It’s 13 degrees outside, and by 4:30 there is barely a scrap of sunlight left at the horizon. Winter’s dark, hidden wonders have replaced autumn’s show-offy performance, and I suppose this means Christmas can’t be far away. I need a new place to hang my Christmas hat for the blog this year, so I am trying a new recipe – Christmas trees composed from things I love – or things that love me, as I am always sure they do.
Working on new series is definitely like making pancakes. Even when you have mixed all delicious ingredients just lightly enough, and have waited for the skillet to get hot enough (but not too hot), the first two or three never look that good. But that’s ok – the important thing is to keep making them. The cook eats her imperfect creations while she works, giving her the wherewithal to go on, and pretty soon each hungry person in the house has a plateful of golden, round maple-syrup sponges – I mean, flapjacks.
Now, its time for me to drive off into the morning sunset. I mean sunrise. At this time of year, who can tell the difference?
A Christmas Rhyme by Brenna Hopkins
Santa loves me…This I know.
Francis Pharcellus Church tells me so!