You can call broccoli and cauliflower a "great alternative to French fries," Giada, but that does not make it so.
J, you see that thing over the fence that you're barking at with such fierce determination? That's what we call an "8-year-old." It does not present a life threat or cause for alarm. Usually.
I'm a little bit cold and a little bit hungry, but a lot too lazy to do anything about either.
The crooked puglet enjoys licking the gray dog's nose tumor. This is either rather sweet, or terribly strange.
Yes, I am at the mother's abode, pup- and housesitting whilst she cruises with rock bands for the weekend. I have a Jack Russell terrier on my hip, a puggie at my feet, a gray mutt skulking around downstairs, and Cricket, the aforementioned crooked one, galloping around the den with J at her heels. He is overjoyed that someone actually wants to play with him. I think they're joined at the low IQ.
If you've perused the Woodside for more than a few posts, you're aware that dogs figure heavily into the equation. Christmas, as you may have noticed, was no different. After a morning at mom's, we zip over to TFin and JBSH's house.
That's S. Those eyes get her out of a lot of trouble.
She's a mess, but she gets J all hot and bothered.
Martin went to pick up his lovely ladies, while TFin and LSis had a long philosophical conversation with the chicken.
Turns out she's a big proponent of same-sex marriage, gun control, and the public option.
But her bias is mostly for grandpas in red sweaters.
When Martin returned with E and A and T, the holiday fun began. Christmas tunes played softly on the radio, the customary Wisconsin cheese plate was devoured with unnerving speed, and all of the traditions were honored, from stockings hung by the chimney with care
to that Christmas classic, freeze-dried squid.
Gifts were gleefully given and received.
Santa's elves made a lot of technological advances this year.
And in the end all of the waiting was worth it.
Because A made this face. (I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure the ribbons from LSis' Williams-Sonoma box were her favorite gift.)
Stop. Growing. Right this second.
No one was hungry, but we sat down to dinner anyway, letting the being together whet our appetites for a truly impressive feast.
JBSH had cooked all day, making the universally beloved green bean casserole,
rich macaroni and cheese oozing with exotic dairy and topped with crispy crumbs,
and an insane duck hash, luxe with shredded duck and velvety potatoes, and topped with a perfect egg.
This is a sense-memory sort of meal, the kind that the mere mention of can instantly conjure every taste and texture. Drool factor: infinity.
In the waning hours of the day, bellies full of warm food and glossy wine, we pulled out the girls' new Mind Flex game.
And I took a picture of the chandelier. Because I was not the least bit tipsy, no I was not.
Mind Flex is terrific because you have to move the blue ball using only the power of your mind.
You'll note there are no pictures of me completing this activity. I was abjectly wretched at the exercise, which I'm sure has no implications for the strength of my brain.
There are plenty of pictures of OTHER people flexing their minds, however, because absolutely everyone looks ridiculous with something on their heads.
And when you have something ridiculous on your head, that moment by rights must be preserved and published on the worldwide Web.
In the end, we all came away with a sense of our particular cerebral prowess (K = not much), bruises on our foreheads, and the knowledge that some people have more impressive skills than others. Right JBSH?
More fun was had, dishes were washed, and tails were wagged than have been in recent memory. And we were reminded of a very important universal truth:
Using your brain is exhausting.