I Thought Fruitcake Baking Smelled Good...

... but this afternoon the allure of baking fruitcake faded when I made the onion bread for Thanksgiving. (I love my KitchenAid mixer with its dough hook.)  Oh. My. Goodness.  That stuff smells like heaven.  It took all of my self-control not to slice into the loaf-shaped loaf since I plan to only take the turban-shaped loaf to dinner.  I'll bring up the slicer on Thursday morning and slice both loaves and then freeze the loaf-loaf to save for Christmas  when DD and family are here.  For some reason I've had fantasies of making grilled cheese sandwiches with onion bread for the last couple days.  That's why I made the loaf-loaf and that will happen next month.





This morning before I went to the Y for my session with T the trainer I used a kabob skewer to poke holes in the fruitcakes and dribble the first tablespoons of syrup on them.  They'll get more every couple days until the pitcherful is gone.  Then they'll just sit in their little pans and mature until Christmas.  Yum.  That bourbon and orange liqueur-laced syrup sure smells good.


First thing this morning I went out and took down most of the feeders, bagged them, and put them into one of the seed cans on the patio.  It took a while but eventually a few birds came for a drink and a bath so I guess they won't abandon me.  I made up my mind to do that when I noticed a path from the near feeders to the far feeders made by tiny paws.  Rats.  Gotta remove the food sources but I think it looks sad.  Maybe I'll take out the crooks too so I'm not reminded all the time that the feeders are gone.


In the afternoon I worked on the next read-through of The Seaview and will get more done tomorrow when I meet ACJ in the afternoon.

At suppertime I made a WW chicken pot pie casserole that serves six so there are five more suppers in the fridge.  I dearly love making food that lasts for more than a meal or two.  Now I have that pot pie, one serving of chili, and the tomato-basil soup I made yesterday.  I'm set for at least a week.

 26 November--Barbara Malcolm, Spies Don't Retire. 

Phones rang all over the island after Irina and Sonia’s latest sniping attacks—helped along by Harriet’s confidential conversations with nearly every expatriate on the island.  Harriet spent most of her afternoons chatting on her rented cell phone to each of her new best friends, swearing them to secrecy, and then detailing her long suspicions that George spent his working life as a spy

 “And I’m sure he was a big one, one of the higher ups.  He was always jetting off to places like Moscow and Warsaw.  Hotbeds of commies, those places are.”  The wires hummed with that little tidbit and others claiming that Dimitri and George had been long time enemies, spying on each other throughout their careers.

Due to her years of living next door to Sonia and George, and the fact that her husband, Max, had been in the Royal Navy with a top-secret clearance, Harriet’s words were taken as fact.  In truth, she had a vivid imagination and a convincing way of confiding things that made her listeners believe her.

Like dominoes falling, rumors flew from lips to ears around the small island; both George and Dimitri’s reputations surged or fell depending upon where the sympathies of the teller lay.

“My dear, I heard that Dimitri shot George in the shoulder years ago.  Sonia nursed him for months, vowing revenge on Roskova.  That’s why she and Irina are always at loggerheads.”

The expatriate women, especially, latched onto the juicy details that greased the phone lines around the island.

“Did you hear that Sonia had an affair with Dimitri?  That’s why George hates him.”

“He should retaliate and have a little, well, you know, interlude with Irina.”

“With Irina?  I can’t imagine her climbing down from her high horse far enough to actually have sex.”

“Oh, you’re terrible, but I love it.”  These, of course, were Sonia’s friends.

Irina’s followers were different.  “I heard that Dimitri shot George in the shoulder when they were both working as spies years ago.”

“I heard that too.  I’ll bet Irina wishes Dimitri’s aim had been better.”

A gasp and a giggle.   “What a terrible thing to say!” 

“But I’ll bet she does.”

Art League and Literary Roundtable meetings became divided.  No longer did women circulate around the room, discussing art or books and sharing news.  Now there was a definite “no man’s land” down the center of the gathering, no one willing to risk censure by crossing over to the other camp.

I'm surprised that I can type tonight.  T the trainer concentrated on working my arms today and I was sure I wouldn't be able to drive home.  I had spaghetti arms but bounced back.  Still, I'll have a couple Tylenol for a bedtime snack so I don't wake up in the middle of the night in pain.  I hate that.  But I love my sessions with T.  Two more days until Thanksgiving, which is the perfect holiday.  Great food and no presents to buy.
--Barbara