In the comfy and warm PBS small but snuggly house yours truly was making her very famous French Toast, the puppies were clamoring for a spot by my feet waiting for the leftover egg dipper to be made into a small helping of scrambled eggs for them and MR. PBS was sort of sticking his head in the kitchen to monitor the progress of the sweet smell of (rarely) cooked breakfast. I heaped up his plate and he put the thick warmed real maple syrup all over. Continuing to keep the warm (cooked with Irish butter! Heavenly!!) slices coming fast and furious I called Mother in to eat. As she sauntered in I called to Mr PBS "How is it?"
Mom: "If you have to ask THAT'S pretty sad."
Yes a happy happy new year's to all. May the new one not be filled with horribly sarcastic relatives trying to throw a black cloud at your zen.
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