And there's nothing like boys, ages 25 and 31, to operate said Chuck-It.
Chuck-Its don't work quite as well at Comstock Park. Maybe because a soon-to-be-59-year-old matron is behind the wheel. Maybe because there any number of trees which the matron manages to clip when chucking. Maybe it's because the matron chucks like a girl. Anyway. This is all by way of saying, we don't do much Chuck-It at the park.
Low tide fell around 3 p.m. so we packed up Ben and his Chuck-It and headed to the beach. The Numbers dazzled us with their innovative Chuck-It improvisations. They bounced, threw and skipped the tennis ball. They performed fake Chuck-Its, pirouette-ing Chuck-Its, picket gate Chuck-Its. And Ben ran and ran and ran. And ran some more.
|The Wonderfully Patient Spouse falls for the old|
|Sand Down the Pants gambit.|
Ben begged for more and more Chuck-Its. The Numbers happily obliged.
And Ben ran and ran and ran. Again.
He didn't wake up for two days.
Christmas Day was another matter. Ben actually did wake up -- around 4 a.m. to inform us, quite emphatically, there were gale-force winds and torrential rains racing sideways past the living room picture window. He did not approve.
Eyeballing the situation -- and the turkey brining in fridge -- I dared the gods watching over Bermtopia-by-the-Sea to shut down the power on Christmas Day.
And then decided, it was a good time to make a pie.
I was pretty much full of myself after my Thanksgiving pie-baking triumph so I brought the other half of my wonderful pie dough with the thought of reprising Nutella-Pecan Pie for Christmas dinner.
Bermtopia-by-the-Sea Word to the Wise: Pie dough doesn't travel very well.
|Houston, we have a problem.|
Forty minutes later, with the help of a Number 1 Son intervention with an electric beater, we had a serviceable pie dough. And then I remembered -- I forgot the candy thermometer for getting the pecan mixture to 130 degrees. And then THEN I remembered -- I forgot the meat thermometer to assure we wouldn't all die from the evils of undercooked poultry.
But least we still had power. For the time being.
As with most of life, things tumbled together quite nicely. Before a cheerful fire, we celebrated Christmas while a wild December storm flung itself against our windows and the furious steel-gray sea heaved and rolled across the road from us.
The pie baked. The turkey was cooked.
|OK, maybe a little skinnier than Thanksgiving.|