Authors: Stephanie Pearl–McPhee
Knitting Rules! (37 page)
If your blocking plan involves the word
yank
it probably isn't going to work. This approach to blocking often involves things that are too short or too narrow, and is doomed to failure. Blocking is a subtle art.
Blocking is kind of like dusting and vacuuming. It makes all your stuff look the best it can, but it's still the same old furniture.
If your blocking plan involves big change â really big change like getting an extra 10 inches into a bustline â it's probably not going to work. Blocking will fine-tune fit but it won't give you an extra 10 inches. Knitting is an elastic form, yes, but with limits. This means that if you're able to pull it enough widthwise to get 10 inches in the chest, you will likely lose several inches in the length. This leads to noticing it's now too short and giving it a lengthwise tug, then seeing you lost the width and pulling there only to see it's too short again. (
Tip:
The number of times a knitter repeats this cycle is related to intelligence. Quit early.)
Blocking won't stop stockinette from curling. I'm
sorry; this is just the nature of stockinette and of stitches like it. There's nothing you can do. You're going to pin it out and steam it and stretch it and then when you pick it up it's going to curl. (Blocking again won't work either. I'm ashamed of how I learned that last one.)
Blocking doesn't fix mistakes. It can make stitches more orderly, smooth out work, make Fair Isle lie nicely, and convince work to hang properly, but in the end you can't rely on it to fix errors, only imperfections. This means if my sleeve cap is hideous because I twisted the stitches when I was picking them up, after blocking I'll still have a sleeve cap with twisted stitches, but they will be very nice and smooth and orderly.
Blocking will absolutely fix a neckline that's a little too chokey, a wrist that's a little too tight, and ribbing that clings annoyingly just under your rear end, making you look like an inflated balloon.
Wool blocks like a dream; acrylic, not so much. Acrylic â and I can't stress this enough â will go limp the minute you try to steam it. This limpness is termed “killing acrylic” and it can't be fixed. Never, ever steam (or iron) to block acrylic.
I don't know why this didn't occur to me before a few years ago, but it was a moment of inspiration when it did. If I'm wondering what's going to happen to something in the blocking and I don't want to wait until I've finished, I block it on the needles. Radical, I know, but it works. Just block the thing as is, right on the needles, and see what happens. If things look good, carry on; when you block the finished item, you won't see that part of it was pre-blocked. If it doesn't look good, my deepest sympathies, but at least you didn't knit the whole sleeve before you found out.
If you knit sweaters, the odds are you're eventually going to get it into your head to knit a cardigan. I love cardigans better than pullovers: When I get hot or cold in
public, it's much easier to get a cardigan off and on without wrecking my hair or pulling my glasses from my face. Considering how inelegant I am most of the time, I appreciate all the help I can get. A cardigan is infinitely more useful, but it's also a little trickier than the noble pullover. The sticking point, and there's always a sticking point, is that you must learn how to add (pardon me while I suppress a shudder) a button band.
Let's establish my bias. I hate button bands with the same passion and fury I felt when a girl named Cindy and two other pigtailed thugs chased me home from the fourth grade almost every day for a month. I hate button bands where you pick up stitches and knit the bands out, perpendicular to the fronts. They always look like I'm investigating free-form knitting until I've frogged it a dozen times.
To avoid this test of skill, I've accepted that the vertical-strip button band is my alternative. Sadly, there's nothing to love about the vertical band either. Simple instructions, though: Cast on 6 (or 7, or 10 stitches, just enough to inspire you to learn to knit backwards to
avoid turning for the 467th time at the end of the annoyingly short row) and knit back and forth, ad infinitum, until the band, slightly stretched, is the correct length. “Slightly stretched” is a particularly maddening description, isn't it? Isn't that subjective? What if you're kind of high-strung? Relaxed? It is my suspicion that the reason they give this vague instruction is that the exact appropriate length of a button band is as much a mystery to cardigan designers as it is to us.
When picking up the stitches for a button band, pick up two stitches for every three rows. This is supposed to work, is the rule that most knitters understand to be effective, and will likely bite you hard on the hind parts only about 35 percent of the time. No one knows why. If a band is convex (larger than the front), pick up a few less; if it is concave (smaller than the front), pick up a few more.
So here's my thought. Why knit button bands? Really, especially for vertical ones, why wouldn't you just include the stitches for the bands when you knit the fronts? I know it's not going to look quite as fabulous as it would the other way (that “slightly stretched” aspect adds a certain “je ne sais quoi”), and that a team of knitting examiners would be appalled, but what's there to stop me from adding the seven stitches for a band to the stitches for a front and keep them in rib while I knit it up? I'll do the front where the buttons go first, then I'll mark the rows I think should have buttonholes on the other side, and I'll knit them in as I go.
