From Selected Amazon Reviews, which was published last month by Semiotext(e).

I was at a loss, for none of the yarns I had on hand were anywhere near the natural quality in my mind. I was on the prowl for a particular look. It had to have that hand-dyed look. It was going to be put through all kinds of weather hell, so the colors had to be fast, and yet not the unnatural dye you see so often on cheaper pulls. I didn’t want a yarn that screamed out that it was lab-colored. I liked the soft Shetland colors of a Highland kilt. A friend suggested I go for the ticker-tape look of a crocheted hand knit, and gifted me a plentiful wicker basket piled high with Moda-Dea Fashionista yarns. All kinds, all colors, for me to plunge into, hook tucked behind my ear like a spatula.

Did you ever see a kid on Christmas morning after Santa’s piled the gift-wrapped presents, still warm from the sleigh, high under the tree? That’s how I felt. My fingers felt the difference immediately. Stroking one of these Moda-Dea yarns is like your first touch of silk, or like your first kiss, it sure does go down smooth. Impatiently, I discarded the yarn I had already been using for half a crocheted suit and decided on the color “Charade,” a complex blend of straw yellow, moss green, blue, and sort of a morning-sun pink color. It reminds you of a day at the farm, the perfect, Platonic farm that does not probably exist on earth but which you can now create with your crochet hook and about twenty dollars’ worth of Charade.

That’s the illusion—that’s what all of us are looking for, subconsciously or not, when first the crochet hook begins to dance under our fingertips. We’re all looking for some kind of escape from the busyness of our lives, looking for a time when things didn’t move so fast and didn’t cost so much time and money, a time when we lived off the land and had a more natural relation to the things of wool. I told my mother, “You know my theory, Ma, about how they got the name Moda-Dea for their product?” “No, son,” said she, “tell me.” I told her it sounded like the first fumbling words of a baby struggling to form his little lips around the simple words “mother dear.” It’s all for her.