flour, butter, sugar not sticking in a bowl. my fingers knead the soft warm sticky dough. smells slightly sweet and like shortbread. flour on the table and my palm growing greasy with every tug and push. they turned out to be tiny christmas trees after a trip to the oven.
one finger on play and the other on pause. the whir and click of a tape cassette a constant for the evening. sprawled on the bed with music strewn about. the stereo is in mono, but the recording is dual.
crunchy anise springerle. cut into little squares of pressed designs.
a loose brown sweater hangs off my shoulders and bunches at my wrists. i feel small in this sweater. it wraps me up revealing pale winter skin and thin blue straps underneath.
late conversations bring smiles to my face.
we performed elevator antics for the crowd yesterday. totally wreck kept our bodies pulsing. i giggled a lot and felt happy to be around everybody.