The works of my hands.

When I get back to school, my hall is holding a belated gift exchange of winter accessories. My secret recipient mentioned she'd like a hat, a scarf, or gloves, so I thought I'd fashion her the two that I know how to make.




I've been crocheting like crazy for the past two weeks. It started at school, when I discovered two skeins of yarn in my closet while searching for adequate Christmas present materials. I derive great pleasure from creating something useful and appealing out of a ball of string. The rhythm of the repetition and the mental exercise of understanding a pattern are addicting. Like cooking or sewing, I've found that crocheting imparts a delightfully affirming sense of domesticity. It's the dawning realization of those of us raised post-feminist movement: when you don't have to do it, it can be a lot of fun.