Monday, December 13, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
History of Christmas
Check out this awesome website: http://www.thehistoryofchristmas.com/
It has awesome information, like did you know that people used to bring evergreens into their homes during the winter solstice to celebrate the long-awaited return of the sun god (we're talking pre-Christianity here) and that they weren't popularized in association with Christmas until 1846 when Queen Victoria had a Christmas tree because her husband was German and they were traditional there?
Also Candy Canes were invented to keep children quiet during church :-P
It has awesome information, like did you know that people used to bring evergreens into their homes during the winter solstice to celebrate the long-awaited return of the sun god (we're talking pre-Christianity here) and that they weren't popularized in association with Christmas until 1846 when Queen Victoria had a Christmas tree because her husband was German and they were traditional there?
Also Candy Canes were invented to keep children quiet during church :-P
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
How to make the most out of your Pot Roast
I don't think I ever learned to cook meat the way you are taught to bake cookies or clean your room. My mom was easily distracted with so much commotion in the house that our meat was not always a high priority. It was for this reason that I began observing friends in the kitchen and trying my own approach to cooking. This involves a lot of pacing back in forth in front of the stove, second guessing and harassing friends to "be honest, how does it taste?" questions. But because of this I have learned yet another great technique... the crock-pot.
1 pot roast
1 can of chicken broth
3 potatoes
2.5 onions
6 carrots
6 pieces of celery
sprinkles of thyme, rosemary, basil, salt and pepper
crock pot away for 6hours
top with cheese
give it a try!
1 pot roast
1 can of chicken broth
3 potatoes
2.5 onions
6 carrots
6 pieces of celery
sprinkles of thyme, rosemary, basil, salt and pepper
crock pot away for 6hours
top with cheese
give it a try!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
December 1-7
Ok, so November wasn't exactly a complete success, but it wasn't a complete failure either. We did get up at least one piece of original writing for each of the 30 days of November, but it took us an extra week. I'd say that's pretty good. For December, the obvious choice for the month is Christmas, so we're going with it. This month we have no strict rules about post times or content. As long as it relates to Christmas in some way it counts.
Christmas week 1: Last night we made the best chocolate walnut biscotti EVER. Here is the recipe.
Christmas week 1: Last night we made the best chocolate walnut biscotti EVER. Here is the recipe.
- 2 cups flour
- 1/2 cup cocoa powder
- 1 tsp baking soda
- 1 tsp salt
- 3/4 stick butter
- 1 cup sugar
- 2 eggs
- 1 cup walnuts
- 3/4 cup chocolate chips
Nov 30
I was born a bouncing baby girl on September 24, 1985 with ten fingers, ten toes, and a full head of curly brown hair. As I grew round and plump (even my rolls of fat had rolls of fat) it soon became clear that, while any cherub would be envious of my physical form, I was missing one vital internal organ. The Imagination. My mother spent many of her waking hours trying to foster, develop, enhance my creativity. I was never allowed coloring books because it was thought that the outlines of pre-determined pictures would stifle my ability to create. It was all to no avail. So here I sit, 27 years later, in a cubicle with white walls, a white ceiling, and a dingy white carpet. With no capacity to change the bleakness of my current situation.
My job is not important. I don't love it. I don't really love anything. Every day I sit and think about what I should be doing with my life. What I could be. Where I could go. I'd like to be anywhere but here and I'm free to go, but I'd spend my time wandering around with no ideas. No plan. No goal. So here I sit day after day.
In school I was always bored. I needed constant stimulation outside of school so as not to go insane. It was vital to my grades that I had no free time. When my brain got its fill of activity for the day I could then sit down and excel at the mundane. I made all A's and B's without any effort. The few times I had to exert myself during my education (math) I tended to fail. This resulted in trying less, succeeding more, and never NEVER admitting when I tried or cared. Needless to say, I didn't learn much that I did not already know.
“You're writing is flat.” A common critique I got in my 'creative' writing classes. What a joke. “Most stories have action, plot, rise and fall. Yours just has... information.” I was a complete failure at the whole problem, build, climax, resolution structure. I also struggled with character and setting descriptions. When I read, I don't pay attention to those kinds of details. Even if it says on page 7 that Sally has 'striking gray eyes, still as the ocean right before a storm and thin blond hair,' I will still picture her with green or blue eyes and wild curls if that makes more sense in my mind. I always believed that writers should have a fluid idea of their characters so that the reader could imagine whomever they wanted in their stead.
I think these beliefs stemmed from reading too many novels that devoted 200-300 pages to describing each tree, rock, mountain, couch, lamp, hair, shoe, and wall. These details mean nothing to the value of the story. For example, in the first paragraph of this story I mentioned that I have curly brown hair and was a chubby baby. If I had said I was thin and had red or blonde hair, would you be thinking of me any differently right now? Did anyone even remember what color hair I said I had? If you did, then you are probably what our society would call 'a visual person.' I would have no idea how to relate to you. You're probably extroverted too. You don't even want to get me started on that.
Nov 29
Don't Fall
Spinning twirling leaping flop
Extend grace beauty plop
Lengthen straighten stretch break
Thin skin blood fake
Think control breathe collapse
Ballet is manipulation. Of your body, mind, heart, and spirit. You cannot succeed without stubborn determination. To contort your body to the breaking point. This is your big dream. Pink and black and blood. Pain and anguish and pure joy.
For years you entered the studio with innocence and hope—cherubic pleasure—but you have reached a pivotal point in your career. You are no longer cute standing on stage in a little pink tutu. Now you need skill. Now you need talent. Now you need passion. Nothing you have done up to this point is enough. You have been coddled, pacified, lied to. Your new teacher saunters in armed with a yard stick. This stick will be utilized frequently and for many uses you cannot yet imagine. You could cower, cry, run, but, like the rest of the class, you are glued to the scuffed wooden floor. You suck your stomach in and stand up a little straighter. Maybe you cast a cursory glance in the mirror to ensure your curly brown hair is perfectly pinned in place.
“Three demi one grande forward back tendu second in out, fourth releve port-de-bras, fifth balance arms up, soutenu other side.” No demonstration. The music starts and your mind panics, but your body knows what to do. You concentrate, putting your best effort into this simple warm-up exercise, but the stick is heading straight for you anyway. It is placed ever so gently along your spine. “Don't lean forward.” It moves on to the next victim. “Hands!” And the next “Chin up, grow taller, don't sit.” The music ends. The disapproval in the air is as thick as pea soup, but you must move on. “Tendus” followed by hurried instructions and the music starts again. You concentrate even harder this time. Stomach in, head up, arms tight, foot pointed, turn out, tuck under. Your foot is grabbed from behind. “Rotate from the hips, not from the knee.” The stick traces the correct line down from your hip to your big toe. You look down in an effort to learn the correct placement. “Chin up!”