If a button band really makes you twitch, think about putting in a zipper instead of buttons. To do this, add a
few extra stitches to the fronts of your sweater (if you aren't adding button bands you need something to make up the width). If your button band was 1 inch, add a half inch of stitches on either side. Knit these in something non-rolling (like garter stitch) as you knit the fronts. When you're done and have the sweater sewn up (if you're sewing) and you get to the part where the instructions are to add the button bands, you can laugh like crazy and yell “Suckers!” (that's my favorite part) and sew in a zipper. It's satisfying.
After much experimentation, I have determined my own system for determining band length. I knit until I feel like I'm going to scream. Then I have a cup of coffee and knit until I feel bitter, burning resentment. Then I measure, have a little cry, and knit until I feel the apathy of the doomed. This is usually the right length.
Right or Left?
Buttonholes traditionally go on the right front for girls and on the left front for boys. Intrigued by this, I did a little research, wondering why on earth sexism would turn up in buttonholes.
It turns out that because girls were dressed by others (often their buttons were in the back), it was easier for the buttonholes to be on the right of the buttoner. Men however, dressed themselves (buttons largely on the front), so their buttonholes went on the left.
I can never remember which way it goes, but I figure that because we dress babies and children, theirs should be on the right, and because most adults dress themselves, I put theirs on the left. It makes me feel like I'm starting a commonsense revolution for buttonholes.
In life, much happiness is gained by traveling the path to self-acceptance. “Know yourself” is a goal touted by inspirational speakers, therapists, and mothers all over the world, and it turns out there's a way that applies to knitters as well.
The biggest hurdle to sweater knitting, at least knitting sweaters that fit you, is having a clear understanding of what size you are. Most knitters (including me) seem to struggle with this. I don't know if it's low self-esteem, poor body image, or the simply horrible reality that a sweater too small can't be worn but a sweater too big can be ⦠but most knitters overshoot wildly, knitting sweaters far too big for them.
When I decide to knit myself a sweater, I measure my bust, see that it's 37 inches, consult the pattern, decide that I don't want to get burned by making something too small and so pass over the 36 and the 38, and make the
choice to knit the size for a 40-inch bust. (No way that will come out too small. I'll be able to wear it even if there's a little bit of a gauge accident.) When I'm done and the sweater definitely isn't too small (in fact, it is voluminous enough that while wearing it I resemble a ship under sail), I get disappointed, claim my sweaters never work out and put another mental note in the mental box marked
Why I don't knit sweaters, proof number 17.
The RGR (relative gauge risk) with sweaters is admittedly high. The consequences of having a gauge accident with a sweater are not the same as with a scarf or a hat. If a hat goes belly-up in the gauge pond, I can find someone else to wear it, or rip it out and try again, without feeling too bad. If you aren't careful about gauge with a sweater, the pain is going to be real, vivid, and acute. The pain is so acute, in fact, that many knitters can't face it and will wear the thing anyway. The only way around the RGR of sweaters is to exercise caution and cultivate acceptance. Measure, swatch, measure, and accept. It's not an easy level of trust to get to.
The truth is that I've done it to myself by not achieving the acceptance stage. I'm not a fat 37 or a 37 that's bigger than most other 37s; I'm just a 37, and if I could get my head around that, my sweaters would look a lot better on me. You need to accept the reality of the body you've been given and not pretend it's other than it is. That way, you'll have a great-looking sweater that looks great on you.
It's tricky, and I'm sure Freud would have a field day
with the closetful of enormous sweaters I've knit. I'm sure the phrase “Napoleon complex” would be bandied about. (How big does this woman think she is?)
It's okay, and even sensible to (occasionally) interpret pattern directions as “suggestions.” If the pattern is asking you to pick up 57 stitches and you pick up 55 and it looks fine, there's no law saying you must rip it out and try again.
Likewise, there's no legislation saying your sweater can't have 3 inches of ribbing instead of 2½, or ¾-length sleeves because you like them better. Patterns aren't laws,
and there are no knitting police
.
If, after some experimenting and adjusting, you find the perfect sweater pattern for you, laminate it. It will serve as the template for many good sweaters to come. I have a laminated pattern that has sleeves the right length, a good amount of ease for me, and a neckline I believe is flattering, and I use it with every sweater I make. I can take the stitch pattern I like from one sweater and plug it into my favorite, and I can compare the width and length of a new pattern to know if it's going to fit the way I like. If I find another pattern I think would be great except for, say, the neck, I use my favorite one in place of it. A good basic sweater pattern that fits you nicely is a tremendous find. Guard it with your life.