swooped down to grab the (stiff) body, then proceeded to scream as I ran through the last leg of the kitchen, the garage, the side yard, dumped the body in the trash can, and slammed two doors behind me.

I'll admit that this wasn't my proudest moment as an adult. I felt stupid for being so grossed out, and more stupid for the uncontrollable shrieking. I let the dogs out from behind the gate, and as I did, I realized that my feeling stupid wasn't the worst thing.

Elphie went and laid in her dog bed, ears down, tail down, shame in her eyes, and laid down with her back to the room. She put herself in time out. Niki just did his thing, completely unmoved by the events that had just transpired before his doggie eyes.

Cat owners will tell you that you should never behave like I did when your cat brings you a trophy. You are supposed to say "Thank you", praise the cat for their supreme hunting prowess, then deal with the body calmly. You do *not* shriek like a harpy, set up a speed course, and unceremoniously dispose of the dead body extremely thoughtful gift. This lapse in etiquette may have caused Emily Post to turn in her grave.

I had to act quickly. I called Andrew up to appraise him of the situation, and told him what an EXCELLENT hunter our Elphie is, in the most cheerful and proud voice. I also told him how THOUGHTFUL it was of her to bring me such a WONDERFUL trophy, and how *I* behaved abominably.

As I told Andrew the story, he laughed himself silly. Elphie was listening, too, and both ears and the tail came up, and eventually I got a smile out of my girl. (There's an idiom I learned as a teenager for this; it's talking to the doorframe so that the door will hear you.)

Could you really deny a smile like this?

I really do believe that having dogs in my life has made me a better person, mostly because they've taught me about love. Love is, apparently (for those of you playing the home game), apologizing even when you're *not* wrong and graciously accepting a gift that has been given with love.

Even if it *is* a dead rat.

Sympathy for the chicken

I'd like to start his post by saying that I don't like chickens. I don't like that they peck or flap, and to be completely honest, I don't even really care for the flavor or texture of their meat. I may also suffer from a bit of alektorophobia. I am, however, a huge fan of chicken stock/broth and eggs. (Not together.)

I would also like to make it clear, that this is NOT a political statement; it is just a personal epiphany that I'm sharing. 

While at knitting on Saturday, somehow the subject of chickens, eggs, and the treatment of animals in industrialized food came up. (We have a very deep and knowledgeable knitting group.) I think that the subject came up because of an episode of Bones, where there was a murder connected to a cage-free chicken facility.

Andrew and I had watched the episode together ("The Tough Man in the Tender Chicken") not long after we had an argument a civilized discussion about why we were paying twice as much for free-range eggs as we were for cage-free eggs. And for that matter, why we were paying twice as much for cage-free eggs as we were for regular eggs.

Free range eggs cost 5 times as much as regular eggs, for those of you who are comparison shoppers. I do not share the Cordelia Chase philosophy of "I don't want it because it's more expensive, I want it because it costs more." There needs to be a good reason to pay more.

I couldn't tell any difference in the flavor or quality of the eggs, and I felt like it was a waste of money. (After all, I eat a lot of eggs.) Andrew, who was in charge of egg-collecting for his mother's hen house lo those many years ago, felt differently. For the record, Andrew has no love of chickens, either.

Andrew argued asserted that it is wrong to keep chickens in cages, and I have come to agree. Unlike with dogs and crates, where a crate isn't considered to fit unless the dog can easily turn around in in and lay down comfortably, there is no such standard for chickens.

While I don't care for chickens, I do love dogs, and the idea of stuffing an animal in a crate to live out it's life until slaughter is abominable. Especially a crate that is too small.

A chicken, free-ranging around the Retzlaff Winery. It's probably a wino, but I would be, too, if I lived there.

Back to Bones. They showed cage-free chickens, and it was chickens moseying around (as best as a chicken can mosey when kept wall-to-wall). I pointed out that while this wasn't ideal, it also wasn't terrible. (It's a gross episode, and in a Fast Food Nation kind of way.) That's when Andrew pointed out the difference between cage-free and free-range.

