Balls

So. Winter has reared it's massively ugly head. Winter in many other places is Brad Pitt on a bad hair day. Winter in Cleveland is Steve Buscemi.

Last Wednesday, it took me 2.5 hours to get home. It was sleeting/blowing -- or as one of my employees put it, it was dropping little white balls of crap. Gotta love a guy with a literate sense of simile.

Anyway, the evening before Thanksgiving is usually filled with tradition -- for several years, my sister and I have baked pies together on that Wednesday. It's an enjoyable evening together, one that is much more about the yakking than about the baking. By the time I got home, though, and given that the roads were getting worse, we elected to skip it and bake our respective (if not respectful) pies at our own homes.

Winter owes me one.