I Didn't Take One Picture

Of the birthday boy, of his very pregnant wife (53 days, she says), or of the cauldron of glorious Italian Wedding soup that Durwood made.  I didn't even take a picture of Porter as she played with her "at Grandma's house" toys.  I think I had what they call cam-nesia last night.  Or maybe I was just so happy to be with three people (and a dog) that I love that taking pictures plum flew outta my head.  Whatever it was, I didn't take any.

Nevertheless, DS liked the dark olive green denim shirt we gave him (it perfectly matched the hoodie he was wearing; good color choice, Mom).  I put bowls of well-received nibbles on the table for appetizers--cheddar and co-jack cheese cubes, wasabi peas, red grapes, some extruded peapod shaped crisps, and some crackers; DS & DIL1 brought caramel dip with apples to slice.  Durwood's soup was hot and full of tiny meatballs, spinach, carrots, and cold-night goodness (I might have dipped out a few bowls-worth for work lunches this week), the mixed-flour rolls DIL1 made fresh yesterday after work were soft and delicious dipped in the broth, and the chocolate cake, though it broke coming out of the pan, was sweet and rich even without frosting, only a sprinkle of powdered sugar (or a blizzard if you're my beloved husband) on top.

Writing the above paragraph about last night made me pause and realize that I lived last night's "evening with our son and daughter-in-law," that I'll have the memories and warm feelings forever, I don't need photos, even though I'd like to show them to you.  You'll have to use your imagination; I think that's a dying art anyway so this is good practice.

It is barely 20 degrees this morning and the wind chill is 11.  That's ELEVEN degrees.  On November 12.  There's a thick coating of frost on every roof in sight and Durwood's gone back to bed to snuggle in what he calls his "hot nest" (he has a heated mattress pad he cranks up) instead of going to our broker's kaffe klatch to talk about money matters.  He's a real wienie when it comes to cold weather.  I'll be braving the icy winds to go off and keep the world safe from SCUBA diving at work today and then go off to yoga afterwards.  It's yoga day.  I kind of can't wait.  Better remember to pack my yoga duds... and drop off that tank at Van's on my way to work.  Speaking of work, I should probably get off my keester and get a move on.

November 12--Ernest Vogt, Side Drum.  She knew he had worn it over his shoulder every day since he left the farm to go to war.  Lucy had cried, told him she needed him, that he was too young to go to die.  She tried every ruse and excuse to make him stay home and now all they had sent home was his drum.  She had been glad to know that he was a drummer, thinking that he would stay at the back and beat out a cadence to rally the troops.  She was wrong.  He was at the front where the fight was.  He was in the thick of it.  Her finger caressed the bullet hole that pierced the painted eagle's eye and went right through into her Charlie's heart.  What would she do now?  How could a woman alone, a woman with a small son, work a farm?

Alrighty then, I'm off to find some sort of cereal to eat while I read the paper.  This might be a day that calls for a bowl of oatmeal with dried cherries in it.  Yeah, it probably is.  Bundle up today, it's chilly out there.
--Barbara