Knit Sisters

Along with all the other enchanting events of this summer—like getting married to a really incredible man on a sunny day at a lighthouse when I had previously given up all hope of getting married again at all and then having my sister make me some bang-up fancy cakes—my friend Red, the surfer, taught me how to swim in the ocean while we were in North Carolina.

I mean properly.

Those of us who grew up landlocked do not necessarily know how to swim in the sea. In fact, I was thirteen before I ever even saw the Atlantic Ocean and twenty-three before I laid eyes on the Pacific.

And at this rate, I’ll be forty-three before I finish this elephant sweater.

I do however know from soybeans and feeder corn and can, upon request, do a perfectly credible imitation of a 1970s-era radio farm commodities report, the “shipping news” of the Midwest.

The following can only be properly delivered while wearing a John Deere cap. (There is also no talking or commentary between the individual commodity listings. The basic information should be enough for you; there is no need to carry on about it or embellish it. Who do you think you are, some kind of fast-talking East Coast economist? My God man, this is Southwest Iowa, not Wall Street!)

Soybeans, up two.

(Long pause to savor this good news. Silently.)

Feeder corn, down three.

(Another long pause to allow this ominous drop to sink in.)

Milo, up four…

And so forth. It’s a kind of poetry to me. But it doesn’t teach you how to deal with waves.

Last summer, I mistakenly thought I knew how to swim in the Atlantic, which was all well and good until I got hit by a big, big wave. I mean, I stood there and got hit.

The wave broke over my head, swamped me, picked me up, turned me upside down, and smashed me on the beach. Smash, scrape, smash! I had scrapes and sandburn and a bathing suit full of tiny rocks and sand. So roundly was I dashed against the beach that there were little stones and sand in between the lining of my bathing suit and the outer layer.

So there I am sitting on the beach in a tangle of my own limbs, choking up salt water, spitting up small fish, gathering up what tiny shreds are left of my dignity, not to mention my bathing suit, and thinking, “Guess I don’t have the hang of this.”

I finished this Cherry Tree Hill sock, though. (Shown here with canine head.)

This summer, Red showed me that when a wave is about to hit you—and in particular to break right over your head—you just hold your breath, make like a fish, and dive right through it.

In two seconds, you are out on the other side, none the worse for wear and ready to work with the next wave. But that’s the key, you see, a fact that I now understand. You have to work with the wave, you can’t fight it. You can’t stand there like a oak tree and expect a good outcome. You gotta move like a fish, even though instinctively it seems like diving through a big wave like that is the first step down the path toward a drowning death.

Still life with handknit sock.

Even while we were out there diving through the waves, I was thinking that this swimming lesson could be a great metaphor for how to manage life’s difficulties. I think too often I stand there gracelessly and let life’s “waves” hit me, pick me up, and smash me against the beach and then I sit there choking and sputtering and bleeding and wondering what the hell just happened. I struggle and flail about and fight situations I should be wise enough to…dive through and let pass right over my head.

Think there’s any chance I can actually practice that maneuver instead of just bloviating about it on the blog?

Or will it be like Gabriel Garcia Marquez said of wisdom, that it always comes too late to do any good?

Um.

But I have hope. After all, look how much I learned about diving through from just one summer to the next.

I am closing on my new house today.  This simultaneously excites me incredibly and scares the peewaddin’ out of me, as my mother would say.

On the one hand, I get to pick out everything myself, arrange it all to my own liking, and stay up till 3 a.m. playing the piano if I want to.  Yee haw!  On the other hand, I’m going to have to mow the lawn, hook up the washer and dryer, and find a way to float my own boat financially.  Oy vey!  The idea of personal growth is all well and good until you’re actually forced into it, I find. 

So at this point, when I’m not actively freaking out, I’m actively packing.

                                                                      Boxes full of books, mostly.

I’m a little embarrassed to say that I actually have not done that much packing up until now.  There are several reasons for this, the first and foremost of which is that the process of buying the house has been so fraught with stress, anxiety, and uncertainty, that I think on some level I felt that to start packing would be to tempt fate.  Totally unreasonable, I know, but there it is.  Also, I am moving a total of two blocks down the street, and as Ellen pointed out with her recent move next door, there are just some things that are easier to just pick up and walk over.  (Or, in my case, set in the front seat of the truck.)  And, let’s face it, I am naturally lazy.

