On This Day of Christmas...

...a good friend gave to me a big bag of crostili.  Have you ever eaten crostili? They are a  dangerously tasty Italian pastry.

I suppose I should put the confession right up front, so I don't chicken out and forget to mention that I'm pretty sure that the crostili were meant for Robin and me, but they came to me earlier today, so I ate some at lunch time. Then, several hours later, I came home from work, ate my supper, and decided to have crostili for dessert. The trouble is, they kept tasting like more (and more and more) -- and...

Well, I've been rehearsing what I was going to write. I started rehearsing in my head about the time I started eating crostili tonight, and I was going to say something like "I suspect there will be no crostili left by the time Robin gets home" but it's gone way beyond that now. There are no more crostili. I ate them up like a little Miss Piggy, and I fully expect to have gained ten pounds when I check my weight tomorrow morning.  And Robin doesn't get any crostili.  So I'm a pig AND a bad wife. Two strikes, and the night is young.

The one good thing that came out of this orgy of crostil-eating is that the hallway carpet is nice and clean. Every time I got up and went to the kitchen to grab some more crostili, I scattered crumbs on the carpet, so I started vacuuming them up. Grab, eat, spill, vacuum. Rinse. Repeat. I have an overfull belly and my vacuuming arm has had a workout. The rest of me, not so much -- but I deserve a rest after last night, when I got out my dvd "Walk Away the Pounds" with Leslie Sansone and the Stepford Wives. What with the snow and the rain and then not feeling well, I hadn't been getting any exercise, so I popped the dvd into the player and did the 3-mile walk. Oy. I really must get back to a regular exercise routine. That routine used to be easy.

But I digress. What I intended to say was that the crostili (by the way, crostili is a very short pastry dredged with icing sugar - the stuff of dreams) made me remember how when my mother baked pies, which she did often, she would put whatever pastry dough was left after trimming onto a cookie sheet, sprinkle the dough with cinnamon and sugar, and bake it. The result was romantically called Cinnamon Crust. I don't know which was better, the pie or the Cinnamon Crust (except when it was lemon meringue pie, because I'm not especially fond of that. Then it was definitely the Cinnamon Crust.)

So thank you to Franco for the crostili and for bringing back fond memories.