Spitball Army

Our traditional holiday cranberry plate: a cylindrical gelatin shaped like a tin can. Now, we fork-mash it, to make it appetizing.

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They fancy it up with lavender, rosewater or bacon, but I’d be content with a scoop of plain vanilla. Better yet: a glass of milk.

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He turns up Vaughan Williams to the bearable limit, cheese straw crumbs dotting his sweater, his piquant pipe smoldering on the table.

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She adds more white stuff, stirs, adds more. Result: six bowls of thin, sweet chili. Powdered sugar looks a lot like corn starch.

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A woodpecker is harvesting amid the rush of humans escaping the coming snow. Its bugs under bark; our bread and milk.

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The subtlety of Southern cooking, reflected In shades of fried grease.

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I had planned to shave and take a shower last night but I didn’t get it done. It’s all the night nurse’s fault.

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I had some good sunny-side eggs this morning and the weather outside is nice.

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