#realized four hours after posting that I never added a title oops

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Gold Rush

Finally venturing into writing for Brock, and so excited to put this out there!! Very appreciative of the encouragement I’ve gotten throughout this from @brockadoodles who had (rightfully so, man deserves it) made loving Brock her BRAND. If there was any hockey who’s made to be a dad, it’s Brock Boeser, and I’ve genuinely loved getting to put this together. Love hearing feedback and what your favorite parts were, so reblog and pop into my inbox!

word count: 3.8k+

Brock had loved kids his whole life. Being around them, looking after them, the first day a kid asked him to autograph his jersey was burned into his brain alongside precious few other memories, most of the others involving you. And anyone who had ever seen him with Easton could tell that Brock Boeser loved babies. He had wanted kids since he was old enough to know what being a dad was, and knew so strongly that was a path he wanted — needed, honestly, there was too much love in his heart to not share it with everyone he could — that he wouldn’t ever have let things get serious with you if that wasn’t a life you wanted for yourself. Parenthood wasn’t for everyone, and he never held it against the women he had dated who didn’t want to be moms, but it was for Brock Boeser. 

He remembered the day he brought it up with you, his voice soft and hesitant as your head rested on his shoulder, a blanket thrown haphazardly over their laps as Return of the Jedi played on the TV. “Do you want kids someday?” Brock asked. He spoke gently, not wanting to scare you off with thoughts of the future coming too fast for you to handle, wondering if maybe seven months into a relationship was too early to bring up the type of commitment that lasted a lifetime. But he had to, had to protect himself from getting more invested and one more broken heart in a relationship that wasn’t just headed down the wrong set of train tracks, it was going the opposite way entirely. But, as you spoke, it turned out that he never had anything to worry about, and Brock wasn’t sure if he’d ever been more relieved in his life. 

“I do,” you said, looking up at his face, trying to read his expression. “Always have. Not sure how many, I’ve always thought two or three sounded good. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Brock couldn’t help the way his heart absolutely swelled, the way you spoke of him in your future, with such ease and certainty as if you weren’t even entertaining a possibility that he wouldn’t be a part of it, that he wouldn’t be the one you would have children with. He twisted his neck, dropping a kiss on the top of your head. “We will.” 

So Brock loved kids, and you loved kids, and it had been established over a year before he put a ring on your finger that they were something in your future. You bought a four-bedroom in Shaughnessy, the idea being that one would be a guest room and two would be reserved for the kids, whenever they came along. “We can always add on,” Brock had said as you signed the papers, the real estate agent dropping the keys into your palm with a warm smile. And you knew that he would, you knew that Brock wanted as many kids as you were willing to give him. But you’d start with one. That was the plan. That was the plan, so a few months after you got back from your honeymoon in Scotland you went off of your birth control. Kids would happen when they happened, but you both knew you’d rather them sooner than later, and thus had begun your journey towards starting a family. That was the plan, so a year and a half ago you had swapped the pill for a stock of pregnancy tests, taking one a month and whenever you were feeling even slightly off for good measure, sure that your nausea and headache wasn’t the beginnings of a flu but rather your baby making themself known. 

When six months of trying came and went without a single positive test, you both started to get a little antsy, but you knew that these things took time, and you knew that it hadn’t been long enough for there to be any real cause for concern. But you still called your doctor, started exercising more and taking folic acid like she recommended, you and Brock both cutting down on your alcohol. “If you’ve got to do all this, it’s only fair I have to make some changes, too,” he had said. You loved your husband for many reasons, chief among them being the fact that no matter the circumstance, where you were or who you were with or how people were acting, he never made you feel like you were on your own. Everything was a team effort in the Boeser household. 

