Why yarn is like pie…
There was a time during the first year of our marriage when my husband asked if we could have pie. I hadn’t yet discovered the magic relationship between men and pie. Being rather fond of sweets myself, I figured everyone liked pie. And cake. And ice cream. I hadn’t yet realized that men go for pie and women go for ice cream. But I digress…
He asked for pie, so on my next trip to the grocery store, I bought pie. Supply and demand, right? You want pie, you go get pie.
I will take to my grave the mournful lilt of his voice as he opened the freezer that afternoon to spy a box marked Mrs. Smith’s Apple pie. “My wife buys pie,” he lamented. To me, it sounded as if he’d said “My wife has leprosy.” A new and sad fact of life. It had truly, honestly, never occurred to me that what my husband was asking was “can you bake me a pie?” I did not come from a baking household. I came from a household that barely knew how to open a box of Betty Crocker brownie mix. And I mean barely.
The resulting attempt, henceforth to forever be known as “Allie’s jellyfish pie,” was disastrous, despite an earnest teacher and quality implements.
I am happy to report that while I avail myself of the good folks at Pillsbury for their crust, I do in fact make a mean apple pie. And pumpkin. Not often, but I rock it when I do.
Non knitters are like my newlywed self: yarn comes from Walmart. Yarn is yarn. Knitters know that some yarn does indeed come from Walmart, but other yarn comes from heaven. There is an artistry that really ought to be appreciated.
Even Mrs. Smith would marvel at the fiber wonder that is this hand-spun, hand-dyed yarn. I couldn’t even bear to put the stuff on a swift, because I wanted to wind it into tender little balls with my own hands. I begin this project with an affection for artisan yarn that knows no bounds. And it is delicious.