Hearts, Hacking and Hogs

I caught a cold.  Nasty one, too - the chest-clutching, hamburger-throat, please-kill-me kind.  Children bring home this sort of cold to their parents as punishment for sending them to the sanitation wasteland that is public school.  Fair enough trade.  I'm pretty sure that evil scientists in search of the next population-devastating biohazard need look no further than the third grade cafeteria.  Not that the faithful public servants at these institutions aren't doing their best; they are.  It's just that the sheer numbers are against them:  Take elevendy-million smallies and lock them in poorly-ventilated pre-war buildings for, say 9 months of every year, stir well, add contagion; Presto! Instant drug-resistant crud!  Serves two million.

In addition to secret book projects I'm knitting this week, it's time to reknit one of the trunk show samples.  Remember these?

I'm teaching this class again soon, which I really don't want to do without the aid of the finished product, so...

Queen Of Hearts Mittens, Commence!   I hereby snap my cosmic fingers and will you into existence!  Nothing.  Okay, I guess I'll knit you instead.

My mom, who sent 5 children to public school, was the proud recipient of more colds and crud than I can even imagine.  And she had it way harder than me - I can fall back on frozen pizza at times like this - an advantage she didn't have.  I'm sure there were plenty of things more pressing than replacement mittens that she had to drag herself through illness to address.  She used to joke about the bedside manner of this farmer with a sick wife, whose tender loving care consisted of bellowing "Git up offa the floor, Hannah! Them hogs cain't feed theirselves!".

Some days you're the hog, and some days you're Hannah.

At least until the advent of the self-knitting mitten.  And the self-feeding hog.