Not hyperbole.

When I held my niece A. this afternoon, I told her parents J. and E. that she weighed a bit more than a golden eagle. They didn't know how much that was. I told them it was about as much as a housecat. They didn't know how much that was, either.

I can get not knowing the golden eagle. It's the housecat that's baffling me. J. and I didn't grow up with a cat and, apparently, neither did E., but I'd think they'd both have a heuristic model for that already. It's possible that given my social circles, I might be over-estimating how common housecats are across the United States.

But that's not the best part of the afternoon.

Months ago, I had a dream - a literal dream - about a russet potato dessert. When I told the internet about it, someone pointed me towards white potato pie. I knew I had to make it someday, and when my younger brother R.'s birthday came around, it seemed like a good fit. Last year it was a carrot pie, and this year it's potato.

The recipe I used made enough batter for two nine-inch pie shells, so he got two pies. I had some blueberries in my freezer, so I made an easy spiced blueberry compote to go with the pie. We all had some this afternoon, and rarely do I get the chance to mean it when I say it was the stuff dreams are made of.