In recent years, I’ve become quite the Thanksgiving Scrooge. It’s not my favorite holiday. It’s simply a meal whose traditional foods I do not enjoy (fowl, yams and pies).

Mind you, I have plenty of good memories of turkey and tofurkey of yore. And, I’m not one to shy away from the kitchen. I just don’t get into the anticipation and obsession of the ritual eats. I would love a social meal at any time during the year. I don’t need an national holiday to dictate one for me.

For the past few years, we’ve driven up to Eugene to C’s parents’ for the weekend. It’s always relaxing here and Janie loves her duty of protecting the yard from squirrels. I get a lot of knitting done and often have to make a dish. Good times all around.

Something clicked this year. Different. It was a great meal, even without a vegetarian turkey imposter. My gratin with mushrooms and celeriac sizzled. More importantly, I talked with everyone in my immediate family on the phone. I realize how much I really, really miss them. It would have been nice to share this meal with them. Even my brother that no one knows I have.

Not being a dessert guy, I gave one a whirl. I finally made the brown butter rice crispy treats from Smitten Kitchen. They weren’t as life-changing as their name would lead you to believe, but worth the attempt. I’d like to tweak them with more savory next time: sage perhaps?

I’m thankful for having a change of heart and looking forward to my next t-day. I’m thankful for my family, here and across the country.

But mostly, I’m thankful for butter.

Carrie posted some lovely photos of her freshly washed socks drying. Having just washed 12 pair myself, and briefly visiting the tens, nay, twenties, (I don’t want to believe it’s over 100) of skeins of sock yarn lying in wait yesterday, I’m feeling the urge to produce more foot coverings. For my own feet, for my mind, for friends and loved ones.

But sock knitting takes time. So does the button band on the cardigan I’m knitting. As do the designs that have yet to be committed to paper. Not to mention the many sweaters I hope to wear that have yet to be wound. Then there are the gloves I promised MiHi when I first started knitting so many years ago. And the Knitspot jacket I’ve loved since Sock Summit and had the yarn since Rhinebeck 2009. Don’t forget the babies. And the woolly pounds more that take up space in this apartment.

There are at least six socks completed or near completed awaiting their mate. I think I’ll start with them first. Maybe I’ll even allow myself to start a simple mindless pair just so I can have a sock sack for all seasons. But first I should really tackle those gloves…

Shaken or stirred? Beer or wine? Ethiopian or pizza? Coffee or tea? Book or blog?

There are so many choices, none of which is the clear winner over the other.

This is not my piece, nor my dipping. I was lucky enough to watch Kathy at earthues speak and dye during the Men’s Fall Knittng Retreat. (Her place is beautiful, a must-see in Seattle.) I am even luckier to call myself the owner of this fine scarf, now a deep, dark indigo blue. It’s currently drying on the stair railing.

I looked back to see if I posted anything this time last year about the lasr retreat. Sadly, I hadn’t. It was the start of a time of transition, as I was preparing my homework, an hour-long audition, for my current role that would see me leave a nine-year stint at Clif Bar. I was also knitting my wrists off to complete a raglan sweater (that was just published) and another garment (fate still TBD). I remember sitting in the Seattle airport, concerned about the future that I hoped to open up for me.

Much like the indigo dip, the retreat (as with many before it) stands out in my memory as a watershed event. There’s great oxidation & transformation that follows upon exposure to air & life afterwards. I ended up getting that job and what a ride the past year has been. I’ve turned many new shades of me and have come out wildly different than it initially appeared.

In its own special way, this year will similarly have yet to reveal itself. I hadn’t planned on attending this year’s MFKR, but I’m glad they could accommodate a late addtion after an impulsive Labor Day phone call. A stressful project had just wrapped up and I could imagine being social and not stressed again, if imminent a weekend.

I need a forthcoming transformation, boy, do I ever.
Who knows? Maybe it will reveal itself like last year, in just a few weeks.

