Poor PJ. It's all Simon & Garfunkel here today. I've got three crockpots going full of beef, potatoes, carrots and garlic and there's two loaves of bread rising in the oven. We'll have beef stew on homemade bread with last summer's pickles and call it supper.
They're positively hovering for this meal hours ahead of schedule and yet Lochlan put on his choice for music today and PJ let him because they all crush on Lochlan and he asks so nicely for things. Ridiculously formally.
(That's a holdover from busking days. He was never that polite on the Midway circuit. He would damn-near goad people into spending money. Provoke them until they suddenly felt they had to prove him otherwise. He was a bully.)
His arm is a bit better. Bone bruises fucking hurt. Hot compresses and pain pills and very little activity are helping. There won't be any wood-chopping, bat-swinging, fist-throwing or holding Bridget up in the air with one arm in the middle of the night either for that matter.
That's okay. Dalton's looking after the woodpile, the bat was hidden ages ago, Caleb currently is on his best, and Ben can hold me up just fine.
I don't think the bread is going to rise. I'm hovering too.
And it's snowing again.
