Knit One, Pearl Two

I used to know how to crochet; I swear I did.

But the other night I found myself at my Mom's, who was making one of her world-famous Grammy Afghans for her latest client, Ms. Boogsie . . .

. . . and I did not know what the hell I was doing.

And no, neither Jamie nor Remy was part of the problem. Shush.

Mom kept trying to tell me how to do it right . . .

. . . she's the one who taught me, afterall . . .

. . . and I kept saying, "I know, Mom. I got it."

"Yeah, right. You got it."

We were watching On The Road, in the meantime. Dean Moriarty was not helping matters.

"Ellie, keep your elbow down, don't hold the crochet hook like a caveman would, and just freaking crochet."

I kid. I kid! Not about my ability; no, I do suck. It's just that Mom would never use the word freaking.

Oh, wait . . . hold on . . . I think I got it . . .

. . . crocheting so quickly we're just a blur . . .

I got it! I got it!

You're welcome, Ms. Boogsie. For the one square I crocheted.

Your left big tootsie-toe will be toasty warm.