In the mini-park across from the office, two pigeons bathed in the grimey water that trickles down the wall. Some call it a fountain.

An uncharacteristically warm day, for birds and humans alike.

Dinner of a bachelor: canned lentil soup, frozen grilled asparagus and roasted seaweed. Not that exciting tonight. But after three very social evenings, a simple, if culinarily uninspired, evening at home was welcome.

Janie and I sat on the couch as I knit. It’s rare to enjoy a weeknight multiple-hour block of needle time. Elizabeth Gilbert hung out with us, reading Eat, Pray, Love. Funny how the book is different two years after my soul-searching sabbatical and so many changes in my life. We didn’t make it out of Italy, but there’s always tomorrow night.

C comes home from Portland on Saturday. The house feels empty without him, but there have been a few perks to shaking up the routine and being forced to be self- (and dog-) sufficient. The TV hasn’t been turned on once. I’ve seen old friends. I choose what to do next.

Like tonight.

The highlight of my Monday: a box awaiting my return home. It’s like a ballet slipper, only horrifying.

We are already into tomorrow and I need to go to bed so I can grab breakfast with my friend and former roomie, Seanie. I’ll keep this brief.

Enjoyed an afternoon at A Verb For Keeping Warm with the visiting Angela, and other sock campers: Leslie, Celia, Marisol. Lunched with Kristine and got to chat with Adrienne and Mike. I miss being social, an especially fiberly so.

The night ended with two batches of salted caramels. One’s already been wrapped in parchment paper, the other’s sitting in the fridge overnight and will be cut tomorrow. If you see me, I may just have some to share. I can’t eat them all!

(I’m off to bed, so please forgive the lack of linking. Not patient enough to code.)

Thursday, August 6, 2009. The first day of classes at Sock Summit. The fear and excitement and magic of the unknown.

I can honestly say that event changed my life. I had no idea what those next few days would mean to me. I am beyond grateful to have been a part of the entire experience.

Who knew that 365 days later I’d be here. Thinking about the future. About being bigger than I believe myself to be in my day to day. Again. About taking on an even bigger adventure? Or two.

Thank you, Tina and Steph.

I woke up this morning with a stiff, aching thumb. I’m sure it’s from last night’s knitting—a casualty of 2.0mm needles and yarn intended to be on slightly bigger needles. (what can I say? I like a dense gauge in my socks.)

It’s not like I’ve been overdoing it, rather underdoing it, so that an evening’s work has me off my game. I’m just not hitting the wool as often as I used to. As I’m “getting back into shape,” I expect there may be a few mornings of exhausted digits.

Why so little needle action? It hasn’t been a drought (although there have been days at a time where it’s just work, dinner and bed). More like intense bursts.

There’s not too much I can share at this time, but once they are released into the wide world, i.e. published, I’ll be popping them up here. Instead of regular, casual knitting, it’s been purpose-driven completion. Great stuff, if I say so myself.

I look forward to some meandering, non-deadline, non-thinking knit time later this summer. That’s still a garment or two away. Until then, it’s time to test my thumb. I don’t want to take a night off, especially as there’s a matching partner that hasn’t even been begun.

The life of a tortured artist? Nope, just a very grateful-to-be-creating guy with a funky finger.

Granted, it’s only been three practices and a Sunday afternoon working on skills independently at Berkeley (pictured), but my return to the pool feels like a return to myself. I’m not recommitting to joining the synchro team forever and ever, but I know it’s good for me. Or better than what I’ve been doing.

There’s something about that first dive in#&151;the deafening rush of water and air as you break the surface followed by the dulled silence underneath. Supported, life doesn’t feel so heavy. My mind isn’t thinking about the upcoming workout or the preceding workday’s stress. It’s a transition between then into the now. (Sometimes made even more “now” if the water’s super chilly!)

I’m not in the same shape I used to be in. I’m not able to do the same moves. I’m learning the beginners’ routines and just trying to have fun.