Think about it. There’s not much cooking I can do with one functioning hand (Hear that, honey? Can we get take-out again tonight?) which probably explains the irresistible urge I had to make the blood orange marmalade right before going under the knife.

I really can’t even focus enough to watch television without my knitting clicking along in my lap; it’s… just… too… passive. I do seem to be one of those people who hears, absorbs information, and learns better when my hands are busy. Although I will make an exception for the Oscars on Sunday night, because that’s more of a participatory experience, more like sport – yelling at the TV, screaming at Joan Rivers’ plastic surgery, keeping up a running commentary on the red carpet gowns and bling, etc. 

At least yesterday I wore my completed Citron shawl when I went out for lunch with a friend to Bakesale Betty’s for the fried chicken salad (And there’s so much delicious, crispy-coated chicken and tangy cole slaw salad in there that I took half of it home with me to have for dinner), and I felt a little better knowing that I had completed it right before the surgery. It gave me a small sense of accomplishment to know that it was my Emergency Pre-Surgery Project, and I had actually finished it.

Other than that, all I’ve been able to do is pet the yarn I bought at Stitches West last week. These signs of withdrawal are truly pitiful to behold. Just ask my husband, who has come upon me more than once this week holding a skein of hand-dyed yarn up to my nose, eyes closed in ecstasy. I inhaled its bouquet like a glass of fine wine while he rolls his eyes and tiptoes out of the room, but those skeins might as well be good wine; I get a bit giddy thinking about the possibilities of each one. I brought home yarn from the likes of Pigeonroof Studios, Brooks Farm Yarn, Handmaiden and Fleece Artist, and Miss Babs. Absolute heaven! That and getting out into the garden to see what has blossomed in the last 24 hours are what’s keeping me going.

I never got a chance to introduce my completed version of  Hilary Smith Callis’s Citron shawl, as featured in the latest issue of Knitty (Winter, 2009). I guess you could call my version, which was completed in the final hours of the run-up to my finger surgery (when I wasn’t stirring a gigantic copper cauldron filled with boiling blood oranges for jam, that is), Peach, or Mango, or some such fruity title. I’d rather just call it Genius, because Hilary’s pattern is such a delight to knit. Many rows of wonderfully mindless stockinette that are ideal to make one feel virtuously productive while watching tv, with just enough counting, increasing, and decreasing to keep it interesting.

So here it is, being modeled by my accommodating new office assistant, Grayce (so named for the nasty gray color of her fabric covering. Notice I had to press one of my husband’s retired undershirts into service in order to cover up both the form’s cloth cover AND the large plastic dials that allow me to customize her measurements.). 

And I am doing so because in less than two weeks I’m having another – and I hope the last – hand surgery. How crazy is it to keep knitting when I’ve already had four of these surgeries? No, don’t answer that. The answer is obvious even to me, obsessed with strings and sticks as I am. And having bought an electronic knitting machine, you’d be well within reason to assume that I have mastered its intricacies by now, but unfortunately you’d be wrong. Machine-knitting has its place in my creative life for sure, but it will take me several intensive weeks to play with it until I’m comfortable. And that seems like an ideal activity for while I’m recovering from hand surgery in March, don’t you agree?

Meanwhile, not to belabor the infirmities of middle age, but yesterday I had a cortisone injection in my back. It had been bothering me for months, but I tried all other possible remedies first. I modified my workouts at the gym until I felt the routines were more appropriate to a frail and cautious 100-year-old. Physical therapy was to no avail, despite the enthusiastic ministrations of a highly-trained therapist whose technique I truly respected and believed in. Ieven agreed to have my kidneys and bladder tested to make sure there is no other issue at play (and that was such a thoroughly unpleasant round of examinations that I’ll spare you the details. Except to say that I fervently hope I never DO have anything wrong with my kidneys or bladder that would require a repeat of those tests!).

So I was sedated before the cortisone was injected. While I don’t normally assume sedation is necessary before getting a mere shot, for heaven’s sake (I really have skin like an armadillo hide after getting allergy shots twice a week in both arms for longer than I care to remember), I’ve had numerous cortisone injections in my hands and fingers (Ye-ouch!) without sedation, and they hurt like a sonofabitch. So going in, I knew I wouldn’t want to be awake and alert for the one in my back. The good news is, in order to avoid the possibility of paralyzing me from the waist down (good idea, right?), my doctor used an X-ray to guide him to the exact location of the swelling, ensuring that the injection went precisely where it is needed.

Back at home afterwards I slept off the lingering effects of the sedation. It was the purest, deepest, and most relaxing sleep I’ve had in months, and gave me a glimmer of insight into how Michael Jackson could have started abusing anesthetics in his desperation to chase down a good night’s sleep. Then, in the spirit of experimentation I got up to walk around the house and test out my Brand New Back. What I quickly discovered is that now I had shooting pains not just in my back, but all the way down my behind and into my leg. I limped around the house feeling sorry for myself the rest of the day, groaning mightily every time I had to sit down or stand up, and applying the ice pack way more often than I probably should have. My husband went above and beyond in the sympathy department, bless his heart, considering what I whiner I was.

This morning, however: New Woman! There is still some pain, but nothing like yesterday. And I’d been warned that it would take up to a week for the cortisone to really kick in, so I was prepared to feel no immediate relief. Meanwhile, as you can see, it really is spring here. It is totally disconcerting to see daffodils and crocuses in full bloom in mid-February, but there you have it. Even after nine years in California, it still shocks me to see this happen. It just feels WRONG! Not to mention, the plum tree is in full bloom, as are the flowering quinces, and even the roses are starting to bud out. Time to get busy with the fertilizer!

That headline will look extremely strange to those of you on the east coast, where you are still enveloped in at least a foot of snow. But out here in the Bay area, today’s temperature is 60 degrees and the garden has taken note:

While in transit last week, I got halfway through Hilary Smith Callis’s Citron Wrap from the Winter 2009 issue of Knitty.com, and I’ve never found a more perfect travel project. One skein of sock yarn, one pair of circular needles, minimal notions, and your hands.  An easily memorized pattern, and remarkably speedy results. Definitely a formula for success when one is stuck in airports (or long car, train, or bus trips, or in front of the television with someone else’s favorite show on).

My yarn of choice is Pagewood Farm’s St. Elias semi-solid sock yarn, which flows softly through my fingers with subtle color changes that make it a quiet pleasure. Hope to have it finished soon!

There is probably only one regular reader of this blog who will understand the significance of this color combination. Let’s just say a Valentine’s Day surprise is in the works for that individual, with photos forthcoming as soon as the surprise is complete!

The daphne buds below could not go unremarked. So much more voluminous than the normal flower clusters on the daphne bushes in my garden, I thought I was hallucinating when I first noticed it. Seriously, this is the equivalent of expecting a litter of three kittens but waking up to find that your cat has instead produced a dozen little ones, all of them adorable, and all of them with that weird extra toe on their paws. But rather than having to find homes for a dozen little felines, this prodigious cluster of buds means simply that the daphne will be all the more fragrant as we head into spring. And that’s okay with me.