the dessert. Should be delicious. We can't wait to try homemade corned beef. DS says it's tastier and not pink since they don't put any nitrates or saltpeter in it. That's good, right? I'll be visiting the grocery store salad bar to gather all sorts of toppings for the salad (the more the better, I hope everyone liked radishes, hey, I'm making the sacrifice and putting in a few sliced black olives, that should count for something) and I'm using a creamy Vidalia salad dressing. The bread has raisins and caraway seeds in it and cinnamon sugar brushed on top; should be a taste treat. We really need a fourth (like Mom, tsk) so that no one has to do two things (like salad AND bread). She sure threw a wrench into the works by kicking the bucket last Fall. (don't you agree that season names [and Earth when it means the planet] should be capitalized? I knew you would.) Thanks a heap, Mom. Just for that, next time it's our turn to make dessert I'm making Coach Cake and you don't get any. Not. One. Bite. So there, nyah. (I'd stick out my tongue but there're are a bunch of geese flying by and I don't want them to poop on my tongue.) I went to the Evergreen Quilt show yesterday with Cookie, Z-Dawg, and Cookie's mom, 4Bs (Big, Bad, Biker Bitch) and had a blast. You'll be so proud of me; I had $3 of my $25 left when I got home. I did spend a bit on an Aux cable so I can listen to my iPod safely in the car (no more lectures from DS & DIL1 when I get out of the car in earbuds) and a 2-pack of scratchguards for my Kindle. I love my Kindle. I should love it and squeeze it and call it George, but everyone's doing that lately so I'll just call it kindle and be done with it. I have to confess that I put it into the pink fuzzy monster pouch and I like having it in the pouch. I still don't like the pink fuzziness of it but I can deal. Hey, I learned to like dogs, didn't I? It could happen. And I made lots of lotion with all my new bottles and citrus essential oils yesterday, but you'll have to go here to see them.March 24--John Smibert, Mrs. Frances Brinley and Her Son Francis. Franny held little Frankie like he was the embodiment of the Second Coming, or maybe even the real deal. You'd think she was the first to have a baby the way she coddled him. She wrapped him in blankets and knit bonnets and sweaters and booties until the poor kid was red-faced and cranky with heat rash while she fanned herself. You can't tell first-time mothers how resilient babies are, they think they're made of porcelain and will break at any minute. When it's my turn to watch Frankie I unwrap him and let his little legs and arms flail--and cool off. How does she expect him to learn not to bonk himself in the face with his fist if he's always wrapped up tighter than a mummy's corpse? I pat some cornstarch into the creases of his fat little arms and legs and even on his little business so it can soak up some of that sweat and dry out those awful itchy bumps. Poor little thing. Rich people's children don't have a chance to be normal, do they?
Heh, good thing we've never been rich--in money anyway. I've always thought we were richer than Midas in the ways that count. Still do. Be good, now, and if you can't, give a fake name.
--Barbara
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