I found the bottle of milk. (Here, if I knew how, I would link to the post called “Worse than an Easter egg?”)

It was in the basement in a bag of old doll clothes I keep meaning to iron. And it wasn’t the slightest bit moldy inside. It didn’t even smell that bad. Kind of yeasty, kind of sweet. I’m not saying I’d drink the stuff, but it could have been a lot worse.

I might even be able to salvage the bottle. We’ll see how it tastes after a run through the (two months old and still a thrill!) dishwasher.

We are home from a blissful long weekend visit with two dear friends, their two kids, and one wonderful grandma. We are well rested, we’ve had great talks with people we love, and we have a kid who requests the book she’s currently obsessed with by saying siipssh. And we are godparents. Pretty heathen, still, but godparents. More on this later. For now I must sort mail and feed the cat and eat ice cream and go to bed.


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