Knitting Rules! (32 page)
Authors: Stephanie Pearl–McPhee
Recently I spent an obscene amount of money on a single perfect, exquisite skein of hand-dyed silk. (No, I'm not sorry, and yes, it was very beautiful.) I didn't want to waste a single yard. (It was expensive enough that you'd be able to calculate the dollar value of the wasted yarn and never stop thinking about it.)
The pattern suggested (well, it didn't really suggest, it directed, but I believe that all patterns are just guidelines) that you knit three inches of a lacy pattern, then 36 inches of seed stitch, then repeat the lacy bit. I wasn't thrilled with the plan. To my way of reckoning, 36 inches might leave leftovers, and there was no way I was having leftovers. It would be like not staying for dessert on a date with Johnny Depp. I thought about lengthening the scarf,
but how was I going to know by how much? I couldn't just knit until I ran out of yarn because of the three inches of lace on the end, and I didn't want to employ my usual method of grafting in the middle because I still didn't know where the middle of the skein was, and because it makes me a little delirious to graft seed stitch. (Note that I didn't say I
can't
graft seed stitch. It's only knitting; I can do anything. I just choose not to, that's all, the same way I choose not to lie in the middle of the freeway or file my teeth into points.) I was determined to extract every joyous bit out of the skein but it took me forever to figure out what to do.
I modified the idea from the Middle Ground Scarf and knit the lace end, tucked it away for later, then knit the other lace end and the entire middle of the scarf until I had only about a foot of yarn left. I grafted the pre-knit end onto my ready-knit scarf and danced around the living room, singing Abba songs, eating chocolate, and trying to make the cat admire the meager two inches of silk left on the table. It was a good day.
Grafting is one of the most brilliant things you can learn how to do in knitting. First attempts normally result in a nervous twitch, but reports of its difficulty are exaggerated. Clever knitters will realize that to graft complex stitches (like cables), you don't need to know anything more. Graft your knit stitches together, and when you come to purl ones, take the yarn to the back, turn the work around and bingo! â more knit stitches. Remember, each stitch is a knit and a purl ⦠you need to know how to graft only one of them.
Five Ways to Add Interest to a Boring Scarf You Already Knit
Boring Scarf Solution 1
Fringe
. The jury is out on whether fringe is cool, but I like it and so do cowboys. To add fringe, cut pieces of yarn twice as long as you would like the fringe to be, fold them in half, and, with a crochet hook, pull the looped ends through an edge stitch, then pull the free ends through and yank on them to make a tight knot. Double points if you tie the fringes into an interesting pattern.
Boring Scarf Solution 2
If you're a knitter who dabbles in crochet
(or a crocheter who is dabbling in knitting), take advantage of your position as a multi-crafter and think about adding a few rows of some interesting crochet edging to the bottom of the thing. There's no reason not to combine your skills.
Boring Scarf Solution 3
Knit a bunch of tiny squares, circles, or flowers
, make 30 pom-poms â in short, create anything you like and sew them to, or dangle them from, the ends or edges of the scarf.
Boring Scarf Solution 4
Knit a lace edging
and sew it onto the ends.
Boring Scarf Solution 5
Visit the notions section
of a local sewing store and see what it has. Think about big buttons, a bunch of tiny ones, braids, cords, appliqués, and tassels. Stand there in
front of the wall and ask yourself, “Could I sew this to a scarf?” Don't limit your thinking.
A scarf that has turned out too big is not a failure. It's a shawl.
This is my favorite thing about shawls, among the countless great things about them. Shawls are the mighty chameleon of knitting, and virtually anything you knit could be a shawl if you think about it right and can get the thing over your shoulders. Shawls come in many shapes, sizes, weights, and applications and keeping an open mind will have you knitting one (perhaps by accident). Shawls suffer, sadly and inappropriately, from an association with pioneer grandmothers, and this can cause many a fine young knitter to turn her back on them. If you are that kind of knitter, the kind who hears
shawl
and imagines either an 80-year-old woman in a rocking chair or a peasant woman sweeping a dirt floor, maybe it's not that you don't want to knit a shawl, maybe you just need to call it something else.
It's not a shawl, it's a:
Stole
. A stole is usually a rectangular piece of fabric wider than a scarf but just long enough to wrap around your shoulders and fasten fetchingly with a pin or brooch. Using the guidelines for Scarf Recipe #1 will make a stole if you do it with more enthusiasm and a certain flair, as the whole idea of a stole embodies elegance.
Ten Reasons to Knit Shawls
Virtually every culture on earth has a history for the shawl. There's the Jewish prayer shawl or
tallis;
a Spanish lace mantilla or
abrigo;
a Gaelic tonnag; and, going back as far as ancient Egypt, the sacred
iraoros
shawl. There must be a reason for this, and you should knit one while we figure it out.
It's extremely difficult to pretend to be Mata Hari without one.
Shawls can be knit from virtually any yarn you can get and will still look appropriate. I have an Aran-weight cabled wrap, a cobweb-lace triangle, and a copper and gold stole that I imagine myself visiting casinos in. (I don't go to casinos, but the point is that if I were to, this is the right yarn to go in.)
There is no more elegant way to cover your shoulders as you and a handsome companion stroll through the moonlit park chatting after the ballet. (Well, yes, I do have a rich fantasy life. Why do you ask?)
Even if you don't wear one for leaving the house, you can drape one over the back of a chair to pull over your shoulders on a drafty winter afternoon
without anybody thinking you're a slob who doesn't put away her clothes. (Which is totally what people say when you leave your sweater on the couch.)
I can toss a big woolen one about myself as I head to the grocery store and get a
Wuthering Heights/
Cathy-on-the-moors feel going, instead of my usual “I-forgot-to-buy-cat-food feeling.”
As with scarves, gauge is almost irrelevant. A shawl that comes out too small is a scarf (or, in the event of a too small circular shawl, a doily) and a scarf that comes out too big can be an afghan.
There is no greater welcome for a new baby than a shawl as delicate as it is. I love the look of a tiny wee face wrapped in exquisite lace stitches. Even the simplest of shawls looks better around a baby, and I labor under the delusion that she will keep this shawl all her life, perhaps wear it on her wedding day, or, if it's a boy baby, give it to his bride. I even imagine that I've created an heirloom that will someday hold this baby's baby. It's hard to think of anything more worthy of baby puke.
A shawl has no armholes, heels, sleeves, or seams.
The most complex and beautiful lace in the world is Shetland or Orenburg, and knitting a shawl in either tradition will change your idea of what you're capable of on this earth.