Here we go.

Another New Year's eve and not a bathtub lover in sight. Damn straight. This year there will be no shenanigans, no reason to keep my collar flipped up and my eyes downcast for weeks on end. No reason to high tail it to Switzerland and run ten miles a day. No reason to hide away and shelf my social life. I am dressed well for tonight's dinner party and am towering with the highest of Parisian heels and the highest top bun that my hair will produce. Bon Iver on vinyl has been on repeat for the entire day and I feel ready to bring this year to a close even though my hands are not. No midnight kiss, just Rabbi's familiar lap to fall into when the hour hand strikes. It is funny, I am a different person than I was on this day one year ago, but also the same. The year ahead looks bright, productive and trying. There will be many lists to tick off in the next three months with all the work that has to be done for my portfolio for school and maybe that explains my hands inability to settle.

I am ready to go. In every sense of the words. I am ready, it is time.

Loco just called me, which is suitable considering that I called her at exactly midnight last year, in a heap on Alfie's bedroom floor, drunk and messy, guilt ridden words tumbling out of my mouth at an alarming rate. She took it all in with grace from her comfy spot in Montreal. This year we took pictures of ourselves on our Macbooks and sent them to each other at the same time. Her in batwinged tartan and me in sparkling checkers. Two different plaids on two different girls and it was good and well.

I am not sure what I am trying to say. I am late for Barfredo's house for martinis and cheese and late for dinner but I am fine with that. All I see for this year is Martha Street, mountain biking, mountains, babes, a new school, a new town, an ocean, Loco, being elbow deep in ink, silk screening, a familiar rainbow stained apron, boxes, empty hangers, a new baby (Jill and Chris'), a new start. This too is good and well.

I am ready to go.

Happy New Year dear friends, Madge.

Yukon dreaming.

Hand me a toque, hand me a pair of skis, hand me a plane ticket, hand me the Yukon.

I wish I was in Whitehorse right nowwwwwwwwwwwwwww, skiing with these turds in their pristine back yard: Sam, Zig, Meesh, Dano and Leslie. Jerks. I was content in my warm and modest home until I laid eyes on these photos taken on Christmas day. These turds I speak of are my cousins, pictured in the bottom photo (Sam and Ziggy) and I haven't hung out with them in a few years save for a few too-short visits the odd summer. NOT ENOUGH. I miss them. And now, looking at these my need to go to them has just been set in stone. Based on the pictures alone, I am just about ready to pack my bags, box up my belongings and get the hell out of town. Homegirl needs a buddy pass. Homegirl needs a money tree. Homegirl needs a sugar daddy.

Dying slowly of jealousy. I hate you guys for posting this jazz.
Discontent today, Madge.

Danger Bay.

These are my favorite pictures of the year. They are both of the same lady. Can you say stark dichotomy? Stark dichotomy.

Bed time.

I got a teeny tiny box for christmas. Inside the box with the pretty blue ribbon was a teeny tiny picture. I was confused for a minute but when looked up at everyone's cheerful and expectant faces my confusion passed and elation set in. The picture was of a bed. I got a bed.




Psyched.

Together in togetherness.

Laughter drifts down the hall and tinkles in from the living room to where I sit making it hard not to imagine five necks craned upwards towards the sinfully large flat screen watching a holiday movie in unison. Moved to take a moment of quiet on this joyful day, I am sitting here perusing pictures from the past couple of days and smiling. This is Christmas. Sushi with an aunt, movies, warm clothes, holiday parties, charger plates, driving to the country, crisp air, laughter. It is Christmas in the country and I woke up to the smell of bacon and dark coffee. Eggs benny for breakfast, coffee black as night, warm coffee cake, and fruit for miles. Laughter, full-swear/full-contact card games and then more laughter. We are a family of students; there is not a teacher among us (except maybe Cal, but he is lightening quick at explainations) and learning a new game is next to impossible.

Somehow the words are lost on me again, the need to express relaced with the need to be calm. I have been told to "slow down" on multiple occasions since arriving and am having a hard time following suit. My mind is somewhere else, treading quietly on new territory of potential. Christmas somehow makes me turn inwards, makes me watch my family with warmth and introspect from an arms length and somehow I always leave these gatherings, these weekends, feeling like I sort of missed the boat despite the fact that my person is heaving with love for them and a generous show of presents.