Somehow you manage to struggle your way through the first class. You plod out to your mother's waiting car and flop into the front seat defeated and slouched. “What's the matter?” She asks. You can only answer with a sigh. The next day you come out in tears. Your tights are covered in blood and your shoes are rubbing against the one blister that hasn't popped yet. You reluctantly show her how the layers of skin have slowly peeled off your feet. In six different places. “You'll get callouses soon, this is the best place to train. Mrs. So-And-So told me that her daughter cried every day for the first two weeks and now she's in the New York City Ballet.” You groan. She has no idea what you are going through.
The days turn into weeks and the weeks into months. Your grades might suffer a little. You might have gotten sick a few times. You only get 5 hours of sleep, after all. Your friends start to assume you won't be able to make it to any of the fabulous parties they're planning. You have little energy to care. For the most part your feet have stopped bleeding, but any extended length of time spent walking with shoes on causes them to open up again. All of your socks are stained. Your muscles are sore. Your brain is exhausted.
“Don't lean on the bar! Don't hold on so tightly, pretend you are gripping your best friend's neck.” Today you are holding a child's toy to practice the correct hand shape. “All of your fingers should show. Hold the ball gently between your middle finger and your thumb. Index finger slightly extended beyond the middle finger. Put your pinkie in closer. Follow your hand with your head. Extend. Taller! Taller!” The stick is three inches above your head. You wish someone would invent a stretching machine. You lengthen as tall as humanly possible without one. “Good.” The stick walks away. Good? Seriously? You continue with the exercise, careful not to change your body position at all. You think to yourself, “Stay tall, point your toe, extend from the hip, delicate fingers, follow your arm.” Silence. You must be doing it right. “Don't forget to breathe!” Crap. You forgot something. You start breathing again. “Taller!”
* * * * *
“Today we are going to work on your flexibility.” Silent groans all around. “Get in pairs of two. One person sits in a straddle and leans forward. The other kneels on their back until their stomach touches the ground.” Uh oh,. This is your least flexible stretch. Is he targeting your weaknesses specifically? Your partner, the perfect stick who can do all three spits goes first. You don't even need to kneel on her back. Now it's your turn. You stretch forward as far as you can, praying for mercy. She kneels on your back and you can feel your muscles taring. You get a little closer to the ground and she lets up. “Good. Now sit against the wall in a butterfly and have your partner stand on your knees until they touch the ground.” Another weakness. Your partner stands on your knees and they don't dip any lower. The stick comes by. “Don't hold her up! Loosen your muscles. Let them relax into the floor.” You relax your muscles. Painful. “Now we'll work on your feet.” Finally, something you are good at. You sit with your legs extended straight in front of you and your partner leans on your pointed feet until your toes touch the ground. Luckily your feet do this naturally. It may be the one part of ballet your body was designed for. You all have at least one physical reason for being there. Otherwise you would never make it. Ballet is all about training your body to do things it was not designed to do. Nothing is natural. Everything is beautiful. That's why you need to concentrate so hard.
“Don't forget to practice your door splits.” Ugh. Why did the stick have to say that in front of your mother? The second you walk in the door, “Let's see your door splits.” You resist the urge to punch her in the face. Somberly you walk to the bathroom, it has the widest door frame. You place your right food up against one side and your hands on the other side. Next you slide your left leg up the frame until you have pressed yourself into a vertical split. You push through your arms into the frame and arch your back in an attempt to touch your head to your left leg. Your back does not bend far enough. “Haven't you been working on this?” Your mother questions. “Yes mom, some people's backs just aren't as flexible as others. Jenny can't even do a door split yet.” Your mother is not satisfied. You promise her you are working on it.
You wonder if it's all for her. “I'm only doing this for you, to help you reach your dream,” she says with a coldly received embrace. Apparently this is your dream. You fall asleep thinking you just can't take it anymore. Maybe you skip a class or two and you realize that you are incomplete without this burden. Because it is also the greatest joy life has ever granted you. Dancing is the only thing that fills the giant gnawing hole deep down inside of you. When you are dancing you feel more of a variety of emotion than should be possible. Anguish, torment, brutal concentration, mental and physical exhaustion, absolute bliss, uncontrollable passion. You go back to class and suffer the consequences of your few absent days—bloody toes and sore muscles. Yes, you will be out of shape from a two day break. That's how unnatural this process is.
“Spin. Spin. Spin. Point your toe. Spot!” Turns are your favorite. Fast paced, out of control, dizzying freedom. You are a lefty when it comes to spins which could help land you a role down the road. No fear. The success of a turn is directly related to your willingness to fall. If you are free to fall you can throw your body around in a circle as fast as a tornado. Around and around and around. Perfection comes right before you crash. Right before you fly apart in a million pieces. Something to do with centripetal force. You didn't pay much attention in science class. You know one thing for sure: if you are afraid you suck. IF you do not want to fall you are cautious. If you are careful you fail. This is not something for the weak., the static, the gentle. You are dynamic, fearless, free. Spin spin spin spot spot spot. Maybe you do fall a few times, in pursuit of perfection. You know exactly how hard to push yourself so that you are right on the brink. Hanging from the edge of a thousand foot cliff, clinging to life with one grasping hand, is the absolute best place you could possibly be. In order to find that place you must fall. You will never find it if you keep both feet firmly planted on the ground. You will never find it if you don't risk everything.
You have almost found perfection. You get better every day. Little by little your body begins to forgive you for the pain you put it through. Every minute is less painful than the last. The bleeding stops and your feet become rough, hard, determined, strong. For one second you are happy, content, proud. You remind yourself never to get complacent. Never to forget how hard you worked. Never to forget the pain, anguish, and joy it brought you. The visits from the stick are more infrequent now. You may even be asked to demonstrate for the younger students. You are almost ready to go out on your own. Find a suitable home for your talent. You are by no means perfect, but you are almost as good as you will get. Everyone has a stopping point. After your sixteen years of training there's only about a four year window for you to be the perfect ballerina. After that your body will give up on you in one way or another. You might lose your flexibility. You may suffer an injury. You may find a reason to become cautious.
