A little more than a year ago, when we still lived in downtown DC, I found myself out and about on a frigid day, without gloves--on foot, of course--with grocery shopping to do. It was one of those days when the thermometer drops about 20 degrees in an hour. After battling a razor-sharp wind all the way from 18th and L streets to 15th and P (NW), I dove through the doors of our local Whole Foods store, my hands both numb and raw.
I grabbed a basket and set about my shopping. But these gloriously colorful gloves drew me in, irresistible despite my budget-conscious state of mind. Mittens, hats, and full-fingered gloves shared the end-cap display with the fingerless variety, which I happen to adore.
Hand knitted of 100% alpaca by members of a Peruvian women's cooperative, the colors hearkened back to a vibrant culture I must have experienced in another life, so often do I long for its richness and boisterousness.
Let me add to the drama: Unbelievable as it seems, I, a hand-knitter, have no family members who knit (yet), and so knitted presents (or presents to do with knitting, actually) are virtually unheard of... So, every now and then, when I hear someone say, "Oh, my mom made this scarf for me..." or "I made this sweater out of yarn my grandmother sent to me," I feel a little twinge of envy.
But, for some reason, these gloves have satisfied my need for hand-knits. When I slide my fingers into their thick, cozy fabric, I mysteriously feel that they were knit just for me. It's a gift, I believe, and one I've been grateful for on many a cold morning.
Whoever and wherever she is, the woman who made my mitts obviously knit lots of love into every stitch. I wish I could meet her, and tell her how much joy her knitting brings me.
And now for a moment of undeniable cuteness: