MRS. W. AND HER SON JAMES

There aren't many paintings that are so iconic, so instantly recognizable that practically everyone knows who painted them.  Da Vinci's "Mona Lisa" and "The Last Supper", for instance.  Or Van Gogh's "The Starry Night".  There's also Munch's "The Scream", Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam", Vermeer's "Girl With The Pearl Ear Ring",  Wood's "American Gothic" and a few others.  But in my mind, one painting trumps them all as far as recognizability goes.  Mention Whistler's Mother and I think almost all of us can envision this classic work of art in our minds.  ....  OR CAN WE?

First of all, there's the title.  I know I've been aware of this painting since I was very little, around five or six years old.  If I had to guess how I first came across it, I'd say that I'm pretty sure it was from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.  More specifically, the Mr. Peabody and Sherman segment of that memorable series.  I think I developed a significant portion of my early cultural education from that particular cartoon.  Anyway, all these years I thought the painting's name was actually "Whistler's Mother".  Imagine my complete surprise when just a few days ago I discovered that it's really called, "Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1".  WHAAAT?!   What kind of an unexciting title is that?  And what, so there's a number two of this Arrangement in Grey and Black?  My mind was in turmoil.  But nothing compared to the shock I received when I went to a website to actually look at a picture of the painting.  If you had asked me to visually describe the painting right before I checked it out online, I would have said the following:  An elderly lady sits in profile in a rocking chair, a taciturn look on her face as she knits with her project in her lap.  Boy, was I off!  First, there is no rocking chair.  She sits in a normal chair with her feet propped up on a footstool.  Second, there is no knitting.  She's holding what appears to be a lace handkerchief.  How could I have been so wrong?  What's next?  Will I soon discover that The Scream is really depicting an out-of-control laugh?  Will a detailed study of the Mona Lisa reveal that she is really a he?  Does the old farmer in American Gothic actually have a snow shovel in his hand rather than the presumed pitchfork?  Is Jesus at the far left of the table rather than in the center in "The Last Supper"?  Does Vermeer's mysterious girl actually have a diamond dangling from her ear?  I really can't be sure of anything.  But you know what?  James McNeill Whistler was wrong!  His mother should have been sitting on a rocking chair and she should have been knitting.  Perhaps the following imagined conversation did actually take place.

 

Mrs. W.  -  But the rocking chair is comfortable.

James  -  That may be, Mother , but I can't have you moving back and forth.  You have to be absolutely still.

Mrs. W.  -  How much are you paying me for this?

James  -  Not a dime.  You're doing this as a favor.

Mrs. W.  -  It's not my fault your model didn't show up.

James  -  Oh.  One more thing.  The knitting has to go. 

Mrs. W.  -  You expect me to sit here like a stuffed bird and not do anything?  I'll go crazy after ten minutes.  The least you can do is let me knit.

James  -  Tell you what, Mother.  You can knit, but once I start painting your hands they're going to have to be completely still.  Aaargh!  If only knitting needles weren't so hard to paint.  Don't you have a handkerchief or something that you can hold in your hands instead?

Mrs. W.  -  Handkerchief?  Hmmph!  No imagination.

James  -  All right.  You win.  I'll paint your knitting.  By the way, Mother.  That thing you're knitting.  What is it?

Mrs.  W.  -  It's a sweater.  For you, as a matter of fact.

James  -  I see.  And what color would you call that yarn you're using?

Mrs W.  -  Aubergine.

James  -  Aubergine?  You mean eggplant?

Mrs. W.  -  Aubergine sounds sexier.

James  -  Sexy or not, it's still purple.  Didn't I tell you that I'm calling this work Arrangement in Grey and Black?

Mrs. W.  -  Huh?  What's up with that?  No one will buy this thing with that kind of a title.

James  -  Well if that's the way you feel, Mother, then knitting is out and handkerchief is in!

Mrs. W.  -  Suit yourself.  But I better at least be getting a dinner out of this.  Pizza would be nice.



The way I see it, the world would be a lot better place if sons listened to their mothers more often.  Though, on the other hand, if I had listened to mine, I'd be a priest right now, maybe one day even the Pope.  Popes who hail from South America are quite popular of late, I hear.

And now, I believe I'll go online and see what this Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 2 is all about.

