Fricknits

Public Service Announcement

We interrupt this New Year's Blog Vacation for a special service announcement.  Remember bloggers, you put the YOU in Yarnival!  What's that you say?  There's no YOU in Yarnival!?  Thanks.  My point exactly.  Get over to Carole's blog and submit something for the next issue.  Monday is the deadline.  You've been blogging hard in the '06, and I know you've got something to show for it!

G-Frick

The tissue paper's in the bin, the Play-Doh's crusty, the card table's back in the basement and the fancy plates are wiped and stored.  Who's up for a meme?  Daphne posted this one the other day, and I asked her to slip me a letter.  She did so, sneakily, in the comments on my last post.  And it's a doozy.  It's a letter I barely ever use.  In fact, it's a letter that does not appear at all in this paragr...oops.

Here's the thing of it: ten topics, truthinesses, themes, or thingamabobs that begin with the letter G. 

Germane:  No, not the Jackson.  Words like "germane" and "genuflect" and "gamine" are par for the course when it comes to conversation with me.  Some people find this off-putting.  It was murder on me in high school. 

Grammar:  As I've shared before, there are certain grammar rules for which I'm a stickler.  Misuse of adverbs such as "hopefully," for instance.  "Hopefully we'll open great gobs of gifts tomorrow" literally means that one will open great gobs of gifts in a hopeful manner.  Which I suppose one does, given the popularity of fruitcakes, seasonal mugs, and coffee table books.  Homophone errors are the proverbial nails on a chalkboard.  However, I am horrible, with commas.

 

Grouper:  I once shared the back of a Mexican pickup truck with one.  It's a very big fish.  (That was a good movie, wasn't it?  "Big Fish"?  Oh, right.  Not germane.)

Greens:  As in the kind the Biscuit is not eating.  At all.  Any mothers out there know whether or not I need to get some vitamins for this kid?  Because I think he is in danger of becoming a cheese.  This diet deficiency was driven home to me when we visited our friends at the farm whose son not only eats greens, but will SUCK HIS GREEN BEANS THROUGH A STRAW.  I mean, what good are kids if you can't train them to do tricks?

Gob:  If you only ever do one thing I tell you to, then please, please, please get your hands on a copy of "Arrested Development."  Ten out of ten Anns agree; it's the best show ever.  And when I look at what's going on over at Stephanie's today, it makes me want to cry.  With all this power, we knitters could have saved that show!  Le sigh.

George: I have a very fond memory of being a child and watching Looney Tunes- the episode where Bugs and Daffy are abducted by Marvin and brought to Mars as companions for Hugo, his pet, the Abominable Snowman.  (An interruption: Isn't it brilliant that this was a big "of course" according to our childhood logic?)  And the Snowman strokes Bugs' ears and ruffles Daffy's feathers and says, in this totally goofy voice, "And I will love him and hug him and pet him and squeeze him and I will pet him and pet him and I will take him home and call him George."  Now George puts his snowmen on plates and eats them!  Where's that Abominability when you need it, huh? 

God:  See definition in The Devil's Dictionary.  Lower-case and upper.

Gawain:  I had a bit of a crush on my Arthurian Lit professor in college.  So I took Medieval Lit as well.  I have read the Works of Sir Thomas Mallory twice.  Who could resist, what with all the smiting of helms and passages such as this one: "Then seyde his dwarff, 'Take me your rynge, that ye lose hit nat whyle that ye drynke.'"  Ah, how I wish for my own dwarf to lend me helpful reminders in such situations.

Green:  Something strange has been happening in terms of my recent yarn purchases.  I've always been a purple girl.  I can't remember a time when it wasn't my favorite color.  Then comes red, hands down.  But I've been buying green yarn up by the basketfull, and planning green projects.  Maybe it's the Newness of the coming year.  Who knows?  Still, I'm a purple girl at heart.

Going, Going, Gone!  We're off to the farm tomorrow morning, and we'll be back on New Year's Day.  So it's a big happy early birthday to Cara (and her gorgeous G) and a marvelous and champagne-y New Year to all of you!

