For Meghan, with a little help from my friends

Last year, Meghan knit a beautiful sweater for herself. Unfortunately, it was Way Too Small for her. It happens.

When she mentioned on her podcast that it was Way Too Small and was debating a course of action for her (basically) finished sweater, I pinged her and asked if she thought it would fit me. After a brief moment, she said, "Yes," and I offered to knit her a sweater in exchange for the one that didn't fit her.

She sent me a gorgeous sweater, which is very Meghan. Meghan has the kind of style where she can throw clothes together and look stylish. If I do that, I just look homeless and usually colorblind. But look at this gorgeous thing!

Gorgeous, right?

It's fun, and matches a TON of stuff in my wardrobe.

After some discussion, Meghan chose the Twist cardigan (by Bonne Marie Burns, who is a genius) in a heathered hunter green.

First, I started by sending her a a photo of the yarn, to confirm the color:

Cascade 220, out of my stash

Then, the swatch:

Swatching in the car

Then began the sweater. And the taunting.

As I made progress on the sweater, I learned a few things. The first was how to drop down and fix a cable without ripping back on the sweater. The second was a reminder on how much I LOATHE sewing in sleeves. But you know what I do love? Knitting ribbing and cables.

This shade of green makes me think of the drive up to Oregon. Woodsy.

This sweater traveled all over creation with me while I worked on it, and I LOVED knitting the body.

Terrible color. I'm blaming the piano, where I chose to photograph it.

I can't even tell you how pleased I was to finish the body, and how proud I was when I pinned it to the bust. I might have left it there for a while and admired it whenever I walked by it.

This picture makes me think of a figurehead. For the SS Kay.

The body of the sweater felt like it was FLYING off my needles I was working it so fast. The sleeves? Not so much.

It's not that knitting sleeves is hard. I think it's mostly that the bloom is off of the rose with the garment at that point**. There is also the needing to knit two-ness of it. I usually knit my sleeves two at a time using the magic loop technique, but I didn't for this sweater. Mostly.

I started them two at a time, but between the tangling of the yarn, the turning the cables without a cable needles, and the general ennui caused by the knitting of sleeves, I decided to take a couple of the (possibly emotional) roadblocks out of knitting sleeves.

You know I don't like knitting sleeves because there are ZERO photos of the sleeves in progress.

The sweater sat and sat and sat, pieces all knit, waiting to have the sleeves set in. I kept putting it on my to-do list, and *somehow* I managed to forget, or run out of time, or pretend that I had forgotten and ran out of time.

Chloe knew about the sweater, knew that the pieces were done, and has always knows how much I *loathe* finishing work. I had fresh cookies at the house, and Chloe informed me that she would be coming over and setting in the blasted sleeves. T-minus one week to Camp KIP.

And then, the finishing FLEW. I knit the buttonband, found a volunteer with Meghan's bust size so that I could place the non-negotiable buttons, Mom sewed in the grosgrain ribbon while I did our laundry and got prepared for Camp. I sewed on the buttons, which I bought at the Button Emporium, and used buttons that looked like little pewter balls of yarn for backing buttons, and one lone sheep.

I redid the buttonholes four times. Each fancy buttonhole I tried was too much for the perfect little buttons. With great regret, I fell back on the YO, K2tog buttonhole that I learned so many years ago, when I was knitting my first sweater. It was a perfect fit for the sweater.

It just needed *one* more thing.

My finishing touch

I sighed a huge sigh of relief, tossed it in my backpack, and the sweater joined us on our adventure to Camp KIP.

There was a little more taunting before delivery, but my faaaaaaaaavorite thing was when I finally gave it to Meghan:

She likes it! Meghan likes it!


**One exception: unless the sleeves are the interesting part of the sweater. See: Mariah hoodie.

The Finger

I know you're all chomping at the bit to hear about my adventures in St. Louis, and you will my preciousssssssses. (Actually, if you really are, you can hear the recap here.) But first I must tell you about my Magic Finger.

I was leaving yoga, and I was planning to hit the Farmer's Market. I usually hit the one by my house, but I was in the mood for some variety, so I called Andrew up to see if he wanted to join me for a trip out to the Mountain View Farmer's Market. It's twice the size of ours and has loads of good stuff. (I used to go to that one when I was doing yoga in Mountain View.)

As we pulled in to park, I saw the mayhem in the first aisle. Cars were stopped, bumper-to-bumper, hoping to get into a spot. The next aisle was as clear as a summer's day, and so, I calmly turned there.

CHAOS!!!

At that moment, a car overheated, so I calmly stepped on my brakes. What happened - in nanoseconds- took my idyllic aisle and turned it into what felt like a major intersection in the Middle East. People were driving on the wrong side of the road, doing three point turns at Warp 9, and OH! the road rage.

I kept my cool, and saw a guy walking up by my car, to get into a car next to me. I hit my turn signal like it was an adrenaline shot to the heart and patiently waited for him to pull out of the parking spot. As soon as my near and dear friend had cleared out, I slowly scooted up to calmly turn into my spot.

At that very moment, an Opportunist squealed around the corner with the express purpose of nabbing my spot. Mind you, my signal had been on and I had been waiting patiently. It was precisely that scene from Fried Green Tomatoes, and I was Kathy Bates. I *might* have felt a Towanda moment coming on.

