14- The number of breadsticks I’ve eaten in the last 24 hours. I’m not exaggerating in the least. My aunt makes them every year for Christmas Eve– the store bought kind breadsticks that come rolled up in a can, baked on corn meal and then practically dip in melted butter and garlic salt. They are amazing. And going right to my thighs.
3- The age of my baby cousin that looked at my gravely last night before dinner, full of concern and toddler affection and said, “you have a boo boo!” while stabbing the pimple on my forehead. Thank you, dear girl, for pointing that out.
65- The number of adults and children that descended upon my grandfather’s house last night for dinner, promptly at 5:30PM. There were cheesy potatoes and singing and 220 breadsticks and babies that ran in circles around the house.
96- The age of my grandfather, the man responsible for the all chaos.
2- The number of breadsticks I’ve eaten while writing this.
1- The temperature when I left the house this morning. There was ice on the windshield and my hands were numb in my gloves. I’d still take this sunny winter day over 104 degrees in the DC swamp any day. I know that makes me crazy.
I hope you and your family had a wonderful holiday.