For now you are happy. You start to get your life back. Bring your grades up. Make some new friends. Apply to college. You have found a good balance even though your life is dedicated to one all-encompassing goal. You may even have a few auditions lined up. You meet with some success and some failure. This company doesn't like your turn-out. That director wants you to lose some weight. But you stay positive and persistent. You find some free time. Maybe you learn a sport. Maybe you start dating your first boyfriend. Maybe you go skating with some friends. You haven't been skating in quite a few years, but it's like riding a bike right? Wrong. About an hour in you fall. No big deal, you fall all the time. Your wrist hurts, but your body is used to pain. It's nothing worse than sore muscles or bleeding toes. You brush it off and continue on. Two weeks later you realize that this is a bad pain. Good pain makes you stronger. You tear a muscle lifting weights, it's painful for a few days, then it heals stronger. You blister your toe in your pointe shoes and it bleeds for a while, but then forms an impenetrable callous. That is good pain. You wrist did not heal stronger. It did not heal at all. You finally break down and go to the dreaded doctor. After an x-ray and a twenty minute lecture about not coming in sooner you get a brace and a stern WARNING: “If you break your wrist again we will need to operate on it to insert metal plates. Don't fall.”
Your heart dips for a second but soon rises. You don't need to listen to this doctor. What does he know anyway? He doesn't understand your commitment. You'll still be fearless, joyful, talented. You go to class, broken wrist, brace, and all. Your balance is slightly off, but you figure out how to rock it. You have slightly more difficulty gripping the bar, but you were never supposed to grip it tightly in the first place. This may even help you improve. For six weeks your brace will keep you safe from further injury. After it comes off you go to therapy to strengthen your severely strained tendons.
Spin. Spin. Spin. You waver. Slip. Wobble. Your heart stops beating and leaps up into your throat. Fear. The first pang of fear you have ever felt. 'Just be careful until you have your strength back,' you rationalize. Time passes and your wrist just isn't the same. You start to think it may never fully heal. You are tentative. Cautious. Careful. Awful. Washed up. Your career is essentially over. You are losing muscle tone and flexibility every day. The stick is more brutal than ever. The light has gone out of your eyes. Or so it says. Your passion is fleeting.
You decide to take some time off. Quit. Retire. Whatever you want to call it. Either way it doesn't matter because you know you can't go back. You'll be too old, too weak, too busy to go back. You may never be the same. You may struggle with depression. If you are lucky you may love something second best. You may not. You may get married, have some kids, a career. You may be happy. But you doubt it. You have failed. Because you can't fall.
Life is manipulation. Of your body, mind, heart, and spirit. You cannot succeed without stubborn determination. To contort your body to the breaking point. This is your big dream. Pink and black and blood. Pain and anguish and pure joy.
Regret anger depression hope
Pain injury hurt mope
Sadness tears silent hole
Time shine old toll
Fear fall failure end.
Don't Fall
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Apologies
Turkey messed me up a bit and not thinking clearly I did not get the stories up in time, worse ... I still have both my arms. And so now I beg forgiveness and hope you continue reading all about whatever exciting adventure we dream up next.
November 28
Hundreds of years before the kingdom of Adwin was established, there was a mighty ruler named Marcus whose power and prestige created an unmatchable empire. It was the beginning of an age when power and ability was measured by the sword and size of ones army. He was a beautiful man reaching well over six feet in height, a most imposing force against any local foe and always wore his long maple colored hair pulled tightly back. The root of all his power lay within the kindness of his heart, or so it was said, although he was also fortunate to have fathered many children each with the skills of their predecessor. There was no match tactically against the kingdom, which had been built in the middle of a deep lake with towers that could spy hundreds of miles in each direction. As his children grew, he taught them of courage and adventure, taking his sons on hunting trips and to town meetings. His most favored children were given titles and proclaimed to be rulers of their own lands stretching as far as the distant mountain ranges to the east and the ocean to the west.
The kingdom hired many storytellers to travel with each of the King’s sons to give detailed accounts of the foreign lands they conquered; all their accounts were stored in a most impressive library with claimed an entire wing of the kingdom. These heroic tales may or may not have been true but it pleased Marcus greatly to see the expansion of his kingdom and the apparent unrivaled success of his sons. It was a time when magic was expected and treasured, rather than feared. And so alongside learned advisors, and storytellers stood Eli, a magician of sorts. He would sit crookedly by Marcus’ side as townspeople came to dispute local matters that required a judge; never speaking out loud, he was a mysterious man and highly treasured. Without a word Eli would advise and oversee the kings welfare. He would engage in long mystic rituals to protect Marcus before battle or before choosing a new wife. And for the better part of both lives the men, opposite in appearance, stature and character, moved as one unit working for the good of the kingdom.
But of course, Kings may not live forever, despite the promises of local withes and fortunetellers and the ever-imposing Marcus fell desperately ill after returning from a quest to the North. His children and wives came to court to prematurely morn the passing of their mighty monarch. Eli set to work deep in the bowels of the kingdom pulling old manuscripts from the library, trying any and all paths to healing the king. What was first a genuine sadness and fear of their king’s death on the part of the siblings, became a cruel and selfish game as fear for their own safety began to consume the family. They planned how each was to secure their titles after his death while sitting by his bedside and it drove Marcus into a fitful state. The fragility of the giant made his sons fearful of their own mortality and each began to explore their own route to the glorious eternal ever after. Storytellers were all but replaced by magicians and prophets from the son’s conquered lands; each working to create some sort of potion or incantation that would keep them from suffering the fate of their father and the inevitable destruction of their empire. It was to no avail, no remedy for immortality could be discovered, or if it did exist, those who guarded its secret were tied too strongly to ever divulge their truth.
Slowly, their fears and insecurities were given such justification in their own minds that it lead to mistrust of one another and the first of many wars began. The eldest son, Petrov, met with his men just outside the city walls after meeting with his prized diviner.
“Men!” He cried, his voice strong and melodic, “Brothers, I call you this because you have proven to be closer to me than any of my own brothers; our task is not as simple as what we have conquered in the past. But we have received a prophecy that foretells our mighty victory. I am fearless with you by my side!” His inspiration empowered his men, they prepared for battle.
