A few months ago this beautiful aran throw showed up in a neighboring cube at work. I ogled it in secret for weeks, gathering bravado like so many days of the week, just so as to speak to my coworker about it. One day when she was out I even poked my head a bit into her cube to ogle it close up. It had at least one cable I never remember seeing before. It was fantabulous. Eventually, as these things usually are for me, out of nowhere I blurted out my admiration while walking past her cube. (Was it was the stored bravado that paid off, or just some wacky well of confidence from a convergence of hormones? Who can tell these things.) Said coworker was happy to tell me the story of the throw. Her mother made it years ago. When I inquired about the fiber, she told me in what I think was a wistful tone that it was made with acrylic yarn. I got a sense that she felt it's being acrylic threw a pall over it's obvious magnificence. I remember the dark ages of knitting, when t...
"the little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush, as to produce little effect after much labour" - Jane Austen