Order Your Genie Habitat Here!
My daughter Belle makes beautiful Genie Bottles, and if you have a whimsical friend you haven’t bought a present for yet, why not give the gift of a genuine Genie Habitat?
The bottles are all sizes, colors, and materials; just tell her what you want and she’ll make it for you. Tall bottles, short bottles. . . anything goes.
Prices start at only ten bucks for the little ones, plus shipping.
Contact Belle at: sagoodwi@gmail.com
She’ll get right back to you.
Also, I really need to dust my piano.
Archaeologists Will Know Me By My Traces
Apple pie, sugarless: check.
Apple pie, regular: check.
Blueberry pie: check.
Pecan pie: check.
Cherry pie, sugarless: check.
Huge pan of fudge: check.
Three pans of persimmon pudding: check.
160 yeast rolls: check (I gave most of them away, but we’ve got three dozen for tomorrow!)
And now the oven will be free for the turkey in a few hours.
While that 19-pound bird is roasting, there will be considerable action on TOP of the stove. Green beans, noodles & cheese, mashed potatoes, gravy, and whatever my sisters and mother bring that might need some fire applied to it.
Let the annual Lard-n-Starch Reunion begin!
I’d like to tell you that all the spilled and burned blueberry juice from earlier this afternoon has been all cleaned up, but I can’t do that because it’s still there: charred but still fragrant. I’d like to tell you that I’ll get it cleaned up before tomorrow night, but I can’t do that, either.
Um, the spilled and burned blueberry juice from LAST year is still noticeable on the oven floor. Add to it all the spilled and burned pecan pie filling and a little bit of scorched cherry juice, and nobody would ever believe I haven’t used my oven all summer.
Well, it was HOT.
Phew, Kind Of. And Thanks.
Ah, the smell of spilled and burning blueberry juice all over the oven floor. . . . must be the day before Thanksgiving.
But much more important that that, the new Carnival of Education is up, over at NYC Educator, and for the first time in two weeks, I’ve been invited to dinner! Thank you. I was beginning to feel as though the cool kids at the popular table didn’t want me to sit with them at lunch any more. Not that they ever did when I was a kid, either. . . .
But do such things really matter, now that I’m old grown up? Surprisingly, yes, they still do. When does it stop? Enquiring minds want to know. And quickly, before all of the real news mags go belly up.
Although, when I stop and think that the vast majority of the “cool kids” got knocked up in their teens, arrested, dropped out, are fair regular customers at the liquor store, are featured semi-weekly in the newspaper under ‘domestic violence,’ and were still just as creepy and cliquy and full of themselves as they ever were at the first class reunion I attended, which was also the last class reunion I attended, maybe those kids weren’t really the ‘cool kids’ after all. Maybe it was those other tables that were the cool tables, all the time.
Yup.
And now, back to the kitchen. The oven should have cooled down enough, by now, that I can get down on my hands and knees and start scraping the burned blueberry juice off the bottom of the oven.
I apologize for the image I may have tatooed on your sensibilities.