Let me know in the comments if you'd like a letter of your very own.  I'll give you one with great and glorious glee.

B is for...

Big Announcements: Yesterday as we sat by the tree and dusted colored chalk off of our holiday finery (the Biscuit got an easel), my sister handed us each one of these:

Bouncing Babies: Each ornament had something different inside, but all signs point to It's a Boy!  Check out what she "stashed" in my ornament.  As if I needed the hint.

Blue:  A Boy cousin for Biscuit!  And blue, blue, blue yarn that I jumped up and immediately pulled from the stash.  I am definitely going to make one of these and some of these go without saying.  However, I'm welcoming any ideas for a sweet little sweaters.

Blurry: Top to bottom that's STR Mediumweight in Stonewash, Koigu KPPM in some number, Lorna's Laces in Icehouse, and Hello Yarn Fat Sock in Gentle.  (Sorry about the blurs.  It was a rather blustery day.)

Befuddled: Guess what else B is for?  In the longstanding tradition of Baiting Me, (though I love you dearly, my little Bird) my sister told me that the baby's name will begin with B, and offered the following completely inadequate clues. 

1.  If you are a watcher of television, listener of radio, or reader of newspapers, you see/hear this name frequently.

2.  It has something to do with a geographical feature, but not one you'd necessarily see if you opened up any old atlas.

I'm totally bewildered.  Bamboozled.  Bemused.  But no longer a-mused. (And no, it is not Bush.  She likes Baiting Me, not making me cry.)  A little help?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

In the Weeds

I used to waitress at a Big Name Joint- the kind where every appetizer is described in the menu as if it were some fun-lovin', smokin' hot, yee-haw kind of experience rather than a deep-fried onion artfully sliced to look like a sea anemone or some such.  At any rate, whenever I was up to my eyeballs in medium rare Smokehouse Burgers, nacho platters, and Top Shelf Margaritas, I knew I could slide back into the kitchen and announce that I was "in the weeds," and another member of the wait staff would gladly grab my three baskets of Cheesy Dippers and take them to Table Four so that I could concentrate on the Sizzling Spicealicious Fajita Skillet balanced precariously on my right palm.  (Oh, the lawsuits that place risked, what with the hot grease and cast-iron being bandied about.)  And while a skillet of beef to the head is no thing to anticipate with glee, I have to admit I kind of loved that moment when I burst through the swinging doors into the kitchen with a wild-eyed look and announced, "I'm in the WEEDS!"  Imagine it.  Fun, right?

So on Wednesday, after the Night of the Living Knits, I packed up the Biscuit and headed down South to one of my top three favorite places on this green Earth- and the only one I can actually drive to- Quail Springs Farm, home of our dearest friends and their own little Biscuit.  And I left the Christmas knits behind.  Four dogs, acres of tall grass and piney woods, holiday tunes played on a National guitar, a bear who visits in the middle of the night, good friends, good wine, and plenty of room to run...through the weeds.  Ah.

   

I came home restored and ready to face Baby Surprise, so appropriately named because my sister, who is pregnant, will be telling us tomorrow whether we're expecting a niece or nephew.  I can't wait!  'Til then, though, it's yellow and green for the knits.  I really did end up enjoying making this little jacket, and I think I'll do another and post a tutorial for those like me who are completely spacially incompetent.  (For project details, check the Knits '06 album.)

So I'm in the thick of it again, with pork tenderloin to wrassle, shelves to de-clutter, tablecloths to iron, and gifts to wrap.  But I'm dreaming of those down-on-the-farm weeds, and I can't wait to return next weekend to usher in the New Year.  Here's to beautiful friends and wide open spaces. 

Down the Rabbit Hole

Alert readers pointed out that had I arranged the beer shot differently, I could have spelled out "etc."  (Apparently no one found it interesting or telling that I'd chosen instead the abbreviation for electroconvulsive therapy.)  Funny thing, that, because as we near Zero Hour, the holiday knits do seem to have developed a "voice" of their own.

Oh, you'll be warshed all right.  You've been wrapped, ribboned, rolled around bottles of Moutain Made soap, and sent.  Enough out of you.