It was six months, and you were doing okay, and Brock was genuinely winning the award for the world’s best husband with how deftly he could calm you down every time you saw the words not pregnant show up on a pregnancy test, but then it hit a year of trying without success and you started to get worried. It was July, and you knew it was common in the NHL to try and time births for the offseason — if you got pregnant in the summer, your baby would have been born in the middle of a playoff push — but you honestly would have settled for any timing. So you visited a fertility specialist at the Mayo Clinic, a quiet recommendation Brock’s mom got from a friend’s daughter. You loved your own mom, but Laurie truly had been your saving grace in everything. A quiet, steady presence who offered more love and support than you could ever ask for, giving her advice only when asked and never once betraying your trust by telling anyone. But Dr. Gonzalez got the tests back, both yours and Brock’s, and said that nothing was wrong. “Unexplained infertility,” they called it. It was nothing anybody was doing wrong, nobody’s fault, not a matter of hormonal imbalances or obvious lifestyle factors or anything that would have let you blame it on yourself. Which, on one hand, was so good and so relieving, so desperately needed. You needed to know that it wasn’t your body, and it wasn’t Brock, that was keeping the two of you from finally being able to grow your family. But on the other hand, there were few things more hopeless or frustrating than hearing that they couldn’t find a cause. That meant that there wasn’t anything you could have done differently, true, but that also meant that there wasn’t anything you could do. It was a waiting game, and you were never good with being patient. 

Pregnancy scares were more common than people might know, if the experiences of you and your friends were anything to go by. There were high school boyfriends, college roommates, half of the people you knew had worried they were pregnant or had gotten someone pregnant far before they were ready. But now, when you were settled down and established and were building a life with the most amazing man you had ever had the fortune to love, and you wanted a baby, it wasn’t happening. The clinical definition of infertility was the “failure to achieve a clinical pregnancy after 12 months or more of regular unprotected sexual intercourse.” You had committed the definition to memory over the past 14 months, and whether you knew it or not, Brock had too. You had always been good at tests. Good grades, always the essay the teacher used as an example in class, graduated top of your class at UBC. But this was one test you couldn’t study for, and one you couldn’t believe you had failed time and time again. 

Which brought you to December, normally one of your favorite times of the year but one that you had recently begun noticing all the doom and gloom in that others had always mentioned when speaking about the winter months. You still loved the holidays, Christmas and New Year’s and everything in between, but you thought that in your second year as a married couple, you wouldn’t still be a family of two. It was a year and a half since you and Brock had started trying for a baby, and there was still no luck. It was a year and a half, and you had started talking about options. Vancouver had some amazing fertility specialists, and adoption was something you had discussed looking into, but you had both agreed on waiting a few more months before taking that route.  

---

Which brought you to almost three weeks later, two days before New Year’s Eve, your head in the toilet and your husband leaning up against the doorway. “God, I feel like shit,” you said, leaning up against the wall when your nausea had finally seemed to subside. “I bet, last time I threw up was our honeymoon,” he said, trying to make you laugh. Brock had insisted on trying haggis in Scotland, saying he needed the “full experience,” but regretted that decision as soon as he spent the better part of the second night of your honeymoon in the hotel bathroom throwing up from food poisoning. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, gratefully taking the cup of water Brock handed you as you leaned up against the bathroom counter. 

You caught his eyes searching yours as you set the glass down, his face wearing an expression you had come to know well in the four years you had been together. There was something on his mind, but he wasn’t sure if he should say it. “Yeah?” you prompted, raising your eyebrows. 

He gave a tiny shake of his head. “It’s nothing, seriously.” 

Now it was your turn to look at him. “Brock, it’s going to eat you up if you keep it all inside. Spit it out.” 

“How long has it been since you took a test?” Brock asked gently. 

You should have known. God, you should have known that’s where his mind would go, and the worst part of it all, the part that made you feel even worse for getting your husband’s hopes up that maybe this was finally it, maybe it had finally worked, was that you couldn’t even blame him. You had been snappier at Brock the past few days, something both you and he had attributed to your overall weariness about the whole process, you had to practically slap his hands away from your breasts the other night while you were having sex, and this wasn’t even the first time you had thrown up this week. But it was flu season, and you worked with kids, and seemed to catch it more years than not despite taking the flu shot religiously each October. You’d be looking for a missed period, but they had always been light and you had experienced some spotting when Brock was on a road trip the week before. 

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head. “I don’t know...A month? A little over? I just hate that it’s getting so clinical, that’s not what it was supposed to be about, that’s never what it was supposed to be about.” 

Brock ran his hands up your arms, back and forth, the same way he had been comforting you for years. “I know, baby. And I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel that way, more stressed or disappointed in yourself, because it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. We’re going to have a baby one way or another, because I love you and I’ve never met anyone who’s more excited, and ready, and made to be a mom quite like you. And whether you have the baby yourself, or we adopt, or whatever path we decide is the right one for us, they’ll be ours, and they’ll be so loved.” Brock ghosted a kiss over your forehead, his eyes closing. “You don’t have to take another test if you don’t want to, the last thing I want to do is make you more anxious over all of this. But I think it might be good. I think it might help.” 

You breathed out deeply through your nose, shooting your husband a weak smile. God, he was so good to you. “I’ll tell you if I do.” 

Brock nodded, stepping towards you and wrapping you in his arms, whispering your name as he leaned his forehead against yours. “No matter what happens — tomorrow, next week, next year, I don’t care — nothing you do will ever make me love you any less. We’re good. We’re gonna be okay.” You could have filled a hundred books with the reasons why you loved Brock Boeser, and this was one of them. The way he loved you, so selflessly and sacrificially, without an ounce of ego and never expecting anything in return aside from your heart. You didn’t know what you had ever done in this life or any past one to deserve him, but there wasn’t a day you didn’t thank God for the privilege of letting you love this man. 

---

It was finally New Year’s Eve, festivities having taken over the city — really, they hadn’t stopped since Christmas — and hardly a flat surface was left undecorated with posters or metallic tinsel, or both for good measure, including almost the entirety of yours and Brock’s house. He had volunteered your place weeks ago as the site for the team’s New Year’s Eve party. It didn’t generally draw a crowd as big as the holiday party earlier in the month, which usually had not only the players’ partners, but children and whatever family was visiting at the time, so Brock had asked if you’d be willing, and you agreed easily. You loved getting to spend time with the team, and you were even more inclined than usual to gravitate towards any kind of distraction that would take your mind off of the stress you were under. The stress that you put yourself under, to be fair. So you threw yourself into planning and preparation, pulling out the ice chest from the garage and filling it up, making sure people were bringing enough champagne, cleaning every inch of the house with Brock until it was spotless despite the fact that you both knew you’d have to do the same thing in the morning. 

Some two and a half hours into the party and most everyone who was drinking was sufficiently drunk, the TV in the living room flipping back and forth between the broadcast from Times Square and Youtube karaoke that nearly everyone had been roped into at some point or another. You sipped your soda, half-sitting on one of your barstools next to Holly. “You’re not drinking?” she asked curiously. 

“I had some earlier, trying to pace myself” you said, waving your hand. “Someone’s got to look after that one.” You nodded towards Brock, who was having what looked to be the time of his life in your living room while badly singing along to One Direction. Holly nodded. You knew she probably wanted to ask more, but she was too tactful to push. “It’s so nice to see them all like this, just letting loose, having fun. It’s hard to remember sometimes that these are just guys in their 20s and 30s when they’re constantly off travelling or away at games, doing things most people their age only dreamed of. They don’t get the chance to be normal hardly ever. And the season can get stressful...It’s just good to see,” you said. 

“It is,” she agreed. 

You checked your phone. Twelve minutes till midnight. “You want to help me get the champagne ready?” 

Holly smiled. “Let’s do it.” 

Nearly twenty flutes of champagne later — you had no idea where Brock had managed to find all of the glasses — you walked around the corner, your head poking into the living room. “Champagne’s in the kitchen, everybody. Five minutes till midnight!” 

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Brock said, leaning in for a kiss after walking over. 

You scrunched your nose. “Babe. It hasn’t even been ten minutes.” The second you had gotten back from refilling your drink earlier, Brock had dragged you into what turned out to be a very endearing but not-so-successful rendition of I’ve Had the Time of My Life in the living room, minus the lift. He wanted to go for it, and you trusted your husband with everything, but you really didn’t feel like spending your New Year’s Eve in the ER after having crashed into the Christmas tree. Dirty Dancing was one of the first movies you had ever watched together, so there was more than a little meaning behind the choice, but you doubted you were exactly making Jennifer Grey proud. 

“Ten minutes away from you is ten minutes too long,” he said, nuzzling his head into your neck. 

The fingers of your free hand carded through the hairs at the base of his neck; you loved it when he let his hair grow out like this. “Okay, babe, I believe you. How much have you had to drink tonight?” 

Brock pulled back, rolling his eyes at you in exaggeration. “Only two beers since the night started. I’m not drunk, I’m not even tipsy, I just love my wife.”

“Could be worse,” you quipped. You squeezed his hand as the two of you walked into the kitchen, after half of the guests had already grabbed their flutes and made their way back into the living room for the countdown. Grabbing your drink from the other side of the counter, you held it in your far hand as you and Brock turned back around, taking your place by the Christmas tree. You glanced towards the TV, where the Times Square ball was slowly inching towards the ground. “Anyone else think it’s a little weird that we’re all staring at a TV waiting for something to happen that already happened 3 hours ago?” 

“I don’t believe in tape delay,” Elias said. 

Quinn nodded seriously in agreement, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “It doesn’t exist. That little notice in the corner, saying ‘this is a recording of an earlier broadcast? Fake.” 

You snorted into your glass as everyone’s attention turned back to the screen. Three minutes till midnight. “I was a little apprehensive at first when you said you’d put us down to host,” you said, leaning back into Brock’s chest, “but I’m glad you did. This is nice.” 

“I’m glad we’ve got everyone around,” he said, looking down at you. “What are you drinking?” he asked curiously. He hadn’t noticed before, too caught up in the euphoria and exhilaration of the night, but the more he looked at it, the more he realized that your glass looked different than everyone else’s. 

“Sparkling cider,” you said, your heart rate picking up. “I brought it in case any of the kids came.” 

“But there was plenty of champagne left?” Brock questioned. “We’re at our own house, it’s not like you need to be playing designated driver.” You let out an airy laugh, the kind that made Brock’s eyes immediately snap to yours because he knew you so well, he could read even the slightest actions, the smallest shift in tone, and he knew what that particular laugh meant. It was your nervous laugh. “What is it?” he asked, guiding you around the corner to the darkened hallway, the residual glimmer of the lights from the Christmas tree glowing softly on the walls. 

You looked up at him, the purest most radiant smile you had ever given him crossing over your face. “You’re not supposed to drink when you’re pregnant,” you whispered,  your top lip trembling and letting you know that you were only moments away from tears. 

Brock was speechless as he looked at you, the near-silence of the hallway a strange contrast to the growing noise in the living room as the clock ticked closer and closer to the new year. “And you’re...You’re not drinking because��” He faltered. 

You gently took both of your glasses, setting them on a side table before taking his left hand in your own, running your thumb over his wedding band. “I’m not drinking because I’m pregnant, Brock,” you repeated, your voice cracking. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. You felt a twinge in your heart, but you knew you really couldn’t be upset with him for not being sure. It had been a year and a half and there had been more than once where you both thought it was finally it, that it had finally taken. 

You nodded, squeezing his hand. “I took a test the other day, after you had asked me if I was going to. God, I wasn’t expecting anything different, Brock. I wasn’t expecting anything,” you said. “But three minutes was up, and I turned the test over,” his hand tightened almost imperceptibly around yours, “and I saw a plus sign. I’ve never seen one before, Brock, it’s never been positive.” You didn’t realize you had started crying until Brock reached up with the hand that wasn’t holding yours, wiping away a tear that had fallen onto your cheek. “But I didn’t want to get my hopes up again. Not until I was sure. So I found a midwifery center online, called — thank God they had a cancellation — and went in yesterday. I wanted to get it confirmed, but I didn’t want to do anything without you. I didn’t even look at the ultrasound, all I had her tell me was that everything looked absolutely perfect for seven weeks along.” 

It was your husband’s turn for tears now, neither of you paying any mind to the deafening countdown that was happening just steps away. “You’re really pregnant?” 

You nodded again. “We have an appointment again in two days. They’re going to show us the heartbeat.” 

That was what broke him, bringing Brock down to his knees in front of you, his hand slipping from yours as he brought it up to rest on your lower stomach. Where his baby was. Where your baby was. “I’m finally going to be a dad,” he said, as if the knowledge that both of your lives would be changed forever come next July was just now hitting him, as if he’d never known purpose and fulfillment quite on the same level until you spoke those words to him. 

You knelt down next to him, dropping a kiss on his lips just as the clock struck midnight. It wasn’t like any kiss you had ever shared before, not overwhelmed with passion or desire or want, nor the small, steady sort of kisses you had grown to love in your years as a married couple, the kind that said you’re my best friend in not so many words. This was a kiss of adoration, of devotion, of pure reverence for your husband and the life you had finally created together. “We’re having a baby.”

