Happy Birthday, Bridgett!

Loyal reader and commenter and history smack-down giver, Bridgett, has a birthday today.

I would write her a poem, but I’m late for lunch. 


The Penelopiad

I just finished The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood.  I liked it, but it’s troubling.  It’s a book you want to turn to someone else and say, “What did you make of this part?  Or of this?  Why do you think Atwood suggested such-and-such?”

And yet, there’s no one to turn to.

We’re having chili for dinner tomorrow and the Butcher insists that I make it tonight so that it can have a full day in the fridge for the flavors to mingle.  We do love mingling flavors.

I bought three bell peppers–one green, one orange, and one red.  I forget how much I love them when I’m not the one grocery shopping, but when I am, and I see them, it’s all I can do to not buy them all, all the peppers, in all their colors, and bring them home and sit them on the couch next to me.

A girl could live a long time with someone who grew peppers.  That crunch as you bite into a fresh one, the sizzle as it hits hot metal, the way that, even in the sweet ones, there’s something that makes your mouth draw back, just slightly, into a smile.

I think what I wanted out of The Penelopiad was more grief.  Through the whole short book, I felt like there was something or some things being skirted around, things that beg to be connected and I just don’t know how.

An Afternoon of Getting Stuff Done

I went down to the Hall of Fame and did some Christmas shopping this afternoon.  Many folks on my list are getting t-shirts.

Then I came home and took a nap.

A glorious nap on my big green couch with a heavy warm afghan over me and a toasty warm dog keeping my feet warm.

I wonder if it would be bad form to go to bed early too…