I'm being quiet today, and staying in. Not entirely by choice - we're out of gushyfudz, oh noes! - but California seems to have decided to be Cornwall. It's been raining all day, and right now it's hurling down with a vengeance. A couple of vengeances, perhaps. (Such an odd expression...) I was going to query my family back home, see if they've been washed away yet, but I don't think I'll bother; at this rate I'll be floating over to join them. All alone, as Karen's in the city doing writerly things.
Me, I am being domestick: still cleaning up post-party, munching on leftovers and making the Christmas pudding. To a recipe very different from my usual - much more flour & breadcrumbs, not so much fruit: not sure what I think about this, except that I'll give it a try - and by a method never tried before, viz and to wit in the slow cooker. By tomorrow morning, I'll know if this was a mistake or not. I may even have time to correct it.
Further to which, I still haven't decided what to cook for Christmas. That was another reason to go out today, to see what's available and try to choose. Done turkey, done pork. Goose is a classic, of course; or I saw capon at Thanksgiving. Or a standing joint of beef is classic again. Berry's doing leg of lamb; I like lamb, and it's so utterly untraditional, that has its attractions too...
I just don't know, as you observe. And I can't conceivably choose like this, pinned in the house by a rainstorm.
*shrugs it off, then*
I should probably take advantage of this enforced inherence to do writerly things of my own. I have a story to finish by year's end. But really I only want to lie on the sofa and read. Ah, me. It's such a tribulation, being me.