Riding home the last kilometre of the birch forest before you get to your winter cottage with attached stable in the light snow. You put your pony up, clean his hooves, wipe and brush him off, and find you've been expected. You walk into the living room direct from the stable, and close the half door that separates the partitions. The fire's high, and a kettle's turned out on the fireplace crane. A thick, cream of mushroom soup with garlic and scallions, from what you can smell. Tay pot on the table with three empty cups and place settings waiting. Just as you hang your cloak, the other two members of your household come into the room; one carrying a tray of buttered bread, and the other a heavily ladden plate of various cheeses and dried fruit. They put it on the table, pour tay for themselves and you, and sit down after they get their soup. You smile as you raise your cup to them, before filling your own bowl.
All we couldn't eat, my equine friend would get after dinner.
(Please pardon the babbling, but I wish it could so be. . .NOW!)
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