(*that's "Knitalong Infrequently Asked Questions")
How does a person decide that she is in urgent need of a sweater made from Icelandic wool?
Well, I love a good knitalong. And I love the Mason-Dixon ladies, whose first book pulled me back into knitting after many years away. And I love a good sticky wool, and I love a bargain, and I was just ruminating over another project (as I was knitting the first half of it for the third time, because the specified needle left me with a mitt suitable for a Gorg and the size down was not a substantial improvement -- ARGH) about how different Icelandic colorwork motifs are from Fair Isle peeries and OXOs. So when Kay and Ann announced a Stopover KAL, I was in like Flynn-sdottir.
Wait, how can a sweater's worth of imported wool be a bargain?
You guys, in Iceland they sell yummy beautiful wool at the grocery store. You can pop in to pick up your quart of milk liter of skyr and snag some gorgeous and inexpensive yarn at the same time, whereas in American grocery stores we have 52 flavors of Hot Pockets, heaven help us, and no wool whatsoever. It almost makes a person want to move to Iceland. Except for the geysers erupting at unpredictable intervals. And the 6 hours of daylight at this time of year. And the sky-high cost of items other than yarn. And the fact that I don't speak Icelandic. Maybe not so much with moving to Iceland.
So, having fun?
I was having a ton of fun. Even the rip-out-and-redo parts were fun, because isn't it fascinating, the way that the Spring Green Heather in the skein is the delicious pale green of baby willow leaves, but the presence of the Glacier Blue transmogrifies it into a funky acid green that practically requires a person to put the Lagoon Heather in between them? Who could resist the pull of a busy happy Ravelry forum full of enthusiastic knitters planning their color pops? (I went with raspberry sherbet. And then I ordered extra so Stella and I could have matchy-matchy mother-daughter sweaters.) So: I got gauge two weekends ago, I cast on February 1 as scheduled, I cranked out a sweater. Veni, vidi, vici -- almost.
I fear I hear the drumbeats of doom in that last sentence. Why's that?
Because I wanted a cardigan. You might think I would have learned from my last steeking misadventure that I am not actually the knitting badass I aspire to be, but you would be wrong. Alas.
So you are not as much of a knitting ninja (a kninja?) as you think you are?
No, I am a knincompoop. My nice sticky Icelandic wool was supposed to, you know, STICK. But there seem to be some antisocial stitches up in the yoke of my sweater, who are declining to continue to link elbows with their neighbors. EEK.
Do you mean to tell me that your lovingly crafted buttonbands, the ones with the nifty bits of intarsia to allow you to keep that cute striped rib going, are coming unmoored from the body of the sweater?
I...can't even talk about it right now.
No, actually, that's not true, because why would I be writing this blog post if I didn't want to talk about it? I am going to attempt to salvage a soupçon of badassery from this tureen of dumbassery. I had planned to whip-stitch my facings in place, but I think I might try a post-hoc crochet chain on the wrong side instead. And swear off unsecured steeks forevermore, or at least until I have forgotten the taste of this particular assemblage of ashes and acrimony.
And then you'll have a lovely fluffy cardigan?
No. The thing about a fast knit is that you still have to do the same amount of finishing, only it feels a little more soul-sucking because the ratio of fun:un-fun is considerably less favorable. After I persuade the buttonbands that they really do want to remain attached to the rest of the sweater, I want to do some duplicate stitch at the yoke to create more separation between the Glacier Blue and the Spring Green. Then I might sprinkle in some pink at the cuffs and hem. After that I have to sew on the buttons and fix those armpit gaps I always get with a raglan and then weave in ends until Jesus comes back. There are SO MANY ENDS that it makes a person think of the final words of a more famous writer: Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
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