The Yarn Whisperer by Clara Parkes Page A

dough to within an inch of its life. The final product? Airy and crisp, rich and buttery, both ethereal and substantial. Even when disaster strikes—like the time my nephew placed a ten-pound doorstop on the center of a particularly perfect blueberry-lemon pie—it still comes out beautiful, in its own way.
    Not only did Michael Ruhlman help me get over my fear of piecrusts, he also gave me a chance to overcome my fear of introducing myself to famous people. Not that I succeeded, but I certainly did try. I was in Cleveland to film yarn-related segments for the PBS television show
Knitting Daily TV
. I’d arrived at the airport with my suitcase of swatches and TV-ready jewel-toned shirts, my freshly lacquered nails shining in the light. The weeks leading up to the trip had been a frenzy of swatching, researching, and fretting.
    I was waiting for the producer and crew to arrive when I noticed another man waiting in the area. Our pacings crossed, and I glanced at his face. Without a doubt, I’d just walked past Michael Ruhlman.
    I am not a person who walks up to famous people and introduces herself. First of all, I almost never see famous people—or if I have, I certainly didn’t recognize them. I’m always the clueless one in the group who turns around too late and says, “Huh?” after the person has passed. Second, I don’t think most famous people would much care who I was. Third, and perhaps most important, I think everybody deserves a little privacy. When fate put me in an elevator with knitting luminary Barbara Walker, I let her dictate the conversation. (She was charming, and I learned that her husband does the dishwashing in their house.)
    But this wasn’t just any random celebrity, it was the man who’d helped me check an item off my bucket list. He’d been in my kitchen, helping me delight and harden the arteries of countless friends and family members. He’d made me a pie person. That deserved thanks, don’t you think?
    After a few more minutes of pacing, my nervousness was annoying even to myself. How different was this than frogging lace or turning a cable without a cable needle?
Don’t let fear stop you,
I told myself.
Walk through it. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
    So I did. My hands sweating, my heart in my chest, I walked up to him.
    â€œMr. Ruhlman?” I’d read that you’re supposed to address celebrities by their last name out of respect. Unfortunately, my voice was so quiet that he didn’t hear me. But the eye contact and my moving mouth made him stop. He looked down at me, taller than a redwood he was. There was no annoyance in his gaze, only the slightly concerned look one would give to, say, an escapee of an asylum.
    My mouth opened and out came, “I just wanted to thank you for your pie dough recipe. It totally transformed my entire relationship to pie.” Only mush those words together and say them in a very high-pitched warble. While we shook hands, I babbled something about how honored I was to share an airport with him. By now my ears were buzzing, my face an electric shade of fuchsia. I bowed a few times more before turning around and walking away as quickly as I could, narrowly missing a concrete pillar. I was mortified, yet also exhilarated to have faced a fear and wobbled my way through it.
    I know some people can feel invincible after bungee jumping or diving out of an airplane (assuming they survive) or even after cutting a steek for the first time, and that’s exactly how I felt. At that moment nothing seemed scary, not pie dough, not introducing myself to a hero, not talking intelligently about yarn to a much larger television audience. It all seemed quite human and achievable and, for some reason, utterly funny. When you strip us all down to our essence, removing the pedestals and the frippery, we’re all just people.
    â€œWhere are you?” my phone buzzed. It was the show’s