But now I have begun!  It’s never too late!

And I’m reminded once again (as if I really needed it), just how much yarn and fiber I have.  Witness this large tub o’ stash.

                                                      Now, this may look like a manageable tub full of fibery things, but that actually could not be further from the truth.  It is HUGE.  It is a (brace yourself) 55 gallon tub.  Luckily, it has little wheels on the bottom so that it can roll around on the floor.  I am carefully not thinking of the moment when I have to lift it into the back of the truck.

Then, I have a closet full of fiber and yarn. 

                                                                    The top.

                                                                    The bottom.

I am certain that the builder of this apartment thought of this closet as a linen closet, and if you look closely in the photos above, you can see a set of pink sheets and a couple of purple towels.  I’m using it as a linen closet, see?

As far as the amount of stash in there, well, I really don’t quite know what to say.  But I will remind you that I never moved all the stash out of the house I lived in with Rob.  There is at least as much, if not more, still at the house.  Ahem.  Let us just draw the curtain of privacy over that issue, shall we?

When I absolutely have to sit down and calm myself, I am doing a little knitting and spinning.  I started the second sock for my soldier buddy.

 

And I’m working on the wool/silk laceweight on the Kromski.

 

It’s humbling to me to try to spin this fine.  The yarn keeps breaking, or I don’t get enough twist in it, or sometimes I get too much twist in it.  I learn what I need to do, and then I lose focus or try to go too fast and I forget.

Like I said, personal growth is a harsh taskmistress.

I’m just back from North Carolina’s Outer Banks and readjusting to New England’s fabulous weather (90 degrees, 95 percent humidity, thunderstorms expected in the afternoon, one could simply weep…).

This afternoon, for instance, I was caught in a downpour without an umbrella and had to wring out my own hair once I had gained the shelter of the T Stop. I would have wrung out my shirt too if it wouldn’t have constituted public indecency.

Yes, New England is a place that reveals its charms—and there are in fact many—slowly. You must be patient. And it helps if you are a Calvinist.

Comparatively, the Outer Banks is an easy place to love, a magical place (as my OBX friend Geoff put it), a place that is rich in natural beauty:

The sun sets over Jockey’s Ridge.

The foam of a breaking wave on the beach.

A picturesque walk to the fishing pier.

Then, of course, there are the wonderful things one’s younger friends do, like surf:

Red catches a wave. If you haven’t surfed before, let me tell you, this is an achievement. It ain’t as easy as the Beach Boys make it sound. Remember that whole “That’s all there is to the coastline craze”? And “We’re loadin’ up our woody with our boards inside/and headin’ out singin’ our song”? Or who could forget, “When you catch a wave, you’ll be sittin’ on top of the world”? Yeah, well, only if you were born in Ojai. The rest of us are gonna be eatin’ a lot of sand and swallowin’ a lot of salt water before we’re singin’ our song or sittin’ on top of the world.

Or build a sand octopus…

…named Julie.

The Cardinal shows off his creation.

There’s all that, yes, and then there are the noble additions of humankind, like the billboard for Dirty Dick’s restaurant that is emblazoned with the legend: “I got crabs at Dirty Dick’s.”

Truly, the heart soars!

Or the surfer dude driving down Croatan Highway with his left foot out the driver’s side window and the following heartwarming message soaped onto his rear window: “Hey baby, want to ride my longboard? Lookin’ for chix…”

What can one say, but…thank heaven for little boys!

Or the tasteful mementoes, available for purchase at fine stores all along Rte. 158 and suitable for display in one’s home, of the carefree times one has spent in the OBX:

Talk about your robust Morning Blend!

And then, there is as always the knitting:

Here’s a close up of the Cherry Tree Hill Gems Merino sock, born in North Carolina, but fated to live out its life in Massachusetts.

Emerging intarsia elephant:

If you look very closely on the right, you can see his trunk.

So it’s goodbye to all that (except the knitting, of course) until next year when—with any luck at all—our friends will return, the water will be fine, the sunsets will be stunning, and the Outer Banks bazooms mugs will be cheap and easy to procure.

Next year, I’m going to have a set of four accompanied by a gift card shipped to my reprobate uncle: “Dear Uncle Armbruster, Saw these, thought of you!”

As Ellen said, I have had a pattern published at elann!

