Last night, we headed out for the annual Oktoberfest at the Deutschen Haus. I was in quite the foul mood on Thursday until I read the newspaper and was reminded of the fest. It is impossible for me to stay mad, I learned, with the chicken dance music playing in my head. I munched on my obligatory plate of German food (bratwurst, sauerkraut, stuffed cabbage roll, German mashed potatoes and pumpernickel bread with mustard):

and I drank the obligatory German beer (Warsteiner):

and it was all yum-tacular! Throw in some German desserts, the chicken dance and German music in the biergarten and color yourself one good time. See you next year, old friend.

Then this morning, I got up early and went to Yoga then came home and joined CS and Sun. We got the last of the fleurs (and discovered two more were stolen–one in Margaritaville, whose picture we had not taken yet, and the Saint’s one outside of Whitney National Bank on St. Charles–major bummer).

Then we ate lunch at La Peniche in the Faubourg Marigny. Love this place! Great bleu cheese burger and well needed bloody mary (why well needed? Because finding this place always drives me a bit batty. But it never fails to satisfy). We overheard an obvious tourist ask the waitress, “What exactly do you mean by ‘do I want my po-boy dressed?’” Tee hee.

Then off to something new: The Freret Market. There was food and live music and art. And there was also iced coffees and flea-market-type vendors and sellers of yarns and hand-knitted items! And adorable embroidered and tie-dyed onesies. We had a great time and are certain to be back (they will be there the first Saturday of every month).

Sun attended her first funeral today. I seem to attend a lot of funerals. And I have certainly been touched by many deaths this year (four, if you are keeping count). This funeral was particularly sad — it was the son of a friend of mine that committed suicide. He was 28 years old and left a five-month old baby boy.

The funeral was just out of the city (in LaPlace, LA), and I took the “scenic route” home–Airline Highway instead of the Interstate. After passing the site of Shell’s refinery that was belching filth into the sky (to quote “The Police”), I did pass the bucolic scene of a marshy area that had cows grazing in a field with egrets on their backs. Really. Egrets on the backs of grazing cows.

And as solemn songs of Bob Dylan and Daniel Lanois wafted in my ears, I took stock of my life. This is what going to a funeral does to me — it makes me take scenic routes and muse about the value of my own life. And today its value is quite high. Sun alone gives my life new value. But in addition to that, my work life is healthy, my marriage is solid, my love for knitting has been rekindled, and I started back with Yoga today.

I want for nothing. If only I could carry with me this high-valued feeling of my life all the time without having to go to someone’s funeral to trigger it, I’d have it all.

Sunday afternoon, the hubs and I went to Borders for me to get a new book. I have now finished “The Good Earth” (thanks for the recommendation, Mamma Loves) and “The Namesake” and could not get excited about “Dr. Mary’s Monkey” (sorry, Former Secretary). While at Borders, I saw a display for a writer of knitting books. I thought at first that it was a patterns book, but sat down and flipped through it anyway. It is a book about the humor in knitting.

Now, not to overstate the point, I am a nerd. I read a lot, am a tax attorney, and love yoga and knitting. And married a computer geek. Even so, I never found all that much humor in knitting — what with the cursing when things go awry (and for me, that is all too often), the constant counting, and the reading of patterns. But, oh, was I wrong! Ms. McPhee is one hell of a writer and her muse just happens to be knitting. And it is sad that only knitters will enjoy her writing because she deserves a bigger audience. (On the other hand, McPhee is a best-selling author selling to the multitudes of knitters in the world).

Well, upon closer inspection of the rack that displayed her books, I noticed that she was coming to the store the next day for a signing. Once I read half of her first book (aptly titled “Yarn Harlot”–isn’t that great?!) Sunday night, I kept thinking of her signing throughout an otherwise rough Monday. So I decided to head back to Borders and check it out.

The hubs and I (along with Sun) arrived a wee bit late. Turns out McPhee was also giving a lecture. Well, within no time, I was laughing aloud and feeling the tension from the day wear away. I learned a lot (not about knitting but about how many knitters there are in the world and how smart we are and how much disposable money we have!). Sadly, I bolted out early when I heard Sun crying from the music department. I did not get my books signed.

Today, McPhee wrote about her recent visit to New Orleans. And it is spot on. I am not the least bit surprised that she was astute enough to capture our spirit in such a short period of time. And like Monday night, I learned from McPhee. This time it was about the “bottle tree.” I have never heard of this nor believe I’ve ever seen one. Too bad for me. I will now be on the look-out for one.

So although I failed to get McPhee’s signature, I got a lot from her lecture and her blog. And for that, I am grateful indeed. And inspired to finish my afghan.

Dear Nola,

I hate to take this measure and write to you, but you have left me no choice. It was one year ago that you went to Colorado and discovered and fell in love with my yarns–that you decided to knit your most ambitious project to date. And yet here I sit, still unfinished. Oh, the humiliation. The left-over sock yarn teases mercilessly. Didn’t you finish those socks (two!) in under a month?

And I have seen the new books — the designs for baby items. Please don’t make a liar out of me too. I swore to the sock yarn that you’d NEVER start a new project before completing me.

Was it my fault that you forgot the pattern and over-knitted causing you to do “catch up” decreases on the following row for over a foot of me? Is it me that asked you to rip that mistake out and re-knit me? No; I would have accepted such mistake just to be complete. Oh, to be whole!

I know it bothers you that you decided you needed more yarn and now I have two different dye lots in me. I am no longer pure. I weep over my imperfection. I see it in your eyes — the resentment. But it wasn’t my fault! You decided I needed to be longer and wider than the standard afghan — I would have been happy to be normal. But I know you are now ashamed of me. I remember the days you’d take me out and work on me in public. How long has it been since you’ve done that? Oh, too long! You say it is because I am too large now to fit easily in a bag. But I fear it is your shame. You wanted me as an heirloom. But who will want me now?

Dear Nola, please don’t let me lag and become your “never to be completed” project. How would I ever get over it? I see you watching TV, doing nothing more. I know you are tired from Sun. (Did I mention how much I love her, too?) But I miss our time in front of the TV together — that was our time!

Aren’t I more than half-way finished? Don’t you want to finish in under a year? Before winter kicks in? And start on a sweater for Sun? And booties? Don’t we both deserve for you to finish me?

longingly and lovingly,

Your Afghan

I learned to knit at the Quarterstitch in the French Quarter on the morning of September 13, 2003. Captain Sarcastic came with me. He didn’t stay with me, mind you; rather, he roamed around the Quarter and took some pictures. Here’s a picture he took of a puddle outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral as I was learning:

This always reminds me of that day–that exact moment I was beginning a new chapter in my life. But this isn’t about my journey with knitting.

Last summer Captain Sarcastic and I went to Denver to meet Bella, our friends’ newly adopted daughter. While there, we did what we do in all cities we visit: we hit the local comic book shops and knitting stores. I found this fabulous rick rack yarn that I just had to have. I decided it’d be my biggest project (even if not my most challenging one) yet: a blanket. Not a small throw–a blanket. I started the blanket in early October. As of now, I think I am bearing down on the half-way mark. I am a stickler about finishing a project before starting a new one. Otherwise, I know I’d end up with a lot of never-to-be-completed pieces that would just piss me off.
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