I am not hung over! Though I only had the beer. Possibly because I also had the milk and thus hydration and stuff (though one beer is just one beer).
Older kidlet and I split the last piece of cake at breakfast. Housemate said, “Ooh, your bread is done!” and grabbed a piece; after I was done with a bit of kid-wrangling, I cut three pieces for offerings. (One for the domovoi, who always gets the first piece I cut of any bread I bake; one for the front yard spirits; one for the back yard spirits.)
The front yard spirits wanted honey on the bread, which is normal and expected. I left it on their usual stump, with one of the sprays of rosebuds from the bouquet. I brought another rose and another piece to the back and left it; the back yard spirits and I have not yet worked out a formal relationship, but as I was leaving I got the distinct impression that they might like some alcohol. Okay then, progress on making friends!
After I came back in from leaving the gifts, I cut a piece of bread for the older kidlet and for myself. I buttered mine; she wanted hers straight up.
I put the remaining roses in a vase.
The liminality of the festival, which got very intense for me overnight, is fading, but even as it fades there is the simple presence of the bread, so intensely symbolic in the way it is of the Duat and of here in the daylit lands.
It’s good bread.