Heavy incense was lit in the tent of Petrov; he used this scent because it could not be ignored. With even the slightest breeze the scent was carried from tent to tent throughout his encampment and the men breathed it in deeply. If they were to close their eyes, perhaps they were reminded of home, which brought comfort and a reason to fight; or, in some others perhaps it smelt of the battlefield itself and brought a surge of adrenaline and surge of constructive anger that had kept them alive thus far. The scent continued further than the lowliest soldiers tent and began infecting the morale of Jameson, the second brother.
Rivals from birth being born only minutes apart the sons had separated as soon as they were able to walk. Jameson had settled to the south of his father’s kingdom where he discovered that life could in fact be more difficult than simply trying to survive his brother. The dessert conditions he subjected himself to had made him a more imposing force and in his desperation, he befriended many of the indigenous population where he treasured their arts of deception and storing of poisonous venom. His troops were trained accordingly, dressed in colors that would make it difficult for an outsider to distinguish a difference between that of Petrov or Jameson’s army, which was the main idea. Yet, that smell, it held a stronger memory than simply a lost battle and perhaps it is why such a pungent odor was chosen, because it seemed that no matter how far Jameson went Petrov instinctively knew of his brother’s life.
Jameson had first encountered the scent in a cave; it had been his place of refuge during a sand storm, which had quite overtaken his small party of travelers. They set up camp inside and waited for the storm to pass. There was no difference between the day and the night, nor the sky or the ground and the storm seemed to grow stronger with each passing minute. Eventually, he grew restless and decided to venture further in to the cave dreading the boredom that had taken over what was supposed to have been an exciting outing. Emerson warned him to go no further, he and his family had lived in the dessert for generations and in most circumstances Jameson lived by this man’s advice, but not now when the spirit of adventure was taking over.
Here, it was told later, that he met the goddess of revenge. He had traveled alone and reappeared hours later shaken and smelling of a strong spicy scent that no one could quite make out. Many had tried to extract a tale from Jameson about his fateful meeting, Marcus would have enjoyed such a tale but he could not be persuaded. The goddess of revenge you see comes to one without warning. She corners you: in a storm, in your dreams, before you are sentenced to death and speaks a simple phrase, “receive justice”. It is said to be unavoidable and altogether terrorizing, but no one knew why she would come to Jameson, no one could understand it at all. Upon his approach to Marcus’ kingdom, Eli whose state of being resembled that of his master and friend the king approached him. He looked ragged and forlorn having spent sleepless weeks working and reading to no avail. Eli pleaded; it was the first words Jameson had ever heard him speak.
“Justice” he squeaked. It was not the voice of a powerful man, it sounded like a small child breathy and nervous. He looked straight into Jameson’s eyes, grabbing hold of him and repeated his word. Although Eli had been thus far unsuccessful at securing a remedy for Marcus, he had stumbled upon a vision of Jameson meeting with a supreme being and believed that he could be instrumental in providing answers. Jameson whose intensity reminded him of his dessert encounter rebuffed Eli quickly.
Jameson inhaled the scent again breathing it in nervously wishing to conquer his fear over such a non-descript feeling. He would need to speak with his troops and encourage them as he was sure his other brothers had done or were doing, but first he went to the bedside of is father, ensuring him that this was for the best. There was no response; Marcus had lost his will to speak to his sons. His physical appearance was altered too severely, he more closely resembled a dull, fading statue than a sovereign ruler; his wives had sheared his hair, which had withered and grayed. Sitting faithfully beside his bedside was Eve, Marcus’ youngest daughter. She had been the first child born to him that seemed to truly emulate her father’s desires for the kingdom despite her disadvantage of age. It was natural for her to look to her father for guidance in understanding how to view her brother’s feud but Marcus refused her inquiries.
Eve would carefully descend to Eli’s room crying softly as she watched him fly about the room opening books and pulling different ingredients together. If she had been older, had been taught more efficiently, had her father not been ill from her early years, Eve believed she could have been more useful in finding a cure. She cursed the land to the north and prayed that there would be only bitterness and deceit spread amongst its inhabitants. Marcus conquest to the north had been to secure her a livelihood with her oldest brother Petrov. But, this would never come to be and Eve would never learn of his plan.
She heard as each of her brothers arrived with their troops. They had left suddenly and returned forcefully setting up camps outside the kingdoms walls creating a deep and loud continuous noise from their movements preparing armor or meals and cries for battle. She could not sleep while they waited outside and so instead, she roamed the halls peeking in on her father before heading down to Eli. He was mumbling something under his breath studying a book she had not seen him with before. She approached cautiously unsure if she would be intruding on anything but he noticed her when she reached the last stone step. His eyes were red and tired but for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, he looked hopefully. Eve exhaled deeply realizing that she had been holding her breath.
“What is it? What have you found!” the words flew from her lips leading her towards his side.
The sun rose slowly, almost cautiously over the kingdom burning from the early hours. For those who had managed to sleep that night, they were abruptly awoken by the brilliant light and fell into line following orders of their commanders. This is how it began, with the roaring of trumpets and what was a calm countryside became the battlegrounds of a broken family. Brother against brother, each prince using the strength of his own land- the natural elements, the harnessing of exotic beasts and the manpower of enslavement; they had prepared for this war and were ready. Each battle brought a new victor and the end was almost certain destruction. They were blinded so fully by their fear that any love that once existed for each other, for the king and his kingdom completely disappeared, which was more than Marcus’ feeble state could take. Eli had discovered something that would save the king but it was too late. Marcus passed away violently under the care of his newest wife who had Eve by her side.
No proper ceremony could be admonished and there was no messenger who was even able to reach the brother’s encampments to issue the news. Eve placed a solitary flower on the body of her father and then left the kingdom. She wandered aimlessly into the woods grief stricken; her body surged with rage that she had never allowed herself to acknowledge until the day of her death. Eli grieved for eleven days and then set to work in his room. He moved slowly as though he had heavy weights attached to his back. Gathering all of his work in his feeble hands, he sluggishly walked back to the room where Marcus lay. A low deep growl formed at the back of his throat, he mouthed the words of an incantation; it was sing song sounding, just four words and three notes repeated.
The body of King Marcus could scarcely be held underground for the amount of motion that pounded on top the earth daily as each army slowly advanced and retreated. It was the youngest of all the siblings, a young child of twelve, Eve, who was responsible for the swift end of her brothers’ mortal woes. She reemerged from the woods looking quite wild and went fearlessly to the frontlines standing amidst the horrors of war. Eve was determined to make a sacrifice of her life in exchange for the lives of her brothers. The moment her words were uttered to the dark sky the fighting ceased for the earth let out a great cry of despair. It shook and contorted ripping open the lush green landscape and the rest of the kingdom replacing it with large boulders and ash. The earth fought against the child’s plea unable to destroy such beauty for the sake of ambition and greed. It begged that she reconsider and that she find another to provide a sacrifice and promised that she instead would enjoy an immortal existance.
