I had to go over to our soon-to-close-forever Fry's this afternoon because Trader Joe's wasn't open. The shelves were increasingly bare. But I did score some Breyer's peach ice cream on sale. It reminds me of sitting on my grandmother Jean's back porch for some reason. Actually, I can picture every room in her art-filled colonial farm house just looking at the stuff. The taste makes the sensation almost unbearable, like those blades of grass in C.S. Lewis's Surprised By Joy that cut the feet of new arrivals in heaven. Tonight, though, I'm willing to risk Proustian apoplexy. I'm watching my all-time favorite mini-series -- Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy with Alec Guiness (and a young and silent Patrick Stewart playing the Soviet agent Karla!) -- on the telly and enjoying our Christmas tree's last night. The floodgates of meaning are already open. I might as well indulge myself.