... Actually, that’s only if you don’t count Zenny falling off her brother while riding him like a pony, and Gavin stepping on Leif’s face while dancing with the cat. I am getting better at these things.
After creamed eggs and biscuits, we drove to my mom's place, where she and I hit the kitchen for feast preparation (which is to say, I peeled carrots and trash-talked while she cooked). The lamb was fork-tender. The Yorkshire pudding was 8 inches high. The Brussels sprouts were all eaten - for which there is no higher praise. We did not set the oven on fire; the drippings just got excitable for a few minutes there. Leif dropped the leftover lemon meringue pie, and didn’t even have the good grace to nail anyone in the face with it in the process. Just smashed it onto the driveway. Lost opportunities, kid.
There was tie-dye, egg-dye, and a plastic egg hunt on my mother’s Jurassic patio that ended in shrieks when the kids found piles of stinky old wild chicken eggs in the plants. Gavin cleans them out periodically, after checking them for viability, and calls them “fart grenades”. Very festive.
It was a good year.
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