Every year around Thanksgiving, flocks of Bohemian Waxwings converge on Anchorage to feast on berries from ornamental trees . Their frantic flight and frenzied high pitched twitter reminds me of an Alfred Hitchcock movie, Psycho, I think. There were clouds of them today and their mood matched mine as I bustled to get through one last day of the Christmas rush before my vacation started. It was sort of a slow-motion panicky bustle since there has been so much snow. The birds must have a better union, though because when it got dark, they went to bed, and I went to the next street.
Lately, I have been experimenting with different foods that I normally don't eat. Don't think beakers and Bunsen burners. Conceptually, it has been more like a "How many people can we stuff into this phone booth?" undergraduate project with me playing the role of the phone booth. Last night for my research I ate some Buffalo Bleu chips. Apparently the crunchy part was salt with some potato dust sprinkled on. More investigation seems in order.