Merry Christmas

We're ready.

Every last gift is wrapped.

Charlie has on his Christmas collar.

Henry is down with a cold. A marathon afternoon of Futurama was the only thing keeping him conscious all afternoon.

Charlie was concerned. Or sleepy. It's hard to tell which.

During dinner we watched Scrooged, which may very well become a holiday tradition around here. Henry was a fan.

I suggested we put a plate out for Santa, and I thought Henry was going to scoff at the idea--he's a BIG KID, you guys. But then he said he'd write a letter, too. It's pretty great.

(Okay, we're ready in every way except for not having an unbroken cookie in the house. We're hoping the chocolate makes up for it.)

We hope you all have a joyous Christmas. I'm so thankful to all of you for reading and commenting. You've changed my life, truly.

Christmas Eve Eve.

shopping list where's my shopping list crap did I buy enough rolls? Do I need to buy more liquor? Crap crap crap crap

Why hello, and welcome. Welcome to my holiday-addled brains.

wrap more wrap FASTER no WRAP SLOWER but BETTER where are the gift tags did I even buy gift tags this year? Crap crap CRAP

This isn't even an accurate representation of the activity up there, brain-wise. This is way too coherent to be accurate. In reality, my brain right now is a soggy mess of tinsel and nog. There are no words, just images of the Perfect Christmas that Will Be. My cortex is trying to sort it all out while my primitive brain finds whatever stale cookies I have and directs the arm-parts to put them in the mouth-hole.

do I have enough side dishes? I think I have enough but what if I don't? WILL EVERYONE GET UP AND LEAVE?

We're hosting Christmas for the second year in a row, and I'm actually really excited (albeit a teeny bit preoccupied and maybe a smidgen frantic). I love planning these things, although in the actual execution I sometimes wonder what the hell I was thinking. My entire family is coming, plus friends, plus Scott's parents. I'm not sure where I'm going to seat everyone, so I'm instituting a rule: Jews sit on the porch. Hell, they're Russian Jews! They like the cold!

Hide the rolls from the cat SHE WILL EAT THEM hide the cookies from the cat SHE WILL EAT THEM TOO let the cat play with the wrapped presents THERE IS NO FIGHTING IT

Ha, ha, I'm not putting the Jews on the porch. I am feeding them ham, though, which may be just as bad. While I do it I will shout, "You're here to worship MY messiah now, suckers! Eat your CHRISTMAS HAM!"

My audience is going to think I'm completely losing it now could I please shut up about the Jews in my family? Okay shutting up now

Anyway. I am off to contemplate and re-contemplate tomorrow and how the timing of all this cooking and cleaning should go, and so I will not be posting again until after Christmas. At that time, I will report on the holiday goings-on in the Finslippy household, and whether Santa got Henry all the presents he asked for (hint: yes) and if I managed to poison anyone (unlikely, consider the ham is already cooked, and everything else is vegetables, but you never know) and how much liquor was consumed.

Happy Everything, readers!

All that was missing was some figgy pudding.

Wonderland column from last week! Forgot to mention! Highlights from last year!

Resuming writing full sentences… now.

Some of you have asked what I cooked for Christmas dinner. Here’s the list. After trying out a few recipes in the preceding week, I hit upon some good ones on Epicurious. I know, how original of me!

Without further ado:

Roast Beef Tenderloin with Port Sauce

Avert your eyes, vegetarians! This was one hell of a tasty slab of meat. Even though my meat thermometer went all wonky, claiming the inside of the tenderloin was well over 200 degrees when in fact it was still lukewarm and mooing, and there was much last-minute cursing and roasting sliced portions and hoping no one died as a result. We all lived. And enjoyed.

Wild Mushroom Saute

I made this for Thanksgiving, when I had but two side dishes to compose, and it was delightful and easy. Also when people asked me what kind of mushrooms I used, I got to tell them that I just picked some from the local park, ha ha ha ha! I’m kidding, of course—I could never find that many mushrooms in one outing. I stuck to the boring wild-mushroom options (crimini and baby bella, shhh) which kept the price down. No chanterelles for us. No one complained.

Mustard-Roasted Potatoes

I actually just drooled a little while pondering how to describe my love for these potatoes. And I think that says it all.

Cracked Pepper Biscuits

In retrospect, making biscuits took things one step too far. Plus I doubled the recipe. Because God forbid my family only have one biscuit apiece! Heaven forfend! Next year I will purchase some rolls and hope I’m not disowned.

Arugula, Blue Cheese, and Walnut Salad

This was my own creation. It’s fairly self-evident, no? Arugula! Blue cheese! Uh, walnuts! Add a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and you have Alice’s Favorite Salad.

My sister brought the dessert, which was a good thing, because if it had been up to me I would have made some kind of Flaming Meringue Souffle before quietly expiring in the kitchen. She spared me that fate. Thank you, Liz.

So there you have it. I’m tired just describing this dinner. Tired, and wishing I still had some leftovers.

And so that was Christmas.

As I was saying. Christmas, man. Wow. I am nodding thoughtfully while gazing out the window. Now I am punching my palm with my fist. I don't know why. And I'm biting my knuckles. What am I doing?

Christmas was a roaring success, but on the days leading up to it, I went about 40% too crazy for my physical health. Like, on Christmas Eve, I shouldn't have spent over seven hours in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner. Four hours, I could have done. But not seven. Seven is too many. It leads to pains in the body and stabby stabbiness in the temples.

I'm biting my knuckles again.

Christmas, though! I was worried that Henry wouldn't experience the heartstopping joy on Christmas morning that I remembered from my long-ago youth, but all my fears were unwarranted. Just the idea that Santa showed up was almost more than he could handle. He leaped into our bed Christmas morning, and I volunteered to go downstairs and see if Santa had come. "Look at the plate of cookies," Henry instructed me. "If the cookies are eaten, that's a good sign that I got presents." Another good sign? Presents.

Anyway, as I am sure you are aware, Santa had indeed visited at some point in the night, leaving as silently as he arrived, and Henry hyperventilated at the sight of his presents in a manner that I found intensely gratifying. "I must have been really good this year," he kept saying. He was pleased with pretty much everything he unwrapped. Just the act of unwrapping was enough for him. I could have wrapped anything. His pillow, nail clippers, a tuning fork. Instant Present! Next year I will wrap each individual Lego piece.

My family came and there were more presents, and drinks, and dinner was actually edible, and best of all, my nephew Paul completed a massive Star Wars Lego project with Henry, helping him build some kind of droid army in a battleship made of over 1300 pieces, and not once was I called upon to assist. Henry would come out once in a while, grab a cookie, and then announce that he had to return to the "Trade Federation." Whatever, kid, as long as it doesn't involve me standing or moving.

One thing would have made it perfect. Scott came up with the idea of dressing as Jacob Marley for Christmas, rattling the chains he forged in life, clutching his head bandage. When someone asked him how his job was going, he was going to wail, MANKIND SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY BUSINESS WAAAIOOOOUUU. I pictured him camping it up as a spectre while my family tried to act nonchalant, and I begged him to do it. But nooo. Something about not having time to construct a costume, and he didn't really mean it, and anyway it would only be funny to us.

Bah.

Anyway, I swallowed my bitter disappointment and enjoyed myself. And now it's two days later and I can barely crawl across the room without wanting to curl up and take a leisurely twelve-hour siesta. I don’t know if it was all the hard work or the many glasses of Amaretto-Cranberry Kiss. Or both! Probably both.