Yesterday a circle of women that I admire gathered like flapping hens in a warm kitchen. Dust settled, proverbial feathers came to a standstill, the rise of a story spread like wild fire and more flapping women moved in; getting tighter and closer and quieter. We love this, we feed off of the togetherness that Christmas brings, creates. Bodies everywhere, poker faces around a flimsy patio table no longer white, food coming and going from an impressive oven, greasy fingers, gyoza factory on the counter, wolverines around the gouda, hands flying, wine sipped, and stories swapped. We move in closer, as to not miss a beat. Our waists doing the Christmas dance and avoiding collisions and spills, the story hour brings out the dancer in everyone. And we always end up in the kitchen. One person begins to spin a tale and we clap in glee, color crimson or gasp wildly at all the appropriate times.

I have no idea what it is that moves me to tell all, to elaborate, to weave a tale so impressive it will make aunties run to their book editors, yelping in delight. As a younger generation in this line of impressive women, I feel it is my duty to up the ante. Give them something to pray about.

It always impresses me when people choose to live vicariously through others. I do it. These women do it. Our children's children will do it. I don't know what it is, but nothing fills me more than a circle of women who flap in a kitchen, rubbing their hands together in togetherness. Together in togetherness. It is real simple. This is what Christmas is for me. It is not necessarily about the food (even though the creamy onion, wanton, roasted squash, heinezoup, sour kraut soup bar in lieu of a turkey dinner slayed this year), the wine, the agressive three generational Scrabble, the music, the program, or the gifts. It is about the togetherness.

Go, and be together.

"Babies are beautiful," she said.

Baby M. Enough said.

"A Joy Forever".

Christmas is all around us. I am full bellied thanks to a loud and wild breakfast with Beth A, visiting town from the Mountains. Go tell it on the Mountains. We ate and spoke with mouths open, stuffed with falafel and onions and eggs and there were plenty of hand gestures and throaty bursts of laughter. This is Christmas, I think. Happy families eating together, babies everywhere, children excited about french toast dates with their Papas, mothers shrieking in joy welcoming heart attacks and hot flashes, experimental dinners done well and not so well, nice wine in glassware, chewed nail polish, middle parts and turtle necks, pearls, scarves, tinkling music, cheese platters, orange peels dappling the arms of couches, heads dipping sleepily while listening to Fleet Foxes and Sufjan Stevens. She left me for the west again and now I am back tucked into my home, socked and slippered and blanketed and ready to read the afternoon away. But first, a note.

Actually, I have nothing worth writing save for a hearty 'Merry Christmas to all'. I love being on holidays. Oh, but I am reading a lovely book right now titled appropriately so, (to match my current outlook): "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss (genius Jonathan Safran Foer's frau). What a lady. What a book. Just now, my eyes scanned the floor of my living room to stop dead on a pair of elbow length cashmere finger gloves as orange as oranges can be, lying in wait, ready to be slipped into and worn around the house, shown off like a prize winning chow chow. I love them. Thinking of them, I thought of the last paragraph I read (and underlined without THINKING in the blackest of ink, sorry Anne M as it is your book and not mine) and the weight of giving. This is for you.


I'm ready to go back now, I said.

To my surprise, he got out, opened the door, and helped me in.

When I got back to my apartment, I thought I'd been robbed. The furniture was overturned, and the floor was dusted with white powder. I grabbed the baseball bat I keep in the umbrella stand and followed the trail of footsteps to the kitchen. Every surface was covered with pots and pans and dirty bowls. It seemed that whoever had broken in to rob me had taken time to make a meal. I stood with the photograph down my pants. There was a crash behind me, and I turned and swung blindly. But it was just a pot that had slipped from the counter and rolled across the floor. On the kitchen table, next to my typewriter, was a large cake, sunk in the middle. Standing, nonetheless. It was frosted with yellow icing, and across the top in sloppy pink letters, it read, LOOK WHO BAKED A CAKE. On the other side of my typewriter was a note: WAITED ALL DAY.

I couldn't help it, I smiled. I put the baseball bat away, upturned the furniture that I remembered I had knocked over the night before, took out the picture frame, breathed on the glass, rubbed it with my shirt, and set it up on my night table. I climbed the stairs to Bruno's floor. I was about to knock when I saw there was a note on the door. It said: DO NOT DISTURB. GIFT UNDER YOUR PILLOW.