I designed these gauntlets last fall with elann’s Peruvian Highland Wool.  In fact, I spent the first day of school (the day of all the useless teachers’ meetings) drawing and designing the cable pattern.  I was supposed to be listening to people talk about “Professional Learning Communities.”  I think, on the whole, that I got more out of the day than most people did.

The gauntlets are pretty cool, if I do say so myself, and most everyone who sees them wants a pair, including Harvey.  (I do have a pair in the works for him, they just need to be finished.)  Well, except men, that is, who in general just don’t seem to get the point.  Oh, well.  You can’t please everyone all the time.

So, if you’d like a pair yourself, just jet on over to elann and print out the pattern.

P.S.  Although these really are great in elann’s wool, and it does come in almost any color your heart might desire, and it’s really inexpensive, I do have to admit to you that this pattern is also a great way to use some of your stash.  It only uses about 300 yards of wool, and if you don’t have that much, you can shorten them.  And dare I say that they would make perfect Christmas gifts?

I am on vacation with my dear friends J., Red, and The Cardinal, so this will be abbreviated (as I shall almost certainly be called back to the beach directly), but I have a few important points to make.

1. Did you see my sister’s lovely gauntlet pattern, Marquise, over at Elann? I could not be prouder. And what do you think is right smack dab on their home page? You guessed it!

I knew her when…

Go check it out and you can say the same.

2. The Outer Banks in North Carolina are stunningly beautiful this time of year and the area is full of gracious and welcoming people.

Exhibit A: Our beach. We seem to be about the only Northerners here, but we’ve learned to pepper our speech with “y’all” and “all y’all” in order to blend in and earn the trust and respect of our fellow vacationers. It doesn’t work, but at least we’ve given it the old college try! Y’all.

Exhibit B: The Cardinal masterfully flies a Kite at lovely Jockey’s Ridge State Park. If all y’all had been there, you would have been impressed.

3. There is a great yarn store, Knitting Addiction, exactly 0.2 miles from our vacation rental home. Reason enough to love this house, even without factoring in the hot tub and the fabulous…

…Rundown Cafe, which is practically next door. Try Ja love…and a fresh softshell crab sandwich.

But back to the really important stuff. Knitting supplies and suppliers. I got a delightful little Knitting Addiction knitting bag (love these little clear bags!), the local version of which is now a standard souvenir for me wherever my ramblings take me.

Because life is really, really, really too short to knit with ugly yarn.

Knitting Addiction in Southern Shores, NC. Check it out when you hit the Outer Banks, people. Could not be lovelier or have a more friendly staff, namely Brittany and Jeanne. And yes, that is a ball of Tofutsies you spy there. I don’t see a color number on the ball band, but if I were in charge, I’d call it “Sunkist.”

4. I have been knitting, but nothing too grand.

My Cherry Tree Hill Gems Merino sock with a nascent eye-of-newt heel.

Here’s a close-up of the stitch pattern, which I kind of made up on the fly:

I am quite entranced with the effect.

5. My friend Julie, a North Carolina native, assures me that S.L.U.T.S. stands for “Southern Ladies Under Tremendous Stress.” She has formed a S.L.U.T.S. Society in her hometown and apparently the meetings are very well attended.

But when you think about it, if you publicized a meeting of the S.L.U.T.S., you’d expect a fair contingent to show up, wouldn’t you?

They just might not all be ladies. Ahem.

6. And yes…

…unattended children will be sold as slaves.

Thank you. —The Management.

And with that, I gotta run. I have a rather sizeable coterie of small children to sell into slavery, and then I’m gonna mix me up a margarita and hit the beach.

More soon, y’all.

You know the one I’m talking about.  The white cabled one that Cameron Diaz wore in the charming little cottage in England.

It’s time for me to clear up a little misconception that seems to have arisen, all unbidden, on the knitting-blog world and taken on a nasty little life of its own.

Now, it’s true that I did watch that movie.  I did see that sweater.  I was intrigued by that sweater, and I did make a sketch of that sweater in my sketchbook (see above).

But I never, ever, intended to copy that sweater verbatim, as it were, and create a replica of it.  In fact, I believe my exact words were:  “Lots of good inspiration there.”  (Emphasis mine and new.)

Nor did I ever intend to create a pattern for that sweater and publish it here on the blog or elsewhere.

Why?  Because that sweater is someone else’s design, and for me, there’s really no excitement or pleasure in the exact duplication of someone else’s design.

