Saturday, November 27, 2010
Saturday in CinCity
please note: photo by kyfirefighter on flickr
Thanksgiving has come and gone and my refrigerator and I are stuffed to the gills. I went off the skids this year; tried new recipes for the turkey and stuffing--Maple Glazed and Bourbon/Bacon. Both turned out surprisingly to be quite good. Even after the effects of the bourbon tasting had worn off. CollegeGrrrrl was only able to be home--actually in the house she was raised in--for about 5 minutes after visiting her grandmother in Indiana because of the horrible driving conditions and multiple weathermen threatening us with snow and icy roads. That was very disappointing for all of us and we owe her a dinner. She was here long enough for me to pack up some stuffing and rolls for her, but the turkey had just come out of the oven and was way too hot to carve. Protein is way overrated, though, and we do love our carbs here in the Distracted household.
Cleared the table, divided food into Gladware and, utilizing very precise equations of physics, squished it all into the fridge. It now has yellow CAUTION tape over the door. Got the dishes half done/half soaking just in time to watch Charlie Brown and get ready for bed. Worked the next day, but not too much drama for dayshift. Multiple strokes were being called up as we were heading out the doors.
We did not look back.
I'd like to be shopping at my local stores up on Ludlow
for Small Business Saturday, but my wallet and the firefighter paper due on Tuesday disagree. They apparently are not givers like I am. Maybe, though, if I stop blogging, and don't look at FaceBook, I could get my homework done and just go up to a take a little tiny peek at the store windows. There can be no harm in that, right?? Right??...
oooohhhh, and now I'm hungry again. And my cuppa coffee's empty. I'll be there Firefighter Paper. I'm getting started. Stop pressuring me!!! :>)
Flying at Night
by Ted Kooser
Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.
please note: photo by John Curley on flickr