when shall we three meet again?

when the hurly-burly's done; when the battle is lost and won

There is an early memory, of a familiar tug of hair, the feel of a comb parting the hair into conforming sections to complete the task of braiding our long, wavy locks. M. and Alpha grew accustomed to this daily ritual of hair braiding (although not without some reluctance at times!), Omega developed impeccable dodging abilities, writhing artfully to try and avoid the swift skilled hands of our mother.

Why this memory now? Weaving three strands seems a consistent trope in our moving, grooving, revolutionary molotov juicebox lives:

3 strands, at times tightly woven into careful, clean beauty. Then unravelled -- one strand may escape, fall loose out of the weave to move independently in the wind, (or the touque pulled over our ears every Canadian winter). All three strands may move their separate ways, or loosely hold together, in a relaxed yet connected, braid.

I'm not sure how to further this metaphor to the bread, but this is our Christmas bread for Jan. 6th, we have been making those braids together since we can remember...

And... cannot resist breaking the poetic motif with another archival treasure:

We would like to call this one, "the original hangover" (only too bad that the cider-lover is missing from this photo... but this was before the time of Omega)

On that note, we thank you for sharing in our adventures along with us: M. overseeing Alpha and Omega.

We will try and maintain the magical movement of these Molotov Juicebox memories as much as possible -- so check back soon!