Come on. There's plenty a plucky robot like yourself can accomplish with one arm.  What's that?  This is typical of me?  Always getting to that final step of a project and then leaving it for weeks?  Talk like that doesn't earn you parts, C-Creep-io.  Back to the basket with you.

Yes, yes, Baby Surprise.  I do in fact have enough yarn to finish you.  It's just that...you freak me out a bit.  I can't for the life of me imagine that you will actually turn into a sweet little sweater.  Hmm?  That's why they call it a surprise?  Enough of your cheek.  Banished beneath the sofa!  Surprise!

Why indeed.  It couldn't have been the photo in Handknit Holidays.  That just screamed mess.  Or sparkly innards.  No, that's not what convinced me I had to knit miles of i-cord with which to festoon the home on this, our first time hosting the whole family for dinner.  What's that?  You wonder if I'd like to know what the "i" is for?  Maybe you'd like to guess what this finger is for, i-ntestine.

So snide, you.  What.  You really think I can't teach myself two-handed colorwork, make several swatches to find gauge, (perhaps with a run to the shoppe to pick up the correct size needle), and knit this baby up in time for the holidays?

No, listen.  I'm motivated.  This hat is for Tim.  He went out on a limb and said to go for it with the wild orange and red combo.  I've joined a knitalong and been listed in the roll call.  I've pulled the correct Interweave issue with all the handy tips on colorwork.  I've chosen yarn for the lining.  This baby's gonna fly off the needles.

Okay, when you're right, you're right.  With family coming, and the Biscuit to tend to, the post office, the butcher, the choosing of a pork loin recipe, the decision about whether or not to jump into the lights-in-the-bushes fray...You got me.  This will be a New Year's hat.  A lovely, warm reminder of all that is to come.  The friendship.  The laughter.  The return of the light.  Yes.  That's better, even.  A New Hat for the New Year.

Oh, eff you.

*  Alert readers might point out that the time-intensive job of arranging and photographing the knitting with pieces from Biscuit's puzzles might in fact get in the way of proving said back-talky yarn wrong and finishing up the projects.  Smart readers will instead commiserate and confirm that yes, my knits have turned on me, and I have every reason to bitch.

Yarnival!

Welcome to Volume I, Issue IV of Yarnival! 

This issue is best perused with your choice of (a) hot cocoa (schnapps-spiked), (b) egg nog (rum-spiked) or (c) champagne (diamond ring-spiked), as befits the season and current state of your relationship.  This elf is all pooped out from sorting through your many submissions.  This was no Land of Misfit Toys, but rather a heaping mound of just-what-I-always-wanted-ness.  If you’re feeling left out in the cold, please don’t!  I’ll refer you again to your beverage choices and encourage you to submit to Carole, editor of the upcoming issue.  And now, laying a finger aside my nose, I present to you, Yarnival!

All Wrapped Up: Features

• Kirsty brings us The Book of Knit.What is your knitting inheritance?  Some of us have vintage needle collections.  Others can trace their knitty instincts back through the crafty family tree.  Kirsty’s a lucky one.  Her grandmother took the time to write it all down.

• TheAmpuT knows what the season’s all about.  …and that’s recycling orphaned blankies from the thrift shop.  Read to the end for a perfect holiday note.  Cue Tiny Tim, please.

• Over the river and through the woods with Cookie!  Forget grandmother’s house.  Bye-bye, Crate and Barrel.  So long, Cletus’s Christmas Tree Farm!  Let Cookie lead you on a couple of magical excursions instead.  First stop, the Textile Museum, and then it’s off to The Moon, Alice!

• Megan feels it’s time we all admitted it.  Online quizzes are the scented candle/bedroom slippers/bottle of wine/ Barnes and Noble gift certificate of the blog world.  They’re what you do when it’s the 11^th hour and you’re all out of ideas.  But in the right hands, such quizzes can be very clever indeed.  Allow them to introduce the Knitting Philistine.  Feel free to steal one.  What else you gonna give Uncle Lou?

