Clapotis and I went to Salem yesterday because the south wind blew into town one of my favorite non-muggles, Ann. While it makes me laugh to even make any kind of comparison of my little blog to the marketing force for kitchen cotton, denim yarn, and rubber wellies that is Mason Dixon, I am proud to say that I am a member of the same blog class of 2003/2004 as are Kay&Ann, although I do think they have a six month lead on me, and a world more of the contagious good knit vibe that the best blogs have.
I'd never met Ann. Indeed, until I rang her up Wednesday to make lunch arrangements, I had never heard her voice except in my head when I read her posts. I told her we had to meet at Seed Stitch because, well, she was in Salem. Indeed, even if she were in Massachusetts, nay, New England, we would have to meet there. And it being a shop that carries the Rowan, there was the chance of a Kidsilk Aura sighting.
Obligatory Blogger picture.
As insurance, (you know, just in case she wouldn't like me) I wore my most Rowan of all Rowan sweaters, Kilim from magazine number 7, knowing how Ann would not be able to resist the charms of a cotton fair isle. To cement the bond, I even showed her the back of the fabric. "You knit this flat?"
Now she is in my power.
It's also exactly the kind of sweater when you walk into a shop like Seed Stitch that announces you as a crazy-assed freak of a knitchick, and they let you pet the Kidsilk Haze without comment. The shop Bichon also gave me a wide berth because I think the sweater hurt his eyeballs.
No Kidsilk Aura though. Ann says that she thinks it doesn't really exist. Her theory is that it's just this yarn that Rowan has dreamed up that couldn't possibly exist in reality, so they've peddled all this mythical pattern support and yarn-world buzz to maintain that certain Rowan brand of fantasy. Good trick, that.
We had really good coffee across the street from Seed Stitch (it should be a universal ordinance, the proximity of yarns stores to good coffee I think), and lunch at the Peabody Essex Museum Garden cafe, which was sublime in its verdant sunniness and ambient intelligence; I felt smart just ordering salad there. The guy doing his Cat Stevens tribute outside the gate was the green cherry on an otherwise delightful afternoon, but to be fair, he only sang one song.