pfft

Usually it's a bad idea to b.u.i. (blog under the influence). Like drunk dialing there's danger of verbal droolage. HOWEVER, it's a rare and glorious opportunity to test your spelling skills and spew skewed truth. Happy Holidays, people. I'm having a great time. I made some fucking awesome food. And pies. Strawberry-raspberry LATTICED pie. A thing of fussy beauty.

Really. I'm having an exceptional holiday. A few days off. There were enormous cast-iron cooking implements under the tree for me. They fill me with the joy of oversized sturdiness. I am basking in the renewed wonder of having truly kick-ass offspring. I am stupid happy to be spending a few days off with Barbara. While I don't love everyone, I'm dangerously close to that. Which is why I'm staying home tonight. Lest I become to publicly effusive. There's nothing worse than being hungover and hating everything and remembering how you were drunk and loving everything the night before. Too much contrast. It gives you a headache.

Feliz Navidad mortals. Happy mythical infant deity celebration. I must go lie down now. Or is it lay down? I can never remember.

P.S. Unlike the string of fuckups that were my Thanksgiving experience, the past four or five days of intensive cooking produced almost universally positive results. Dishes behaved like they should have and came out out of the oven like Rockettes--kicking in perfect unison. Desserts bloomed in flaky, creamy beauty. The eggplant parmigiana was a personal best. But I am fucking exhausted and refuse to cook for at least a week.

P.P.S. So much more to tell you but, alas, the alcohol has breached my brain's sleep center, forced its way in and is in the midst of a full out mutiny. I am folding like a deck of cards...