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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Sunday, October 14, 2012

My friend Alison shared this.



And it’s too good not to re-post.

Stake conference today was just amazingly wonderful. I came home instructed, edified, and even more peaceful than is the norm around here.

The elder twin and a friend were just leaving as I got home. They had come to give Beloved a blessing. He was having killer headaches and that dull ache in his midsection which my experience with hepatitis in 1979 tells me is his liver having fits.

He separated maybe a dozen and a half pomegranates and got the seeds rinsed and put into ziploc bags for later processing. I made a simple dinner: four of those giant chicken thighs simmered in a big pot with our entire harvest of leeks (about two cups’ worth chopped; the leeks we got were slim like Audrey Hepburn, not sassy like Mae West) and some herbes de Provence and freshly-ground pepper. When the chicken was done, I pulled it out and used instant mashed potatoes to make an ultra-simple potato soup. (We needed to use up what was left in the box.) Also made garlic bread, and this time I got the timing right with the broiler, so third time really was the charm, just as it is for this marriage.

Insert wink here.

I have completed reinforcing the steek on the sweater, slashed it open, picked up stitches along one front, and am about a third done knitting the first band. The Packers game is still on, out in the living room, but I needed to get up and find a slightly different sitting position, and I am about footballed out for one day.

[Aside: I walked into my studio to put the silk thread away after finishing the steek reinforcements, and I closed the door, and the hooked rug on the floor, combined with all the other textile bits stashed or strewn about the room, benevolently conspired to make the game inaudible. Just as There Are No Cats in America, there is no football in my studio. Although if I could find an SD, MSD, or Yo-SD-sized poster of Aaron Rogers or Clay Matthews, particularly the latter, I bet I could find room for that. Blessing strikes me as a Packers fan, under her Eliza R. Snow demeanor.]

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