I have a whole notebook full of pictures of garments I’ve torn out of magazines and catalogs, and another notebook slowly filling up with sketches of sweaters and garments from movies and TV shows.  In every case, I chose those garments for one or more details that I find intriguing or creative.  I look at those pictures and sketches for inspiration, for new ways of thinking about garments, for a jump-start to my own creativity.

I try to look at it in this way:  “What specifically is it about this design that I find interesting or creative?  Are there details here that could be used in my knitwear, and how could I make that work?” 

I attempt to look hard at the details of others’ designs and think about not only how to use those details in my own way, but also what it is about those details that catches my imagination.  Sometimes that process can lead me far away from the original source, as I attempt to reconcile the inspiration with the medium.  

Now, that is not to say that there is anything wrong or bad in looking at that sweater from “The Holiday” and wanting to duplicate it.  It’s just that it simply doesn’t interest me.

And another thing!  I hate the idea of good, intelligent knitters sitting around waiting for someone else to provide them with a pattern, when I know very well that you’re all quite capable of knitting that sweater or any other sweater that might strike your fancy. 

Here’s how I would go about it:

1.  Check out from the library or buy one of Elizabeth Zimmerman’s knitting books.  Read it and take it to heart!  Remember, if you want it, you can knit it!  You do not have to be a slave to already-written patterns.

2.  Take a good, hard look at the sweater in the movie.  Rent the DVD and pause it in the scenes with the sweater.  Write down your observations and make some sketches.  Ask yourself:  “What is it that I’m really drawn to about this sweater?  Is it the front band/collar?  The cabling?  The shaping on the back?  The length?  Some combination of these elements or all of these elements?  Could I make my life easier by making a version of the sweater using some of those elements instead of all of them?”  (And, just as an aside, the sweater might be more flattering to you without all those elements.  I’m fairly certain it would be to me–I’m no Cameron Diaz.)

3.  Buy a ball or two of good wool in a natural white and start swatching.

4.  Take your measurements, get out your calculator, and crunch some numbers.

5.  Start knitting!  Measure as you go, and if you don’t like what you’re getting, rip it out and start over.

At the risk of sounding simplistic, that’s really is all there is to it.

Think of it this way:  this is probably the one area in life where you can take a risk without endangering yourself or anyone else in any way.  

If you want it, you can knit it.  Brace up, little friend. 

Became final this week.

I feel a little weird, a little sad, a little relieved, a little scared, a little excited.  Scared about what the future may hold, and excited about what the future may hold.  A bit frightened that my fall-back position is no longer there.  I really am on my own now.  (Well, as much on my own as a woman with a loving and supportive family and great friends gets.)

Once upon a time, when I was a more active quilter than a knitter, (I know, horrors!) I checked out and re-checked out a book from the library about a quilter named Nancy Crow.  She is well-known in the quilt world and has won many prizes and awards, as well as commissions.  This book, in addition to picturing her quilts, also included photos of her studio and her own thoughts about her creative process.  I think this was what fascinated me about the book–the glimpse into a successful fiber artist’s inner workings and inspirations.  The one thing that I remember most from that book, though, is a large, hand-lettered sign that Nancy Crow had up on the wall of her studio.  It said:  FOCUS.  SET GOALS.

I’ve thought of that often and often over the years, both when thinking about the large things (What in the heck am I doing with my life?) and the smaller things (Which project should I pick up next?).  I often thought of creating my own FOCUS.  SET GOALS. sign to hang on the wall of my studio.  But I never did. 

I don’t know exactly why I never did make that sign.  Perhaps it was just laziness.  Perhaps it was something deeper than that–a lack of daring, a lack of confidence. Maybe I really didn’t feel that I deserved my focus, that I myself was worth my own time.  

On August 10, I’m closing on a small two-bedroom house here in town.  Harvey will have one bedroom; I will have the other.  There is a large, sunny room with hardwood floors where my grand piano will sit, along with my spinning wheels.  I’m planning on making my bedroom my studio space as well, with my sewing machine, my fabrics, my yarn, my fiber, my books.  And on one wall I will hang a large, hand-lettered sign that reads:

FOCUS.  SET GOALS.

I strongly believe that we do have to do something radical about our energy consumption in this country. Strongly. Believe.

