Far too cold for the roads to lack ice. 
Drink the darkest hottest coffee I can find in the flask. In the pass of headlights, tree shadows lunge.
Mr swings the car arse first into the drive: swoosh: home.
Out I get, before the low wall will stop the passenger door from opening. Into the kitchen to greet Boy (louche in loungewear), Dog (submissive grinner) and warmth (Rayburn, stuffed with coal.) Cat does not stir. (Yeah, whatever, Cat.)
Check Rayburn. Because I put the chestnuts in the lidded iron pot they survived the accidental eight hour cooking period. By survived, I mean they are not on fire. They are crinkled like slow baked spider abdomens. Interesting. Tastes sweet, tastes burnt.


Suze said…
A pretty, pretty chestnut story.

(Yeah, whatever, Cat.)
The Cranky said…
Slow baked spider abdomens...
Lisa Southard said…
Poor chestnuts. I ate about four, in the end.
Should probably let you know I have never slow baked a spider- found a crispy earwig on my old gas hob once though. Insect Pompeii.

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