I've been feeling a little guilty about my level of patriotism lately, as Derek and I have been spending our evenings engaging in things that lean a bit more British: We've been watching the BBC show Midsomer Murders, an English crime-drama (but still humorous) type show that Derek has identified as a kind of precursor to the wildly popular Sherlock (which we also love, but apparently Brits produce television episodes at a rate of around one per year, so we're patiently waiting for the next season with the rest of the world), which isn't bad in and of itself, but the other night I found myself alternately watching a British show while reading a book set in England (Maisie Dobbs, it was terrific), then the next night watching the same show while sewing a Gryffindor scarf for my cast iron chicken named Hermione (boy, if I had a nickel for every time I've said that, right?). Plus I've spent the past week quashing a rather wild urge to bake scones.
|Look how warm she looks, standing guard there over our snow shovels.|
All this makes me feel like I need to meditate upon the image of a bald eagle, or maybe go throw some tea in the puddle in our backyard or something.
I think I'll settle for this:
|I won't judge your pre-Thanksgiving madness mess if you won't judge mine, mmkay?|
Homemade (by Adelaide, no less) pecan pie. It's taking everything in me not to take a fork and demolish this baby right now, before any of my family or guests have a chance to partake. But I'm an American, and sharing is totally American, right?
|The Trail of Tears by Robert Lindneux|