My grandmother, affectionately known as Grandma Mac, made all sorts of weird and adorable knitted things when I was a kid. Every summer during the eight weeks we spent with my grandparents on the shores of Lake Coeur d'Alene, she tried to teach me to knit. And every summer I stubbornly refused.

Finally, a few years ago, my mother and I took a little road trip from her house on the western rim of Washington to Grandma Mac's house on the Idaho border. For this road trip we bought all sorts of caffeinated beverages and delicious trans-fat-infused 7-Eleven snacks and two pairs of over-sized good-for-beginners knitting needles.

We ladies spent a beautiful weekend browsing yarn shops, visiting my parents' childhood haunts, and learning the bare essentials of what to do with two pointy sticks and a bit of gorgeous wool.

And thus a yarn addict was born. Now I spend my days working in a university library and my evenings juggling too many woolish projects while eating my boyfriend's delicious cooking and fending off an occasionally inquisitive cat.

It's by no means a bad way to live.