meal post!
Rickon, for once, was mostly behaving himself. He was not terrorising anyone, destroying anything, or crying, but sitting in a corner of the kitchen happily scribbling away on large sheets of paper with the markers Susan had found in the rec room, and most importantly, he was happy. This was a pleasure that happened far too seldom, and luckily it came at a time that Susan could take good advantage of it. She'd made bread earlier, and it was sitting out to cool before she sliced it. As soon as that came out of the oven, she put in some potatoes to bake. Nothing seemed more delicious to her that moment on a snowy cold day than a piping hot jacket potato with lots of butter and a big bowl of vegetable soup.
Then she put the soup on to simmer and set to work making dough for biscuits to decorate. She set aside a few of the first batch for Rickon to "decorate" for himself, but the ones she embellished with fanciful icing designs she kept well out of his reach. On the countertop she set out some undecorated ones with bowls of icing and various sprinkles so that people could decorate their own if they were so inclined.
"Mmmm," said Rickon, from his spot in the corner of the kitchen. He had abandoned his markers and paper in favour of "decorating" a biscuit, and there were splotches of bright red icing all over his face and sprinkles on his nose. No icing or sprinkles had actually made it to the biscuit.
"Is it good?" Susan asked, trying not to laugh.
"Mmmm," Rickon repeated, running to her for a hug, leaving sticky red handprints all over her skirt.
Tomorrow would mark the day she had been on the island for four years, and she couldn't think of a better way to spend it than with her son, sticky handprints and all.
[today's menu is vegetable soup, baked potatoes, and Christmas cookies, accompanied by a sticky toddler on a sugar high! whee.]
Then she put the soup on to simmer and set to work making dough for biscuits to decorate. She set aside a few of the first batch for Rickon to "decorate" for himself, but the ones she embellished with fanciful icing designs she kept well out of his reach. On the countertop she set out some undecorated ones with bowls of icing and various sprinkles so that people could decorate their own if they were so inclined.
"Mmmm," said Rickon, from his spot in the corner of the kitchen. He had abandoned his markers and paper in favour of "decorating" a biscuit, and there were splotches of bright red icing all over his face and sprinkles on his nose. No icing or sprinkles had actually made it to the biscuit.
"Is it good?" Susan asked, trying not to laugh.
"Mmmm," Rickon repeated, running to her for a hug, leaving sticky red handprints all over her skirt.
Tomorrow would mark the day she had been on the island for four years, and she couldn't think of a better way to spend it than with her son, sticky handprints and all.
[today's menu is vegetable soup, baked potatoes, and Christmas cookies, accompanied by a sticky toddler on a sugar high! whee.]