The Thanksgiving feasting has wound down today, which is Saint Andrew’s Day in Scotland.
I think it’s fair to say that everyone has done their best to lay down a fresh layer of insulating winter fat. Certainly I ate myself silly over the holiday… I am most certainly ready for some weeks of austerity before Christmas and Hogmanay/New Year set in.
And oh, the holiday preparations to commence… my daughter is running around the house, dragging everything out of its place in the name of “decorating”. All of the dishes and silverware are on the table, because they are Christmas plates and cups and forks.
One joy of early winter is nut-cracking. It was a bonzer year for them, and we have a big bag of home-grown pecans and another of English walnuts. The best way to crack them is with the dull end of an axe. One good crack along each three-dimensional axis will do it.
There was snow on Thanksgiving Day, but it has since melted into an unseasonably warm spell. We slept with the window open, last night, enjoying the deliciously cool, moist air. I always dream like a fiend when I sleep cold… so does my husband. He woke me up one morning after a bad dream that I wasn’t there, and much snuggling commenced.
And oh, the shooting practice that was promised. As with so many holiday plans, not everything came to fruition. I did get a lesson with our nephew’s BB gun, and I am pleased to say that I’m a dab shot at ten paces. It wasn’t only my rifle-shooting that fell by the wayside; no one went fishing, either, ice fishing or otherwise, and no one took a long walk. There was surprisingly little pie-eating, which runs contrary to the usual order of things. Maybe there was simply too much turkey, ham, cornbread dressing, spaetzle, mashed potatoes, yams…
I need to get the laundry on. There is too much on my (metaphorical) plate to put it off until tomorrow, my usual day. And so the rush begins.
Best wishes to you. I may hold off until the end of the month, for my next letter…