At the end of Boxing Day, I am in possession of an unexpected largesse of books: Zin E. Rocklyn's Flowers for the Sea (2021), Cyril Hare's With a Bare Bodkin (1946) and Untimely Death (1958), Gemma Files' In That Endlessness, Our End (2021), and Santanu Das' India, Empire, and First World War Culture: Writings, Images, and Songs (2018). I read the first and a half while lying on the couch after dinner, which was waffles with strawberries and whipped cream or butter and maple syrup according to taste. I ate slices of the triple-layer milk bread my father had baked for Christmas. My niece ran around jingling the stick with bells on that my father had bought for her; I consider it functionally indistinguishable from a cat toy, but then she considers me functionally indistinguishable from a cat tree. My brother was suitably stunned by his present of Roy Schwartz's Is Superman Circumcised? The Complete Jewish History of the World's Greatest Hero (2021). I forgot to mention that ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I are now co-owners of a new cast-iron skillet to replace the heirloom one that was dispossessed of its handle by depredations of cat. No one in my family took the best picture of the night, which was of my niece and the twins earnestly practicing veterinary medicine on the twins' pedal unicorns. Or being a unicorn coven, your call.
spatch and I are now co-owners of a new cast-iron skillet to replace the heirloom one that was dispossessed of its handle by depredations of cat. No one in my family took the best picture of the night, which was of my niece and the twins earnestly practicing veterinary medicine on the twins' pedal unicorns. Or being a unicorn coven, your call.