To be honest, I didn't really think about it after that. When we were talking about industrialized chickens, Laura'nge talked in depth about the conditions. It made me ill.

Usually, I just move on and think about other things, but the conversation stuck with me. I thought about it all night, and into Sunday.

So, here is my (albeit predictable) decision: we will be buying free-range eggs. Not because they taste better, not because they're more economical, but because it's the right thing to do.

...And I don't want to keep chickens. Just like how I have agreed to not bring home dirty fleeces, Andrew has declared that we will never keep chickens. It may have been in our vows.

Give novelty a whirl

Spinning novelty yarns is challenging.

I know that when people start spinning, it's really common for someone to say, "Wow! Your first time and you're spinning novelty yarn already!"

All right, I'm cool with the encouragement side of it; in fact, that's a much better approach than ripping someone's first spinning off the wheel and deeming it sub-standard. (Though, it would make a really funny SNL sketch. Niche, but still funny.)

I picked up the Sit and Spin DVD last year, and co-erced a friend (and the podcast intern) into giving novelty yarns a spin. The intern (K, the Wünderteen) was stellar at it. British Mary and I were... not so much.

Mary had the Bulky Plyer Flyer, and decided that she hated spinning novelty yarn. I decided that it must have been an equipment issue, because all I knew is that I MUST HAVE COILS. (In fact, if the DVD had nothing *but* coils on it, I would still have thought it was a good deal. They are SO FREAKING COOL!)

So, when Kevin over at HansenCrafts sent me a MiniSpinner to review, I spun sock yarn on it. I spun woolen fluffy yarn on it.

I spun coils on it.

I didn't say that they were *good* coils.

I'll be the first to admit, they're not amazing. Or created evenly. But I did it.

It was challenging to do. Based on the numbness in my lip afterward, I had my "concentrating" face on the whole time. You know what coils are? Fun.

How could you look at this and NOT want to [at least] try it?

Shame on you for not labeling your stuff, Mystery Etsy dyer! NO SOUP FOR YOU!

In any case, while my next coils might be less epic, I will love them just the same. I'll just have to wait until I get a MiniSpinner of My Very Own, since the review one is going back to Kevin this week.

Also, for those of you in the Blizzard-y states? I hope the groundhog declares Winter over. I also hope he's wearing day-glo, otherwise you might miss him.

Dr. Jasmin is In

We all have Days. (You know, the kind Mama told you there'd be?) It's not fun or interesting to talk about those, so let's talk about something that never ceases to make me feel better.

Cashmere.

Do I have your attention?

Working with cashmere has scientifically been proven to lower your blood pressure. Even sitting in traffic, simply stroking a ball of cashmere is enough to soothe the ragiest of road ragers, and can get you out of a moving violation. ("I'm sorry officer, before you write that ticket, you should pet my ball of cashmere.")**

As we all know, stress is a killer. It's responsible for sleepless nights, weight gain, bad skin, and poor decision-making. (When was the last time you made a really *great* decision, stressed out of your skull? Think about it.) Also? I've never heard anyone say, "I really am regretting this cashmere _____."

Why? Because cashmere is never a regrettable purchase. I've never seen someone do the walk of shame back to the store after buying a cashmere garment. You know why? Because it never happens, unless it's to exchange it for the right size. Which is totally different.

I have some cashmere in my stash (all of which I've bought on sale) and I've knit a little bit of it here and there. During the Social Pressure Experiment, Chloe talked me into some hot pink cashmere (which wasn't hard to do at 50% off), and I have been waiting and waiting to cast it on.

After a day full of exciting, enriching, and character building challenges, I dove headfirst into my stash and cast on my Mariah. And then I knit a whole bunch, while reading my buddy Elizabeth "The Blizzard" Zimmermann, and then re-reading How to Knit a Love Song. (You should read it, especially if you're a fan of romance novels.)

Looks good, right?

