How is it that feather blankets are always so much cozier than even the snuggliest synthetic fills? I think it might have something to do with the absurd fluffiness and/or little scrunchy noises – even the expensive synthetics are only somewhat fluffy, and they don’t make the same scrunchy noises – but can’t quite pin it down. (Har-de-har, down! I’m so clever.)

In any case, a nice rainy day + new duck-down blanket + tomato soup + grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles (triangles! not rectangles or loaf-shaped facsimiles thereof, triangles! I challenge anyone who disagrees with me on this to a duel) = fabulous. Adding a Kitchen Stories matinee makes me want to move to Norway where this kind of coziness is strictly enforced seven months out of twelve (in L.A. it is only grudgingly tolerated for two weeks in February).

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