Why we don’t eat at the table

And here is a shot I took, forgetting that you can’t shoot in lowish light with a 5.6 lens.  Still, I like the warmth of the light.  And you get a feeling for the time and the room.  Chaz is busily packaging up little squares of fudge for friends, thus the red foil pile.  We can’t eat at the table because it’s the operations center of the house.  And as you can see, there are plenty of operations going on.  Guy is wistfully sad about this, traditionalist pragmatist as he is.

Add the flash.  Not so romantic, but a bit clearer.

But sometimes we sneak in a meal on the fly.  Like last Sunday when C dropped in with Scooter in tow, allowing Mom an extra lie-in.  G had promised pancakes, and so we had them, scrambling to set the table with holiday flair.  I need to do more of that, going out of my way to remember to be festive.

See that look on the Scoots?  He’s wondering if Chaz has lost her mind with that bottle of diet cola for breakfast.  It’s the kind of look you get when you’re not going to say anything, but you’re sure as heck thinking it.

Did you want a bite of this?

Wow.  You grab the jar of syrup, and when you finally pull your hand off, it really pops!

Here you see the whole room, snow outside, tree lit up, dog jail (now grown out of – yep, two days later) and I don’t have any idea what Chaz is doing.

Another angle on the room,  I really like this room.  Especially at Christmas.

And there we are.  Peppermint dishes full of pancakes and syrup, good company, and a young woman whose mind is elsewhere.  What are you pondering, my sweet chatelaine?