While many Americans warmed up their engines in the dark this morning - in search of bargains and shopping nirvana - and I turned off my alarm clock, my household at rest.
My kids, camping in our spare room.
Greg, not on the road.
I never have understood Black Friday.
I hosted my first Thanksgiving yesterday; the bird was fine, the company finer. Everything seemed as it should, well, except for my pie.
I tried my hand at Nora's Shoo-Fly Pie featured recently at BeanPlate, but all my crumbs settled deep into the goo - why, crumbs, why - dashing any hopes I had at resurrecting the dead and solving murders in whimical clothes.
(All my hopes have been dashed. Drat!)
A pie-maker I am not. Not yet anyway.
But I think I'll savor the moments with Zack in the kitchen, sprinkling those disobedient crumbs; Lexi listening to the radio and performing surgeries on sickly stuffed creatures along side us.
These will remain.
No sale or show can compete with these short hours before time and demands pull us back and apart, leaving us with little to show for.