[kriskebob-blog]

Day 4: Rainy Saturdays are for cooking (and Netflix)

Hi all. As I write this, it’s the winding down of a gorgeous (and HOT) sunny Sunday here in CT but when I woke up yesterday, I actually thought it still had to be 6am or earlier because it was so dark in our room. Turns out it was actually 8:30am and just pouring buckets outside. Good day to stay inside and cook some comfort food items. 

My second breakfast recipe from Dr. G’s cookbook was definitely simpler than the burrito bake: French toast with a berry drizzle. I also wanted to make a fruit compote for an extra topping. The cookbook’s recipe is titled as a pear compote, but pears are out of season right now, and honestly why would you put a few sad-looking Bartletts in your grocery basket when there are farmstand peaches just up the road? To my delight, when I flipped open the cookbook on Saturday morning I read a line I hadn’t noticed before: you could vary it up by using apples, peaches, or plums in place of the pears. Perfect! 

Sam was still sleeping (he tends to be a bit more of a late riser compared to me on most days). I enjoyed the solitude for a bit and diced up four peaches as I listened to the rain. The compote was honestly super easy to throw together once the peaches were chopped. I threw them in a pot with some water, blended lemon, raisins, date sugar, vanilla extract, and some spices. I left that to simmer while I prepped the plant-based version of a dipping mixture for the toast. And in case you’re wondering, no, I did NOT find salt-free bread at the grocery store. I found the whole wheat bread that had the lowest amount of sugar/sodium and least amount of funky-sounding ingredients on the label and called it a day. (As an aside, Sam had thought he’d be required to give up toast completely during these two weeks and was really excited when he came home on Friday and saw a loaf of bread sitting on the counter, it was kind of cute.)   

I had to make my own almond milk for the French toast dipping mixture. Dr. G. doesn’t approve of store-brought almond milk, too many chemicals or whatever. Not a whole food! Luckily, I already had almond butter from my first grocery shopping extravaganza of the week. All you had to do by Dr. G’s standard was blend a couple tablespoons of almond butter with some water and ta-da, you’ve got almond milk that’s apparently less likely to kill you. For the French toast, Dr. G. instructed that I needed to mix some ground flaxseed with a bit of warm water and then add it in with the almond milk. More date sugar, vanilla extract, a bit of turmeric and cinnamon, and boom. 

Sam was awake by now and I immediately put him on toasting duty. He’s become the defacto breakfast-cooking king in our household over the past 5 years, which is odd really when he’s less the morning person of the two of us. But he genuinely enjoys whipping up eggs, bacon, French toast, etc. on the weekends, and I’ve certainly never been about to stop him. He got out our griddle and began dipping the bread while I set about making the “berry drizzle.” Dr. G advised I use this as a condiment for the French toast in place of maple syrup. It has two ingredients: 1 cup of fresh or frozen berries and a couple of tablespoons of date syrup. 

The date syrup became yet another case of my assuming I’d be able to throw together a Dr. G. sauce or condiment quickly in my blender, only to discover I actually needed to soak a key ingredient in hot water for an hour or more. Oops. Oh well. I’d use a tablespoon of agave nectar in its place and that would just have to do. 

Here’s the berry drizzle in a super cute pitcher our family friend Kelly gave us as an engagement gift years ago:

Adorable, right? Ignore whatever that spot is on our table. Anywho, I can report that Sam didn’t love toasting the bread on our griddle without using any oil spray. The slices did stick a little but we salvaged most of it. The peach compote had reduced nicely by then and we were in business. 

It was super delicious. The peach compote is definitely what made the dish, although the berry drizzle was tasty as well. Both were made with local and in-season fruit so it’s pretty hard to go wrong there. 

Sam and I settled in for a lazy morning of Netflix (we’re watching Stranger Things - second watch for me, first time for Sam!). By 11 I had to admit to myself that I really needed to get my ass to the gym, even though it was still miserable outside. I moaned and groaned at Sam (he had gone the night before and wouldn’t be accompanying me) but eventually got my ass into gear. I was curious: I’ve been eating plant-based for, you know, a whole two and a half days now. Would I have more energy at the gym? Would I just be able to sense the power of a thousand vegetables coursing through my veins on the treadmill? 

