Toad in the Hole
December 22, 2005
Approaching Solstice and not a moment too soon, say I. Dark, gray, cold, muddy, cloudy, wet, and the weather outside is just as bad too. It ain't just the braces, though it's frankly surprising what a nibbled-to-death-by-ducks feeling I've been getting from those. It's fifty-six other ducks, I guess, piling on. The interior of our house looks like a cyclone hit a junkyard, and that's both cause and effect.
But we did bring the tree in, and it fits (just barely) on the designated whoozits by the window. And the mantle's full of candles, and we'll drink eggnog and trim the tree tomorrow night.
We'd trim it tonight but we got a spur-of-the-moment invitation for pot roast from John and Mary, who've already seen my pathetic attempts at eating so it shouldn't be too embarrassing. This is encouraging, the pot roast invitation. John promised me mashed potatoes too.
Emma stopped by last night to pick up something I'd picked up for her while running errands yesterday, and (another spur-etc) we invited her to sit down and eat supper with us; supper was some of her own barley-and-stuff soup, which she'd given us frozen in commemoration of my delicate condition. I guess this is networking? It does make the difference.
Joe picked up a bit of neighborhood news with the mail. The shade-tree mechanic across the street, in the house on the corner with his teenage son (a buddy of Gabe Downstairs) and the kid's grandmother (who looks to be in her 70s), died yesterday. He'd seemed healthy enough; we saw him outside working on assorted cars and the odd used truck, camper, or step-van (and once, a cherry-picker truck, which I coveted) all the time, or riding around on a bicycle. Evidently he'd been coughing blood for a couple of weeks, coughed up rather more blood last night, and died. He never went to get the cough checked out because he didn't have health insurance. He was 36.
There's nothing I can add to that that hasn't been said a million times already.