I also strongly believe that I should have more done on this elephant sweater than I do, but…

I would however be the first to admit that this is easier said than done. After all, we’re not just talking about changing people’s habits, which would be hard enough, we are also talking about an entrenched infrastructure and set of broader social habits that rests on the assumption that more or less every American has access to a car.

So it isn’t just that we’ve got these gas guzzlers on the road, it’s that there is massive technological momentum (as we call it in the science studies biz) behind the automobile. And technological momentum is extremely hard to reverse.

As an individual, you cannot reverse it. You cannot. There is literally no way to live in most parts of this country without a car. It can’t be done. So at the moment driving a car everywhere doesn’t mean that you’re part of the problem, it means that you’re part of an inescapable system.

Now I’m singling out the automobile here not because there aren’t other environmental issues, but I think from the standpoint of the individual the car is, well, the thing. What I mean is, the car drives (no pun intended…heh…heh) a great deal of the rest of our overconsumption. And that drives a lot of industrial pollution and energy consumption and so forth.

Alex and I happen to live in one of the handful of places in the country where one can be “car-free,” and we happen to be in a phase of our lives where there ain’t a lot of loose cash floating around, if you know what I’m saying, so we don’t own a car.

Although I did make this lovely ribbing. I love the way the colors look together. And also the odd way that the ripples in the fabric look a little like…Voldemort’s face. Or maybe that’s just me.

When you don’t own a car, you think very carefully about what you buy. Because you and you alone are going to get to haul it back to Chez Mad Dog on the city bus. I hasten to add that this condition does not make us morally superior to anyone else.

It just means we’re strapped.

But it has led me to reflect upon the fact that there’s just a lot of stuff you can’t buy if you don’t have a car. A lot of stores you cannot frequent—including nearly all those horrific superstores like Home Depot, Costco, IKEA, etc. A lot of large stuff you cannot haul home and hoard. Interestingly, when people learn that we do not own a car, they frequently express shock and say something like, “Oh my God, how do you do it?”

Rather like they have just learned that both of us have recently lost an arm and a leg in a tragic accident and are now stumbling about on crude, newly-acquired prostheses.

It really is not anywhere near that bad. But it is a comment on the perception that having your own ride is just downright compulsory. Even in the rare instances where it is not.

Which leads me back to the problem of said automobile. Among other things, we’re going to have to deal with the car and everything that radiates outwards and backwards and forwards from the car, and that’s going to be a tough, tough thing to do. Not impossible, but very difficult. It will have to be a systematic fix too, not a matter of a few individuals here and there deciding and being able to ride bikes or take the bus.

I’m all for the bikes and the bus, by the way, but I’m speaking here of a society-wide solution that works, one that modifies the central technology we’ve got, works with the existing infrastructure, and acknowledges people’s real needs. I myself do not have a feasible plan right now, of course, but I’m working on that… I am taking suggestions. Feel free to share your ideas.

Meanwhile, we’ll all continue our nickel-and-dime environmentalism—recycling bottles, cans, jars, mixed paper; buying green cleaning products; driving a Prius. It’s not going to be the thing that solves the problem, but at least we can feel that we’re doing something.

Want to talk about overconsumption? Look what I just bought. Cherry Tree Hill Gems Merino. And this when I was actually on a successful yarn diet…

Alex and I have recently added to our nickel-and-dime environmentalism portfolio a new washer and dryer made by Asko, a Swedish company that stresses the environmentally-friendly, energy-efficient, water-saving aspects of its machines. Our landlady brought us these over the weekend, bless her heart.

Asko. As in, “Asko not what your washer can do for you, Asko what you can do for your washer!”

Because—and I don’t mean for a minute to sound ungrateful here—the Asko washer and dryer is not like your old Whirlpool. Here’s the front of the washer:

And a close-up of the “dashboard” of the dryer:

Simple in its way, yes, but would you know how to run a load of laundry without reading the manual? Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.

So a couple of nights ago, I decide to run my first load of environmentally-friendly laundry. I read the manual for the washer. I screw up the programming a couple of times. I curse and stomp. I finally program it to run a “normal” load of dark clothes. All is well, I think.

Then I read the digital timer at the right of the display. It reads, “One hour and fifty-five minutes.”

Yep, you got that right: two hours to run a “normal” load of clothes. Green is apparently a synonym for “excruciatingly slow.”

