the great eat of 2003

I should be at work.
I should be actually at my desk, doing productive things.

I’m still in my pajamas.
And I intend to stay in my pajamas.
(Mostly because nothing else fits after two days of holiday feasting.)

I can’t believe I survived The Great Eat of 2003. Two generations of Sicilian women and one Jewish gourmet descended on the kitchen and didn’t let up. There was the antipasto (I ate boars meat sausage. Yes indeed I did), then lasagna, then salad and bread, then lemon chicken, then fruit. Then came the canoli and cheesecake and coffee. I was honestly in a lot of pain by the time the dessert rolled around.

At one point, as Chris was trying to force feed me pastries, I looked to his mother for help.

“I can’t! I’ll be sick! Jackie, tell him!”
She took a long look at my pained face, back at Chris with the canoli (all the way from the best pastry shop in New York City, I was told) and shook her head.
“You have to eat the canoli.”

And I did.

Christmas was really nice. Warm people, warm food, really warm, cozy spot on the couch where I curled up and fell asleep between meal courses. We said grace. We lit Hanukkah candles. We told stories. (I was ever so grateful when Chris said, “Hey guys, remember the time H flooded the apartment building?”) And when my sister called from California, we sang “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” My end sounded a bit froggy, as I had managed to pick up a pretty decent a cold.

But it’s like Krissa said, “Maybe when you said, All I want for Christmas is you, Santa heard FLU. All I want for Christmas is the flu.”

Maybe it’s time for the big guy to retire.