The Artisanal Glories of Costco

I have just returned from a trip to CostCo.  What a cornucopia of lovingly hand-made items it is.

First, I picked up this package of beautifully handspun and handwoven teatowels:

They are amongst the most impressively absorbent kitchen towels I have ever owned, equivalent in value to the beautifully fine linen kitchen towels which travelled the Silk Road from the Mayans to the Hittite civilisation.   This proves that handspun and handwoven kitchen towels can be produced by skilled artisans and sold for pennies as a mass product.

Excited by this find, I continued to the aisle for ceramic cups and related items.  There I found this set of beautifully hand-thrown ceramic bowls, the fingermarks of the Master Potter clearly visible on the hand-applied glaze:

Overwhelmed by the quality of the hand-made glories of the CostCo, I returned and made a snack, and again was impressed by the quality.

This nourishing meal could only have come from the skilled hands of a master chef.  I could taste the love, passion and skill with every slurp.

Manspinner's Creed

Alas, my knitting genius
Falls on fallow ground
Knitting genius
From my strong hands
And short bent prick
Blooming plums
Spurting, splashing
Pool on gansey
Does not soak through
But boss cows are stupid
Misled by Queen Victoria
And her court
And maybe Jane Austin
So I will mansplain
This is metaphor
for impregnability
Of spinning ladies’
feeble lady brains
To my genius
Which is maybe metaphor
For wanking
Who the hell knows any more?

Mix Yourself A Fatal Disease

Back in college days, I worked as a bartender in the best cocktail bar in California.  All the stars would come, and beg me to mix them a Shut Up You Weirdo And Go Away.  So I'd oblige.

These days, I like to be permanently drunk, so I fill my ski backpack with flasks of a little pick-me-up I call the Fatal Disease.

One part Simple Green cleaning fluid
Two parts brandy
Slice of lemon
Sugar-cube

Stir it all together in a big handle mug so it will look manly.  Set it alight.  Quaff in a cannon-thighed viking-like manner.

For the advanced mixologists, turn this hearty brew into an Orchard Fire by substituting an apple quarter for the slice of lemon.

Bottoms up!

Warping A Loom

Let us never speak of this again.

What Happened on My Arctic Staycation

This year, I decided that salmon camp, manly adventure in the wilderness though it is, did not offer harsh enough conditions for testing 6-ply wool knitted to a gauge of 45 stitches per semicircle.  Testing weatherproofness requires more than that.  So to replicate conditions in Spitzbergen, I turned the thermostat down to 62 degrees, and kept a journal of this harrowing experience.

Day one:  Made tuna mayo sandwich as enjoyed by the cannon-thighed iron men of seafaring myth and legend.  The butter was too hard to spread, and tore the bread in two places.  If this goes on I shall starve. Wrote note to wife to tell her I love her, in case future expeditions find my frozen corpse in the breakfast nook.

Day two:  Erected blanket fort in living room to shelter from the howling blizzard directly from the open conservatory window.  My gansey however protected me from almost certain death.

Day three:  Killed and ate the dog.  A civilised man turns savage in such an environment.

Day four:  Emerged from blanket fort and stumbled into the freezing blizzard.  My wife was vacuuming, and asked what I was doing.  "I'm just going out, dear.  I may be some time." I told her.  She shook her head, and pretended not to notice my noble sacrifice.  Put on another gansey, went into the back yard, and nailed some socks to the picnic table.

Day five:  Expedition second-in-charge (hitherto known as 'my wife') asked why I had nailed socks to the picnic table.  Surely it is obvious, even to a woman, that this is to prevent removal by roving bands of polar bears?  I blame Queen Victoria.

Day six:  Felt chilly draft while watching Antiques Roadshow in the living room like some latter-day Magellan. If not for my gansey would have gone hypothermic and fallen off the couch, perhaps to my death. Mother Nature is a harsh mistress.

Day seven:  Set on on open sea-voyage in square-rigged vessel.  Shackleton himself would have balked.  A friendly Inuit walking past made fun of my plastic paddling pool.  They laughed at Galileo too.

So you see, it is possible to survive the harsh Arctic environment with gansey-swaved knitwear.  A case of brandy to anybody who can replicate this arduous expedition.

Lies, All Lies

I have a confession to make. 

Anyone with even the most rudimentary knowledge of spinning, knitting, history and farm animals will have noticed that some of the entries in my blog are not, in fact, true.

But nobody has pointed it out. 

Go, slink away in your ignorance.

These days, I'm measuring gauge in degrees.  The traditional method of measuring stitch gauge and row gauge was not obfuscatory enough, and I have recently discovered some drawbacks in using stitches per square inch.  Better, cheaper, faster is my motto, so I got out my trusty protractor:

Now, place this on your knitting.  Count the stitches all around the semi-circular edge.  This will give you stitches per semicircle (sps).  Double this to get your stitches for the full 360 degrees.  Simple.  Even the ladies should be able to manage this. 

All about needles

I have come to realise that there are different kinds of needles, not all of which are knitting needles.

Pine Needles.  These are not used for knitting.

The Needles, Isle of Wight.  Not used for knitting.

As you can see, needles come in many forms

Take that, screamers!