Another quiet Sunday, weeks later. I've just finished up the kitchen, got everything washed and scalded and/or in the dishwasher; it's doing its own quiet little chores, whilst a big ole turkey sits huddled in the smoke of the grill.
A little foil packet of whole, unpeeled baby beets lotioned with olive oil is in the small oven upstairs---they'll be slip-skinned, quartered, anointed with a bit more oil, a dash of red vinegar, some coarse seasalt, and garnished with a handful of sweet onion slivers, to be served warm alongside the beautiful golden rutabaga Caro's cooking.
Kinda a mis-matched feast, but we have fresh croissants to cuddle thick warm slices of the turkey breast with some Blue Plate and maybe a chiffonade of iceberg. There's a two-cup Tup of the lime Jello version of Pink Salad, with crushed pineapple, cottage cheese, mayo and pecans stirred in.
Chris is out on a few tiny errands, Caro's reading one of her beloved Mitfords in the sitting room upstairs preparatory to a nap, and I'm headed back outside into this glorious day. I'll bet I could find about a peck of leaves to sweep, just because. Blessings, blessings.