I am leftoverless, unless you count the pie in the fridge.*  The leftovers haven’t even been cooked yet, since we ate a delicious dinner at my cousins’ yesterday, and my mom is making her traditional “we didn’t have Thanksgiving at home this year” low-key turkey dinner tomorrow.  So we can have all the leftovers our little hearts desire.

Yesterday’s food was pretty much perfection, especially considering my taste buds are numbed by the cold I got as soon as I got over my first cold.  Ugh.  I made a dark chocolate cream pie (from The King Arthur Flour Baker’s Companion) which was delightful.   We sat around, drank wine, played cards, waiting for all the pre-made dishes to have their turn warming up in Di’s tiniest-ever oven.  (Fluxx words surprisingly well with a 3rd grader and a 1st grader, and would be even better if you took out some of the weirder rule cards.  In case you ever need to know.  Scrabble not quite so well, but perfectly fine if you give them suggestions and then make them figure out what the word is.  Oh, and tell them where on the board to put it).

As if in honor of the holiday, it’s suddenly gotten bitterly cold.  Okay, bitterly cold for Portland.   Wearing gloves in the car while you wait for the heater to kick in, keeping your coat on when you come home while you wait for the radiators to get that chill out of the air.  Leaping from bathmat to hallway carpet to avoid setting foot on the cold tile floors.

After a string of children’s and YA, I’m actually reading TWO adult books at once – I’m listening to Master and Commander in the car, which I’m enjoying although I could care less about nautical whatsis, and I’m reading Rebecca, which I’m whipping through after giving up on the skips-every-30-seconds audio version.

I’ve been commenting as I go along over at Bookshelves of Doom, where Leila is going through it 3 chapters at a time and taking excellent notes, but I haven’t managed to put together my own thoughts so I won’t join in at this late date (besides, I’m a little ahead and I would probably end up saying something spoilerific).  While I’m not a big fan of thrillers or scary stuff, I do enjoy old-fashionedly creepy things.  I blame an early middle-school viewing of Jane Eyre, which led to the Great Bronte Kick of my adolescence.  So Rebecca is quite satisfying in that regard, much like The Woman in White or Jane Eyre herself.  Speaking of, it’s been ages since I reread Jane.  I’m curious as to how sympathetic I would find her now, or if she, like the narrator of Rebecca, would make me want to slap her and tell her to get some guts.  I remember Mr. Rochester as being more of a dashing romantic hero than Maxim de Winter, but apart from that they do share some qualities.  Mr. R would get my pity vote, though, over Mr. deW.  Okay, I’ll stop before I go too far.

*As this post has gone on, more and more of the pie has ended up in my belly.  There will be less and less left to put back in the fridge.

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