1,001 ARABIAN YARNS

Let us call her Scheherezade.  In Arabia of long ago, she is the latest in the series of one day brides chosen by the King.  In the morning, when the honeymoon night is over, she will be put to death.  But Scheherezade is a wily one.  Before going to sleep, she pulls something out of her knitting bag.  "A gift for you," she says to the King as she hands him a very nice Aran sweater.  The King is impressed with the quality of the work and the beauty of the design.  He thanks her.  But he has had a long day and he is soon fast asleep. Out of her knitting bag Scheherezade pulls out some new yarn.  Yarn more radiant than that used for the previous sweater.  Early the next morning, when the King wakes, he sees a half finished sweater on Scherezade's nighstand.  He inspects it and is quite taken with it.  "Fair Isle," he mutters softly.  He rouses Scheherezade from her feigned slumber and tells her that he will postpone her death for one day so that she may finish the sweater.  That night, the very same thing happens.  The finished sweater is humbly presented to the King and as soon as he is asleep, a new one is begun ... but not completed.  The next morning, the King once again delays the execution.  The sweaters begin to accumulate and one day the King realizes that he is the distinguished owner of 1,001 glorious sweaters, each more astonishing than the previous one and he decides to finally ...

Okay.  I've had my little fun.  We all know that the yarns Scheherezade provided on those 1,001 nights were of the story kind, not of the knitting kind.  And what incredible stories.  I guess when your life is at stake, you don't hold back.  Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad, Magic Carpets, Genies, Barbara Eden.  All are small literary gems and when viewed as a whole, they turn into the greatest collection of stories in the history of literature.  So now we get to the main theme of this particular essay.  The magic lamp or bottle with the genie inside.  The genie who, grateful for finally being released from his imprisonment, will grant you three wishes.

Everybody has played this game at some point in their life.  If a genie could grant you three wishes, what would those wishes be?  But let's put a tiny twist into this harmless diversion.  What if this genie was a knitter and he was only capable of granting knitting related wishes.  So no wishing for riches or immortality or a new washing machine or anything like that.  Nosiree.  The wishes must have a connection to knitting.  And this genie is no dummy.  He firmly states that one of the wishes cannot be to have a finished product instantly appear.  "Where's the fun in that?" he would ask.  "The glory of knitting is in the actual process," he would correctly point out.  So what to wish for then?  Allow me to share my personal choices.

I think almost all knitters, if given this precious gift from a genie, would choose the following as their first wish.  I WILL NEVER MAKE A MISTAKE.  How wonderful life would be if we could begin a project knowing ahead of time that there will not be any ripping of rows or dealing with dropped stitches or even going back a few stitches to change a knit into a purl.  That was the easy wish.  The next one took me some time to come up with.  ALL KNITTING PROJECTS WILL NEVER CURL AND THEREFORE WILL NEVER NEED BLOCKING.  Everytime I seek out a new pattern for a flat project I always look to see if the following instruction is included:  "Purl all even rows".  It doesn't take long for even a beginning knitter to realize that when you see this particular instruction or even a variation of it, the project will refuse to lie flat.  Even after a thorough blocking, the project will, with time, begin to curl again.  It would be heaven to never have to worry about this when knitting a scarf or a shawl.  And now we come to the most difficult of the three wishes - the last one.  The genie reminds us that he is obligated by law to tell us that you cannot wish for three more wishes.  So what is my last wish?  I DON'T KNOW!  So many options.  Some might have unintended negative affects.  I wouldn't wish for an endless supply of beautiful yarn.  Cathy and every other yarn store owner would be out of business if people had this particular power.  Knitting needles made from gold?  Nah! I'd be constantly worried that someone might steal them.  How about no physical ailments whatsoever from the physical process of knitting?  That might be tempting.  But I'd hate to waste it on that when there are other steps one can take to achieve pain-free knitting.  So, at this point, I will leave the last wish open.  Suggestions are welcome, though. 

Cathy and I used to go antique stores, hunting for treasures quite a bit.  Not as much anymore.  Ebay can be a wonderful thing but it has drastically changed the rules of the game when it comes to antiques.  Nevertheless, on occasion, I will stop by an antique store.  And when I'm there, I always keep an eye out for old Arabian oil lamps.  One day I might actually have to make up my mind on that third wish.     

YARN SOMMELIER

In 2012, my very first full year of knitting, I kept meticulous knitting journals.  These diaries have revealed many things.  I am now ready to disclose the first of my scientific findings.

Throughout the previous year, I tried to knit my many projects (finished and unfinished) with as many different types of yarns as I possibly could.  Two reasons for this.  First, being relatively new to knitting, I am naturally curious about how different yarns provide different finished products and also different experiences for the knitter.  On a few occasions I even knit a couple of small projects twice but with two distinct yarns.  For example, one project with 100% wool and then the same thing with 100% cotton.  Or knitting a swatch with silk and then again with cashmere.  While conducting this research into the aesthetics of knitting, there was always a glass of wine nearby.  You see, not only was I testing what a specific yarn was capable of, but at the same time I was seeing what type of wine goes best with with what yarn.