The answer: NOPE. I actually felt a bit more winded than usual which, of course, set off an anxiety thought spiral in my brain. Damn it. Maybe this diet isn’t actually good for me. Am I not getting enough protein? People always harass vegans about their protein, maybe it’s a legitimate concern! 

I made it through my workout perfectly fine, though, just a little more tired than usual. I trudged home and showered, and then Sam and I had leftover spinach-mushroom burritos and salad for lunch. The weather still sucked and we didn’t have any plans, so we watched some more Netflix but eventually split up to do our own things. I wanted to read more of Dr. G’s How Not to Die book. It was a huge book, after all, and the clock was ticking on my library loan. I settled in but was having some trouble focusing. I just felt tired. Again I had the thought that maybe this diet wasn’t actually for me. That I wasn’t getting enough or x or y since making this switch a few days ago. I stood up and eyed our pantry shelves. I grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds and ate them, but that didn’t feel quite satisfying (go figure). I noticed the giant container of unsalted roasted almonds I’d bought the day before and decided to take the plunge and open them up. I’m used to eating nuts from those giant mixed nuts containers you get at the grocery store, the ones where even the “33% LESS sodium!!!” version is still salty as hell. So I wasn’t sure what to expect exactly when I tried these unsalted almonds, but I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I actually like the taste of almonds when it’s not completely masked by salt. I grabbed a handful and then went to the fridge and got a handful of blueberries. They tasted amazing together. I happily settled back into my chair and felt myself perking up like a wilted plant that had been watered. By the time Sam came upstairs maybe half an hour later, the clouds had lifted outside and in my brain. We went for a walk. I suddenly felt more energetic than I’d felt all day. Maybe it had just been the dreary weather bringing me down. 

We returned home and decided that for the first time, we would try the Monster expansion pack of our beloved Harry Potter tabletop game. It took a long time just to set it up and try to figure out all of the new rules. We then decided to get dinner prepped because it would need some simmering time on the stove: it was gumbo night, y’all! I was excited because I love the flavor profile of Cajun/Creole cuisine. It was pretty easy to prep. Some chopped onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic went into our Dutch oven with one cup of the homemade veggie broth I’d made the other day. I quickly thawed out the frozen okra in a separate small saucepot and eventually that went into the Dutch oven too with some diced tomatoes (BPA-free, thank you very much~), diced zucchini, and lots of delicious seasoning. We then added quite a bit of broth - everything that was left of the batch I’d made. It was a really nice, thick broth since I had pulverized all of the veggies the water had steeped in. We brought everything to a boil, threw in a can of red kidney beans (not BPA-free, alas), and simmered the gumbo for about half an hour. When it was done, we served it over brown rice, per Dr. G’s suggestion. 

Here’s a little pot action before we added in all of the broth and the beans:

And here’s the finished product:

The verdict?? SO GOOD! I loved it and actually got seconds. Sam liked it too; I don’t think he loved it quite as much as I did but then I’ve always been a bigger lover of Cajun food. Dr. G. claims his recipe makes four 1.25 cup servings, but it honestly made WAY more than that for us. I feel like his math was off... like, he accounted for the 6 cups of broth but not the fact that there were a ton of veggies and beans added in to the pot as well?? Not to mention the brown rice. But I’m not complaining, because I love the way it turned out, and it’ll be lunch for the next couple of days now. Oh, and I did salt the veggies a little bit when they were first steaming in the Dutch oven, and our Cajun-free seasoning was definitely NOT salt-free (salt is actually the first ingredient, lawl ¯\_(ツ)_/¯), so I’m sure that helped a bit. 

I think that’s really all there is to report! Other than the fact that we went back to our Harry Potter game after dinner and failed miserably. The creatures/villains completely murdered us on round 1. Oh well. Another day maybe... 

Cheers to what I think might be my shortest blog post yet. See you tomorrow! 

Gadget rec of the day: an electric griddle! We use it almost every weekend. Definitely had to wipe a trace coating of bacon grease from it today though... It’s a lifesaver for us especially since we have such a lousy stove. 

Music rec of the day: (Nothing But) Flowers by the Talking Heads