Cranky and I went out for some remedial Christmas, um, remediality. (I ride the short bus. Forgive me.)
Don't tell Cranky (or my mom or my brother or my sister-in-law or my brother-in-law), but they've got some killer panettone for sale at Il Fornaio, one of Northern California's nicer chain Italian restaurants. I did an interview with Il Fornaio's chief baker a few years ago (he was on the American team competing in the Coupe du Monde de la Boulangerie in Paris, in 1999 — the year they won!). The Christmasy fruitcake (sorry, that's what it is) is buttery, orangey, dreamy. Smells divine.
So, now there's one in a bag in a closet, awaiting wrapping paper and a temporary park under the tree.
It's not at all clear who is giving this gift to whom. We bought it together, Cranky and I, and then agreed to forget about it for a week.
But in a week, we'll be making toast out of it. Maybe even French toast. (Would the Italians mind?)