Things I Learned From Knitting by Stephanie Pearl–McPhee Read Free Book Online Page B

goats!
    This is brilliant. I’ve got to call Raul Hernandez, because together (since I don’t knowanything about sheep breeding, and I’m not sure I want to learn) we are going to make a million dollars.
    Raul and I are going to be a great team.
Oveja
is Spanish for sheep, right? Somebody look up “llama.” This is going to be fantastic.

the 20 th thing

Honesty is the best policy.
    Famous lies:
    â€¢ The check is in the mail.
    â€¢ I didn’t inhale.
    â€¢ It’s not you, it’s me.
    Famous knitting lies:
    â€¢ That sweater pattern is “one size fits all.”
    â€¢ You will absolutely have enough yarn to finish.
    â€¢ That yarn is machine-washable.
    â€¢ The technique is obvious. You’ll have no trouble.
    â€¢ It took two hours to knit.
    â€¢ I did swatch and I did get gauge.

the 21 st thing

Pain for beauty.
    MY MOTHER AND I DISAGREE ABOUT SHOES. We agree about a very great many other things, such as politics, that raising teenagers is a challenge equal to climbing Mt. Everest (though at least an Everest ascent doesn’t take as long), and that dusting is a despicable chore and a waste of a fine woman’s time. But despite being of a common mind about nearly everything else, I cannot see her point about shoes.
    My mother owns a lot of shoes. She likes them. She shops for them, spends money on them, knows the difference between a sling-back and an espadrille, and has an opinion on what to wear with any pair. She can fiercely debate toe shape (open, snipped, square, or pointy) and thinks that heel height and type (stiletto, wedge, shaped, or common) is an important decision that a person should make daily. My mum has shoesthat go with only one outfit and says things like, “Look at those strappy sandals! They’re divine.” She can no sooner walk by a shoe store without going in than I can pass a yarn shop.
    Much to my mother’s shame, I own only four pairs of footwear: sandals for summer, short boots for spring and fall, snow boots for the dead of winter, and a pair of neutral-colored dress shoes for weddings or funerals that demand them. I don’t care for shoes. In fact, if it was possible to live in a big city barefoot, I would. While my mother’s priority is fashion, mine is comfort, and shoes, no matter how strappy or elegant or wedge-heeled, simply aren’t comfortable to me.
    â€œYou should accept that there may be pain for beauty,” my mother tells me, but I just can’t go there. I simply can’t agree that we should be more uncomfortable to be more beautiful. I’m willing to be a little less beautiful to be a lot more comfortable … and me and my clunky sandals tramp through life holding this to be true. I maintain that I will not suffer for vanity and that I’m not like my mother in this respect … or at least I thought I wasn’t, right up until last Wednesdaynight, when I was leaving to meet some knitting friends at our weekly knit night.
    It was a hot August evening, the sort we get here in Toronto that practically steam, yet as I headed out the door, I stopped to pick up and put on my heavy wool cardigan. I had just finished it, and heat be damned, I was going to show it off. … It’s a beautiful piece of knitting, let me tell you. “Wool?” my mother quipped, a smirk on her lips. “It’s a thousand degrees out, silly girl. You’ll have heatstroke before you get to the corner. What happened to your position on vanity?”
    I thought about it. I was sweating, overdressed, uncomfortable, and … still reluctant to take the thing off. It turns out that I might now understand “pain for beauty” a little bit, but only when it comes to hand-knit sweaters. I still don’t get the shoes.

the 22 nd thing

If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.
    â€” Chinese saying
    I AM PRETTY SURE that lace knitting is the