Stitch and, well…
My sister and sister-in-law came over for a knit night last night. I plied them with dinner and wine and cheese and then we knit. Sort of. (Well, my sister crocheted, but that’s not the sort-of.)
My sister-in-law was casting on for a triangular shawl. She couldn’t quite remember how to cast on, and I helped her out — after opening my eyes very wide at the idea of casting on 299 stitches, bringing up the idea of shawls that start with, oh, three or five or nine stitches, and accepting that she wanted to knit what she wanted to knit.
I worked on a sock, my sister was crocheting an orange tunic-type thing, we drank wine and ate leftover mini cupcakes and talked. A lot.
Quite often, people who meet my family suddenly understand a lot more about me. Like why I don’t seem to breathe much when I talk. (You learn to talk really fast in a big loud family.)
My big sister and I are different in a lot of ways, but we’re also a lot alike. We talk. A lot.
My sister-in-law left early-ish, because she had to get home to her kids and because she couldn’t count her cast-on stitches as we were all talking too much. But she promised to return when she was further along and didn’t have to do as much counting. (I didn’t snort, but the idea of either less counting or less talking is kind of funny, under the circumstances.)
Sis and I stayed behind for a while, talking and drinking port and knitting, at least a little bit.
I could get used to this.