My name is Nicole, and I'm a crochet addict.Crochet.Bit of an old-fashioned word, isn't it? I'd never really given it much thought.I was taught to knit at around age 12, plain and perl, and this had resulted in the longest drop-stitch-addled scarf Western civilisation has ever witnessed.Sadly, knitting was only a holiday romance for me.Fickle, one-sided, and never half so satisfying as being mesmerised by the competent click-tock of my nana's needles which magicked out Aran cables and complex bobbles and spangled frills that Zsa-Zsa would have died for.In my head, knitting equated to clothing, and that meant a serious time commitment to construct something of a wearable size.My only commitments at age 12 were to watching Shaun Cassidy in The Hardy Boys re-runs on Channel 10 and staring at my Keanu posters.Knitting didn't stand a chance.I was vaguely aware that smaller, less ambitious wool-utilising projects were possible, but they generally involved something called crochet, which kind of looked like knitting but as a general rule had more holes in it (yes, even more than my scarf).Crochet to me meant lacy doilies, toilet-roll covers, Spanish-style Barbie doll can-can dresses, fancily decorated tops of hand towels, and of course granny squares.It reeked of uncool, and smelled like the jumper the cat slept on.And so, for many years, my relationship with yarn was stunted.Fast-forward to May 2007.I accompanied my mother to an annual craft and quilting fair that travels across Australia, spending a weekend in major cities and attracting craft-lovers (too-often towing long-suffering, recalcitrant husbands) like over-zealous bees to honey.It's a mother-daughter outing that we've done a few times now, and the mother-daughterness of it all is what makes up for the heaving crowds of fanatical decoupagers and gaudily decorated women in iridescent puff-paint slathered t-shirts - not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with them, but ladies, glitter sticks are a privilege not to be abused.To cut a long story short, after I'd endured about six hours of craft delightsicles, and mum had disappeared off to a workshop, I spied a quiet area set aside from the madd'ing crowd.A table with three women around it, waiting, and a sign identifying it as a 'Learn to Crochet' session.It looked like a welcome alternative to further jostling with scary, craft showbag-wielding ladettes who were starting to turn because the Janome stall woman hadn't started her demo and it was already two whole minutes past the hour.In the sanctuary delineated by the crochet table, I paid my $10 and was given a ball of red wool, a 4.5mm crochet hook and a worksheet for a crocheted buttonhole scarf.Casting on to the hook was easy, and I lulled myself into a pleasant sense of security and accomplishment as my 41 chains went remarkably well.The woman running the class was encouraging.I'd be making filigree lace tablecloths in no time.I'd be couriering special orders to Venezia.Or not.Working my first row back into those chains proved ridiculously, inconceivably, desperately challenging, and to date is probably still my Most Frustrating Crochet Experience Ever (though the bullion stitch isn't far behind).It took up the rest of that 1-hour workshop and 90% of my expert cussing vocabulary.Oblivious to the workshop having finished and my classmates dispersed, my mother found me some time later wrought into a nervous tic of knots around a hook and ball of red wool.She untangled me, and took me home.Not the most auspicious of beginnings.But I bet love at first sight doesn't make the triple treble even half as interesting.I persevered with that button-hole scarf and inside a month was completely addicted to crochet.The more I messed with that hook and yarn, the more possibilities unraveled.Quite literally.The flexibility and creativity afforded by a simple hook and a ball of wool was, and still is, a wonderful thing to me.There's a lovely synergy about being part of a handmade tradition, while simultaneously having all the luxurious options afforded by modern yarns and materials.The act of creating something by hand is immensely satisfying, and I encourage anyone with even a little curiosity to explore the basics of crochet.Seriously.It's not just for nanas, and the benefits in terms of relaxation, satisfaction and good old-fashioned discovery are truly worthwhile.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Beginner's Crochet - How a Perfectly Normal Girl Like Me Developed a Crochet Addiction
My name is Nicole, and I'm a crochet addict.Crochet.Bit of an old-fashioned word, isn't it? I'd never really given it much thought.I was taught to knit at around age 12, plain and perl, and this had resulted in the longest drop-stitch-addled scarf Western civilisation has ever witnessed.Sadly, knitting was only a holiday romance for me.Fickle, one-sided, and never half so satisfying as being mesmerised by the competent click-tock of my nana's needles which magicked out Aran cables and complex bobbles and spangled frills that Zsa-Zsa would have died for.In my head, knitting equated to clothing, and that meant a serious time commitment to construct something of a wearable size.My only commitments at age 12 were to watching Shaun Cassidy in The Hardy Boys re-runs on Channel 10 and staring at my Keanu posters.Knitting didn't stand a chance.I was vaguely aware that smaller, less ambitious wool-utilising projects were possible, but they generally involved something called crochet, which kind of looked like knitting but as a general rule had more holes in it (yes, even more than my scarf).Crochet to me meant lacy doilies, toilet-roll covers, Spanish-style Barbie doll can-can dresses, fancily decorated tops of hand towels, and of course granny squares.It reeked of uncool, and smelled like the jumper the cat slept on.And so, for many years, my relationship with yarn was stunted.Fast-forward to May 2007.I accompanied my mother to an annual craft and quilting fair that travels across Australia, spending a weekend in major cities and attracting craft-lovers (too-often towing long-suffering, recalcitrant husbands) like over-zealous bees to honey.It's a mother-daughter outing that we've done a few times now, and the mother-daughterness of it all is what makes up for the heaving crowds of fanatical decoupagers and gaudily decorated women in iridescent puff-paint slathered t-shirts - not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with them, but ladies, glitter sticks are a privilege not to be abused.To cut a long story short, after I'd endured about six hours of craft delightsicles, and mum had disappeared off to a workshop, I spied a quiet area set aside from the madd'ing crowd.A table with three women around it, waiting, and a sign identifying it as a 'Learn to Crochet' session.It looked like a welcome alternative to further jostling with scary, craft showbag-wielding ladettes who were starting to turn because the Janome stall woman hadn't started her demo and it was already two whole minutes past the hour.In the sanctuary delineated by the crochet table, I paid my $10 and was given a ball of red wool, a 4.5mm crochet hook and a worksheet for a crocheted buttonhole scarf.Casting on to the hook was easy, and I lulled myself into a pleasant sense of security and accomplishment as my 41 chains went remarkably well.The woman running the class was encouraging.I'd be making filigree lace tablecloths in no time.I'd be couriering special orders to Venezia.Or not.Working my first row back into those chains proved ridiculously, inconceivably, desperately challenging, and to date is probably still my Most Frustrating Crochet Experience Ever (though the bullion stitch isn't far behind).It took up the rest of that 1-hour workshop and 90% of my expert cussing vocabulary.Oblivious to the workshop having finished and my classmates dispersed, my mother found me some time later wrought into a nervous tic of knots around a hook and ball of red wool.She untangled me, and took me home.Not the most auspicious of beginnings.But I bet love at first sight doesn't make the triple treble even half as interesting.I persevered with that button-hole scarf and inside a month was completely addicted to crochet.The more I messed with that hook and yarn, the more possibilities unraveled.Quite literally.The flexibility and creativity afforded by a simple hook and a ball of wool was, and still is, a wonderful thing to me.There's a lovely synergy about being part of a handmade tradition, while simultaneously having all the luxurious options afforded by modern yarns and materials.The act of creating something by hand is immensely satisfying, and I encourage anyone with even a little curiosity to explore the basics of crochet.Seriously.It's not just for nanas, and the benefits in terms of relaxation, satisfaction and good old-fashioned discovery are truly worthwhile.
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