Yesterday we drove into Leon to shop and get Reb a pizza. She needs periodic encounters with American food and there are no burger or pizza joints in Sahagun. The Leon pizzas we get are very good, with thin crusts. Mine was liberally covered with anchovies, which, to my mind, is the only reason to bother with pizza.
We bought some chunks of rabbit along with the shopping. Very Spanish, the package included liver, heart and half the head, including the eyeball.
At home today, we roasted it all over an open fire in the kitchen. It worked very well and was a change from stewing the little fellow. When cooked, the head yielded no edible -or even inedible - meat at all. Tim was awarded it. Rabbit bones look much like chicken, except for the little ribs, and may be dangerous for dogs. This time they survived (the dogs, that is, not the bones. Or the rabbit who once used the head, for that matter).
Very misty and cold this morning. Very pretty, the plants all frosted white, but a bit too brisk for my taste. Reb put jackets on the dogs. They both originally belonged to Una, so hers fitted, but on Tim the jacket looked like the tiny ones greyhounds wear with a number on.
Angel, a neighbor resplendent in his orange boiler suit, had a good laugh at our dressed-up dogs. Round here, they would as soon put a jacket on a cow or a pig or chicken.
The Bhutto murder is disturbing. It put me in mind of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in 1914, for some reason. One person - admittedly important - is killed and, in some mysterious fashion, the rest of the world is plunged into chaos. Maybe it is in enough chaos already. Maybe this incident is just more of the same. I hope so.
It is hard to know what to make of Bhutto herself. Until she decided to return to Pakistan, she seemed to be just another grubby pol on the make, with a husband referred to as Mr. Ten Per Cent, and a strong whiff of corruption in her background. But it took a lot of nerve than I would ever have to go back where her father and two brothers had themselves been killed over politics. Hard to believe she was in it for the money this time round.
I may not write again this year, so I will wish one and all a happy new year now. But it does not look promising.
The Inn and the Stable: an Advent meditation by Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen - Every artist has the feeling of being at home in his studio, every patriot at home in his own country, and every man at home in his house. One should there...
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