Let me say: we will have a real Christmas. On the 29th or so, when all Beaker's brothers can manage to assemble in one place. There will be a tree, a ham, and too many gifts. But today there were none of those things. Gray rain and a none-too-full larder.
Yesterday we visited friends with a very new baby. Oh so tiny! We stayed too long. So long, that the supermarkets were all closed by the time we left. No nice little pork roast for us!
So the fridge managed to spit out a couple three cups of homemade ragu, frozen spinach, half a can of artichoke hearts. Cottage cheese and feta and parsley. Most of a big can of crushed totmatoes. It was okay, in the end. Red and green!
No place was open today to get whipping cream, so we made creme anglaise with the last of the milk and eggs, and a wee bit of rum, to serve over the gingerbread.
I did all the dishes, which have been accumulating for days, since the new location for the temporary sink has no place for a drainer, and it's easier to leave the dishes there than to have to dry them right away. Beaker worked on the dishwasher and installed our first cabinet latch.
Tabby had a sort of tense and poopy and cry-y day. She utterly refused the bottle we offered, and her best efforts with a cup—which she wants to work, oh yes she does, yes she does—led, well, to far more milk spilled than consumed.
But she's so big! Her eyes are so bright! Today we caught her looking at toys before shoving them into her mouth. Kicking the arches of her baby gym, on purpose. And her cries of joy are no longer little gleeful squeaks, but deep-throated roars.