Most everybody knows that wine experts will almost always recommend a robust red wine with a hearty roast beef and a subtle white wine with a delicate fish.  I agree with this tried and true method of matching wine with meal.  If you drink a Chablis with a Prime Rib or a Bordeaux with an Orange Roughy, 99% of the time the result of these pairings can best be described with one succinct word - YECCH!  The same principle can be applied to matching a wine with a yarn.  Try having a glass of an ultra-rich Cabernet Sauvignon while knitting a highly-detailed lace project with silk.  You will soon realize that something is terribly amiss.  So, for you knitters out there who enjoy an occasional sip of the grape with your knitting, here are my recommendations.  Remember, these are the results of highly scientific research - on occasion, too much research.  Here is something I learned the hard way.  Never knit and drink wine for longer than three consecutive hours.  The next morning you will wake up not only with a terrific headache but also with a rather bizarre and misshapen looking project.  Also, and I know it should go without saying, but never, ever knit, drink and drive at the same time.  If you are at a knitting party or at a bar that features the ever popular Knitting and Karaoke night, and you have been a imbibing a little too much, do not be offended if a friend takes away your knitting needles along with your car keys.

One final thought before I present my findings.  While my research was conducted in a most elaborate manner, my opinions are, of course, subjective.  As with wine and food, nothing is written in stone.  If you like a drinking a crisp Chardonnay while knitting with a super bulky wool, then knock yourself out.  But consider the following options.

High Quality Wool  -  Shiraz
(A general concept one should follow for all pairings.  Spend a little more on the bottle if it is an exceptional yarn.  100% Fine Merino demands a higher quality Shiraz.)

Medium Quality Wool  -  Merlot

Cotton  -  California Chardonnay

Cashmere  -  French White Burgundy

Silk  -  Champagne

Mohair  -  French Red Burgundy

Angora  -  French Chablis

Alpaca  -  Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon

Vicuna  -  Premiers Crus Bordeaux

Guanaco  -  Deuxiemes Crus Bordeaux

Qiviuk, Bison, Camel  -  Vintage Port

Linen - Barolo

Rayon  -  Tokaji

Quality Synthetics  -  Sauternes

Low Quality Synthetics  -  Diet Coke or Lite Beer
(But seriously, why are you knitting with this?)

Lace weight Blends  -  Riesling

Sock weight to DK weight Blends  -  Pinot Grigio

Worsted weight Blends  -  Chianti

Bulky or Super Bulky Blends   -   Rioja

Novelty Yarns  -  Any non-grape wine (Apple, Elderberry, Plum, etc.)

YFAWS (yarns from a weird source - pronounced yi-faws - bamboo, soy, etc.)  -  Zinfandel


I suggested to Cathy, law-abiding owner of Montoya Fiber Studio, that on our taxes we deduct the expense of all the wine I had drunk throughout my research (I kept all the receipts).  In my opinion, all those gallons of consumed wine were a justified business expense.  She quickly nixed the idea.

Cheers.    
    

CHRISTMAS GIFT EXTRAORDINAIRE

Now I've gone and done it.  I will now have to write a novel!

I had finally gotten tired of giving Cathy presents like garlic presses and Belgian Waffle makers and hunting knives and cocktail shakers and conga drums for Christmas.  For the Christmas of a couple of weeks back I wanted to be totally original.  Hence the novel.  She didn't get a complete novel, mind you, just Chapter One.  What I plan to do is present one chapter to Cathy at every future birthday and Christmas Day.  I figure in 15 years, or so, the novel will be finished.  At that point I'll have the completed novel published and I'll sell millions of copies and Cathy will finally be able to retire.  Hurrah!

The novel is untitled for now.  So here, for your reading pleasure, is Cathy's literary Christmas present.

                                                             CHAPTER ONE

        Where Ursula and Beatrice discuss the naming of their soon-to-be-opened yarn store.

     “Beatrice,” said the elder of the two sisters, “As I am plunking down fifty-five percent of our starting capital, I have decided that I shall bear the responsibility of naming the yarn store.”

     “Now, now, Ursula,” said Beatrice.  “Do not revert to your former self.”

     Ursula paused a moment as she contemplated on whether or not she had been insulted.  “What exactly do you mean by that, little sister?” she asked.

