I don't think I talked about Christmas dinner.
We scaled it back to its merest essence this year: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Not even a shred of Brussels sprouts. No figgy pudding. Nary a glass of egg nog.
The whole point, after all, is — OK, two points: 1) Beef fat (for the Yorkie); and 2) Meat for sandwiches, later.
Which is not to say the roast beef, hot from the oven, wasn't fabboo. But the pud — well, this old girl's aging digestive system is very close to closing the books on that tradition. Urp.
The beauty, though, was in today's lunch; made with fresh, local sourdough bread; smeared with an illegal mixture of mayo, sour cream and horseradish; topped with moist, pink slices of prime rib; lightly showered with a pinch of salt (confession: I'm not super crazy about black pepper); and enhanced with the sweetest, tenderest leaves of baby Romaine lettuce.
O, bless us, every one!