Her mother, Lynn, stricken with grief over the loss of her husband and foreseeing the loss of her only daughter swiftly threw herself into the mouth of the earth before her daughter could. The ground was satisfied with exchange and went still; everyone waited unsure what would happen next. The earth was the greatest judge of all and the brothers stood dumbfounded beside their armies. Eli, having seen from the tower that Eve was about to sacrifice herself ran to her like a young man. He was equally determined in wanting to stop Eve in her selfless act but upon reaching the outer gate he watched in horror as she threw herself into the earth’s opening. Eli was filled with a powerful rage and cried out to the earth and sky, he howled loudly ripping his clothes and fell to his knees.
“Cursed be the day you were born!” He thrust a fist towards the eldest son. “All of you,” he continued although it was almost inaudible because of the intermittent sobs that were shaking his frame. He looked towards Jameson next who had all the while been waiting anxiously at Eli waiting for instructions. Jameson had been given a simple direction, “when the time is right, use this”. Eli had given him a small silver dagger, which Jameson had believed, would be used on his older brother but now that the time came he was no where near the proximity to pull off such a maneuver. He thought quickly as to his alternatives but not one seemed too sensible to a man who had patiently waited for justice and desired bloodshed.
Yet that was exactly what Eli required, and so Jameson raised his arms high above his head so that all could see. With a quick slice the blood began to run atop his head in abundance. The winds picked up automatically as though Eli had commanded it to be so and it carried the royal sacrifice to where the magician stood.
“You shall have the kingdom you so desired and may you never leave its walls.”
Jameson fell weakly to the ground as his blood slowly drained from his body. His men were in such a state of shock that no one came to attend him immediately, instead, they stood as all the troops seemed to confused by the words of the old man. It was Eve who rushed to his side having come out of a daze watching her mother suffer the fate she had expected for herself. She held tight to her brother’s arm refusing to allow the blood to leave him. She looked up pleadingly, her own tears blurring her sight and began to whisper a prayer.
The winds became more forceful and all present began to see the destruction, which had begun at the outskirts of the battlegrounds. The winds had caught hold of the fire and challenged it forward, dancing their way across the landscape that had only been altered moments before it sought the lives of all that crossed it. Each brother, there were thirteen in all, made their way towards the gates of the kingdom. They thought nothing for their men or for Eli who was quickly trampled. Eve sat holding her brother in her arms begging him to wake and move as the fire moved closer and closer to them.
“Please Jameson… please find the strength”, it was all too much for a child of twelve years but yet the alternative of death seemed not an option, fate simply would not allow it. And so, she lived. In the end, they all lived. Eli had in fact found a way to prolong life and sent a curse of the sons of Marcus making sure that they would never leave the kingdom they had so badly and selfishly coveted.
The lands of the kingdom had been destroyed by the fire but with Eli’s last breath the winds ceased and eventually there was an unsettling calm. Petrov was the first to try and leave the walls of the kingdom wanting to return to the grounds he had conquered and be rid of the situation he had been responsible for. No one had seen anything quite like it; Petrov appeared to be held back by an invisible man. He tried again with the same results; he tried to be more forceful throwing his entire body weight against an empty hall but could not break through. Several brothers watched this is horror and amusement unsure what to believe. Each in their turn went against the doorway but none could leave. In their frustration they tried to attack one another but no harm seemed to come to any of them. It was years later that they began to notice how little change had taken form amongst them, no aging, no injury; it was quite unexplainable.
The kingdom again returned to a state of panic completely forgetting the curse the Eli had spoken, or perhaps simply unwilling to come to terms with it. Jameson had finished his recovery by the time each of his brothers had thrown themselves against the doorway. He walked up to it skeptically with his mended arms forward reaching out to the invisible force but felt nothing. He stepped hesitantly forward expecting to impact against the invisible force that had stopped each of his siblings but there was nothing. Jameson smiled to himself, justice.
The kingdom hired many storytellers to travel with each of the King’s sons to give detailed accounts of the foreign lands they conquered; all their accounts were stored in a most impressive library with claimed an entire wing of the kingdom. These heroic tales may or may not have been true but it pleased Marcus greatly to see the expansion of his kingdom and the apparent unrivaled success of his sons. It was a time when magic was expected and treasured, rather than feared. And so alongside learned advisors, and storytellers stood Eli, a magician of sorts. He would sit crookedly by Marcus’ side as townspeople came to dispute local matters that required a judge; never speaking out loud, he was a mysterious man and highly treasured. Without a word Eli would advise and oversee the kings welfare. He would engage in long mystic rituals to protect Marcus before battle or before choosing a new wife. And for the better part of both lives the men, opposite in appearance, stature and character, moved as one unit working for the good of the kingdom.
But of course, Kings may not live forever, despite the promises of local withes and fortunetellers and the ever-imposing Marcus fell desperately ill after returning from a quest to the North. His children and wives came to court to prematurely morn the passing of their mighty monarch. Eli set to work deep in the bowels of the kingdom pulling old manuscripts from the library, trying any and all paths to healing the king. What was first a genuine sadness and fear of their king’s death on the part of the siblings, became a cruel and selfish game as fear for their own safety began to consume the family. They planned how each was to secure their titles after his death while sitting by his bedside and it drove Marcus into a fitful state. The fragility of the giant made his sons fearful of their own mortality and each began to explore their own route to the glorious eternal ever after. Storytellers were all but replaced by magicians and prophets from the son’s conquered lands; each working to create some sort of potion or incantation that would keep them from suffering the fate of their father and the inevitable destruction of their empire. It was to no avail, no remedy for immortality could be discovered, or if it did exist, those who guarded its secret were tied too strongly to ever divulge their truth.
Slowly, their fears and insecurities were given such justification in their own minds that it lead to mistrust of one another and the first of many wars began. The eldest son, Petrov, met with his men just outside the city walls after meeting with his prized diviner.
“Men!” He cried, his voice strong and melodic, “Brothers, I call you this because you have proven to be closer to me than any of my own brothers; our task is not as simple as what we have conquered in the past. But we have received a prophecy that foretells our mighty victory. I am fearless with you by my side!” His inspiration empowered his men, they prepared for battle.
Heavy incense was lit in the tent of Petrov; he used this scent because it could not be ignored. With even the slightest breeze the scent was carried from tent to tent throughout his encampment and the men breathed it in deeply. If they were to close their eyes, perhaps they were reminded of home, which brought comfort and a reason to fight; or, in some others perhaps it smelt of the battlefield itself and brought a surge of adrenaline and surge of constructive anger that had kept them alive thus far. The scent continued further than the lowliest soldiers tent and began infecting the morale of Jameson, the second brother.
Rivals from birth being born only minutes apart the sons had separated as soon as they were able to walk. Jameson had settled to the south of his father’s kingdom where he discovered that life could in fact be more difficult than simply trying to survive his brother. The dessert conditions he subjected himself to had made him a more imposing force and in his desperation, he befriended many of the indigenous population where he treasured their arts of deception and storing of poisonous venom. His troops were trained accordingly, dressed in colors that would make it difficult for an outsider to distinguish a difference between that of Petrov or Jameson’s army, which was the main idea. Yet, that smell, it held a stronger memory than simply a lost battle and perhaps it is why such a pungent odor was chosen, because it seemed that no matter how far Jameson went Petrov instinctively knew of his brother’s life.
Jameson had first encountered the scent in a cave; it had been his place of refuge during a sand storm, which had quite overtaken his small party of travelers. They set up camp inside and waited for the storm to pass. There was no difference between the day and the night, nor the sky or the ground and the storm seemed to grow stronger with each passing minute. Eventually, he grew restless and decided to venture further in to the cave dreading the boredom that had taken over what was supposed to have been an exciting outing. Emerson warned him to go no further, he and his family had lived in the dessert for generations and in most circumstances Jameson lived by this man’s advice, but not now when the spirit of adventure was taking over.
Here, it was told later, that he met the goddess of revenge. He had traveled alone and reappeared hours later shaken and smelling of a strong spicy scent that no one could quite make out. Many had tried to extract a tale from Jameson about his fateful meeting, Marcus would have enjoyed such a tale but he could not be persuaded. The goddess of revenge you see comes to one without warning. She corners you: in a storm, in your dreams, before you are sentenced to death and speaks a simple phrase, “receive justice”. It is said to be unavoidable and altogether terrorizing, but no one knew why she would come to Jameson, no one could understand it at all. Upon his approach to Marcus’ kingdom, Eli whose state of being resembled that of his master and friend the king approached him. He looked ragged and forlorn having spent sleepless weeks working and reading to no avail. Eli pleaded; it was the first words Jameson had ever heard him speak.
“Justice” he squeaked. It was not the voice of a powerful man, it sounded like a small child breathy and nervous. He looked straight into Jameson’s eyes, grabbing hold of him and repeated his word. Although Eli had been thus far unsuccessful at securing a remedy for Marcus, he had stumbled upon a vision of Jameson meeting with a supreme being and believed that he could be instrumental in providing answers. Jameson whose intensity reminded him of his dessert encounter rebuffed Eli quickly.
Jameson inhaled the scent again breathing it in nervously wishing to conquer his fear over such a non-descript feeling. He would need to speak with his troops and encourage them as he was sure his other brothers had done or were doing, but first he went to the bedside of is father, ensuring him that this was for the best. There was no response; Marcus had lost his will to speak to his sons. His physical appearance was altered too severely, he more closely resembled a dull, fading statue than a sovereign ruler; his wives had sheared his hair, which had withered and grayed. Sitting faithfully beside his bedside was Eve, Marcus’ youngest daughter. She had been the first child born to him that seemed to truly emulate her father’s desires for the kingdom despite her disadvantage of age. It was natural for her to look to her father for guidance in understanding how to view her brother’s feud but Marcus refused her inquiries.
Eve would carefully descend to Eli’s room crying softly as she watched him fly about the room opening books and pulling different ingredients together. If she had been older, had been taught more efficiently, had her father not been ill from her early years, Eve believed she could have been more useful in finding a cure. She cursed the land to the north and prayed that there would be only bitterness and deceit spread amongst its inhabitants. Marcus conquest to the north had been to secure her a livelihood with her oldest brother Petrov. But, this would never come to be and Eve would never learn of his plan.
She heard as each of her brothers arrived with their troops. They had left suddenly and returned forcefully setting up camps outside the kingdoms walls creating a deep and loud continuous noise from their movements preparing armor or meals and cries for battle. She could not sleep while they waited outside and so instead, she roamed the halls peeking in on her father before heading down to Eli. He was mumbling something under his breath studying a book she had not seen him with before. She approached cautiously unsure if she would be intruding on anything but he noticed her when she reached the last stone step. His eyes were red and tired but for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, he looked hopefully. Eve exhaled deeply realizing that she had been holding her breath.
“What is it? What have you found!” the words flew from her lips leading her towards his side.
The sun rose slowly, almost cautiously over the kingdom burning from the early hours. For those who had managed to sleep that night, they were abruptly awoken by the brilliant light and fell into line following orders of their commanders. This is how it began, with the roaring of trumpets and what was a calm countryside became the battlegrounds of a broken family. Brother against brother, each prince using the strength of his own land- the natural elements, the harnessing of exotic beasts and the manpower of enslavement; they had prepared for this war and were ready. Each battle brought a new victor and the end was almost certain destruction. They were blinded so fully by their fear that any love that once existed for each other, for the king and his kingdom completely disappeared, which was more than Marcus’ feeble state could take. Eli had discovered something that would save the king but it was too late. Marcus passed away violently under the care of his newest wife who had Eve by her side.
No proper ceremony could be admonished and there was no messenger who was even able to reach the brother’s encampments to issue the news. Eve placed a solitary flower on the body of her father and then left the kingdom. She wandered aimlessly into the woods grief stricken; her body surged with rage that she had never allowed herself to acknowledge until the day of her death. Eli grieved for eleven days and then set to work in his room. He moved slowly as though he had heavy weights attached to his back. Gathering all of his work in his feeble hands, he sluggishly walked back to the room where Marcus lay. A low deep growl formed at the back of his throat, he mouthed the words of an incantation; it was sing song sounding, just four words and three notes repeated.
The body of King Marcus could scarcely be held underground for the amount of motion that pounded on top the earth daily as each army slowly advanced and retreated. It was the youngest of all the siblings, a young child of twelve, Eve, who was responsible for the swift end of her brothers’ mortal woes. She reemerged from the woods looking quite wild and went fearlessly to the frontlines standing amidst the horrors of war. Eve was determined to make a sacrifice of her life in exchange for the lives of her brothers. The moment her words were uttered to the dark sky the fighting ceased for the earth let out a great cry of despair. It shook and contorted ripping open the lush green landscape and the rest of the kingdom replacing it with large boulders and ash. The earth fought against the child’s plea unable to destroy such beauty for the sake of ambition and greed. It begged that she reconsider and that she find another to provide a sacrifice and promised that she instead would enjoy an immortal existance.
Her mother, Lynn, stricken with grief over the loss of her husband and foreseeing the loss of her only daughter swiftly threw herself into the mouth of the earth before her daughter could. The ground was satisfied with exchange and went still; everyone waited unsure what would happen next. The earth was the greatest judge of all and the brothers stood dumbfounded beside their armies. Eli, having seen from the tower that Eve was about to sacrifice herself ran to her like a young man. He was equally determined in wanting to stop Eve in her selfless act but upon reaching the outer gate he watched in horror as she threw herself into the earth’s opening. Eli was filled with a powerful rage and cried out to the earth and sky, he howled loudly ripping his clothes and fell to his knees.
“Cursed be the day you were born!” He thrust a fist towards the eldest son. “All of you,” he continued although it was almost inaudible because of the intermittent sobs that were shaking his frame. He looked towards Jameson next who had all the while been waiting anxiously at Eli waiting for instructions. Jameson had been given a simple direction, “when the time is right, use this”. Eli had given him a small silver dagger, which Jameson had believed, would be used on his older brother but now that the time came he was no where near the proximity to pull off such a maneuver. He thought quickly as to his alternatives but not one seemed too sensible to a man who had patiently waited for justice and desired bloodshed.
Yet that was exactly what Eli required, and so Jameson raised his arms high above his head so that all could see. With a quick slice the blood began to run atop his head in abundance. The winds picked up automatically as though Eli had commanded it to be so and it carried the royal sacrifice to where the magician stood.
“You shall have the kingdom you so desired and may you never leave its walls.”
Jameson fell weakly to the ground as his blood slowly drained from his body. His men were in such a state of shock that no one came to attend him immediately, instead, they stood as all the troops seemed to confused by the words of the old man. It was Eve who rushed to his side having come out of a daze watching her mother suffer the fate she had expected for herself. She held tight to her brother’s arm refusing to allow the blood to leave him. She looked up pleadingly, her own tears blurring her sight and began to whisper a prayer.
The winds became more forceful and all present began to see the destruction, which had begun at the outskirts of the battlegrounds. The winds had caught hold of the fire and challenged it forward, dancing their way across the landscape that had only been altered moments before it sought the lives of all that crossed it. Each brother, there were thirteen in all, made their way towards the gates of the kingdom. They thought nothing for their men or for Eli who was quickly trampled. Eve sat holding her brother in her arms begging him to wake and move as the fire moved closer and closer to them.
“Please Jameson… please find the strength”, it was all too much for a child of twelve years but yet the alternative of death seemed not an option, fate simply would not allow it. And so, she lived. In the end, they all lived. Eli had in fact found a way to prolong life and sent a curse of the sons of Marcus making sure that they would never leave the kingdom they had so badly and selfishly coveted.
The lands of the kingdom had been destroyed by the fire but with Eli’s last breath the winds ceased and eventually there was an unsettling calm. Petrov was the first to try and leave the walls of the kingdom wanting to return to the grounds he had conquered and be rid of the situation he had been responsible for. No one had seen anything quite like it; Petrov appeared to be held back by an invisible man. He tried again with the same results; he tried to be more forceful throwing his entire body weight against an empty hall but could not break through. Several brothers watched this is horror and amusement unsure what to believe. Each in their turn went against the doorway but none could leave. In their frustration they tried to attack one another but no harm seemed to come to any of them. It was years later that they began to notice how little change had taken form amongst them, no aging, no injury; it was quite unexplainable.
The kingdom again returned to a state of panic completely forgetting the curse the Eli had spoken, or perhaps simply unwilling to come to terms with it. Jameson had finished his recovery by the time each of his brothers had thrown themselves against the doorway. He walked up to it skeptically with his mended arms forward reaching out to the invisible force but felt nothing. He stepped hesitantly forward expecting to impact against the invisible force that had stopped each of his siblings but there was nothing. Jameson smiled to himself, justice.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
November 27
That morning the girls woke up at 8:05, before their alarm clocks. They laid in bed for a couple more minutes of quiet, already hearing random banging of pots in the kitchen. Carol leaned over to check in Rachel was awake. They smiled at each other and threw off their quilts.
"Today is the day!" Carol exclaimed feeling exceptionally more cheery than she usually felt in the morning.
Together the girls raced down the hall and into the kitchen where Rachel's mom had prepared a feast of breakfast foods. She demanded that both girls eat even if they were nervous, this was a big day and they would need the energy. Just after ten o'clock Rachel's father poked his head upstairs fiddling with his tie, "Aaron! Why in the world do you already have your suit on. Take that off and come have some coffee" Rachel's mother shook her head and told the girls to finish getting ready, "your appointment is at eleven."
They arrived early for the appointment and the hair dressers all gathered around Rachel with excitement checking out the look she had chosen for the day. Carol sat opposite Rachel looking through her own book of hair designs not really caring what they choose as long as it was strong enough to stay still. She was becoming quite the expert in wedding preparations and the one thing she was most aware of that the unexpected would happen. That was the job of the bridesmaids in her mind, to plan for everything and let their friend, at least for the day, believe that everything went according to plan. Nights later they all might joke about how ridiculous the brides hair looked after the first dance, or how the best man had not bothered to prepare a speech at all but instead drank until the words 'came to him'.
When they arrived at the church a few hours later they set up shop in one of the children bible study rooms. The photographer came in to shoot the dress on a hanger, off the hanger, in the bridesmaids hands', almost on the bride, half on the bride and finally on the beaming bride. There was a small knock on the door and one of the groomsmen entered holding a small post note for the bride's eyes only. Rachel looked nervously at her maids completely oblivious of the tradition to send a card or letter special letter to the future spouse while they separately primped. Fortunately Carol had come prepared for such things and pulled out an array of stationary for the bride to choose from.
"Don't you dare tell Edward" she whispered to the groomsmen who tucked the small note back into his jacket pocket.