Deck the Halls

• ...with socks of lace.  Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.  Nora’s free pattern is a frothy, whipped-cream-on-your-hot-cocoa dream for your feet.

• ...with less infuriating pom-poms.  Instructions can be found here.  Thanks, Kate!

• ...with novelty yarn.  Yes.  Let Robin show you how, and then thrill to Caro’s tale of how, lured perhaps by the glint of pub lighting on eyelash, a boozy reveler mistook her for a meth addict.  Wassail!

• …or un-deck them.  Laura shows us how to perform a bobble-ectomy.  Because sometimes—yes, even at this time of year—less is more.

Ho, Ho, FO!

• Pam wants to know, Do You Believe?  Santa, the Easter Bunny, Sasquatch, cotton intarsia that doesn’t suck ….  Join Pam as she pursues yet another elusive creature of myth.
• Meet Heather’s whacky uncle.  Every family has one.  Maybe yours is currently taking up some space on your couch, leaving walnut shells between the cushions, making off-color jokes about Yule logs or trying to catch sexy Aunt Susan under the mistletoe.  At least this guy’s also practical. 
• The shawls are just flying off the needles these days in blogland.  Here are three beauties.  First, I’m not sure what Leda’s Dream might have been, but it probably didn’t involve that damn swan.  Jenny’s perfect purple shawl is a sweet dream indeed.  I know I’ve got visions of sugarplums just looking at it.  Kiri(e) eleison, Kirsten.  And another in the overtly sexy shawls-on-chairs category.  Beautiful work, Laura!
• She shees you when you’re sheleeping.  She sheknows when you’re awake…  Turtlegirl76 gives us the whole she-bang.  She-does.  She-riously.
• Thrum, they told her.  A thrum-pum-pum-pum.  Fit for a king, Brooke! 
• “It was severe work, but of the sort that was exhilarating.”  Jack London could have been speaking of Aija’s Lizard Ridge.  (Or maybe of the arduous slog that is the yearly Christmas letter.)  Who needs To Build a Fire when you've got something this cozy around?  At least he got to hold it.
• What child is this?  He didn’t just knit it himself, he spun it, too.  Oh, and he’s still in grade school.  Let’s hear it for Hannah's boy!
• There’s something about brocade.  It’s the fabric of crackling fires, expensive stockings hung by the chimney with care, of steaming cups of Earl Grey, of wolfhounds loping ‘cross the moors ahead of lanky men holding slim rifles in the crooks of their arms, and Jenna.  Not Rowan material, my ass.

Stocking Stuffers

• Tim Burton’s not the only one.  Angela manages to combine horror with the holidays.  Oh, and she does just plain horror pretty well, too.
• Tinkertoys!  Drills! Cheapskates!  Ladies with curlers in their hair!  No, we’re not talking about Christmas morning.  We’re talking Bezzie.
• And speaking of stockings, check out Sarah's (mind you don't cut yourself), Mai's (love the Seuss-ified blog name), and Emma's (away in a manger).

Santa, Baby

The Kates have it this month.  What’s their secret?  Mistletoe?  Cookies?  Some tiny whistle only fiber-loving men can hear?  Whatever it is, let’s all remind them that the spirit of the season is sharing.

• You might get an iPod.  You might get some cashmere gloves.  Dig deep in that stocking and you very well may come up with a nice, round Florida orange.  But kiddo, I gotta break it to you.  Not everyone gets a Richard.
• He doesn’t love her in spite of the knitting addiction.  Far from it.  This wooly love story begins in a Soviet bread line, meanders through years of love and stash enhancement, and ends with a marvelous FO.  Zhivago-esque in its sweeping scope, this story is worth the read for the vintage photos alone.  Do I hear Laura's Theme?

From the Editor

There it is!  I hope you enjoyed this month's Yarnival!  Or at least that you were in enough of a boozy haze by the end that you will remember that you enjoyed it, which is basically the same thing.  If you're new to Yarnival!, please check out Issue I, Issue II, and Issue III, which are chock-full of Yarnivaly! goodness.  If you'd like to edit a future edition of Yarnival!, please let Eve know.  And remember to leave comments to let these bloggers know you stopped by, else it's coal in the knee socks for all of you.