I knit the body in about five seconds. (Up to the armholes anyway.) Time twists, bends, and loses it's meaning when you're working with cashmere. You don't need a sonic screwdriver, or a Doctor. Just some cashmere.

When I got to the armholes, I discovered something delightful. This is a yoke sweater! Before fall of 2009, I had never knit a yoke sweater before, and it turns out? I LOVE THEM. I love that you knit like 2/3s of each of the wretched sleeves, you join them to the body, et voilá!

The sweater you're knitting? Looks like a sweater is flowing off of your needles. It bears repeating, especially given how much of a thrill it gives me.

Speaking of wretched sleeves, Mariah's sleeves are still utterly charming. Clearly, either she is good at what she does, or we're still in the honeymoon phase because I simply can not get enough of these cables:

Yes, the color is accurate. Retina-searing pink!

They are truly potato chip knitting, in the purest sense. (When I was 16 years old, my mother first used the term "potato chip knitting" to describe turning cables.) I must be running a fever, because I am looking *forward* to the second sleeve. (These sleeves really have too much going on for me to knit them simultaneously. Also, I'm watching TV while I do it.)

The really amazing thing is that I have two sweaters worth of beautiful, luscious, soft handspun wool that are ready to cast on, and I can't be bothered to put down the cashmere and cast those on. I can hear you weeping for my predicament.

Please, don't weep for me. Just think, the next time you have the chance to buy cashmere on sale, "I'm prolonging my life."


** This is not true at all. It's science that I just made up. Feel free to post it to Wikipedia and cite me as your source. None of it is true, and you should never do anything you read about on the internet, especially my blog.

Mini and yet, mighty!

Wow, you all went nuts for the meatloaf muffins! How rude of me not to offer my blog is taste-o-vision. (Please post your taste-o-vision requests here.) What I like best about meatloaf is that it's high in protein, and even higher in deliciousness.

If you're short on time, or like your food portioned out for easy party-eating (or lunch packing), the muffins are the way to go. I'm going to steal borrow Mom's mini loaf pan and try it in that next, but I have a feeling that the muffins will win the day.

For those of you who requested the recipe (waaaaaay more than I expected) here you go:

Start with The Joy of Cooking; go buy it now if you don't already have it, and buy it locally if you can. Recycle Bookstore in Campbell is where I go for buying my cookbooks, when Laura isn't giving them to me, that is.

(Full disclosure: I'm friends with the owners, and actually helped move the Campbell location. I still pay for my books, and I would still shop there even if I didn't know and love the owners.)

I'm not going to rip off Ms. Rombauer or either of the Beckers, and if you don't already own this book, you'll be glad you got it. So, here are my changes, since learning how to cook involves changing stuff:

- Ground beef instead of the meat they suggest. (I like the texture better.) I'll also get the meatloaf meat blend from Lunardi's (pork, beef, and lamb) if I'm sure that Sam isn't eating with us because it's less expensive and there was no noticeable taste, moisture, or quality difference. (Sam doesn't do pork, for those of you who were curious.)
- I mix it all together with bare, freshly washed hands. I feel that you can better taste the love that way, and we all know that love is the secret ingredient. 
- Cupcake tin instead of greased loaf pan. I use paper liners, and an ice cream scoop to measure out the meatloaf into the cups.
- Cook time: about 25 minutes, until the middles are 160ºF (71ºC, you're welcome metric people)
- Let them rest and cool for 15 minutes (900 seconds, only because there is no metric measurement for time, and that's a shortcoming in my eyes), and enjoy. (Enjoyment is required.)
- If you're doing side dishes, start them when you pull the meatloaf out to cool. The timing will be perfect.

Last but not least, the other awesome thing about meatloaf is that it takes 10 minutes to throw together and then you have the whole time it's in the oven to knit. The bonus is the virtuous feeling you get when you know that your dinner is cooking away and you have nothing to do but wait for it to be done.

My meatloaf knitting? My cashmere Mariah:

Knitty, Winter 2004. My Mariah.

