The middle of my day was making a raspberry crostata. I waited for it to bake, then shamelessly ate half of it for lunch.
As I was working on assembly, I could not help but notice the mystery mess atop my stove. I do not know the source, and I doubt it's dandruff.
So as the crostata baked away, I sprayed the bottle of Lysol that I purchased when the pandemic came over the hill to terrorize us last spring. Me, the person who drilled warm water and soap and a dishcloth to clean up the mess and another towel to dry it, into my grandchildren. I kept a roll of paper towels on the counter, and Laura was allowed to buy a new roll every couple of months. I noticed she hung one up to dry as often as possible.
And the crostata baked, and I cleaned the stove. And the microwave and the counters.
I talked to my oldest daughter, the one who may be reverting to silver hair. She is cooking turkey for one, she said. Caroline does not eat turkey and Bill is off with Ruth and Francis is off with the wind. France is somewhere out west and hopefully on the way to his aunt's house for dinner. Sacramento, I believe.
I talked to my youngest daughter, the one who will be Teutonic blond for life. She's with her husband in Florida, eating fried chicken. Her husband has so many relatives there; I guess she may be surrounded.
After lunch and supper I found and answered emails and texts from so many virtual friends, wishing me greetings of the day. That was so sweet. The part about the slow death of my phone is irritating. I must go out on Monday, and the phone store must fix my phone. If they don't, I'll just buy a new phone.
A happy Thanksgiving to all of us.