     “Ursula, it is a well known fact, and Archibald will confirm it if asked, that you were a tyrant during our childhood years.  Everything had to be done your way.  All games had to be played by your rules.”

     Ursula maintained her composure, though not without some difficulty.  “Well, Beatrice,” she said.  “If I was a childhood despot it was only because you were obviously Father’s favorite and Archibald was, without question, the apple of Mother’s eye.  Nothing would have gone my way if I had not asserted myself every now and then.”

     Beatrice calmly took a bite of her sandwich.  “This bacon is delicious, Ursula.  Where did you purchase it?  And the mayonnaise you’ve chosen to accompany it is superb.  May I ask what brand it is?  The lettuce is obviously Romaine and the tomatoes are quaintly organic, but the bread, does it contain oats?  I could be mistaken, but I believe I detect a subtle hint of oats in its flavor.  Also, what name did you have in mind for our soon-to-be-opened yarn store?”

     Again, Ursula paused as she could not remember where exactly the bacon had come from.  “I will answer the last of your questions first, Beatrice,” Ursula finally replied.  “What is your opinion of ‘Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe’?”

     Beatrice finished the last bite of her sandwich and had a sip of milk before she said, “Two percent?”

     “Beg pardon?” said Ursula.

     Beatrice clarified her remark.  “The milk.  Two percent?

     Ursula answered, “It is whole milk.”

     “You may not believe me, big sister, but I believe that the recent loss of my four wisdom teeth has negatively affected my taste buds.  There was a time when I could easily tell you what type of milk I was drinking, or if a slice of bread contained oats or not.  Sadly, those days are gone.  As gone as my cherished wisdom teeth.  And it’s a bit old-fashioned, wouldn’t you say?  This whole “Ye Olde” approach.  The wording just reeks of antiquity.  Are we not striving to open a modern and exciting new yarn store?  Cutting edge and all that?  And how exactly might you be spelling these moldy words that practically drip dust? ”

     “First, teeth have nothing to do with one’s ability to distinguish flavors,” said Ursula matter-of-factly.  “And as for the spelling, Old and Yarn would have E’s at the end and a P and an E would be added to the word Shop.  Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe.”

     “Is this how they would have spelled it in days of bore, I'm sorry, I mean days of yore?” Beatrice asked.

     “I do not know,” answered Ursula.  “But the spelling is distinctive.  It will stick in people’s minds and they will never forget the existence of our soon-to-be-opened store.”

     Beatrice leaned back in her chair with her hands clasped behind her head.  She stared at the ceiling as she spoke.  “I was thinking of something a bit more Chekhovian.”

     “Chekhovian?” asked a startled Ursula.

     “Chekhovian.  As in Anton Chekhov,” Beatrice replied

     “I am aware that Chekhovian refers to the Russian writer, Beatrice Peary.  But what exactly are you referring to when you throw such an unexpected term into the middle of our argument?”

     Beatrice continued her intense study of the ceiling.  “Argument?  Business colloquy is a more apt term.  What say you to Three Sisters Yarn?” asked Beatrice.

     Ursula took a quick glance at the ceiling to see if she was missing something.  Finding nothing of interest, her gaze returned to her younger sister.  “If you’re going to lean towards  Chekhov, why not Cherry Orchard Yarns or even Uncle Vanya’s Yarns?” retorted Ursula.

     “Ha-HA!” exclaimed Beatrice.  “I have missed your verbal bite these last three years.  It is better than most people’s.  No one can say that your sweet, sophisticated sarcasm was not missed.  But just for the record, we have no uncle named Vanya, nor do we have any connection with any orchard that produces cherries.”

     “And did you also happen to notice that we are but two.  Unless Archibald is considering some life-changing surgery, there is no third sister.”

     “Poetic license,” said Beatrice calmly.  “And you cannot deny that Three Sisters Yarn is far superior to Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe.  Three Sisters Yarn is a conversation starter.  Customers would ask about our other sister and we would tell them fanciful tales that would intrigue them to no end.  Their curiosity would compel them to buy more yarn than the amount they had originally planned.”

     “Fanciful tales?” asked Ursula suspiciously.

     Beatrice leaned over the table to get as close to Ursula as she could.  “We will invent a third sister.  We will make her whatever we want her to be.  A silent partner who no one will ever see.”

     “Of course no one will ever see her.  She doesn’t exist,” Ursula retorted.

     Beatrice ignored the obvious logic and continued.  “She could be the sister who became a nun and who does missionary work in Mozambique.  Or she could be the sister who repairs motorcycles in Albania.  Or perhaps the sister who traveled to the Himalayas to unionize the Sherpas.  Or even the sister who is a volunteer firefighter in Tierra del Fuego.  So many possibilities.”

