graff

Sunday was bottling day, and I was reverently presented with a towering beaker of amber liquid. Normally, I sniff the stuff thoughtfully, take a delicate sip, and roll the flavors around my mouth for a moment before pronouncing it a success. But this was not beer. This was hard cider, and it was so crisp and tart that I took a mouthful, stared at the beaker, cursed, and then drank the entire thing. The man was happy and started preparing the bottles for capping and carbonation. 

I took the picture and frowned at the camera. "Geez. Come take a flattering picture of me bending over my quilt blocks, or I'll look ridiculous on the same page as you." 

Very natural. 

Leif likes the lines on the batting. 

Our House played in the livingroom, the boys messed with play doh and lego, the cats sat like meatloafs, we went about our quiet industry, and everything was kind of perfect. My skinless hand is recovering, although the life line has tried to fuse over. Gypsies will scrutinize my palm and inform me of my impending death and resurrection, then go check the ammo in their zombie kits.