It had been a long time since anyone had given me a gift. A feeling of happiness nudged my heart. That I can wake up each morning and warm my hands on a hot cup of tea. That I can watch the pigeons fly. That at the end of my life, Bruno has not forgotten me.

Back down the stairs I went. To delay the pleasure I knew was coming my way, I stopped to pick up my mail. I let myself back into my apartment. Bruno had managed to leave a dusting of flour over the entire floor of the place. Maybe a wind had blown in, who knows. In the bedroom I saw that he had gotten down on the floor and made an angel in the flour. I stepped around it, not wanting to ruin what he had made so lovingly. I lifted my pillow.

It was a large brown envelope. On the outside was my name, written in handwriting I didn't recognize. I opened it. Inside was stack of printed pages. I began to read. The words were familiar. For a moment I couldn't place them. Then I recognized they were my own.

Baby lady.

As we speak, I am curled up in a soft chair, baby M swaddled and curled up in the lap of my crossed legs. Hot tea to my right, sliced apples to the left, drawing pad and pens to the far right. Every now and then she coos or shudders or squirms to remind me that she is there. I drag a few fingers over her perfect forehead and keep typing, in love with this little tiny thing. Wishing she was mine. After finishing this I am going to curl up on my bed with homegirl and read my lady Rabbi's latest published edition of the magazine she writes for: G.Love. This day is shaping up to be above and beyond.

Someday I am going to have a baby. Word on the street is that they are a lot of work, but I still want a whole rat pack. This is no secret. Anyone and their dog who have known me for five minutes know this. My friend Kelly just had a baby bird about three weeks ago, Madeline, or baby M as I call her, and she is a beauty. She is sleeping in my lap with her eyelids flickering, cheeks rose red, wearing a sleeper made of the softest organic cotton money can buy. I love her and she isn't even remotely blood related. I just love her. Kelly called this afternoon wondering if she could leave baby M for a few hours while she finished the last of her Christmas shopping. "Uhhhhhhhh yes, please?!?!?". She doesn't have to ask. Ever.

Madi and I had a little teeny baby photo shoot just after she drained an entire bottle in my arms. Homegirl was a pretty good sport considering all the outfit changes, nakedness, props, fur stoles, fabric, movement and lighting adjustments. Poor kid. I already feel bad for my own children and the countless shoots they will have to endure as I blow through roll after roll documenting their precious antics. Until my film is developed, here is a shabby sampling of how much I adore babies, and this baby in particular.

I don't even have words. I think I got the retardo, inhumane baby gene from Aunty Marj. It is as good a reason as any to go to church, that is for certain. Baby mecca over there in the country.

Now a word of wisdom from a wise lady. This is Grandma's best form of birth control for her granddaughters:

Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.

Thanks Helen, Helen, Helen. Thanks to this little gem, I can't help but letting a teeny tiny "I want one" escape. No, I want lots of them. On another note of thanksgiving, there are people like Kelly in my world who are more than willing to dump their baby birds off chez moi and this tends to tide me over for a while. I hope I can last until I meet a sugar daddy or am on a salary at the very least. Sorry this post is so pointed, I just can't get enough apparently.

Best, Mama Madge.

Harlot says, Simon says.

Hands flying, heart beating, hair swept up in a frenzy, a half hearted top bun, a shorn poodle of a woman in thermal cycling tights and a striped bandeau, hair off my face, away away away, up up and away as a distraction shelved for the time being. "EV-ER-EE-BUDDY" as Kaleb would say in a situation like this: Everybody, I just came from a day spent bicycle riding on my beloved fixy, Jessica Alba. I had errands to do, things to get done, people to see on my one day off and I refused to take the bus for a single thing. For a single minute. I hate winter in Winnipeg because I am a pedestrian and a cyclist and not a motorist. If I had a car in winter in Winnipeg, I would love it. I would love the bland white, love the life-threatening cold, love the snow, love the snowsuits and the Sorels. But as a cyclist forced to shelve one's pride and joy for the winter, it is depressing as all get out. It is easy to hate.

