I would spend hours beside my grandmother (“Welita” – my abbreviated kid version of “Abuelita”) while she crocheted. We lived next door to her when I was growing up and every weekend I would pack my bag, wave goodbye to Mom and Dad, and skip over to her house. We would watch telenovelas while eating sweet bread with coffee. (I’ve been drinking coffee since I was about 7 thanks to Welita, which explains a lot).

She taught me to crochet a long chain of single stitches. I didn’t get further than that but I felt like a grown-up sitting with her while we each worked our crochet hooks and talked about the evening news and whether our favorite characters on the telenovela would end up together. Years later, I learned to knit but missed the rhythm of my hands weaving the yarn with that single hook. So, I picked up a pattern book and taught myself to crochet.

I made this afghan for my son. I wanted something blue, but not baby blue. This rich cobalt blue and the deep brown offset by the white seemed to work.

They say that smells can stir up long-buried memories. For me, crocheting evokes hot afternoons, the smell of coffee brewing, and the buzz of the television at Welita’s house, and it makes me smile.