All I Want for Christmas

...is this photograph, in a colorway.

A dear friend sent this photograph when we requested snapshots for Melissa's room in the ICU, and I quickly developed a rather intense feeling for it.  A kind of longing.  That red (tomato?)!  That blue (ice?)!  That yellow (saffron?)!  And a sprinkling of lime/cotton candy/chocolate!  This photograph just makes me weak in the knees with desire.  And not a little hungry.  I'm sure, if you have any kind of a sock yarn stash, that you know what I'm talking about.   That hunger for color.  Go ahead, admit it- you've nibbled.  I'm sure it's related to the strong urge I have to bite one particularly toothsome toddler. 

Shopping over at Adrian's the other day, I picked up an acid dye kit.  You people who know about dyeing yarns- are you laughing into your mordants?  Can this be done?

*  The friend who took the photograph has his own photo blog here.  Pay him a visit!

** Also, Santa, please give us a new word for "colorway."  I'm begging you.  I've been such a good girl.

The Magic Number

One of the little reader's/writer's "tricks" I try to instill in my students is the basic truth that the human brain is hard-wired to appreciate certain numbers, and especially three.  Seven will work in a pinch (Deadly Sins, notes in the musical scale, mysterious Prince lyrics), but the truly magic number is three.  Pigs, stepsisters, goddesses bickering over golden apples, items Jack brings down from the beanstalk, chances before you get turned into a goon, members of the Holy Trinity, roots of Yggdrasil...  You get the picture.  I have bought into this theory hook, line, and sinker (see???), and it sometimes puts a cramp into my blogging.  As in: Can't post the two Jess Hutch creations I've finished.  Must finish the third first!  Today, however, the stars (the three in Orion's belt, I'm sure) aligned for me, and three lovely things happened.

1.  My Meathead was chosen by Larissa and her publisher for the upcoming book!  Given the lovely hats made by all those who joined up, I am both humbled and completely elated.  Woot!

2.  I started to get a migraine today, so I left work to come home and take one of my take-this-at-the-first-sign pills, and therefore had a lovely Mental Health Hour to myself.  What did I do during this hour?  Why, put the George Michael on and dance my fool heart out to "Fastlove," that's what! 

3.  I arranged, along with T, C, and E, to bring a Christmas tree to Melissa's parents' home and help them to decorate it, and there were no time conflicts of any kind.  These three are some of the most wonderful boys a girl could ever hope to have in her life.  The kind who hold your hair back when you're praying to the porcelin Poseidon, the kind who take your recess duty when you've had it up to here with Youngsir Totalsnot, the kind who will stay all night at the hospital reading chapters from Me Talk Pretty One Day quietly into an ear, just hoping the one they're reading to is taking some comfort in the familiar sounds of Sedaris.  God.  I have three more seamless hybrids to knit, don't I?

*  Now, I realize that you first thought to yourself that the three beers were the "lovely things" that "happened" to me today.  There are a few hours yet in the day.  Anything is possible...

Color and Chaos

A little while back I posted my Meathead and so many of you commented about the buttons that I figured they were worth a photo.  These buttons were all my mother's, and had been stored in a huge Ziploc bag, with individual baggies for each color.  We had a five year-old visitor this weekend, so I thought I might dump them all into a bowl so she could play sorting games with them.  Turns out she was more interested in such typical five year-old pursuits as The Alias Game ("Now I'm Paulie!  No, Darla!  Call me Quincy.  Why, hello there.  How do you do?  My name is Shawn Colvin."); No, I Won't Eat Your Pancakes; Why Are You Taking Pictures of Yarn, Julia; and I Don't Like Your Vaccum Cleaner.  However, I still managed to take lovely, artsy photos of the buttons, and of Biscuit's own set of huge plastic ones.