(Now I have a feeling that Blogger will be getting "feel-o-vision" requests. I just ask that you wash your hands first.)

Betrayal tastes Italian

Andrew and I have been together for a long time. At the beginning of our relationship, we went out for Italian food a few times, and when Andrew asked me what kind of food I like, I told him that I don't really like Italian food.

Now, before I have the Italian contingent of my readership get up in arms, I don't like going out for *most* Italian food. I can make my own pasta and sauce at home, easily and inexpensively. What I do like to go out for are things like gnocchi, which are fiddly and deeeeeeelicious.

Andrew took my statement to mean that I absolutely, positively, never-ever-EVER would EVER want to go to an Italian restaurant. EV-VER.

While we were in Long Beach for TNNA, we went to a PHENOMENAL Italian restaurant, La Parolaccia, and I had the most incredible saffron gnocchi. Here, have a bite:

Mmmmm, tasty!

Of course, I've never had anything like this at home, but I thought I should revisit all of the Italian restaurants in my area, just in case. For science.

This train of thought led to the idea of buying pre-prepared gnocchi and making the sauce myself, and other tasty (and simple to make) dishes, including lasagna.

With that thought in mind, I called Andrew from the hotel, and said, "Hey, what would you think of me making some lasagna?"

"Lasagna! I would LOVE it! It's my favorite food ever!" Andrew exclaimed, and then went on for TEN minutes about his love of lasagna, which he never breathed a word of previously.

The information was staggering. It was like I found out that I married a Cylon. Who loves lasagna.

"I... I don't even KNOW you!" I sputtered in a silly way, but still feeling a little upset that he never told me. What kind of monster am I?

"You said you hated Italian food. I didn't think it was a dealbreaker. I have Stouffer's lasagna when you go out of town," he told me.

"Stouffer's?! Why don't you just stick a knife in my HEART?" I said, owning my melodrama.

He paused for a moment, and I said, "Ok. So, I'll check the Joy of Cooking for a recipe for lasagna."

"All right! I'm looking forward to it," Andrew said.

So, fast forward to this last week. I checked my trusty copy of Joy of Cooking, and I made the Tomato sauce with meatballs recipe (variation 2). I did the whole thing, shaped the meatballs, the whole megillah:

Homemade meatballs! Eat your heart out. Or until you're full.

Those meatballs are nasty little things. They taste delicious, but the oil pops and spatters, and while they were well-behaved for the photograph, they were NOT well-behaved in the pan. At a certain point, I screamed a few choice words at them, and then decided that browned, season ground beef would be just fine in my sauce, and that the Kitchen Police would not come and get me.

I prepped the lasagna for Sunday Game Night (a new tradition in our house, inspired by Meghan from the Stitch It! Podcast), and realized that a lot of the ingredients were the same as for meatloaf.

To show that I really and truly am earning my grown-up merit badge, I did the prep and got the meatloaf muffins (Emy corrected my referring to them as "meatloaf cupcakes") baked while LukeWarm was already working, the way he does. Barely any extra prep, and zero extra dirty dishes.

Whaddya think?

One cupcake, one serving. Tidy!

Oh, and for those of you who were wondering? The lasagna turned out awesome; I saw some leaving the house this morning in Andrew's Star Trek lunchbox. Ignore me, I'll be busy high-fiving myself over here.

To my Momsicle

Happy birthday, Mom! I'm so glad you made it.

Let's be honest, things were a little touch-and-go before your last birthday, and I'm not the only one who was worried. But we are *so* past that.

Thank you for teaching me. You've taught me all sorts of things, from how to fold an egg (which I think is still a misleading term), read, knit. You taught me how to be fabulous, by your fabulous example:

 

You taught me to have fun, and not take myself too seriously, and to make a face when someone points a camera at me, because our faces *won't* stick that way:

By example, again.

You taught me to always try new things:

Costello's, Sock Summit 2009

From kiwi to micro-brew, we always try three bites (or sips) of everything, and we never summarily dismiss anything as gross before really giving it a try. Especially if it's the "weird stuff". You also taught me that sometimes a recipe can't be salvaged, and getting pizza is always an option.