     Now it was Ursula’s turn to lean over the table.  The two sisters’ faces were inches apart.  “Beatrice,”

     “Yes, Ursula?”

     “Do you remember how I used to incessantly claim that Pierre was the craziest human being on the face of the earth?”

     “A most delightful Frenchman, your ex-husband.  No nicer man ever came from Nice.  But yes, he is a little bit touched.”

     “Well, dear younger sister, the craziest human title is now yours.”

     Beatrice leaned back and finished the last of her milk.  “What do you have in the way of dessert, Ursula?”

     “There is almost half a blueberry pie in the icebox,” answered the elder sister.

     “Dear, dear Ursula.  Icebox?  Whatever will I do with you?  This is the twenty first century.  You can start saying refrigerator like the rest of the planet.”

     Ursula contemplated her sister's empty milk glass.  “I like the term icebox,” she stated.  “It is quaint and full of charm.  Just like Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe.”

     “May I have a piece of that blueberry pie and may I also offer you a slice?” asked Beatrice.

     “You are my sister, Beatrice.  With the exception of my Cashmere sweaters, you are welcome to whatever is in my house.  And yes, I will have a slice.  Blueberry pie would certainly hit the spot right about now.  And while you're fetching the pie, please also bring the milk”

     Beatrice rose and proceeded to take out the pie and milk.  She put the remaining three slices on plates and brought the three plates, along with three forks and the gallon jug of milk to the table.  She was about to sit down but suddenly stood up straight.  “Do you have any ice cream?”

     “Do forgive, Beatrice.  The last of the Butter Pecan was finished last night.  Though if you explore the deepest corners of the top part of the icebox, you might find an old carton of plain vanilla.  However, I would taste it first, if I were you.  No use ruining a delicious slice of blueberry pie.

     “I will eat the blueberry pie plain,” stated Beatrice.  She sat down, ate a forkful of the pie, poured herself a half glass of the milk and had a sip.
     Ursula did likewise and after audibly swallowing a large bite of the pie, she said, “Beatrice, I could not help but notice that there is a third piece of pie resting comfortably between us.  What plans do you have for this slice?”

     “That is Archibald’s,” replied Beatrice.

     “Archibald?” a perplexed Ursula asked, “Why are you saving a slice for our brother?”

     “After I finish this pie, I intend to call Archibald.  I will ask him to come over.  He adores blueberry pie.  Perhaps even more than you and me.”

     “I would not argue that,” said Ursula.  “Archibald has always been a connoisseur of fine desserts.”    

     “Yes, he got that gift from Mother.  Also, he is as wise as Solomon,” added Beatrice.

     “Are you referring to Judge Solomon of the State Supreme Court?” asked Ursula.

     Beatrice smiled.  “What a saucy smart-aleck you are, dear elder sister.  You know perfectly well that I am referring to the Biblical Solomon.”

     “Ahh,” exclaimed Ursula.  “The baby splitter.”

     “The baby was never split.  You know that as well as I, Ursula.  And here are some more facts that you might be aware of.  Our yarn store will open in approximately two months.  We do not yet have a name for this sisterly business endeavor of ours.  We will need one soon.  Apparently, we are unable to reach an agreement on what name our soon-to-be-opened yarn store shall have.  Archibald has successfully arbitrated many of our past disputes.  In that respect he has been a good brother.  Would you agree to abide by whatever decision he makes as far as the naming of the business?”

     Ursula slid the fork under another bit of her pie.  She chewed it slowly and carefully.  Finally, she said, “Perhaps we could also get Archibald to eat the last of that old carton of vanilla ice cream that has been gestating in my icebox for who-knows-how-long.  I do so hate to throw out food.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

One chapter down, about twenty nine more to go.   In my head I already have the next three chapters mapped out.  Chapter Two - Where Archibald advises his sisters on a name for the store,  Chapter Three - Where Janet receives knitting tips from Ursula,  and Chapter Four - Where a most bizarre first customer inaugurates the store.  Now all I have to do is write them.  Jumping Jiminy!  What have I gotten myself into?

YARN OSCARS

The word "Oscars" is, of course, already taken, so the first order of business is to find a cute and memorable name for these annual end-of-the-year awards.  "Yarnies" is too obvious.  "Woolies" has a pre-existing negative connotation, as in, "That ugly haircut he just got gives me the woolies."  (or is that "willies"?)  Someone in my family, who shall remain nameless, suggested "The Itchies".  The gentleman in me precludes me from revealing what I said in response.  These are serious awards, ladies and gentlemen.  Levity is frowned upon.  If anybody has a suggestion for a proper award name, I am very willing to hear it.

