Well, church was a bust this morning...and a good thing (for the past 45 minutes we've been watching unfortunate neighbors trying to drive up an icy incline on the road next to my property, and unable to make it to the top of the hill).
So we were housebound by ice. And illness too; Fellow Traveler is still not getting over her respiratory infection, and spent much of the day in bed with a sinus headache. But we did manage Sunday dinner, one of our more sacrosanct family traditions.
On the table: A simple roasted chicken from my local meat purveyor/feed-store owner Farmer Ken, rubbed with olive oil, anti-cholesterol faux butter and various chicken-friendly herbs and cooked on my upright-chicken cooker (the jury is still out on whether the chicken comes out better or faster this way, but the hollow chimney upon which the bird sits makes a great infusing chamber for herbs and other seasonings); mixed rice pilaf; baby spinach steamed with the last of a bunch of Swiss chard that I'd miraculously scored at our local supermarket last week; a baked sweet potato. At least it smelled like Sunday at our house. (And we found out that young Miss Gertrude loves her chicken.)