I go A-Waissaling

We had enrichment tonight, sort of an enormous book club to discuss Majorie Hinckley's book "Letters."

Anyway, they had a big crockpot full of waissal, which I really like. Waissel is that drink where my Dad would take a pot; toss in a bunch of OJ, a bunch of apple juice, a bunch of floaty spicy things (cinnamon sticks, these wierd little black balls, strange twigs, suspicious specks which I think are from nutmeg, etc.) and cook it on the stove.

I love it. Although getting to the liquid without scooping up all the floaties can be a neat trick. Sort of like a reverse bobbing for apples.

Anyway, the crockpot had hardly any floaties, so I ladle myself a glass, and then I couldn't remember where I grabbed the ladle from. Was it on the side? Was it in the wassail? The crockpot looked deep, so I was afraid that if I stuck it back in, the ladle would slide all the way down to the bottom of the pot. So I tried to sort of lie it across the top of the crockpot, but that wasn't working either. So I tried the side, and then I looked around the table to see if there was like some sort of ladle plate, and then I tried to leave it in the wiassel, but angled so the hook would catch the lid of the crockpot. (didn't work) I was attempting to lay it diagonally across the pot when a girl at the bread plate said "Excuse me, are you talking to the wassal?"

And that's when I realized that I had been narrating my every attempt at ladle placement. I looked at her, mouth open as I made this realization. Then I recovered, stared back down at the wassel and said. "Yes. Yes I am. I'm hoping it will tell me where the ladle goes."
I looked back at her. She had this look on her face like she was torn between laughing or backing away slowly. So I said, "I'm sorry. I'm really tired." and then she laughed.

It was a little embarressing though.