There are only two criteria for being eligible for these as-yet-unnamed awards.  First, they have to have been carried as merchandise at Montoya Fiber Studio during the year 2012.  Second, the aesthetic quality of the yarn color's name must jump out at you and the quality of the yarn has to match its vibrant name.  Companies that name their yarn colors blue or red or green have no chance to win.  Where is the imagination that titillates a customer into purchasing something simply because of a fascinating name given to an extraordinary yarn?  Now if blue, red, or green had instead been respectively named, Hold Your Breath, Beet Juice, or Iago's Envy, well then, that's a different story.

The winners are listed in no particular order except for the Ultimate Award for best yarn color of the year which, of course, shall be revealed at the very end.  The winners' details are revealed in the following order:  1.) Color name   2.) Company name   3.) Yarn name 

Ladies and Gentlemen. I present to you the winners of the 2012 (name of award here).


BEST YARN NAMED FOR AN ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE
Sangria  (Dream in Color - Everlasting)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A RODGERS AND HAMMERSTEIN MUSICAL
South Pacific  (Universal - Bamboo Handpaints)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A TYPE OF PANCAKE
Buckwheat   (Berroco - Ultra Alpaca)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A MEDICAL SYMPTOM
Feeling Blue  (Jojoland - Rhythm)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A CHARACTER IN PETER PAN
Tiger Lily  (Lamb's Pride - Bulky)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A TASTY TREAT
S'mores  (Crystal Palace - Party)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A RADIOACTIVE ELEMENT
Uranium  (Manos del Uruguay - Wool Classica)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A RUSSIAN FLOWER
Siberian Iris  (Misti - Pima Silk)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A WINNIE THE POOH CHARACTER
Piglet  (Sublime - Cash Silk Merino)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A GEORGE GERSHWIN SONG
Summertime  (Mountain Colors - Mohair)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A COUNTRY THAT NO LONGER EXISTS
Zanzibar  (Misti - Baby me Boo)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A CITIZEN KANE REFERENCE
Rosebud  (Universal - Sensational)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER AN OLD TV WESTERN
Gunsmoke  (Wildefoote)

BEST YARN WITH A FRENCH NAME
Douceur et Soie  (Knit One Crochet Too)

BEST YARN WITH A SPANISH NAME
Zarzamora  (Malabrigo - Rios)

BEST YARN COLOR OF THE YEAR
Orange You Glad  (Lamb's Pride - Bulky)


The other four finalists for Best Yarn Color of the Year deserve a mention.  Zane Grey by Wildefoote, Grassy Knoll by Lamb's Pride, Ripe Lychee by Jojoland and Partly Cloudy by Universal.  Those of you who don't get the brilliance of the name Orange You Glad, need to travel back to your childhood and remember every knock-knock joke you ever heard.

Should your curiosity compel you to do so, feel free to ask to see these award-winning yarns.  Just make sure that Cathy is in the store and not just me as I have a terrible time remembering where particular yarns are shelved.

THE DREADED ZEROS

The other day, at the store, I was doing some inventory work with the knitting  needles and I noticed the same size zero needles that were always hanging there.  They've been there for as long as I've paid attention to such matters.  I asked Cathy if she ever actually ever sold one of those skinny little monsters.  She replied that she did remember selling some size zero circular needles but she didn't recall ever selling a pair of straight needles of that particular size.

It doesn't take much analysis to figure out why these underfed sticks don't move.  What sane person would tackle the prodigious projects that ask for a #0 needle.  They must be absolute hell to knit with.  We're talking lace yarn, of course.  The thinnest commercial yarn there is.  The kind of yarn used for heirloom shawls or other similar time-consuming projects.  I won't deny the fact that these projects are undoubtedly beautiful when you actually finish one.  But how many people actually finish one of these demanding works of art.  For someone of my limited skills, I figure one row (150 to 200 stitches) is going to take me around an hour.  Why so long?  Well, the first obvious reason is that these are itsy-bitsy stitches being knit on teensy-weensy needles.  Unlike rows of four stitches per row on #35 needles, these baby stitches take time.  But the second reason is the really frightening one - the fear of making mistakes.  No one wants to rip out rows with lace yarn.  Just the thought of that makes me shiver.  Or even if you spot a mistake on the actual row you're working on, retracing your steps with #0 needles and lace yarn could easily drive you crazy.  So if I'm knitting with these tiny tools of torture, I'm going to proceed very slowly just to make sure there are no mistakes.  That's one hour per row with probably a million rows in a big shawl.  We're talking a long, long, long time.

