Wow. I had a great Christmas break, but after the second six-plus hour drive in a week, there isn't a whole lot of brain power left for me to write much. I just have little snippets of things from the weekend rolling through my head, that are just little flashes, not stories. Such as when the man sent me a picture of my father while they were hiking around the archaeological dig site in the Georgia mountains, with the caption: "Finding his way the Cherokee way--with 4G and GPS." After a day feeling like I had my old, pre-Wheat Belly digestive system back and wanting to excise it with a hot knife, I told my father that I suspected with all the bread crumbs that (mysteriously) persisted around their normally pristine kitchen, I assumed that I had not been as careful as I needed to be. He suggested, "Or maybe someone intentionally contaminated your food with gluten." I really wanted to ask whether that was an admission of guilt. It sounded like one.
I am in the middle of some very excitable felines. Zoe did not like it when her father was gone, and she is jealously (but oh, so cutely) defending the territory right next to his hip from all invaders--particularly the two large Minions of Chaos who want to come get some of my attention. This is a bad time to be sitting with bare feet. Bare, partially broken feet. Time for the last of the pictures, and for me to go running for covers.
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