As I saw it happening, I stepped on my brakes, shook my index finger at them and yelled "NO! NO! NO!" as if they were a small child and I was their sweet-but-strict British nanny. (In my imagination, sometimes I'm British.)

They stopped cold.

I couldn't believe it. That had worked! My finger had a superpower!

While Andrew laughed himself silly, repeating, "I can't believe that worked!" I calmly pulled into the spot and parked.

... and also *might* have - with the windows rolled up - yelled "TOWANDA!" triumphantly. Just maybe.

Beauty, love, and dual fuel

I have a weakness for beauty.

A well-made piece of clothing, a stylish shoe, a stunning skein of handpainted yarn. My wardrobe - and my stash - did not end up the size they are on accident. This goes doubly for food.

I'm sure you're not surprised- do a search on Flickr for food, and you'll find enough glamour shots of food to make the most moderate eaters feel like gluttons. Check a foodie blog and you'll be drooling and gaining weight just *looking* at all the goodies.

This last week, everything I bought at the farmer's market was beautiful. Slender asparagus, perfectly round and cheerfully colored turnips, and multicolored potatoes.

I know. The potato is a humble vegetable, and the object of much anathema, given the carb-negative feelings people have these days. I love me some carbs, so how could I resist a bag of these beauties:

Purple, red, gold

I didn't have an idea of what I would use them for, but I HAD to have them. The gal in the booth thought I had LOST MY MIND. They were perfect and tiny - fitting comfortably in the palm of my hand, and SO beautiful. This picture doesn't do them justice, but my enthusiasm wouldn't allow me to photograph them one second earlier.

Speaking of beauty, I should introduce you to the newest man appliance in my life, Richard Blaze. But first you need to know what happened with Luke.

For those of you who were Luke fans, here's what happened. Luke was ailing. His temperature sensor had gone, and his timer was going. It was time. We called our home warranty folks to see if he could be fixed, but he was so old.

They suggested we send Luke to go live on a farm. A farm where old ovens can live out their days burning food without fear of reprisal. It was really what was best, hard as it may have been.

So, at the suggestion of the contractor, we made a pilgrimage to Airport Appliance, and lo and behold, there was the range and oven I have been waiting for my whole life.

Readers, meet Richard Blaze.

It was love at first sight. We saw each other across a crowded room, and that was that. It was meant to be.

He is named for my favorite Top Chef, Richard Blais [WARNING, noisy site]. In fact, the finale is tonight, and I'm rooting for Richard.

Permit me to wax poetic for a moment. I LOVE when people are good sports on shows that are effectively creative competition. Richard (the namesake) is affectionately referred to as "The Professor" or "Professor Blais" in the Top Chef kitchen, mostly because he's willing to help out his competitors when they need it. This means that everyone is competing at the top of their game, and that's more interesting for everyone.

He's totally brilliant, his dishes are inspired, and he is completely adorable. AND! He's going to have his own show on the Science Channel, Blais Off, which is the answer to the trainwreck that is Marcel's Quantum Kitchen. (Time for the tinfoil hat- I was complaining that Blais should be doing a show on molecular gastronomy, not Marcel.)

But back to *my* Blaze. He's a dual-fuel range and oven, and I love him. We have spent a lot of time getting to know one another. I read his manual and he delivers on all his promises, Itellyouwhut.

And see that drawer on the bottom? It's a BAKING DRAWER. I can bake one tray of cookies or biscuits without heating the whole big oven!!! And convection baking! I can't tell you how cool it is to bake three sheets of cookies or cupcakes at once. (The neighbors can vouch for it's coolness, since I've been sharing the cookie and cupcake love.)

Now, for the next frontier in earning my kitchen savvy merit badge: molecular gastronomy!

Tomfoolery and foolishness

The year is 2011. I have been working primarily in tech since 2000, and I am just now, today, figuring out how to use a feed reader to read my blogs.

I think my main issue was that I thought a feed reader is unnecessary. I had a folder in my bookmarks for blogs, would open them all up in tabs, and check my blogs daily that way. Verne, the 90-year-old man who lives in my head, thought that feed readers were fancy and pretentious.

Verne is the voice in my head that uses words like "foolishness", "tomfoolery", and "nonsense". Verne comes out - mostly - when there is something that offends my good sense. Like paying $4 for a hand-poured cup of coffee (which takes 15 minutes). Verne thinks that for $4, that cup of coffee should vacuum my car while I drink it. (He thinks other things along those lines, but the car vacuuming was the most polite, if you get my meaning.)

Don't even get Verne started on pre-chopped vegetables at the grocery store, or yoga clothes that cost more than work clothes. He is gruff and completely unapologetic about his opinions.

Verne doesn't like taking pictures with cell phones at dinner.

Verne is also the first to admit when something is a Really Good Idea. Like the green plastic doohickeys at Starbucks, that keep your coffee from spilling out of the drinking hole while you drive. He's also a big fan of the Cricket loom, cooking on a gas range, and TiVo. (He LOVES the TiVo. He's 90 years old and he doesn't have time for commercials. Nonsense and foolishness.)

I read the directions on how to use Google Reader, and Verne and I agree that it's genius. It's clean, easy to use, and best of all? A Really Good Idea.

Goodbye, bookmarks. Hello, Google Reader!

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.