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oo1 | video
Nov. 26th, 2018 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluebirthdaycakes[Well, this has certainly been an interesting morning.
A year. A year, she'd been under the impression that her oldest was somewhere in Greece saving humanity, as usual; then out of the blue, she wakes up in a little farmhouse with her husband and infant daughter and right next door--in what is definitely not somewhere in Greece--is Percy, who at some point sprouted feathers.
It's still not the weirdest day she's ever had, but when your child is not only the son of a god, but of godly royalty, that's not saying very much.
As weird as it is, though, there's nothing she can really do about it. At least there don't seem to be any mercurial deities meddling in everyday affairs--there's something in Percy's face that scares her every time the subject turns to what made him this way, and if from nothing else but that look, she knows that it could be much, much worse.
He's not ready to talk about it yet, so for the moment, Sally puts it from the front of her mind. She can, however, cook, and that's how the network will find her--hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, flour on her nose and a blueberry pie in the oven, smiling warmly.]
I suppose baking my feelings is one of the better ways of coping with them, right? [Her smile goes a little self-deprecating.] In that vein, I'm Sally and I'm taking requests. Pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, meringues, puddings...you name it, I've probably made some version of it, and I could use something to keep my hands busy while my kids are otherwise occupied.
[It's been difficult to get Percy to put Estelle down at all, actually--and, yeah, it's bizarre to see him like this, but he's still her sweet, effusive son under all the feathers.]
I would also love to learn how to spin wool--it's something I've always wanted to do, but I'm from Manhattan, which isn't exactly sheep country. I do, however, knit just about anything, and wouldn't mind an opportunity to channel my crafty impulses. I think there are only so many sweaters a woman can foist on her eighteen-year-old before the embarrassment gets to be too much for him.
A year. A year, she'd been under the impression that her oldest was somewhere in Greece saving humanity, as usual; then out of the blue, she wakes up in a little farmhouse with her husband and infant daughter and right next door--in what is definitely not somewhere in Greece--is Percy, who at some point sprouted feathers.
It's still not the weirdest day she's ever had, but when your child is not only the son of a god, but of godly royalty, that's not saying very much.
As weird as it is, though, there's nothing she can really do about it. At least there don't seem to be any mercurial deities meddling in everyday affairs--there's something in Percy's face that scares her every time the subject turns to what made him this way, and if from nothing else but that look, she knows that it could be much, much worse.
He's not ready to talk about it yet, so for the moment, Sally puts it from the front of her mind. She can, however, cook, and that's how the network will find her--hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, flour on her nose and a blueberry pie in the oven, smiling warmly.]
I suppose baking my feelings is one of the better ways of coping with them, right? [Her smile goes a little self-deprecating.] In that vein, I'm Sally and I'm taking requests. Pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, meringues, puddings...you name it, I've probably made some version of it, and I could use something to keep my hands busy while my kids are otherwise occupied.
[It's been difficult to get Percy to put Estelle down at all, actually--and, yeah, it's bizarre to see him like this, but he's still her sweet, effusive son under all the feathers.]
I would also love to learn how to spin wool--it's something I've always wanted to do, but I'm from Manhattan, which isn't exactly sheep country. I do, however, knit just about anything, and wouldn't mind an opportunity to channel my crafty impulses. I think there are only so many sweaters a woman can foist on her eighteen-year-old before the embarrassment gets to be too much for him.
