I unpacked a few boxes of books, thanks to wearing down my boss who really loves it when I pester him for a bookshelf until he gives in, and to P.J.s and his friend for hauling it across the frozen tundra that is my driveway.
Here's a gem that I've had since I was little, and is now Gianni's favorite bedtime story:
Socks For Supper, by Jack Kent.
Published 1978, which incidentally was an excellent year both for the written word and for short, fluffy, brunettes named Melyssa.
It still has my handwritten name in the front cover.
It's about a poor turnip farmer and his wife. They only eat turnips because they're so poor. But one day they decide to trade a pair of socks for some milk and cheese from their neighbor who has a cow. I love the cheese in this picture. So round and plump, and it totally makes me want some Gouda.
So, they become quite addicted to cheese and milk, but they don't have any more socks to trade. So his wife unravels part of his sweater to knit some more. This goes on until he doesn't have any sweater left.
I adore his little round belly and his need for a man-sseire.
Poor farmer. Traipsing through snow and blizzards half nekked, in his quest for a little Gorgonzola. A bit of Cheddar. A taste of bleu. A true cheese lover would do no less. They must have cheese!
I can relate.
In an ironic twist of fate, the cow farmer's wife had been UNRAVELING the socks in order to knit a sweater for HER husband!
I know. Didn't exactly see that plot thicken, didja?
But the sweater doesn't fit the svelte cow farmer.
So, she gives it to the old man. Because she had noticed, he didn't have one.
And of course, it fits perfectly.
I love this book.
Books make me happy.
Also, I want cheese.