Mostly, you taught me to have confidence in myself. Not the "Check out these groovy hotpants!" confidence, where I automatically assume that all of my ideas are the best, but the confidence to think things through, then say, "This is what I'm going to do. Get on board or get out of my way."

You're my biggest supporter, and my favorite co-pilot on a road trip. Nobody can peel the wrapper off a burger like you can, or make the best of a gross situation.

You always go along with my crazy ideas, like when I called you in the middle of the night to tell you that we should do a podcast, and you said, "Ok... What's a podcast?"

You're the heart and the brains of the podcast. You tell everyone that you're "just the co-host", but that's totally not true. You're the talent, I just run the equipment and fill the empty spaces.

I always tell people that I have the best mom, and it's true. There are so many people who couldn't imagine living so close to their families, and I couldn't imagine living anywhere but. I'm so lucky to have a mom who loves me, and likes me as a person. I'm glad that we're friends now that I'm an adult, and that you still pull rank when I need a little motherly direction.

Happy birthday, Mom. I hope that there are whole bunch more that we can share.

Knit like a Zimmermann

(To the tune of "Walk Like An Egyptian", preferably the version by the Puppini Sisters. Go listen, you'll love it.)

I'm ashamed to admit that though I co-host a knitting podcast, I've never written about the podcasts that I listen to- which is why we podcast. Because we love listening to them!

One of the new shows that has popped up in the last year is Knitting Pipeline, hosted by the charming Paula, who also is a bagpiper. (Also, how great is it that there's a niche for bagpiping and knitting?!)

Paula knew Elizabeth Zimmermann personally, and they corresponded by mail. For those of you not in the know, Elizabeth is considered by many to be the mother of modern knitting, such as it is. I knew *about* Elizabeth's books, and I have owned all of them for quite a number of years, but I never deigned to read them- I just collected them for the patterns.

Two years ago, I knit a baby surprise sweater and complained that Elizabeth's directions weren't breathe-here-blink-here clear. You'll forgive me, right? I was young, and it was the impetuousness of youth speaking. I am Much Older and More Worldly now. Also, I just flipped to the pattern, I didn't read the book, and as everyone knows you should read directions All the Way through.

Given that earlier this year, Elizabeth's patterns and books were described to me to be more like recipes than strictly knitting patterns, this makes much more sense. However, if you're used to The Joy of Cooking and you get a family recipe that says "a pinch here" or "a dash there", (or my favorite, "cook until done") and you happen to be a child who thrives on structure and exact measures to feel comfortable initially, it's enough to reduce your normally composed self to tears.

So, I'll say it.

I was wrong.

What? You couldn't hear me?

I was wrong. WROOOOOOOOOOOOONG.

Elizabeth is brilliant and personable in her books. (Nod if you already knew that; this is my fresh discovery, please share the enthusiasm of novelty.) I don't normally care for people chatting with me in my literature, but it seems that Elizabeth and I have a lot in common. She has a lot of tips and tricks (and my beloved math, in the form of percentages!), and I'm eating it up faster than dessert at Marché.

The only thing that could make me feel closer is if she reached out and asked if she could have the last glass of Syrah- after all, we've been sharing the bottle while I read.

The Blizzard (my nickname for her, since we're good friends now) makes me want to go dig in my back room and start a percentage-based yoke sweater. She makes me want to sing "The Blizzard and I" at the top of my lungs.

Her writing has inspired some of my favorite writers, most notably Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. It's like seeing 10 Things I Hate About You then seeing Taming of the Shrew (preferably performed live, if you're lucky enough it's at Shakespeare Santa Cruz). It's so similar, but the original is what has inspired (now 3) generations of knitters. Good quality and sensible thinking will always outlast the test of time.

Now if only I could get her books on my Kindle. Then, I could have my buddy The Blizzard with me all the time, and not have to weigh down the corners with my lazy Kate and not break the spine.