It's always better on holiday

Not much doing here, not much blogging. Yelena is alive and well and living in Chicago, which does not make her the Jacques Brel of babies. She is spunky and giggly, hairy and chubby, not quite sitting nor quite rolling but considering both as viable developmental progressions. She tried some rice cereal yesterday and today, alternated faces of curiousity and repulsion, but nevertheless accepted some dribbles between her rosebud lips without tears or tantrums each time. I am hoping that within a couple weeks gentle persistence will pay off and she'll be eating a baby sized serving. I know we start with the stuff that most resembles breast milk, and I am not going to venture out of the norm on this one, but I wonder if she'd be more into eating something yummy, like carrots, than icky porridge.

I made sweet potato latkes on New Year's Eve. They were beyond delicious. Topped with red pepper jelly and sour cream. Eli, Tony and Eric pronounced them the best latkes ever. Ashkenazi purists, it is the holiday of oil, not of the spud.

I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions, certainly not for the secular new year, but I have decided to try to get some fiction writing done on a daily basis, which may cramp my blogging a bit. But perhaps writing begets writing, so I may become a postopotamus after all.

And here you go: