Turns out I do remember how to crochet a little bit, Reader; I've been crocheting my blanket squares together and it's turning out rather nicely, especially if you squint. What blanket squares, you ask? I excavated them in the closet of my old bedroom, just underneath an ancient (primeval, even, in that time B.K.: Before Knitting) experiment in needlework. There were perhaps 45 of them, all as you see at left. Er, yes, all of them, varied only in color ("dark sage," "sage," and "off white") and skill, which is to say that proper finishing remained as elusive to me as it did to so many impoverished nineteenth century girls.
In any case, these squares are not very much, but I thought I ought to put them together anyway, just to see if I've learned anything. I've learned a little, it turns out, but it's taken something I knew B.K. to finally make the thing come together: a little crochet magic. Crochet was the first yarn craft I learned that didn't involve copious amounts of glue; my grandmother, who was an excellent crafter, taught me back in the days when a crocheted square made a fine garment for a Barbie. I'm using one of her hooks to put the blocks together, and afterwards I'll add a border, because a little crochet can fix a multitude of sins. The squares, alas, are not the same size. I should have known I was tempting fate with all those pyramids.