As far as ceremonies go, Rachel and Edward's went quite well. There were tears and smiles at all the appropriate places. Finally they said their "I do's" before any of the maids in the six inch heels fell over. And off the party went for photos while the guest enjoyed a cocktail hour. Carol's parents complained about being seated at an inappropriate table. They had known the brides family for years but were pushed to the back with a family of small children.
The dj was not the one the bride and groom had chosen, instead the 'bar mitzvah' dj was in attendance as their first choice had double booked. No one would dare admit this out loud but in reality, the choice of music proved more then troublesome keeping the older generation of the floor and being note quite enough to keep the younger generation interested. In the end, most guest left by ten that night waving goodbye to the bride and groom in a well decorated sudan. Carol did not feel any specific emotion about the event, it felt less personal than a romantic movie and yet she had just observed her best friends wedding. That was alright, she thought, probably just need time to digest all that happened.
"Today is the day!" Carol exclaimed feeling exceptionally more cheery than she usually felt in the morning.
Together the girls raced down the hall and into the kitchen where Rachel's mom had prepared a feast of breakfast foods. She demanded that both girls eat even if they were nervous, this was a big day and they would need the energy. Just after ten o'clock Rachel's father poked his head upstairs fiddling with his tie, "Aaron! Why in the world do you already have your suit on. Take that off and come have some coffee" Rachel's mother shook her head and told the girls to finish getting ready, "your appointment is at eleven."
They arrived early for the appointment and the hair dressers all gathered around Rachel with excitement checking out the look she had chosen for the day. Carol sat opposite Rachel looking through her own book of hair designs not really caring what they choose as long as it was strong enough to stay still. She was becoming quite the expert in wedding preparations and the one thing she was most aware of that the unexpected would happen. That was the job of the bridesmaids in her mind, to plan for everything and let their friend, at least for the day, believe that everything went according to plan. Nights later they all might joke about how ridiculous the brides hair looked after the first dance, or how the best man had not bothered to prepare a speech at all but instead drank until the words 'came to him'.
When they arrived at the church a few hours later they set up shop in one of the children bible study rooms. The photographer came in to shoot the dress on a hanger, off the hanger, in the bridesmaids hands', almost on the bride, half on the bride and finally on the beaming bride. There was a small knock on the door and one of the groomsmen entered holding a small post note for the bride's eyes only. Rachel looked nervously at her maids completely oblivious of the tradition to send a card or letter special letter to the future spouse while they separately primped. Fortunately Carol had come prepared for such things and pulled out an array of stationary for the bride to choose from.
"Don't you dare tell Edward" she whispered to the groomsmen who tucked the small note back into his jacket pocket.
As far as ceremonies go, Rachel and Edward's went quite well. There were tears and smiles at all the appropriate places. Finally they said their "I do's" before any of the maids in the six inch heels fell over. And off the party went for photos while the guest enjoyed a cocktail hour. Carol's parents complained about being seated at an inappropriate table. They had known the brides family for years but were pushed to the back with a family of small children.
The dj was not the one the bride and groom had chosen, instead the 'bar mitzvah' dj was in attendance as their first choice had double booked. No one would dare admit this out loud but in reality, the choice of music proved more then troublesome keeping the older generation of the floor and being note quite enough to keep the younger generation interested. In the end, most guest left by ten that night waving goodbye to the bride and groom in a well decorated sudan. Carol did not feel any specific emotion about the event, it felt less personal than a romantic movie and yet she had just observed her best friends wedding. That was alright, she thought, probably just need time to digest all that happened.
November 26
She rode the train for all major holidays. Escaping to Boston had given her no clarity and no relief from the hassle of her ex because her daughter deserved to see the scum bucket on holidays. She imagined them picking out a christmas tree together, her daughter's face full of excitement, light flurries falling on her soft auburn hair. How ridiculous.
"Attention passengers. Please be advised, we are experiencing delays and will arrive one hour behind schedule."
"23 hours on the train was certainly not long enough" Jenn grumbled to herself readjusting the pillow beneath her. What was probably most painful was knowing that while her daughter enjoyed a home cooked meal in their old house with perky step wife Angela, Jennifer would most likely be hanging out at a dinner with some of her old 'single and loving it' friends. Tis the season.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a sold out train. If you have purchased one ticket please keep your valuables and yourself to one ticket. One ticket, one seat".
"Thank you" Jennifer muttered. The announcements did not change in content but the women's voice grew more irritated as the passengers grew in numbers. Jennifer remembered loving train rides as a child. She used to take them to visit her grandparents up in Rochester New York during the summer. The huge windows were perfect on a sunny day. That is why she had originally suggested train transportation, plus it was so much cheaper and did not include a random strip search like at the airport. She was smaller then and probably fit into a small ball like her daughter who blissfully was asleep next to her. Maybe next holiday they should spend in Boston Jennifer thought to herself.
"Attention passengers. Please be advised, we are experiencing delays and will arrive one hour behind schedule."
"23 hours on the train was certainly not long enough" Jenn grumbled to herself readjusting the pillow beneath her. What was probably most painful was knowing that while her daughter enjoyed a home cooked meal in their old house with perky step wife Angela, Jennifer would most likely be hanging out at a dinner with some of her old 'single and loving it' friends. Tis the season.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a sold out train. If you have purchased one ticket please keep your valuables and yourself to one ticket. One ticket, one seat".
"Thank you" Jennifer muttered. The announcements did not change in content but the women's voice grew more irritated as the passengers grew in numbers. Jennifer remembered loving train rides as a child. She used to take them to visit her grandparents up in Rochester New York during the summer. The huge windows were perfect on a sunny day. That is why she had originally suggested train transportation, plus it was so much cheaper and did not include a random strip search like at the airport. She was smaller then and probably fit into a small ball like her daughter who blissfully was asleep next to her. Maybe next holiday they should spend in Boston Jennifer thought to herself.
November 25
The feast
18 people telling what they were most thankful for
10 days of recovery from train ride
9 major cravings for deep dish pizza
8 types of video games with guns firing in the background playing on the big screen
7 rounds of dutch blitz before I gave up completely
6 boys
5 types of pies
4 states brought together
3 days of advanced cooking
2 tables
1 turkey
18 people telling what they were most thankful for
10 days of recovery from train ride
9 major cravings for deep dish pizza
8 types of video games with guns firing in the background playing on the big screen
7 rounds of dutch blitz before I gave up completely
6 boys
5 types of pies
4 states brought together
3 days of advanced cooking
2 tables
1 turkey
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)