Aren't they nice?  What a good little blogger I am.  How orderly is my life.  How crafty.  How clean.  The Biscuit is such an angel.  Why, as I write this, he is busy building a replica of Abe Lincoln's birthplace out of hand-hewn blocks his daddy made in his garage woodshop.  After which we plan to cover pinecones with peanut butter and birdseed while wearing hand-stitched smocks and hang them from the tree in the backyard with grossgrain ribbon while I trill away like Snow White, a squirrel perched on one shoulder, a reed basket over my arm.

You know what's coming, right?

Gratifying, isn't it?  This is my dining room table.  Total chaos.  But this is my life, and the longer I look at this photo, the more I see the truth of it.  There's knitting- one of four Jess Hutch projects I'm working on for the holiday, a package ready to send out to Kelly who was my 1,001st commenter, my Meatead, Mr. Frick's Furious George album, Biscuit's toys, a pamphlet on grieving, ornaments waiting to be crafted (look to the upcoming Yarnival! for instructions), packages from Robyn and my delightful secret pal, and a bit of my dear Hanny, because a bit is all I get these days, with my best girls scattered hither and yon.

I'm going to start taking more of these kinds of photos.  Because when I look back, it won't be the pristine white background that gives me the warm fuzzies, will it?

Coming soon to Fricknits: Is green the new purple?  How did Fricknits get stranded?  Who doesn't love a robot parade?  And yes, Virginia, there will be knitting.

The Waiting

As I write this, I'm waiting.  Waiting for the another page to load so that I can leave Margaux a comment about her gorgeous Swallotwail.  Waiting for Activity Period to be over so that I can walk down the street to Marvelous Market and get myself a little something for lunch.  So while I wait for the page to load, I'm glad to be able to write a post.  And while I walk down the street, I'll be cursing the cold that keeps me from being able to knit the miles of I-cord I need to complete for garlands before Christmas.  Was I always such a multi-tasker, or did motherhood- and its neverending demands that I keep up with This (dirty diaper), That (laundry), and The Other (oh, yes, the cats), all at once- do this to me?  I can't wait anymore.  I must be always doing.

Or maybe knitting did this to me.  I can't sit down without needles in my hands.  Watch a movie?  Without yarn in my lap?  No way.  I knit while watching my son eat dinner, in between wiping his hands off (he's a bit compulsive) and jumping up for more "dippy" (ketchup/marinara/syrup).  I knit while reading before bed.  I knit during carpool (two repeats of Branching Out a day).  When I have to sit too long at a stoplight, my hands start to twitch.  I'm sure you know the feeling.

Maybe I've been thinking so much about waiting lately because we're all still wrapped in the iron blanket of events of the past month.  There's no rushing this.  Grief, healing, recovery takes time.  We are forced to stop in our tracks.  Even those of us who initially responded by doing, doing, doing now find ourselves a bit bewildered and frozen.

Jess, over at Fig and Plum, posted the other day asking for favorite Etsy sellers.  As I spent a happy hour (or two) surfing through the listed favorites, I noticed that the items I was most drawn to were postcards, notecards, and stationery.  This wasn't a conscious thing, but rather a pattern that emerged as I followed link upon link.  My shopping cart started to fill up with cards from PhotoBird, The Black Apple, and Young&WithIt Industries, all of which arrived yesterday.

And while it may be silly to think that a minor shopping spree has visited itself upon me in order that I might embrace Larger Truths, I do think that my desire to snatch up stationery may just mean it's time to slow down and practice that art that my grandmother and mother still hold dear- letter writing.  It's not as tap-tap-tappy quick as email.  You can't knit while you do it.  You have to wait, wait, wait for your recipient to find it in her mailbox.  But at the end there's the gift of the handwriting- the personal mark- and the time it took.  So here's my first New Year's Resolution: I will write at least three letters a month in the coming year.

Waiting is so hard.  We waited for today's good news about the Kims, and we still wait to hear about James.  Today my students, who are also Tim's (Mr. Frick's best friend is also my co-teacher), planted 600 bulbs on the playground in honor of his wife Melissa.  They laughed and pulled at the oniony skin while they waited their turn, but when they stepped out onto the dark earth to plant them, it was with quiet reverence.  And now we wait until April, while winter does its slow work. 

 

It will be beautiful.  Well worth the wait.