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I have soaked, simmered and developed the cotton, still waiting for it to dry. After all my work, all that time sitting and treadling until I thought I’d go insane, seeing the yarn skeined off was rather satisfying.

For once I had enough foresight to take a before picture. It’s hard to see yarn that yummy after it comes out of the pot, looking like so much tangled angel hair pasta.

On impulse I grabbed one of the random bags of fiber that lives in the stash, deciding not to peek at the contents until I was back at the wheel and making a silent promise to myself that I’d spin whatever was in the bag. Just one bobbin.

Lincoln. I like Lincoln, but I didn’t really want to spin it. This particular batch is in cold salt washed locks, which means very little dirt but it still has some degree of grease left in it, and must be warmed before spinning. Also the bag has dealt with excessive jostling which means there are more tangly and slightly felted bits than I care to deal with.

Why do I do this to myself? Why do I play these little games of chance? How exactly it is that I have to grab the one fiber that makes me think “Oh snap!”

So I’m almost done with the bobbin. Almost.