This weekend, there was German sausage and listening to Pam sing with the rest of the Grand Philharmonic Choir at the Christkindl Market and then more Christmas carols on the way to Aurora, and mushroom risotto and blackforest cake and the chaos of three dogs in small, medium, and large and my yearly attempt at hiding my brother’s almost 30-year-old potato print painting in the bathroom (to counteract his insistence that it be displayed proudly in a prominent spot in the house), and driving home and eating goat cheese & prosciutto pizza and being horrified by Food Inc. and getting, for once, a good night’s sleep.

Today, wrapping up a few work projects and drinking a latte with a little nutmeg and rubbing a fuzzy cat belly and doing up some Christmas cards and even enjoying the light dusting of snow, something I never thought I’d enjoy, even from the coziness of my office, and furthermore certainly never thought I’d ever admit to enjoying.  (I am careful with the weather, you see, and stingy with my compliments between November and April, because I don’t think we should encourage it.)

And, you know, it was all very satisfactory, perfectly acceptable just as it was, no surprises, no excitement, just a list of small events from which I really wouldn’t feel comfortable asking for any more.