This morning a mysterious box appeared on our porch from some of our favorite people on earth. I laughed when I discovered it. I brought it inside and set it on the dining room table. I waited all day to open it. All night too, nearly. Wasn't that nice of me not to rip right into it when mine wasn't the only name on the package? Wasn't I the epitome of self-control? I had to pretend it wasn't there, had to ignore it. Wasn't easy. I mean, these are best beloveds we're talking about. And a history of interesting packages from said beloveds.
Hey, it's a coffee machine! (Wait, we don't drink coffee!) Hang on...
It's a box of John's incredible pickles! Party time! (Could you hear me wishing for some of your okra spears? I've been craving them since October. Seriously.)
And a bee-YOO-tee-full Christmas photo of the kiddos and one heckuva lucky red cat, but I'm not sure if I should post it. What do you say, pickle pals? Mugs or no mugs?
Now we are waiting for one very special occasion to crack open these bottles. We are waiting for, say, tomorrow. That's special enough, or will be once the beets and okra start flying.
Thanks, friends! We love you and are working on a plan which will allow us to take a tuck in the western U.S. so we can be close enough to see you once or twice in a while, at least.
I've been hearing this song in my head since we opened the box:
Green pickles, red pickles
Send 'em to Utah with a stamp
The stamp of love (the pickle stuff)
Put the pickles in the package
Send the package to the people
Let the people eat all of the pickled beets
And okra baby