Home, Hearth & Nuptial Accountability

Yesterday, having temporarily satisfied the honey-do list, I decided to hike the snow-covered path and take a break at my cabin. Having arrived, I quickly established a roaring fire in the wood range and stood huddled at its side, nose and toes cherry red, and shivering enthusiastically. Once the oven was good and hot, it occurred to me that rather than standing on the frigid floor, the open oven door would serve nicely as a warm and inviting foot rest.  I sprawled contentedly on a bench, tugged off my icy boots, rested my socked and steaming feet on the newly improvised roost, and began sleepily luxuriating. Some moments later, I detected an unpleasant aroma filling the room and realized simultaneously that my thick and heavily insulated socks were no longer steaming.  They were smoking!  Becoming instantly and uncharacteristically animated, I sprang to my feet. My superheated socks adhered passionately and irrevocably to my toes, and I circled the room frantically in a gaited and stylish ambulation not unlike a hatchling colt on ice! This concluded my sabbatical, and I returned happily to home, hearth and nuptial accountability.  SC