but no scree tea.

Hmmm...what was it? One Christmas stocking pb-filled chocolate maple leaf? Or was it the homemade candy ball, straight from the land of old-fashioned food goodness, Tazewell, Virginia, that pushed my touchy head into the ibuprofen zone this morning?

I am looking out at the shlorpiest of Saturday mornings, where the the constant splat of rain has turned what seemed to be insurmountable heaps of snow into the great dismal slush swamp. We will need to go out in it. There are leftovers in the fridge, to be sure, but Jeff ate the last of the cinnamon-raisin Trader Joe British Muffins, toasted in two extremely uneven halves, this morning. As he cannot be retrained to initiate a different breakfast, I will set out to obtain more, and some milk and o.j. in the bargain.

One Subaru emerged from the snowfall with wipers unwilling to function. I certainly erred in not bearing at least one child with mechanical inclinations, so we will need to throw a bit more money in the direction of Annapolis Subaru on Monday. The rivulets of water in the basement I will not worry about. One can hardly expect a 62 year old foundation to hold this much meltwater at bay.

I wonder: Is it ever possible for humans to be as content as a kitty snuggled up in a new RocketDog deluxe black microfiber, size 8M, ankle-boot box? I would happily give each of my children--and anyone else for that matter--such a box, sized just for him/her, if it would keep them happy in the face of a world where slush-swamps and chocolate headaches, but especially the vagaries of forging important long-term relationships, are often making the path a skid zone. Well ouch. I’d keep the headaches, and sweep up all the scree.

I think tea is our security blanket. It’s warm. It steeps. You can make it with cute equipment. And it does not, as far as I know, contribute to headaches.