The mitts were always part of the plan. From the moment I finished the Kestra Hat, I knew I’d make matching mitts. I still had plenty of yarn leftover, the main chevron stitch pattern was meditative and fun, and my hands were always cold. But I wasn’t able to cast on for a couple months. In that time, my husband Cody and I had moved into our new house and added Brogan, a new puppy, to the family. Things were busy, but in the best way.

At the earliest hint of a break, I went back to my charts and picked up my needles. For the shaping, I used what I’d learned from the Novemberist Mitts but, like that pattern, I wanted to explore something different, not just a repeat of the hat. So I added a second, unique stitch pattern for the palms. This detail, a visual break from the top of the hand and thumb gusset, became one of my favorites.

Over the next few weeks, I snuck in stitches during evenings and weekends, between work and life. Without fail, Brogan or our other dog, Wes, would settle right beside me on the couch, and there was something special about working on these mitts in our new house—making something not only with but also for my hands while everything else was finally slowing down.

If you’re looking for a reason to pause—something rhythmic that settles into your evenings—here they are.

The mitts were always part of the plan. From the moment I finished the Kestra Hat, I knew I’d make matching mitts. I still had plenty of yarn leftover, the main chevron stitch pattern was meditative and fun, and my hands were always cold. But I wasn’t able to cast on for a couple months. In that time, my husband Cody and I had moved into our new house and added Brogan, a new puppy, to the family. Things were busy, but in the best way.

At the earliest hint of a break, I went back to my charts and picked up my needles. For the shaping, I used what I’d learned from the Novemberist Mitts but, like that pattern, I wanted to explore something different, not just a repeat of the hat. So I added a second, unique stitch pattern for the palms. This detail, a visual break from the top of the hand and thumb gusset, became one of my favorites.

Over the next few weeks, I snuck in stitches during evenings and weekends, between work and life. Without fail, Brogan or our other dog, Wes, would settle right beside me on the couch, and there was something special about working on these mitts in our new house—making something not only with but also for my hands while everything else was finally slowing down.

If you’re looking for a reason to pause—something rhythmic that settles into your evenings—here they are.

The hat was barely off the needles when I cast on the mitts. That November had been a whirlwind—my first trunk show, the trip to Victoria with my husband Cody and his cousin, all of it. And now I’d finally learned how to knit stranded colorwork and made the hat I’d been dreaming about. It had been awkward at first, to use both hands to hold separate yarns, but so satisfying. When Cody helped me choose the colors for the final sample—the warm red with rust and strawberry undertones, that pop of it peeking out from the turned brim—I knew immediately: this hat needed matching mitts.

But I didn’t want to just repeat the hat. I wanted to keep playing with the colorwork on a different canvas—a smaller, more intimate space. I also had an idea for a second stitch pattern on the palms, something complementary and unexpected. And I wanted to explore a unique approach to construction, a way to keep the colorwork flowing continuously around the hand instead of interrupting it with a standard thumb gusset.

They came together so quickly. Each one knit up in just a couple days of focused time, and when I slipped on the completed pair, they were satisfyingly warm and cozy. They tied the whole look together—the colors, the techniques, all of November compressed into something wearable on your hands.

If you’ve made the hat, you already know how this goes—except faster, and with one more stitch pattern to discover.

After finishing three textured sweaters and a shawl back-to-back, I was looking for something small—what some knitters might call a “palate cleanser.” A friend who’s an avid sock knitter and always keeps a pair of socks on the needles suggested I make some. I loved the idea, especially as it had been several years since I knit socks. There’s also nothing quite like the feeling of handmade socks.

It’s hard for me to do anything vanilla, though, and I wanted the finished socks to have a lovely, squishy texture on someone’s feet. So I chose stranded colorwork using the same geometric chevron motif from the Kestra Hat and Mitts. And I knew exactly which colors: Midknit Cravings—a friend and dyer whose work I adore—had test knitted the Kestra Hat for me the year before in Shiraz and Petal. I loved them together so much, I just had to use them too.

The construction also mattered. I’d never designed socks before. But just like a good top-down sweater, toe-up socks made sense for the ability to try on as you go. And I chose a forethought heel to ensure an uninterrupted colorwork pattern while giving you good heel placement. No cutting required; just straightforward, satisfying knitting.

A fun group of experienced sock knitters tested and confirmed that the technical choices worked. The Turkish cast on became a new favorite technique. The forethought heel won them over. The PDF layers feature solved a real problem: knitters could flip the chart to match their chosen colorways instead of doing mental color swaps. I also learned that sock fit is surprisingly similar to sweater fit—instep circumference, foot width, and length from toes to heel all matter the same way.

All the design work, testing, and lessons learned are built into this pattern. You just bring the skill you already have and go straight to the knitting. So if you’re ready for something that’s quick to knit, genuinely squishy to wear, and satisfying to finish, this is it.

I love a good set. When I finished the Indira Cowl and held it in my hands, I already knew what I would be casting on next—I’d planned the mitts from the moment I chose that lovely deep red yarn, getting extra specifically for them.

Both the shawl and cowl had taught me a lot about what was quickly becoming my favorite lace stitch, the double-braided cable, and the fisherman’s rib that anchors them. I found myself wanting to use all three together again. Somewhere the wearer would see them constantly: their hands.

Similar shaping to the Novemberist Mitts felt like the right foundation, but what if I kept the stitch pattern continuous across the palm and thumb instead? And what if I moved the gusset shaping from the palm side to the top of the hand, where the straight cable panel could anchor it and make it all look cohesive and intentional? What detail would I use to make the break between the stitch patterns look deliberate? Lateral braids solved that beautifully, framing the edges and tying everything together.

Once I cast on, the mitts practically flew off my needles—instant gratification knitting at its best. The fingering weight held together with mohair created something airy and light, but when I slipped them on, they were remarkably warm. Beautiful and elegant, yet functional and practical.

If you’ve made the cowl or the shawl, the stitches will feel familiar in your hands. If not, these mitts are a beautiful introduction to the squishy textured lace, cable, and fisherman’s rib—and they’ll be finished in a fraction of the time. That’s what I love about a good set: these work just as well as the beginning as they do the finale.