Last night, Don said he had a “dangerous” question for me.
“Did you knit me another pair of black socks?” he asked.
I knew right away what had happened. After all, there are only two pairs of hand-knit black socks in the house. Yes, it was quickly confirmed that the black heavyweight socks I had made for me (Mission Falls 1824 wool) had ended up in his laundry pile, from there to his sock drawer, and from there onto his feet.
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