A whole new reason for why, when I buy coned yarns, I scour the mill oils out, soaking the newly-made hanks in hot soapy water rather than knitting them as they come.

You know you live in a knitter’s house when you open the freezer and find some yarn plunked on the door for a quick chill-out just in case after a moth was seen in its general vicinity while it was out having some unprotected fresh air.

You know you live in a crazy-knitter-level knitter’s house (watch my husband’s and children’s heads nod in vigorous unison) when you go to get an ice cube out of the front dispenser on the fridge and it delivers a dangly soft strand of merino with your square of cold. Wait, whaaaaa..?