Today I wasn't having any of it. I pulled my sparkling summer bicycle down from it's place in my living room and pumped the tires. I never bothered to switch my slicks over to winter tires because I never thought I would ride it in the winter. So I took it down and rode around the block a few times, testing the waters, skidding and track-standing with all the confidence in the world, attempting backwards circles in my winter cycling gear. I just felt it today. I was going to ride come hell or high water. It was as if it were a choice between riding my beautiful bicycle and dying. I was not about to pick death, so I strapped on my messenger bag housing a sketch pad, some nice pens, my camera and an unfinished letter to Lo on good card stock. Riding to Osborne was fine, a bit scary but doable. I stayed in the lines of pavement created by the right side tires hitting salt hitting pavement. Moving out of those tracks for even a split second meant biting it, hard, and potential death. So I stayed, unabated by impatient drivers who were nice enough for the most part, or my freezing fingers. I rode to the Exchange and almost died crossing Portage from a patch of hard to see ruts. I screamed my head off at one point and braced myself, causing a passerby on the sidewalk to rip off their balaclava and stare in horror. But I made it. I was psyched. Had coffee with Barfredo and Ross at the Fyxx and back-alleyed it to Mountain Equipment to get better gloves for the ride home. Made it back to Corydon, (it was smooth sailing down Donald) and picked up a new record at Music Trader and talked to Olivia all the while getting a sudden nosebleed under control in the shop.

There are few things more disgusting than a winter geared lady, balaclavaed, helmeted and bleeding profusely from the nose. Cute.

Rode back to Corydon to go sit at Rabbi's counter for a few hours with Shira. I had one hundred shots of espresso today, wild. Anyway, I came back home, warmed up my hands around a cup of tea and put on my newly acquired and newly released copy of Sigur Ros' 'með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust' album on vinyl and just about had a heart attack over how amazing it was. I had heard it before when it came out in summer, but not all the way through and definitely not on vinyl. GOOD LORD. I actually had to sit down in a chair it was so good. It has been a while since an album has bowled me over psychically at the first listen. Go get it on vinyl and let your knees go weak. It is very joyful in comparison to their other releases. I was very pleased.

My music taste in winter always slows to more mellow, harmonious, folk singing, sighing, low light demanding crooners than it would swing to in the warmer seasons. Winter is all about going on musical journeys. Whether those journies are accompanied by a living room full of people drinking wine, a candle lit dinner for two, or by one's self in the bath with a book, they are important. To me at least. I still yell out to pretend lovers when I am in the bath when the record stops. "Dan" or "Wilfred" or "Harry" or "Tomas" (the Tomas I imagine straight out of Milan Kundera's novel, 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being') are thrown living room-wards on a daily bathing basis. The neighbors must think me a harlot based on all the imaginary names I yell demanding them to "flip the record!!!!". I am pathetic. But honest. It is just something I do, I like it. I think it is the deal breaker for me: calling out men's names to flip the record while I am bathing. When I find someone who will do it without having to be asked, then I will know he is good and right.

Flip the record. No, instead go buy the aforementioned one and go flip a lid over how insane it is. Go on a musical journey.
With upmost sincerity, Madge.

Dream house.

I am in the market for bedroom furniture. I am specifically looking for a chair these days, although a bed and new living room furniture are never far from the forefront. A chair. I am looking for a comfortable reading chair. A chair that is both smart and cozy, welcoming and chic at the same time. It has to withstand swinging legs and stains from red wine and coffee alike. It must be mobile, because I rearrange when all else is lost. It has to have a vintage feel with a modern overlay. I am open to pattern and stripes, dusters and a high rise. Wing backed or egg shaped; whatever it ends up being, it has to speak to me.

Don't even get me started on bedding...

In bed, in song.

Dear diary.

I don't have much to say. Energy is being reserved for the day that is to come and so I will not overwork my brain here. Last night I went through the wringer, the empty glasses from Rabbi's dangerously delicious caesars with the pickled beans piling higher and higher around me at my station in the kitchen. Homegirl slings I mighty fine caesar. I could barely get out of bed to get to work this morning. Someone said I looked wan. It is never pleasant to hear one looks wan. Anyway, my slowed body finally made it home, and I slid into bed with a few boys from a band called Fleet Foxes. In spirit. Listen to this, the whole way through.

To William if you are reading this: I would like to be in your quartet. I sing Alto I and will need a lot of help with my notes. But, when I get it, I get it.

Listen, and slide into a nearby bed with Fleet Foxes. I want the man with the mouth. Watch his mouth in the room with the high ceilings when he hits the high notes. Incredible. Rabbi, add that to my list: he has to sing like a songbird.

I am dying a slow death today. Hail Caesar Augustus, hail Mary.
Hailstorm, Madge.

Listen, click, and really listen. These men can sing.