So, it should come as no surprise to anyone if I admit that I am more than a ligttle frightened of these needles.  It's almost as if everytime I look at a a pair of #0's, the needles speak to me and say, "Keep on walking little boy.  I'm meant for serious knitters.  Certainly not for the likes of you." 

Demoralizing?  You bet.  But 2013 is going to be different.  I will face my fears and grab a pair of these intimidating needles and I will knit with them.  No, I'm not going to tackle one of those shawls that would take me the rest of my life.  But as the official window dresser of Montoya Fiber Studio, I can devise projects that will allow me to work with the zeros in something of a more reasonable nature.  I've been thinking of possibly purchasing a Barbie and a Ken doll and knitting some appropriate garb for their beyond-perfect bodies.  Even with size zeros, how hard can such a project be?  So once the new year arrives, keep your eyes open whenever you walk by the store window.  I'll show those needles a thing or two.  I'll show them who's a serious knitter!  And who knows?  Maybe I'll even buy a Midge.  Why should Barbie have all the fun wearing my original haute couture designs?    

GRIMM TALE DISCOVERED .... MAYBE

Everyone is familiar with the folk tales collected by the Brothers Grimm.  What instantly separates them from your standard fairy tale is the cruel darkness that pervades all of the Grimm's twisted little stories - the hungry witch in Hansel and Gretel, the egomaniacal Rumpelstitskin, the conniving Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella's selfish step-mother and step-sisters, the evil Queen so jealous of Snow White's beauty.  These are are all deeply scarred individuals who are in serious need of psycho-therapy.  Well, maybe not the wolf, as he is only doing what wolves naturally do.  (Though his affinity for nightwear worn by grandmotherly types is rather suspicious.)  But in each of the over 200 published Brothers Grimm tales, there is always someone who is rather sadistic in nature.  And while these villains usually get their comeuppance, one must question the intent of the famous brothers for having put such hideous behavior into what are, after all, children's stories.

So a couple of weeks ago, Halloween night to be exact, Cathy sends me up to the attic to search for some yarn that she says is stored in an old cedar chest.  She claims that the yarn and the chest belonged to her grandmother, a rather eccentric German-born lady whom I had the pleasure of knowing for a few years before she passed away.  "It is time to sell all that ancient yarn," Cathy declared.  "Maybe we can get a dollar a ball."  So candle in hand, I went up to the attic and proceeded to search for the old, dilapidated chest.  Imagine my surprise when after finding it and after emptying it of its woolly contents, I found a secret compartment in one of the side panels.  It didn't take long to figure out how to open it.  And what did I find?  A few sheets of paper, browned with age.  They were handwritten in German and had the following intriguing title on the first page - Ungeschickt Clara und die Magischen Stricknadeln.  My German is limited to the following words:  Kartoffelsalat (Potato salad) and Gesundheit (Gesundheit), so, of course, I had no idea what the title or the content of the few pages were about.  But I did recognize the signatures at the bottom of the last page.  Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm.  "Gott im Himmel!" I exclaimed.  The very next day I took it to my good friend, Hans Hotterdenhell, the best knackwurst maker in the greater Chicagoland area.  He quickly translated the pages.  My next step is to have the papers authenticated to see if this truly is a lost Brothers Grimm tale.  I will have to travel to Germany.  In the meantime, I'd like my faithful blog followers to be among the first to read this very interesting folk tale.  So I now present to you the English translation of:

