Kilt By Association

Of the three Scott daughters and the two Scott daughters-in-law in my family, I am the only one who can sew.  This is a dubious distinction, since it means that the care and keeping of the kilts worn by our clan has fallen exclusively to me.  I'm not complaining; I love Scottish clothing, and everything about the way it's made.  I count myself as one of the keepers of my family history, and this is the way I do it.  Some people archive photographs, some trace geneology.  I look after the tartan.

I am fortunate to have learnt at the knee of some pretty fine tailors in my time.  Some of them taught me to bag vest linings, One taught me to tie a ballet tutu (highly guarded trade secret: don't ask), from one I learned the gentle art of kiltmaking, and still another taught me to shorten a man's sportcoat sleeve in ten minutes or less.  Be advised that this last is more about being swift with the needle than any clever tailoring tricks.

These skills, I felt confident, should have prepared me for altering the sleeves on my brother David's gorgeous new kilt jacket.  For the uninitiated, a kilt jacket is very special, in that its proportions are specifically designed to follow the rules of kilt-wearing; namely that it has to be the perfect length in relation to the length of the kilt's pleat stitches.  Too short and the lad wearing it looks like a bullfighter, too long and he's a Catholic school girl.  David procured his stunning specimen in Scotland last year, where his tailor fitted it to his kilt with precision.  The tailor was too behind on work though, to perform any sleeve magic before David had to go back to the U.S.  Knowing what shipping a jacket from the UK would cost should he leave it for further work, and knowing that his sister loves him, David brought his jacket home to me.

Here is the first thing that happens when you have to shorten a kilt sleeve (okay, second; the first was a medicinal belt of Single-Malt to put me in the proper spirit):  You gut the thing.
 

Here's the poor wee beastie with all 8 of its gauntlet cuff seams torn asunder.  If you are at all clever, this process will cure you from any further interest in kilt-jacket-cuff-gutting.  Nasty piece of work, that.

The next part is simple, but not easy:  You have to cut into the perfect Harris Tweed fabric with your long shiny shears.  You need both confidence and fortitude.  Having cut open a few hundred sweater steeks is good preparation for this moment.  So, in my case, was a second draught of Single-Malt.  I needed it for spine-stiffening purposes.

Here's the poor wee beastie with all 8 of its gauntlet cuff seams torn asunder.  If you are at all clever, this process will cure you from any further interest in kilt-jacket-cuff-gutting.  Nasty piece of work, that.

The next part is simple, but not easy:  You have to cut into the perfect Harris Tweed fabric with your long shiny shears.  You need both confidence and fortitude.  Having cut open a few hundred sweater steeks is good preparation for this moment.  So, in my case, was a second draught of Single-Malt.  I needed it for spine-stiffening purposes.

This is a picture of the Tailoring Gods laughing at me to the point of Snot Bubbles.  My hand, in this picture, is neatly inserted into a specially-finished slot in the kilt jacket lining.  Prior observation of this slot's existence would have saved me opening and closing ALL 8 SEAMS.  That's right, Gentle Readers: The brilliant Scottish tailor (factory seamstress, probably) who built this jacket had the cleverness to recognise that its gauntlet cuff faced a high probability of alteration.  He/She cunningly included this inspired lining device, in order to save me and my ilk from preforming the very surgery that I had just done.  I cannot believe the sexiness of this lining slot.  I have seen many things that tailors do in order to save (and yes, torture) their brethren, and this one takes the shortbread.  If only I had SEEN IT in time. 

I'm blaming the Single-Malt.  Everybody knows drunks can't sew.

Looks pretty yar, if I do say it though.  Calls for a congratulatory dram, I think.

I Could Tell You, But I'd Have to Kill You

Here's a sneak peak at the top secret project I'm working on:

Sorry, but that's all I can give you until publication.  I just wanted to offer:  A. Some context for my sniveling about corrugated rib, and B.  Proof that I really got it done.

But enough about me.  It's well past time that I took your temperature, Gentle Readers.  What are you working on?  Weigh in, won't you, and distract me from my pain with tales of your project fortitude?  Comment with your tour du jour, be it knitted lace or baseboard trim.  Send me a picture, with permission (or not) to post it, so we can all commiserate and congratulate one another properly.  I know there's more knitting in Heaven and Earth than my tiny mind can conceive, so let's have it, friends.  What's on your needles today?

As added incentive to share, I promise to award prizes and/or honorary titles to the best, worst, strangest, etc.

Thinking Globally

In addition to surviving a heatwave (turns out beer is cold, as well as delicious!), I have been working this week on a project that I can't show you.  Suffice it to say that this particular project begins with corrugated ribbing, which I both love and hate, in equal measure.  I love it because of course, it's beautiful.  There is nothing like corrugated rib for showing off color-changing yarn.  It also has the clever effect of providing garment shaping, where none has actually been knitted.  And let's not forget those vertical stripes:  Slimming!  So Slimming!  But unfortunately, corrugated rib always brings to the party its ugly stepsisters:  SLOWNESS and PAIN.  Knitting 306 sts with two strands on a size one needle is a colossal pain in the ass.  And when some dumbass designer gets cute and specifies that the ribbing has to go on for SIX INCHES, that's just ridiculous (I'm looking at you, mirror!).  And for some reason, making ribbing always hurts my elbows.  Picking, throwing, left or right, ribbing seems to hurt me, no matter what I do (other than obstain, like smart people).

By way of distracting myself from the self-inflicted dumbassery, I did a little mental work on a design for Collier's Irish Aran.  To that end, I pulled out Sabine Dominik's gansey book for reference.  My thought was to adapt a Japanese pattern that I love, but cannot read (and whose gauge is a total mystery), so I leaned on the English version of Sabine's book, which has been translated from the original German.

And that's when it hit me:  I am an American knitter, reverse-engineering a Japanese pattern, with the help of a German book, translated to English, in order to make an Irish sweater.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?