Happy Thanksgiving!

I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving.  I did.  I was invited to DIL1's parents' house as I/we have been since DS & DIL1's marriage.  It feels so good to be absorbed into that noisy, happy family.  Two turkeys were cooked.  One was smoked, the other was deep fried.  I had some of each and can't decide which was best.  I brought home a bag of turkey.  I'll be doing further research into which is best.



This morning I got the slicer upstairs and sliced the onion bread.  I took the turban shaped loaf with me to Thanksgiving dinner and put the loaf loaf into the freezer.  I suspect that there'll be turkey sandwiches on onion bread in my immediate future.  All right, tomorrow since I took my own advice and ate too much pie.  And I was so good with my food choices then I blew my diet out of the water with a tiny slice of each of three kinds of pie.  Pecan, pumpkin with gingersnap crust, and apple with caramelized pecans on top.  Oh, too good to resist.  I still feel full.
 



I confess that I couldn't resist toasting a piece of the loaf loaf.  Just to make sure it wasn't inedible.  It wasn't.




 

DIL1's dad is a model train buff so we all trooped across the street to see his impressive set up.  He's got buildings and animals, he's made trees, a mountain with a tunnel, and a volcano.  It's very cool.





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

            George dropped Max off at the bungalow, helping him unload his gear and keeping the empty tanks to have refilled.  He then drove back toward the uninhabited southern end of the island and pulled off near the unused lighthouse that marked the southernmost point of the boomerang shaped island.  He backed into an access road used by the technicians of the salt works across the road facing the crashing waves that pounded the shore, having met no land to diminish their power in their march from Africa.  From his vantage point he could see any vehicle approaching on the one lane road that curved near the desolate shore.

He opened the windows to allow the constant trade winds to cool him while he stared at the envelope Max had so casually handed him.  Glaring at the seal, which incorporated a crown with crossed scepter and sword below, his first instinct was to tear the envelope into pieces and consign it to the ocean.  Realizing that doing so would lead to trouble for his friend, he knew he would have to open it and at least see what they wanted.  He was not naïve enough to have imagined that retirement meant he would never hear from his old masters again.  In fact, Hornsby had reminded him on the day he had cleaned out his office that men in his position never really retired, they just went on an extended holiday.  In George’s years in service to Her Majesty, once or twice a situation arose that necessitated the calling in of an old boy to pick up the threads, for a short time, of an operation that only he, or admittedly she in recent years, had special knowledge and contacts for.  George always felt a bit sorry for the old duffers as they shuffled around the office, confused by the changes in layout and staff, and befuddled by advances in technology only dreamed of in their day.

With a frustrated sigh, he slid the blade of his pocketknife under the flap and broke the seal.  He spread the open end and peered in to see a single sheet of paper.  He let the envelope close again as he considered how he would handle whatever request was inside.  He thought about flatly refusing to read it, sending an email over his secure line to say so, and not responding to any repeated pleas or orders. He knew that wouldn’t work, knew that the powers that be would never stand for such insubordination in one they considered a valuable asset.  Resigned to at least read what the letter said he slid two fingers into the envelope and teased out the sheet of paper made soft by the humidity.

In service to Her Majesty, read the heading on the page, something he had seen so many times before and it always meant dredging up his skills of spy craft and dusting them off.  In the past those words had meant kissing Sonia and the boys goodbye for a week or a month, once over a year, and flying off to some political skirmish in someplace known for its harsh, cold winters and ferreting out whatever nuggets of information were there for the gleaning.

I can't decide if I want to go to the Y tomorrow or take the day off and sew or work on my novel.  One of the good things about being retired is that I can do what I want when I want to.  Mostly.
--Barbara