Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli *

It's been a rough week and a half.  Extreme weather has denied my sweet hubby and I our preferred lodgings in our half finished little cabin in the woods. The roads have impassable to anyone on earth, but my intrepid middle son (who thankfully made the long trek to pick up our milk a few days ago). The windows got beautifully frosted,

and the icicles kept growing.

A bird left its wing prints in the snow on our front porch,

and the dirty rinse water froze in our kitchen sink.

And last but not least . . . my babiest boy turned eighteen. Alas, not a boy any longer.

And, according to family tradition, he chose his birthday meal.  Pizza!  I failed to take pictures of those masterpieces, but I can tell you that the cheeses were all (mozzarella, feta, ricotta) made here at home, as was the sauce; the frozen, smoked and pickled peppers; and, of course, the garlic. It was a feast!  But then there was that chosen dessert.

I find it to be a wonderful thing that most bitter moments are tinged with a bit of sweetness!

* Quote by Clemenza from "The Godfather" immediately following the untimely death of Paulie Gatto.