To The Victors Go the Spoils

It's Sore Feet Monday. After two days of cleaning and cooking and eating and cleaning up again, followed by b-ball, riding the plotkicycle and eating up a substantial portion of the leftovers, today will be a nice day to lay low.

The one Great Spoil of doing all that work is that the food stays here. At Thanksgiving in Stiletto City, Shmeckl and Little Bear do all the work, but they also get to keep all the turkey and trimmings. So TGP and TGD never get a turkey-cranberries-stuffing-candied yam sandwich the next day.

But yesterday for lunch, yum, Plottie and Duck had big bowls of chicken soup with a fat matzoball floating in the broth -- yes, floating, not laying on the bottom of the bowl like a cannonball, not bending the spoon 90 degrees from the handle when you try to cut into it, not behaving less like food and more like Commandment Eleven, which says: "Thou Shalt Not Digest This Sphere of Lead, Not Now, Not Ever, Amen."

And then they had brisket-gravy-charoset-roast carrots-cole slaw-white sauce sandwiches for dinner, with an extra slather of white sauce on the leftover onion-poppy matzos for dessert, before a few macaroons.

Jeez, no wonder Plotnik can't move today.

P and D plan to do the same today and tonight. Sorry, Notthat, I know you haven't had lunch yet. Wish you were here.