A while back, I picked up a skein of squooshy Blue Moon Fiber Arts Targhee Worsted from the shop in a bright, bright red called Brick. On my very long to-do list is to reformat my older patterns, and part of that is knitting up and photographing some new samples. This one, Blake, is the first scarf I ever released as a pattern on Ravelry, and it's so simple that it barely qualifies as design - and yet that's part of what makes it such a wonderful knit: the repetition of knits and purls, the subtle texture, the comforting simplicity of the final product.
And there's the story behind it, too. This scarf is the one that my mom taught to me when I first started knitting, as I awkwardly practiced the difference between knits and purls. I could remember what knits looked like well enough, but got hung up on purls. I had to constantly remind myself that they were the opposite of what they sounded like - not like the smooth, nacreous surface of the pearl itself, but more like its coarse origins: the sand in the shell, the craggy ocean floor.
I knit the scarf over and over again throughout my late teens and early twenties, always as gifts: for friends and lovers, in colors that made me think of them. Evergreen. Black. Sky blue. Not all of the relationships stuck - in fact, most of them didn't, except for the long-haired, guitar-picking dude who would later become my husband - but the knitting did. The lopsided gait of my hands gradually became more skillful, and after those scarves I turned to bigger and more challenging things - always with the memory of those first tentative stitches, that feeling of ambition and awe at the possibilities that lie in a ball of wool.
And that was maybe the biggest gift of all.
Happy Thursday, friends.
<3
Cory
And there's the story behind it, too. This scarf is the one that my mom taught to me when I first started knitting, as I awkwardly practiced the difference between knits and purls. I could remember what knits looked like well enough, but got hung up on purls. I had to constantly remind myself that they were the opposite of what they sounded like - not like the smooth, nacreous surface of the pearl itself, but more like its coarse origins: the sand in the shell, the craggy ocean floor.
I knit the scarf over and over again throughout my late teens and early twenties, always as gifts: for friends and lovers, in colors that made me think of them. Evergreen. Black. Sky blue. Not all of the relationships stuck - in fact, most of them didn't, except for the long-haired, guitar-picking dude who would later become my husband - but the knitting did. The lopsided gait of my hands gradually became more skillful, and after those scarves I turned to bigger and more challenging things - always with the memory of those first tentative stitches, that feeling of ambition and awe at the possibilities that lie in a ball of wool.
And that was maybe the biggest gift of all.
Happy Thursday, friends.
<3
Cory
