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.

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.

Two years after designing the Novemberist set, I returned to colorwork. I’d spent the time knitting texture, cables, and lace—different ways to play with yarn and stitch patterns—but colorwork was calling, and I just wanted to create. I also wanted an easy project for on-the-go knitting.

I pulled out the second chevron chart I’d swatched before I made the Novemberist Hat, one of the two I hadn’t used. Then I borrowed the brim construction from Aslyn, a pattern I’d developed in those two years, and started playing with how they could work together. I found the yarns in my stash once again: a vibrant, speckled pink from Stitches West 2020 and a deep charcoal grey I’d also picked out at the local yarn shop where I held my first trunk show. They were unexpected together—nothing like the jewel tones I usually reach for. But knitting with that pink? Different colored speckles emerged with each strand, and every stitch had its own character. I couldn’t wait to get to the next one.

My favorite part though? That was designing the crown. As I was testing the shaping I’d charted, the stitch pattern surprisingly formed itself into a geometric star. It’s not obvious from the chart, or even while you’re knitting it. The fabric just condenses, each round gets faster, and then suddenly it’s there. Like a reward for your effort. That’s Kestra.

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.

There are hats you make because you need a hat. And then there’s the Novemberist—a hat with a story behind it.

November 2018 felt like it held multiple lifetimes. That month, I had my first trunk show at a local yarn shop, where I picked up two yarns for a hat design I had brewing. Then my husband Cody, his little cousin, and I took our first trip to Victoria, British Columbia, to explore the city, catch live music, and enjoy great food. And after all that, I attempted something I'd never done before: stranded colorwork.

The design process was playful and exciting. I developed three chevron charts, swatched two, and chose one for this pattern—the other would later become my Kestra Hat. While making the very first hat in the colors I'd chosen at the LYS, I learned to keep my floats relaxed, to catch them properly, and to maintain the right color dominance. It was awkward and fun, using both my hands together in a way that was entirely new.

For the final sample, Cody helped me choose colors from my stash: a warm red with rust and strawberry undertones for the chevrons, paired with natural for the background. I made the brim doubly thick, both for warmth and because I loved how a pop of color would peek out from beneath it. I'd done something similar on another hat pattern called Corbin, and I really loved the look.

The hat that emerged from that memorable month became part of the Novemberist set, a hat and mitt pairing that’s waiting to become part of your story too. What will your November look like?