                                 CLUMSY CLARA AND THE MAGIC KNITTING NEEDLES

     In a small village, close to what is now called Dusseldorf, there lived a teenaged girl named Clara.  She lived with her mother, a very disciplined woman who was acknowledged by all her neighbors as being the best knitter in the village, if not the whole kingdom.  All the townspeople proudly wore sweaters and hats and scarves and mittens that had been knitted for them by Clara's mother.  There came a time when it was decided that Clara would have to learn how to knit.  A most severe form of arthritis had struck Clara's mother, rendering her hands practically useless.  Alas, Clara was most inept when it came to knitting.  She was quite good at milking cows but totally useless when it came to any kind of handiwork.  Try as she might, Clara could not pick up the essential elements of that most glorious of crafts.  She would be instructed to cast on 24 stitches and ended up with 87 crooked little knots on her knitting needle.  Then, she could not grasp the difference between a knit stitch and a purl stitch.  Two simple rows of 2 by 2 ribbing turned into an adventure in advanced mathematics.  Clara's mother tried desperately to fulfill her orders for new knitwear but her arthritic pain was too great.  "Worthless child!" she screamed at Clara.  "We will starve to death unless you pay attention and learn these simple steps."
     Little by little, the orders for knitwear began to dwindle.  Clara and her mother lived on nothing but the milk provided by the solitary cow they owned.  Soon, Clara's mother went into a deep funk, the type of depression that left her unable to get out of bed in the morning.  Twice a day, at the time for milking, Clara would confide in her cow.  "Oh Snooki (she was a purebred Jersey cow), what am I going to do?  Mother cannot make any money due to her crippling arthritis and I am as clumsy as can be when it comes to knitting.  A total klutz."
     Snooki the Cow responded with nothing but an empathetic, "Moo".  A donkey, the only other animal in the barn, let out a comical, "Hee-Haw!" as if laughing at Clara's dilemma
     And then one day, the King's Herald came to town. He was going from village to village announcing the marriage of the King's only daughter.  A major award would be given to the person who made the princess the most beautiful gown.  When questioned as to what the major award consisted of, the Herald merely smiled and said,  "A major award.  That is all I will say."
     Clara cried all day, even when she milked Snooki the cow.  During the late afternoon milking, the cow asked, "Why do you weep, Clara?" 
     Clara wiped her eyes and replied.  "Oh Snooki, there is a royal contest that I know my mother would win, but alas, she is unable to ---  But what is this?  Snooki!  You can speak?
     "I am a Jersey cow blessed with many gifts, Clara.  But please.  Continue your story."  Though totally dumbfounded, Clara explained the whole situation to Snooki the Cow.  "Arthritis," said Snooki.  "A most debilitating and unforgiving disease.  But Clara, perhaps you are not as clumsy as you think you are." 
     "Hee-Haw," brayed the donkey in obvious contradiction.
     "Quiet, you!" snapped Snooki at her rude barnmate.
     "Oh, but I am clumsy," said Clara.  I cannot cast on properly.  I cannot differentiate a knit stitch from a purl.  When I attempt yarnovers, the yarn slips off the needle entirely.  My cables turn out looking like the hair on Medusa's head.  I am nothing short of a disaster whenever I have knitting needles in my hands."  The donkey hee-hawed numerous times, as if  agreeing with Clara's self-evaluation.
     "Perhaps you are using the wrong needles." suggested Snooki.
     No, no, no," replied Clara.  "The needles are not the problem.  The problem is me.  Mother is right.  I am stupid.  I am incompetent.  I am useless ... except when it comes to milking a cow.  And I am clumsy.  That is who I am and who I shall forever be.  Clumsy Clara."  Another derisive Hee-Haw from the donkey.
     "Clara," said Snooki.  Tomorrow, when you wake up, just before coming to milk me, I'd like you to look under your pillow."
     The next morning, after having barely slept a wink, Clara awoke with a start.  She lifted her pillow and was shocked to see a complete set of knitting needles from a size 0 to a size 35.  There was even the always bizarre size 10.5.  Clara ran to her mother's room.  "Mother, Mother!  Look!
     Her catatonic mother looked absent-mindedly at the set of needles.  "Ivory," she mumbled.  "Quite rare.  Even has that goofy 10.5.  Hmm.  Clara, fetch some yarn."  Clara quickly brought her mother a basket overflowing with yarns of varying types and colors.  "Clara, take the red silk yarn and the size 5 needles.  Cast on 28 stitches."  In less than a minute, Clara had cast on 28 very, very even stitches.  "Very good, Clara.  Now knit one row and then purl one row."  Again, Clara had no difficulty whatsoever with her mother's instructions.  The black cloud that had been hovering over Clara's mother's head, ever so slowly began to vanish.  "Excellent," commented Clara's mother as she inspected her daughter's work.  "Not too tight, not too lose.  Now increase the next row to 35 stitches."
     Clara did some quick calculations in her head and said to her mother, "I will add a stitch after each set of four stitches. Do you prefer a yarnover or should I knit an extra stitch in the back of every fourth stitch?"
     Clara's mother beamed.  You choose, dear."
     It should surprise no one that Clara went on to knit a most elegant multi-colored silk gown for the Princess.  She was the clear winner of the contest.  Her major award consisted of nothing less than being asked to marry the Princess's younger brother, Prince Fritz.  At their wedding, they feasted on roast donkey, the very same donkey that had so unwisely ridiculed Clumsy Clara.  After the wedding, Clara, her mother and Snooki the Cow moved into the King's castle where they lived happily ever after.

                                                           THE END