“I was raised in kilts,” I say trilling with a bagpipe-like brogue.
And ever after I have had an unusually high tolerance for plaid and an unhealthy appetite for wool of all varieties. The crisping of the air in autumn communicates to my highly sensitized wool antennae that the time is nearing to walk like a little lamby in all my precious woolens and worsted and boucles and felteds and flannels and plaids. But not all at once like I nearly did last night.
My husband looked at me and said, “You’re wearing a lot of patterns,” to which I imperiously replied, “Tweed is not a pattern.” Admittedly, I was a little too “gentlemen farmer’s wife.”
So, I timidly acquiesced suspicious that my ardent fervor for woolens on the first crisp day in September had got me overly enthusiastic. I relinquished the tweed jacket for a Black Watch Tartan Pendleton scarf to accessorize my new Pendleton “Genuine McMinnes” Tartan skirt. I still say that tweed is not a pattern and neither is herringbone. Neither is tartan for that matter. Plaid is the New Black.
If you want some Good Advice on how to care for those precious lanolized staples, click here.
Blair Eadie of Atlantic-Pacific is a sister tartan lover. How about you? Do you wait patiently for the crisp fall winds to break the first leaf from the branch and rush to unpack your woolens before it even touches the ground?