It is 11:42 p.m. and I am barely making this daily post thing. I have just been having far too much fun in a world without internet. I went over to my friend S.'s house last night, she of Dutch-family-that-has-taken-me-in fame, and we baked far into the night, in preparation for oodles of eating. We walked into her parents' house this morning with armloads of sugar and carbohydrates in cooked form. My pumpkin muffins were raved about, as was the beer cheese bread that I read about somewhere on the internet (I cannot for money remember where, and I have neither time nor internet speed to google it).
At the Dutch-American version of church this morning, we sang "Sing to the Lord of Harvest," which is one of those classics that reminds me of being little and singing around the piano on Sunday nights in Liberia. My parents favored the thankful sorts of songs, and the old hymns, and I loved the marching type songs, until about the time when preteen angst set in, when I changed my preference to melancholy songs like "Precious Lord, Take My Hand."
(I knew this preteen thing had occurred due to the discovery of the ages 8-12 preteen category on the back of some of of my books; when I announced it to my mom, she said, "Well, then you are probably old enough to turn the shower on and off by yourself," even though we didn't really have a shower, we had a bucket on a hook with a spigot on the bottom. I changed my mind about my entrance into the next developmental stage, immediately.)
I have eaten until I could hardly move over and over again today, and learned several new card games. I laid on the floor and let a two-year-old crawl on my head, and hoisted him up giggling on the bottom of my feet. I heard stories and laughed, and ate again, and topped it all off with a nice little soak in the hot tub. Not to mention just a little more beer cheese bread.
And now I shall go home, and go to bed, full of the delightfulness of this holiday.
At the Dutch-American version of church this morning, we sang "Sing to the Lord of Harvest," which is one of those classics that reminds me of being little and singing around the piano on Sunday nights in Liberia. My parents favored the thankful sorts of songs, and the old hymns, and I loved the marching type songs, until about the time when preteen angst set in, when I changed my preference to melancholy songs like "Precious Lord, Take My Hand."
(I knew this preteen thing had occurred due to the discovery of the ages 8-12 preteen category on the back of some of of my books; when I announced it to my mom, she said, "Well, then you are probably old enough to turn the shower on and off by yourself," even though we didn't really have a shower, we had a bucket on a hook with a spigot on the bottom. I changed my mind about my entrance into the next developmental stage, immediately.)
I have eaten until I could hardly move over and over again today, and learned several new card games. I laid on the floor and let a two-year-old crawl on my head, and hoisted him up giggling on the bottom of my feet. I heard stories and laughed, and ate again, and topped it all off with a nice little soak in the hot tub. Not to mention just a little more beer cheese bread.
And now I shall go home, and go to bed, full of the delightfulness of this holiday.
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