So Odin lounges, scratching and rubbing his bloated tummy, as if he could merely remove the pressure of too much gluttony. From the other room, he hears gentle sighs and throat clearings, the dainty sounds of a woman sleeping. He mentally envisions her, a bare leg protruding from a satin bed dress, her breasts swelling against the cloth with each breath.
But Odin knows if he barges in and awakens his wifely maiden, a storm will erupt. So he lounges, hoping the brandy will settle his roiling stomach. Outside, all is darkness, not a glint of moon or star. Then from the shadowy light of burning candle wax, Odin begins to write a tale.

Once so very long ago, in a dirt floored cottage, lived a peasant family of meager means. A plump, pleasant woman who always hummed a tune, and a man, embittered with what could have been. Many children of all ages, with which this family was blessed, both girls and boys. The boys would wade in the streams, catching frogs. The girls frolicked in the meadows while picking flowers, and also humming a tune. The boys would jump from rocks, with wooden swords they'd brandish. The girls would play with kittens. But mostly boys would do their chores and herd the cows to pasturelands. The girls would make bread, fetch water and rinse clothing in the creek. As the children grew and drifted away, the man became more bitter, while the woman hummed her little tunes, while missing all the patter.

Love ya' frijoles dos XXs (that was for Rick and Dale)
Franchitoe