Authors: Stephanie Pearl–McPhee
Knitting Rules! (24 page)
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Is it possible â and I know this might seem a bit avant-garde â but is it possible that you have, in fact, not knit a hat?
Is it maybe something else?
Some knitted items have a destiny they are sworn to fulfill, regardless of your intentions. Attempting to force a skein to become something contrary to this destiny will result in revolt and perhaps a coup.
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Is it a tea cozy?
A light felting, a slit for the teapot handle, a hole for the spout and you could have something pretty, or at least unique.
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Is it a purse?
Imagine a strap and some buttons.
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Is it a skein of yarn?
Don't forget the ultimate solution. Undo the seams, free up the end of the yarn, and pull. Whenever I find the idea of a total do-over disheartening, I remind myself that I'm not going to use it the way it is. After a little thought (and possibly a glass or two of a decent merlot), I remember that I like yarn more than I like bad hats.
Socks
I'
M KNITTING SOCKS
for my husband. He's the worst kind of man to knit socks for. He has enormous feet and he likes his socks plain â no colors, no fuss, no stripes. He can occasionally be persuaded to put on socks with cables and stuff, but mostly it's round and round and round, forever and ever and ever.
When these socks are done, they'll appear ordinary, except that they're not. They are hours of my life, each one spent on him. He'll pull them on like they're run-of-the-mill footwear, they'll walk with him as he goes through his day, every day, until they wear out, and then others will take their place, these others also knit by me. It's this extraordinary ordinariness that makes socks special. That something as humdrum as socks could be elevated by love and then walked on ⦠it speaks to a certain magnificence.
The truth about socks is that they're humble and beautiful and noble, and in their lowness they're the highest form of art.
I like to think of myself as a person who is (at least in the eyes of the law and in my ability to be a parent) sane. I don't talk to myself in public (except for counting stitches or patterns); I don't rave or throw things (except when I fail to count stitches or patterns); and I hold down a job, buy groceries, and occasionally engage in normal activities like doing laundry. (I don't enjoy these activities, which I think confirms my sanity.) But none of these indications that I'm a normal, sane person with really, very little odd behavior go far toward explaining my feelings about sock yarn and knitting socks.
Ten Reasons to Knit Socks
They don't use much yarn. If you're broke, knitting socks lets you come up with a finished project without having to save up like you do for a sweater's worth of yarn.
They're portable. You can tuck a ball of sock yarn in a purse or pocket and turn out knitwear wherever you go. You simply can't say the same for a sweater project or an afghan.
Socks are not forever. They're one of the only knitting projects that, if used properly, will wear out. This means, unlike with hats and scarves, you can never knit too many.
Hand-knit socks are 100 percent better than store-bought. They feel so fabulous on your feet that there's almost nobody who doesn't want to only wear hand-knit socks from the first time he slips them on.
There are so many ways to make socks that you can do it no matter how you like to knit; toe up, top down, on DPNs, flat, on two circulars, on one big one. If you like to knit, you'll like to knit socks.
Having to do the second one is good for the soul and reinforces determination and stick-to-itiveness. (Naturally, if you don't possess these qualities to begin with, this could be a downer â¦)
Socks have parts. This is a big help to those of us who bore easily. There's the charm of the top, the thrill of the heel, the intrigue of the instep, and the joy of shaping the toe. Helps keep interest high.
Once you know the rules about knitting socks, you'll never need a pattern.
Human feet come in a huge variety of sizes: 3½ inches for a tiny newborn, up to 12 inches for a large man. This means that no matter how badly you choke on gauge, you're going to have socks that fit someone. You might have to mail them to a basketball player, but they'll fit someone out there.
Socks are a miracle of engineering. When you knit a sock, you're doing it the same way it has always been done. You're connected with knitters over the last 700 years, all making socks and watching them wear out.