I seem to have a lot to say this weekend.  I can’t shut up.  I can’t shut up in general.  It’s the freakish social Lent thing, I think I’ll blame it on that.  Words, words, words.   Strangely, I’m not reading much.

Finally, my hands don’t smell like garlic.  I sucked down a lovely portion of salmon inbetween serving the bishop’s table and clearing the bishop’s table.  I always wonder, does the bishop really care if he gets a separate table with the clergy, does he enjoy the fuss and having someone pour his water for him?  Or does it feel strange to use the fine china while the rest of us scarf down from paper plates?  Hey, at least we had real wine glasses this year, no plastic.

Afterwards, the young ladies of the church (TYLOTC) had tea with our friend the sailing widow, and Q regaled us with her silly faces and Slavonic renditions of The Angel Cried.  The baby showed off her teeth.

I think I ought to start another quilt this week, particularly if this classic Oregon spring weather holds.  The fabric is taunting me from my sewing basket by the window.

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