This comic isn’t quite accurate. For one, as I write this blog post, my feet are uclad in any sort of knit warming tubes. It’s still (just) warm enough here that the Sock Time Alarm in my brain hasn’t gone off yet. But, I imagine it won’t be long now before it will, and then all of the socks that have been hidden away in the Winter Clothing storage bin under my bed will once again be put into service. I always discover gems I’d forgotten about, like the green and white striped toe socks with Santas embroidered down the side, or the knee-high purple and black socks that I bought last Halloween but that are so good for costuming…

If you too suffer from a sock obsession, then you should not click the following link. If you don’t, then clicking this link will instantly *give* you a sock obsession, and so might be equally dangerous. But, oh! The pretty socks!! And the arm warmers!

Sock Dreams

I have a limited amount of skills in the event of a zombie apocalypse. I’m okay with a gun if you hand me one that’s loaded, but if there’s a better shot around, you better give them the gun. Same thing with hand-to-hand combat. (I have weak, girly little wrists. They would complain bitterly after cracking a few skulls with a bat.)

However, what I’m really good at is finding food and reading tracks. Give me a few hours in the bush and I’ll rustle up some grub for you. Got a zombie you need tracked back to it’s lair? I’m your gal.

Just, uh… Get someone else to handle the fighting, m’kay? Or I’m liable to get myself bit.

I won’t deny that mad culinary science could be used for evil. (There’s a great novel in that idea somewhere… Or maybe just a CSI episode.) But usually when I hear cackling from the kitchen, it is a sign of tasty, tasty things to come.

As was the case with the cackling this past weekend. It being Thanksgiving, we pulled out all the stops. This year, we had a roast guinea hen with bacon, moose sausage, cranberry and walnut stuffing. It was unutterably delicious, and we both spent most of the weekend in meat-comas.

Today, the leftover meat was recyled into a cock-a-leekie soup, with the remainder of the stuffing on the side. Layne cackled while he was making it, which I knew was a good sign.

No, we were not trying to eat everything mentioned in the Cheese Shop Sketch. (Though, given enough of a budget, we totally would…) This particular cheese extravaganza was simply the result of us finding a wonderful little cheese shop in Edmonton that carried some of our favorite cheeses. (This is the same cheese shop that we once bought out of its entire year’s worth of Cotswold, but that’s another story for another time.)

The cheeses were good. But the terrible cheese/Tony Danza puns we made while eating them were even better!

Layne remarked that the giant head of kohlrabi we bought looked a little like a beholder, what with all of the stalks coming off of it.

I couldn’t let an idea that good rest, so this happened:

I know that there’s no way for hedgehogs to understand English. Hedgehogs are very simple creatures. Dogs might be able to learn to recognize words, but hedgehogs, I’m sure, only hear noises as the massive, ominous rumblings of Scary Things From Above.

However, that being said, my little beasties are ALARMINGLY GOOD at knowing when I’ve come into their room in order to feed them, play with them and give them treats, or when I’ve come to get them for their baths and subsequent nail-trimming. I have no idea how they know. Maybe I smell different when it’s time for nail-trimming. Who knows?

Either way, I have to drag those little beasties out of their beds whenever I need to trim their nails. Poor little beasties. At least I make it up to them afterwards with plenty of wormie-treats.

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