Digestion Digression

It was the best of times, full stop.

Like those old biorhythm charts, everything came together on a high note. The dogs got along, the food worked and my dears, I have to tell you that the cranberries brought by my brother-in-law-extraordinaire transcended anything you ever thought a cranberry could achieve. And he made bread from scratch, something I’ve never even attempted. It was all glorious and comfortable and perfect.

Okay, the lemony couscous wasn’t nearly lemony enough and the Brussels sprouts with avocado and pecans could have used more avocado. So what? The wild mushroom barley with macadamias was fabulous, if I do say so myself. The creamed kale with gruyere was fine. The gougeres were adequate. Both kinds of sweet potatoes got compliments, as did both of the pies though only one of the pies deserved them. Robert's home-made ice cream was terrific and the caramel sauce I made was a hit.

You’ll be happy to know that Stanley the turkey did not give his life in vain. In death he was appreciated, just not by me.

Ask and ye shall see pix.

The weirdness happened after I took Melva home. I drove past a dark, closed mall and saw a line half a block long of people waiting to shop at midnight. Alone in my car, my brain replete with good company and conversation and my belly full of food, I almost couldn’t process the sight of all those antsy people thumbing their phones.

If I wasn’t so content I’d envy their determination, but nah. I’m good.

I hope you are too.