Okay, I think, next time I’ll try the “quick” cycle. It will probably only be an hour and a half.

I dutifully come back two hours later. I read the manual for the non-intuitive dryer. I screw up the programming a couple of times. I curse loudly and impugn the name of the Swedes and their mothers and grandmothers. I cry out in anguish, “Whirlpool, why hast thou forsaken me?” Then I finally manage to program it for a “normal” drying cycle.

This time I’m less surprised when the digital timer reads one hour and twenty minutes.

I am however weeping with frustration and otherwise going to pieces quietly in the corner of the basement.

When I informed Alex that a “green” load of laundry takes three hours and twenty minutes to complete, he said, “I see it all now. The Asko machines are more energy efficient because you quickly figure out that it is faster to do all your laundry with a washboard and a mangle.”

And so it appears that in appliances as in other arenas we have a long way to go to make our ideals match up with our practical needs.

Until then, I’d hang onto your old Whirlpool.

1.  Congratulations Kristy!  I think you will really enjoy that cone of pink yarn.  It softens tremendously when washed and has a wonderful drape, in addition to being really warm.  I think I can safely say that it was perfect for the Handsome Triangle shawl, and I’m really looking forward to seeing what you do with it!  Also, there’s so much yardage there that you should be able to do almost anything you want with it.  (Well, aside from making a whole-house cozy, I suppose.)

2.  I finally finished this little hemp dishcloth, which has been sitting in a basket for some weeks now. 

                                            

In this case, “finishing” simply meant weaving in the two ends.  Sometimes I am so lazy that I astound even myself.

3.  I started swatching with the Schaeffer Anne on size 0 needles.  Here’s my little tube: 

                                                                 

I’m getting 10 stitches to the inch on size 0 needles.  A entire pair of socks at 10 stitches to the inch somewhat boggles the mind (at least mine), especially as I was considering using this yarn to make a pair of socks for a friend with very wide feet, but I am determined to persevere.

4.  I finished one of the socks for my soldier buddy.

The reason I don’t make toe-up socks very often?  You’re left with the dilemma of trying to find a nice stretchy bindoff at the top that doesn’t look sloppy.  I finally settled on the sewn bindoff for these.

5.  Someday soon I am going to get back to Rumpelstiltskin.  He is languishing for want of attention. 

6.  One of my goals for the week?  Clean up my little knitting corner of the couch.  It is a veritable welter of swatches, socks, books, and circular needles.  Housekeeping is really not my strong suit, although I have many other wonderful attributes, as I’m sure you will all agree.  (Right?)

7.  Harvey refused to be photographed for this post, although he allowed me to take a picture of him with his comic book (sorry, graphic novel) in front of his face.

 

This really is very close to how he has appeared all summer, though–with his nose in a book.  That’s my boy!

1, 2:  Eyes on you.

Back on our blogiversary, we announced a “Guess the Guests” contest, the winner of which would receive the Amazing Pink Cone of Wonder (a.k.a. 2000+ yards of a cashmere-wool blend laceweight yarn in hot pink):

Sarah made her Handsome Triangle out of this stuff and it is…otherworldly. As its earthly curator, I have kept this cone wrapped, so its full wonder is not quite apparent in this photo.

I would have announced the winner much earlier, but I was extremely busy partying, attaching eight-point bustles, learning how to run recalcitrant new appliances (more on that later), kicking Craphound to the curb, and mastering a foolproof recipe for our preferred “adult beverage” of the summer—the fresh whiskey sour.

What? Why, yes, I will share my newfound wisdom. After all, even if you don’t have a landlord like Craphound, you undoubtedly have some insufferable peckerwood in your life who makes your day seem long and your need for a whiskey sour very great.

Here’s what you do to make about four cocktails:
Combine 1/2 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice;
1/2 cup freshly squeezed lime juice;
1 cup of simple syrup (made by combining 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water and heating over low to medium heat until the sugar dissolves);
3/4 cup Jack Daniels.

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice and pour this combo of ingredients over the ice. Shake vigorously for about half a minute. Strain the shaken cocktail into a cool glass and add a maraschino cherry (or four).

Now that everyone has a drink, we do in fact have a winner. Naturally, there must be a drum roll (what else?)…and the winner of the Amazing Pink Cone of Wonder is…

Kristy!

Get in touch, will ya, Kristy? And I’ll send you your prize.