Rereading Dragaera
Dec. 4th, 2025 03:09 pm( Spoilers and speculation about Where It's All Going )

Having determined that I'll need to buy my own lefse-making stuff, I finally remembered today to start my usual process of purchasing anything: asking V to do it for me, heh.
I sent them a list -- rolling pin, ricer, flat griddle, and what we call a lefse spatula the internet seems to call a lefse stick or lefse turner; I included a photo of one to make it clear -- and they did a great job; almost everything is on the way already. But it meant an afternoon looking at and thinking about the kinds of things I haven't in a while -- krumkake! which my grandma made when I was very little before declaring it too much work, which is fair enough but that means it took on near-mythical status in my mind; the other Minnesota Culture asserting itself stuff you find when you search for this because lefse has become a symbol of white Midwestern heritage. You can buy t-shirts that say "lefse ladym" modeled by someone holding a lefse spatula, but they don't sell the spatula, it's just a prop. There's shirts that say
Lefse&
Hotdish&
Pop&
Lutefisk
All these cultural markers lined up in a row. It's all both compelling and repulsive to me.
I've inherited a little money from the sale of Grandma's house -- despite all my attempts to refuse it, Mom insists that I buy something for myself with it. I'm going to make sure that she knows a bit of it is going on inferior versions of stuff that she never considered collecting for me because she refused to have anything to do with the house clearance, to make some point to her sisters that neither they nor I understand. An English friend perceptively pointed out "I'm guessing that sort of 'I'm having to buy a thing that you already had and (effectively) threw out' inflicts a very specific kind of midwestern sting." I could hardly have put it better myself. I'm not doing it to be passive-aggressive, though I imagine it'll be perceived that way.
Thinking about this all afternoon has led to feeling so immersed in things I miss so much. It's been kinda sad and tiring.
So, the Esteemed Research Institution of which I now have the honour to be a (jolly good!) Fellow sent an invite last week to come along this arvo and decorate the Christmas tree in the common room. Bringing, if one so desired, some bauble, perchance alluding in some way to one's research interests.
My dearios, I realised I had The Very Thing! Some Years Ago I acquired a mini-Giant Microbe syphilis spirochaete, the adorable cutie, and though I say it myself, this went over a treat, with people taking photos and so on.
Had social converse - though a certain sense of Don't You Know Who I Am, though there is no reason why people who don't work in my area/s should know, it is a long while since I have been on ye meedjas.
***
Feral wallabies have featured here on previous occasions: apparently there are now 1000 on the Isle of Man: and
[T]here appears to be a continuous population across southern England, with a few hotspots. There have been regular sightings in the Chilterns, plus in Cornwall, where they appear to be breeding.
How do YOU define "middle-aged"?
30-60
6 (18.2%)
35-65
10 (30.3%)
40-70
11 (33.3%)
other set of numbers
4 (12.1%)
vibes: raising a child and/or secure place to live (home ownership, v stable rental), or could/should be
1 (3.0%)
other vibes
1 (3.0%)
other other
0 (0.0%)
We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had been made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not being missed) and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive arrangements occasioned us to be cut off ceremoniously in respect of breakfast; "for I an't," said Mrs Joe, "I an't a going to have no formal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I've got before me, I promise you!"
[...]
"Mrs Joe," said Uncle Pumblechook: a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but choked, and had that moment come to; "I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine - and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine."
Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs Joe replied, as she now replied, "Oh Un-cle Pum-ble-chook! This IS kind!" Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he now retorted, "It's no more than your merits. And now are you all bobbish, and how's Sixpence of halfpence?" meaning me.