Ah, Sundays in Autumn. Canberrans eat brunch and talk about the Skywhale in terms either glowing or scathing; some bloggers find snail-shaped statues to ride like ponies; clear skies make picnics appealing but cold winds make them less so. And everyone knits. Or just me. Usually just me.
I’m treading water, knitting-wise, which is not the same as doing nothing. I’m knitting washcloth after washcloth (oh mer gerd wersh clerths!) for the various babies that have entered my world — not via my cervix, I hasten to add, but through the cervices of friends — and, now I’m onto the kitchen cotton, for the kitchen sink. I’ve used up two balls of Cleckheaton’s Fiddle Dee Dee in a week.
I knit them exactly the same, every time: cast on three stitches, work in garter stitch increasing at the beginning of every row until I have a triangle roughly half the size of the clerth I want, and then continue in garter stitch decreasing at the end of every row until I have three stitches left, and cast off.
Why is this so satisfying? Who can say? They’re fast — I’m usually halfway through one before I finish talking about how great the Skywhale is — and they’re easy; they’re also soft and just nice to have in my hands; and there’s something self-congratulatory and smug about knitting practical workhorse clerths. A kind of pleasing “aha, another thing I can knit myself!” (No more sucking at the teat of Big Washcloth for me!) I’ve got budding ideas about what else I’d like to knit, but there’s no hurry: me and the cloths, we’re happy.
Another weird thing: when I buy them from the shop, they’re called facewashers or dishcloths. Where the hell did I learn the word “washcloth” and why can’t I stop saying it? Washcloth washcloth washcloth WARSHCLERTH WARSHCLERTH WARSHCLERTH.
I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened there. I think I’d better hit publish before this whole post derails. I’ve got clerths to knit.