A feather for your thoughts?









Breakfast.

I stood at the stove, the comforting smell of french toast and bacon filled my nose. I flipped a golden brown slice onto a large plate when a tiny movement to my right caught me by surprise. My first fear was that a rat, tarantula or snake had found it's way inside. With a mountain for a backyard, this was not unrealistic. I hitched up my Grinch pajama bottoms, armed with my mighty spatula and proceeded to the dining room. I rounded the large table as a small bird flew up and landed on mother's Santa, seated on the window ledge. I called to Ryan, my 14 year old nephew, as I felt the situation required backup. Our duo chased the bird from dining room to kitchen where we failed at luring it out the back door. Maisy, the dog was not helpful. Hours passed with no sign of the bird, except for the "trail" it left. Much like Hansel and Gretel leaving a path of crumbs, our bird left us a path of where it had paid a visit.

At one point, I noticed a larger bird perched outside the living room window, chirping and flying into the glass.



Ryan, seated by the open door, patiently on guard. I went about getting ready for errands when I heard a thump. I found our friend repeatedly slamming into the window where the larger bird had been. I called for the other half of my team, held the front door wide open and laughed as Ryan chased it from window to door and eventually outside.




This begs the question: If a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, what is a bird in the house worth?



S is for Sugar

This year I had the pleasure of making sugar cookies with my littlest neice, Lainie. She thoughtfully chose the shapes from Grandma's jumbled drawer of cookie cutters. Lainie was methodical in choosing the best looking of all the bells, stars, candy canes and angels. Her mother, my sister, Susan and I poured over cookie cutters long forgotten from our childhood. We lemented the Angel cutter and her reluctance to let go of the dough. We laughed over tiny gingerbread boys, whose arms either broke or burned. Susan told Lainie stories of decorting techniques from our youth. The way we placed a silver ball on each star tip, the sprinkles to make the bells shimmer and the occasional red hot carefully placed. Susan and I both agreed that the tree was a favorite, because it is large and a good choice when limited to "just one more". Lainie appointed herself the cutter, as she loved pushing them through the dough. Susan made the frosting, a simple buttercream with a dash of sea salt and lemon extract to cut the powdered sugar taste. As if by some magic, not a single gingerbread boy broke or burned a tiny arm or leg.

It was the miracle of Christmas cookies.