Have my children Kevin.

Another day of calm, another day of sureness.

I worked in the kitchen today and arrived at six in the morning, with the city still sleeping through the bakery windows dripping with tacky Dollarama decorations. Clean shirt, ex boyfriend jeans (the ones with the chartreuse ink stains), stolen hat, last night's makeup.

Oh my Lord. That reminds me: last night. Last night, the Salmon and the Giraffe went for round two. Thankfully there was not an open bar in sight, instead the Salmon's sights were dead set on a garish gymnasium at the University of Manitoba. Let me rephrase that. Last night, I went to a high school provincial volleyball game (two of them actually) in a gymnasium and ate pretzels and made fun of Sven while he perused the room as fast as a fish. In perfect Salmon form. ON A FRIDAY NIGHT, at that. I rarely go out these days, never mind to a flippen' volleyball game (two of them) to teach my spiky haired jock friend to take some photographs for his portfolio. Sven wants to be a sportscaster when he grows up. He will make all the women at the station fall in love with him thanks to his charm and those damn dimples. Gross, a volleyball game. On a Friday. I still can't believe it. BUT, I did learn a great lesson though while sitting on those bleachers in put-on agony.

Don't be critical until you try.

So I went and ended up having more fun than Sven (who burned through five rolls of film at that!). I took three photos throughout the night and I have a feeling that the second one I took will end up being the best portrait of my entire photography career. Three teen boys wearing nothing but black skivvies, black and yellow body paint and a whooooole 'lotta team spirit holding up a "Kevin have my children" sign on one side and "Goooooooooo LANCERS" on the other. I went right up to them, confident that I wouldn't have to ask them to pose or tell them what to do, and asked if I could shoot their photo. Their reaction was seismic. Epic. Worthy of a standing ovation. They posed, screamed into the lens of my camera, grabbed their bulging crotches, shook their waif-thin hips and blew outlandishly long plastic horns an inch from my face. Without a moment's notice, I clicked and didn't even bother to take another. I just knew. If you can operate a manual film camera, then you know the feeling. Same goes for riding fixed; if you do it, then you know. I knew that that single moment was the best thing I have managed to freeze in time in all of 2008. And I took a 'lotta photos this year with all those friends, weddings and babies to blame.

All of this understanding because I swallowed my pride and let myself be taken to a sporting event by the Salmon. It was excellent and I would do it again.

With last night spinning in my head, I worked happily for nine hours, only stopping once to make myself a double espresso very slowly in all of the surrounding madness of Saturdays at the bakery. I enjoyed it and then I got back to work another happy six hours with three amazing women. We each had our own lists to check and tick and our bodies were whirring in constant motion as we helped each other along. We sang too. Sufjan Stevens entire 'Seven Swans' album, we sang along to that and we sang along with every word from the 'Across the Universe' soundtrack. It was lovely. I made fifteen loaves of bread. It was the first time I had ever been allowed to manipulate dough (never mind make it) in that kitchen and I took full control of the moment and enjoyed every minute thoroughly. Kneading, a timid pat on the rising dome, more kneading, up to my elbows in the finest white flour in Manitoba (maybe not), shaping, rounding, more flour, more kneading, hurling those fifteen handcrafted half spheres on the bread table with such a velocity it shook every time. 15 X 8 times. 120 times. It was heavenly. The young people who work the counter up front came in and out of the kitchen periodically and would make fun of my technique. I was in my glory and didn't give it two thoughts.

I also learned how to clean turkeys. I have always wanted to learn that. The opportunity arose today and naturally, I jumped at the chance. Working with meat is therapeutic. It sounds ridiculous, but I love it. It is flesh and savory and we are supposed to eat it. In that obligation, we should also respect meat and prepare it with upmost care. I took it apart with upmost care. Burning hot bones stripped bare by human hands, just like in the Renaissance.

Good Saturday, about to get better.
Hiiiiiiyah.

Come thou fount of every blessing.

To listen to a room filled to the brim with sopranos, altos, tenors, bass and baritones singing a hymn in harmony is one reason of many why I believe in a higher being. Why I am spiritual. Why I say "yes" when others say "no". It explains my occasional sense of calm. It explains the occasional day of complete silence and even rarer days of a mind that is quiet but not asleep. I believe and I have not always been so brave to say so. I have questions, yes; not to mention a semi trailer worth its weight in doubt, but I believe.

