A Movable Feast

Well, based on what I've read from a familiar black-edged note left in Box Five this morning, it seems as though Erik has graciously invited Meg and myself to a little informal dinner in the cellars this evening in celebration of a certain traditional American holiday.

He asks that we bring purée de pommes de terre and sauce à canneberge and promises to provide some rare delicacy as as the main course.

I simply hope that he doesn't serve pickled pigs' feet again. That particular dish tends to make me nauseous; and has a singularly unpleasant aroma.

And now I must awake Meg and remind her that though it may be a holiday across the Atlantic, in France we still arise early and practice our pirouettes.

Fondest greetings...

It appears that Meg's constant prattle about the wonders of cyberspace (she visits her MySpace page at every opportunity, to the detriment of her dancing practice, I fear) has finally convinced me to try my hand at this 'blogging' business. After all, even our resident Ghost seems to have embraced the new age of technology. I suppose this will save us both the hassle of having to deal with all that business of the envelopes and safety pins.

In the meantime, I must be off to make sure that my daughter attends rehearsal instead of swapping Ghost stories online with 'JamminJammes'.