How Big is Your Trebuchet?
Here I am in the middle of a very busy and fulfilling day, containing the weekly cleaning of the clothes chore, the singular baby shower for dear friend, the baking of excellent foods for the ubiquitously blogged First Communion of the Child (Don't worry, y'all, it'll be over tomorrow, and then after that, things'll get back to normal. Whatever that is.), and all of a sudden I'm waylaid by horrible fierce envy on account of the Cranky Professor has a trebuchet that is significantly bigger than mine.
Significantly, I tell you.
I was pretty proud of mine -- I'm the only woman I know whose husband has given her, as a great surprise, a trebuchet for her birthday, and boy was I happy -- but now I know that my darling trebuchet, which is very useful for amusing the company (it's amazing how interesting people find shooting corks off the deck), could, if it were only about 10 times the size it is now, do some serious damage to the herb garden, and that would be even MORE amusing.
(I hesitate to mention that my birthday is coming soon -- yes, pretty soon -- but maybe there's enough time to actually locate, should somebody wish to go looking for one, a trebuchet like Dr. Cranky's. I would be the envy of the ladies for miles around. Maybe all of America, North and South. I hesitate, as I say, but not long.)
Oh, never mind. It's clear that the whole trebuchet issue is, for me, a big ol' Occasion of Sin, and I had better stay out of it. No, I'm just going to revel in the glory that is the trebuchet that my fellow medievalist is dragging around, and be glad that there's a campus known to me whereat the students are educated and enchanted -- and maybe even suckered into learning medieval Latin -- by the glory that is the trebuchet.
Trebuchets kick butt, I'm telling you. And I'm glad I've got one, even if it is Sorta Small.
Here's the menu for the Post First Communion Deck Gathering: cucumber sandwiches (Sam's choice), grilled tomatoes (Dad's choice), scones (Sam's choice), medieval brie tarts (beloved by the child's godfather, a fellow medievalist), lemon cake (my choice), and lashings of tea.
The child, in whose honor the deck gathering is given, picked out none of this, you'll notice. I kept asking him what he'd like, and he kept telling me he didn't care.
But he's off the hook, cause he finally told me that everything I make is So Wonderful and Delicious he could not choose.
Ok. A bit toadying, maybe, but I'll accept it.
Significantly, I tell you.
I was pretty proud of mine -- I'm the only woman I know whose husband has given her, as a great surprise, a trebuchet for her birthday, and boy was I happy -- but now I know that my darling trebuchet, which is very useful for amusing the company (it's amazing how interesting people find shooting corks off the deck), could, if it were only about 10 times the size it is now, do some serious damage to the herb garden, and that would be even MORE amusing.
(I hesitate to mention that my birthday is coming soon -- yes, pretty soon -- but maybe there's enough time to actually locate, should somebody wish to go looking for one, a trebuchet like Dr. Cranky's. I would be the envy of the ladies for miles around. Maybe all of America, North and South. I hesitate, as I say, but not long.)
Oh, never mind. It's clear that the whole trebuchet issue is, for me, a big ol' Occasion of Sin, and I had better stay out of it. No, I'm just going to revel in the glory that is the trebuchet that my fellow medievalist is dragging around, and be glad that there's a campus known to me whereat the students are educated and enchanted -- and maybe even suckered into learning medieval Latin -- by the glory that is the trebuchet.
Trebuchets kick butt, I'm telling you. And I'm glad I've got one, even if it is Sorta Small.
Here's the menu for the Post First Communion Deck Gathering: cucumber sandwiches (Sam's choice), grilled tomatoes (Dad's choice), scones (Sam's choice), medieval brie tarts (beloved by the child's godfather, a fellow medievalist), lemon cake (my choice), and lashings of tea.
The child, in whose honor the deck gathering is given, picked out none of this, you'll notice. I kept asking him what he'd like, and he kept telling me he didn't care.
But he's off the hook, cause he finally told me that everything I make is So Wonderful and Delicious he could not choose.
Ok. A bit toadying, maybe, but I'll accept it.
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