For us Hens, breakfast is not a lightly taken meal, but a lavish feast during which the coffee flows, the baked goods and fresh fruits collide, the baked eggs (my new speciality) crack, or some such, and the air is rent with goo-gobbers of gossip. We're Hens, what else would one expect?
It was near onto noon we were finally all dressed and ready for an obligatory Slug Hike into town. I stalled, but succumbed to the exercise at the last minute, figuring it was either go along and enjoy the fresh air, or else allow my behind to permanently fuse with the couch fabric. I'm glad I went, it was lovely, cool, with plenty of snow & picturesque cabins & scenery for gawking at.
We stopped by a couple of antique shops and one art gallery. I lollygagged behind the flock. Then my cell phone rang, followed by Nancy racing up to me, to drag me off to see this Rorschach's test of an artistic dress dummy in an antique shop.
All in all it really was a perfectly lovely Slug Hike (I won the race, in the SLUG category of course). Loads of pretty things and sights to look at.
As the day waned we decided it was time to celebrate Ingrid's birthday. For the occasion, Robbie baked a cheeky little chocolate cake. I say the cake was 'cheeky' because it looked so totally flat and unassuming, right up until it hit your tongue, at which point your noggin exploded and your brain thought it won a ticket to Chocolate Land. The best we could get out of Robbie was the cake contained like 2 spoonfuls of flour, the rest of the ingredients being chocolate and finely ground almonds or other nuts. Well, I never! And apparently I ought to more often.
Robbie lights her chocolate confection
Ingrid blows out the birthday match after
which our taste buds demanded satisfaction
Finally it arrived - our last day at Shaver Lake. We opted for a quick breakfast of leftovers (saving me the hassle of waffle fixing)The weather had warmed up a bit so the snow pack was a tad soft, and I, 'she-of-mass-gravity' kept sinking knee deep into the snow. Blast!
Anyway, I drove us off for a quick pilgrimage to the Village's true namesake - Shaver Lake.
which our taste buds demanded satisfaction
Anyway, I drove us off for a quick pilgrimage to the Village's true namesake - Shaver Lake.
I must end this saying that we had all expected Fran to be with us for the weekend, but though she'll always be a much loved hen, she is no longer with us. Thoughtfully, early on in our weekend, Nancy placed photos of Fran and the rest of us in happier times around the cabin. I found I couldn't look at the photos without feeling distraught - avoidance seems to be my primary coping method; it's no wonder I relate so well to chickens.
So though not present in body, Fran was present in spirit. The merry making rang tad flat without Fran's witty comments and laughter. Gawdamnit, but we missed her.
