Stuck

Every single one of the following problems is my own fault.  I know it.  Which is why I want to be very clear:  I'm Not Complaining.  Complaining is for weenies, and gets you nowhere, and  as everybody knows, There's No Crying in Knitting.  So I'm Not Complaining.  Issues about which I am Not Complaining, in no particular order, are:

1.    I need three more colors of yarn to go any further on my Super-Juicy new Color Theory class project.  I ordered all the right colors to make a yarn color wheel.  And when they arrived, three of them were not at all right.  Not even close.  Wrong-a-Palooza.  So I had to order three replacements (whose rightness I am now also beginning to doubt), and they aren't here yet.  I tried to get started on the project, thinking that 9 out of 12 colors ought to be enough to do something with, but stunningly, when 2 of the missing colors are primaries, the wagon finds the mud pretty fast.  Lucky for me I'm a patient soul who waits happily.  Not.  But, I'm Not Complaining.

2.    I made a sock.  And it's so sexy I'm just dying to show it to you.  In fact, it's so fabulous that I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to start the second one, a phenomenon which has occurred approximately NEVER.  I do not have enough yarn for the second sock.  The dreamy stringmaker who gave it to me will absolutely make more.  I know it.  But I don't know when.  Not today.  The wagon sinks deeper, though I'm still Not Complaining.

3.    The Frog Prince is a black sweater.  The sun is bright, and my eyes are (sorta) sharp, but stockinette on size 2's is something best done in a series of small sprints, rather than a marathon.  My enthusiasm for the re-manufacture of this piece is waning.  The wagon has slowed appreciably.  A weaker knitter might moan and groan that there's nothing else to work on besides boring black stockinette.  But that would be Complaining.  Which I'm Not.

4.    Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.  I HATE hot.  Which is why I live in a temperate rainforest, where it slobbers with rain at around 40 degrees, for about 11 months of every year.  This is the 12th month.  My living room has become the surface of the sun.  All forward wagon momentum has ceased, while we sit around watching each other dehydrate.  No one has slept in days, which has the four members of family Huff somewhat cross.  And by "Somewhat Cross", I mean that I am considering eating my young, and they have hinted that they would welcome the distraction.  Their father has fled to the air-conditioned comfort of a temporary summer job, and the company of adult associates.  Lucky Bastard.  But I'm Not Complaining.

Clearly what's needed here is a different wagon.  Or less mud.  I'm going to take another whack at the color theory project; maybe design the class flyer while the yarn makes its way to me.  And I'm going to write the pattern for the sock while the yarn for its mate is being born, knowing that whenever it arrives will be the perfect time to make the second sock.  As for the frog, I'm going to try working on it somewhere else (frozen foods section of the grocery?) to see if the change in scenery revives my enthusiasm.  Which leaves only the snarling masses of my family to sort out.  Obviously, I'm going to have to eat them.  I'm sure I'll miss them when they're gone, but I promise I won't Complain.
 

Is This Thing On?

Last week I had a great time chatting with Kelley Petkun on the Knit Picks Podcast.  We talked at length about my new book, Teach Yourself Visually Color Knitting.  If you have a few minutes to spend thinking about knitting today, kick back and listen to our chat HERE.

Discussing each chapter in the book reminded me all over again how proud I am of this work, and how much I enjoyed doing it. 

Just for fun, after you've heard the interview, why not come up with your own interview question for me?  What would you, Gentle Readers, like to know about Color Knitting? You know I love hearing what's on your minds.  Post your query in the comments, and I'll fire back answers on Wednesday!

Spaghetti Western

I hate to cook.  No one who has met me will be surprised by this.  Eating is fine, and I'm swell at it, but the hunting/gathering/burning required to make food get on the plate is somehow just too much for me.  And my family agrees:  As a cook, I make an excellent knitter. 

It's a bitter irony, then, that as my children get bigger, it's more and more necessary that I woman-up and make food for them.  Sometimes, like, three times a day.  It turns out to be true what my mom told me when I found that stray cat:  If you feed them, they just keep coming back.

Phillip does his part in the kitchen.  He's every bit as weak a specimen in a Chef's hat as I am, but he hates it WAY less.  He even thinks it's fun, so when he's available, he does a lot more of the snackmaking than I. 

But yesterday, Phillip was sick.  He caught the gnarly chest cold I had last week, and was benched for the day.  Which meant it was all on me when dinnertime dawned.  I hadn't been to the grocery in a few days, so pawning it off on the Smallies as a chore was right out:  I was going to have to work without a net.

I spied noodles and a can of tomatoes in some cobwebby recess. Thoughts of an Italian feast danced in my head.  Garlic?  Check.  Tomato paste?  Check.  I even managed a bit of Italian sausage, left in the frozen rubble of some prior attempt.  Done and Done.  And while I was foraging, there presented itself a small plastic container (WARNING, COWGIRL, WARNING!) of tomato-based substance which would have to be leftover pizza sauce.  It passed the sniff test.  I even tasted it, just to be sure.  Dancing, as I was on the razor's edge of culinary improvisation, I was leaving nothing to chance.  Definitely tomato sauce of some ilk.  Into the pot it went, while the noodles bubbled.  A Caesar salad kit and half a loaf of Italian bread materialized, and I really began to feel that I'd dodged a bullet.  The enticing smells even brought Phillip vertical, long enough to make it to the dinner table.

All was right with the world.  Until I tasted it.  

Subtle notes of maple, chipotle and smoke tiptoed across my tongue.  A cloying sweetness argued loudly with the zing of garlic, right there in my mouth.  The afterburn of jalapeno (or something) chased sweet sausage all over my palette.  The cacophony of flavors collided and ricocheted; swallowing was impossible, and only my napkin could save me.  Eject, Buckaroo, Eject!

The tomato-based substance I threw into the pot had been Barbecue Sauce.

I sat there with my eyes watering for a while, wondering why nobody else was gagging.  Phillip could obviously not taste the problem, owing to his having a cold.  The children were not complaining.  Nor, I noticed, were they really chewing, so ravenous had they become in the eleven minutes since their last meal.

And that's when it dawned on me:  This terrible cook has been blessed with a family who cannot taste.  God is Good.