It is in those moments- the singing room moments--standing there, so aware, so centered in a sense of self and a sense of family, so appreciative of culture, so thankful for the familial ties that bind, so humbled by song and collective voice--that it is impossible for me not to believe in something.

Lately, the amount of conversations based around the personal beliefs of the different people that make up my circle of friends have outnumbered our usual veins of banter: music, politics, food, wine, art, socialites, scenes, distaste for all the aforementioned points. In the last couple of weeks I have been pelted with questions of Why? and Where do we go? and When? and Who is the one appointed as Official yay or nay-sayer on our last days on earth? I have also been swept away by my own tears while in the throws of less malicious religious-based conversations. Humble tears, shared with humble people, humble pie. I am a world away from confidence in this, and I am a stones throw away from my old cynical self. But a pony on unsure legs is still a pony regardless of the wobble. I am still a pony. I am still myself.

Have no fear, all you steppers. I will not choke you with all of this in the future, I will not beat it over your heads while you sleep. I will not even wave it in front of you, as tempting as a waft of food; I will just exist knowing. I did not know before today. I had heard the wonders of, been encouraged, watched my friends who understood it and lived it in awe, even been drenched years ago with the waters that baptize and symbolically separate the lambs from the sheep; but I never knew this. I have no idea what exactly it is that I believe in; I do, but not really. All I know is that the knowing that comes from an accumulation of moments and memories and events and sorrow have become the building blocks of my personal faith over all of these years. Today it is personal; it is a friend, a confidante, a light of hope. It was not so yesterday or the years before that.

Today I had to make a decision. A quiet decision that had been stewing in the depths of my soul in the centre of my chest for months now. I have been conflicted for quite some time now, the joy in my youthful heart prematurely aging and sagging from the weight of such a choice. But this afternoon, in a moment of slicing, blinding clarity, I chose. I have known all along, but today that last block was slid into place and something clicked.

To Tante: the words you wrote for me on a piece of rough brown paper last February now stowed away in a secret place came to mind again today while mid conversation with Erin. I interrupted her to repeat them to myself, aloud, just to be sure I remembered them and she stopped short, her sentence jagged with words like "spirit" "vexation" "away" from my own mouth. Thank you for these simple papers blotted with wisdom that I find dappling the tables and drawer bottoms within my home.

The source of every desirable quality or commodity is a fount. I feel a fount of blessing and baby-legged knowledge.
Sincerely, Madge.

Year in review.

What better way than to recap a year than through a slew of Poladroids? This has been quite a year. To say the very least and to be as cryptic and withdrawn as possible, as per usual: this has been one hell of a year. Pardon my French, Grandma. But it has. Good things are happening, again! Drex is coming on board at the bakery and we will be working side by side into the new year. Chopping and art talking and music dropping and so on. Drex is a very good guy and we have been friends for a few years now.

This time of year always causes a bit of upheaval in my day to day thought process. The coming holiday jazz is a source of anxiety--to be quite honest--even though I am usually happiest breaking bread and laughing around the table with my family at gatherings. Still, I get caught up in the rat race of gift buying and being strapped for scrilla never helps. It is like the ripping off of an old band-aid. Just do it, get in there, giver shit, get it done, faster, faster, faster. This year I will buy the obligatory fifty dollar ticket gifts but other than those, it is prints for all! I have been working on a final project for my class and am pretty happy with it so far. Check yer mailboxes homegirls and homeboys.

Other than the usual Christmas push and work jazz and printing and soup makery, all is well. There is not a Christmas decoration to be found in my humble abode but word has it that my mother has decked the halls and the papenate is already in icecream pails ready to be devoured. (Papenate [my low German lexicon leaves a bit to be desired] in attempted pinyin is a spiced miniature Christmas cookie that looks questioningly identical to that of bulk dog food). Every year I am skeptical about eating it, and every year I end up eating an entire pail. While I wouldn't say I am feeling quite up to par in the "Festive" category, I am getting there. Tonight my little lady Rabbi (Rebecca) is coming over for the annual "It is December first, and thus we must eat by candlelight" dinner. God knows what I will make. Maybe bow tie pasta with italian sausage with fennel and fresh spinach. I am sure she won't mind breaking veg for an annual hoo-ha of this sort, chez moi. She better; there will be candles after all!

Here is a year in review. Sort of, time allowing. In no particular order, sans captions. These are people, in places, with things that have influenced me in some way or other.