Stephanie Pearl-McPhee - Yarn Harlot: The Secret Life of a Knitter

I would forever regret it if I did not extend my deepest thanks to:

Andrews McMeel Publishing in general, and specifically my editor, Katherine Anderson.

Linda Roghaar, because I know there is no better literary agent alive.

Molly Wolf, for her brilliant help, insight, and time.

Frederick W. Shuler, Ph.D., who took an hour of his life to discuss deranged squirrels with me. (Really.)

Knitwear designers everywhere, for being the inspiration for my Dear Designer. You know I love you anyway.

My patient spouse, Joe Dunphy, and our three daughters, Amanda, Megan, and Samantha Pearl. (Sorry for everything.)

Ken Allen, Lene Andersen, Emma Hogbin, Bonnie McPhee, and anyone else who endured this books neurotic, mercurial, high-strung birth on the other end of a phone line. (Sorry for that, too.)

Finally, I have to thank the many knitters who have shared their time, stories, and comments. I couldnt do it without you.

Stephanie Pearl-McPhee lives with her very patient husband and three charming daughters in an untidy, wool-filled house in Toronto, Canada, where she avoids doing the laundry and knits whenever she gets a minute. She is the author of the popular daily blog www.yarnharlot.ca.

I am, by most accounts, a normal woman. Its possible that I have a little more yarn than is really the national average, but lots of people have an obsession. I like deadlines, I work well under pressure, and procrastination runs in my family the way that tone deafness runs in others. I have an aunt or two a little on the odd side and an uncle who played the ukulele, but as far as I know, there is no family history of insanity. We are, however, really big dreamers, and I wonder if that is what started this whole thing.

Youve heard of the Red Scourge? the Black Death? the Yellow Plague? Meet my nemesis, the Green Afghan.

My brother Ian proposed to a woman I adored and set a date for the first wedding in our family for years. I was completely thrilled. The woman in question, Alison, is not only kind, gentle, and clever, but had demonstrated one of the finest qualities in a potential sister-in-law: an appreciation for handknits. In fact (not that I was snooping around or anything, that would be wrong), I had noticed that there were handknit pillows on her couch. This, together with my brothers love of all things woolly and warm and my natural knitterly inclination to demonstrate my love with yarn, made my path clear. I would knit them a wedding present.

I started thinking about the possibilities. The wedding was five months away and I felt pretty darned sure that I could finish just about anything in five months. I mulled it over: 150 days, 3,600 hours. I started thinking big. I thought about His and Hers sweaters. I thought about knitting lace edges for pillow cases. I thought about a hundred things. I considered matching socks, really beautiful ones, but rejected that idea when I thought about it further. Socks wear out. What sort of omen would it be if they walked huge honkin holes in their wedding socks by their third anniversary? I imagined them looking at the holes, then looking at each other, and wondering if it was a sign. Whatever I knit, it had to be enduring. Something they would use, something that would be cozy for both of them, something that would last a long time. Something that would last long enough that theyd still treasure it on their fiftieth anniversary (or at least something theyd both fight for in divorce court).

I started to think about an afghan. You cant outgrow a blanket; it cant be the wrong size, and it would last a whole marriage if I used good wool and gave them a stern lecture on how to wash it. They could still be using it a long time from now if I picked a classic color.

Everybodys got a lime, gold, and orange granny-square afghan that Aunt Shirley crocheted for you in 1973. Its the afghan that you never throw over yourself when you have a hangover, since it turns the headache into a pounding so violent that you can actually feel your hair grow. Instead youve got it jammed in the hall closet on the top shelf. You take it out twice a year: Once when youve got a friend staying on the couch and you are desperate for an extra blanket, and once when your aunt Shirleys daughter Enid comes over and you artfully drape it over the couch so she cant catch you out.

I didnt want to be Aunt Shirley. I made a note to myself that I would try to pick something really chastely classic. I sat down with my pattern books and started thinking it over. What to do? I wanted something interesting enough that I could stand to knit it, but not so interesting that it would get tedious. A wedding afghan must absolutely be big enough to cover the both of them so Id make the thing about eight by five feet. (Please note that I was, in fact, aware that most afghans are about three and one half feet by five feet. I have absolutely no explanation for why I chose to make this behemoth so big, except that I really love my brother and sometimes the expression of love in wool needs to be little oversized. Also, I may be insane.) That meant that whatever pattern I chose, Id have to knit forty square feet of it. Forty square feet of garter stitch is a knitters lobotomy. Brain damage would inevitably ensue. I have jammed projects into permanent imprisonment in the hall closet for less. I had to be careful too. Ian and Alison wouldnt like something frilly or fussy. They are not doily types, and if you can find a speck of lace in their house Ill give you a dollar. I needed plain, but not too plain, and interesting, but not too interesting.

I settled on a pattern that started with small squares. Four squares came together to form a larger geometric shape; these big squares were joined with vine-patterned strips in between, then a leaf border went around the whole thing. The modular aspect meant that the whole thing would stay portable until I started doing the strips and the border. I was looking forward to it. It was going to be stunning and totally doable in five months.

At the yarn store I started realizing the enormity of the project. I was going to need almost thirty balls of wool. Thats a lot of yarn. Thats so much yarn that when I told the yarn store lady what I needed, she let out a low whistle and gave me a look that told me that she thought that maybe when Im not knitting oversized afghans I amused myself by trying to pick up marbles with chopsticks. Its so much that she had to go into the basement to look for two cases of the yarn in question. As she stacked the yarn on the counter she seemed a little incredulous. This should have been my first warning: When a person who sells yarn for a living thinks that maybe youre buying a lot of yarnwell, its a sign. A different sort of knitter would have taken that as a hint. Me? I thought she was a knitter without aspirations.

The price tag for the enormous bag of yarn was dizzying, but I shrugged it off. I wrestled my new yarn out of the shop (ignoring the stares of the new knitter over by the mohair who was buying a single ball of something blue and clearly thought I might be dangerous). Forcing the yarn through the door of the bus, trying to avoid whacking people with it, I decided that it was worth it. My brother was getting married. Its beautiful yarn and I was knitting an heirloom that would last forever, and, furthermore (my furthermores are always a sign of really bad thinking), I do like a challenge.

At home I dumped the big pack of yarn onto the couch and looked at it. For the first time I faltered a little. This project was going to require miles and miles of knitting. I started trying to figure out where I was going to keep the yarn while I worked on it. My living room is pretty tiny and this was taking up a sizable chunk of real estate.