mile-high apple cranberry pie

"I don't know which to prefer,
the beauty of inflections
or the beauty of innuendos.
The blackbird whistling
or just after."
~ Wallace Stevens, from "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

Happy December, everyone. For several weeks now, one of my oak trees has served as a stark meeting nook for a pair of ravens. They form various ink blot patterns against a milk grey, late-autumn sky and crooked branches. As a lover of all things Poe, I have always been fascinated with ravens; their errant, melodic *caws* are a welcome addition to the morning symphony of coffee grinding and soft spoken NPR news.

Heart fluttering holiday chaos slippery (white-knuckled!) driving aside, I'm slightly enamored with the chivalrous month of December. Its ephemeral light makes it difficult to squeeze in food photos, but unlike January and February, I don't mind the time constraint. I'll sigh at the 4:30 pm sun & occasionally rap two fingers nervously against my lips whilst rearranging plates and napkins, but that's the extent of Decemberling angst. By mid-winter I'm a fidgeting, disheveled basket case. If they're still around, maybe the obsidian feathered visitors will keep my mind focused and clear - even during winter's bleakest streak. My whimsical half, the part who relished fabled stories and grew up watching Faerie Tale Theatre, is convinced they are Odin's Huginn and Muninn. Maybe Loki isn't too far behind...
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