For you, dear readers, a landscape:

Saint Joseph's Table, my very favorite holiday. We had it early this year so my grandmother and great-aunt could come before they go to Arizona, so Lent hasn't started yet and my grandpa could eat the cannolis. (Every year he gives up sweets, and it breaks my heart to see my delightful Italian grandpa pass the plate of cannoli down the table without even looking at them. He does it every year, but it still makes me sad.) We were all stuffed to the gills (an unpleasant expression, but accurate in this case) and getting up fro the table. I was sitting in an armchair away from the table, watching my family disperse, and I caught a glimpse of something that filled me with happiness. My six foot something-or-other super Italian (dark hair, stubbly beard, the works- think Italian soccer player) heavy drinker cousin who was visiting from American University was alone at the table for a second, and he bent over to smell the little daffodils that were on the table.