I spent Christmas as I usually do, quietly and in the company of my parents, my little sister, and Showcase. I managed to survive Mass without bursting into flames for all my heathen behavior this year, though my Dad and I spent most of the service trading barbs about the cantor with the speech impediment and the faygola music director's excruciating penchant for requiring a sung response to every freakin' prayer, spiced with bad Jesus-pop melodies. There were enough quilted Chanel bags in my immediate eyeline to stock Barney's for an entire season, and the eight-year old girl in front of me revealed a pair of Dolce & Gabbana fringed suede boots as she climbed on top of the pew trying to grab a better view of the processional. Though it's been over 10 years since my Catholicism lapsed and I disappointed my parents by ceasing my attendance at Sunday Mass, a ritual they had instilled in me since birth, very little has changed in the Westwood parish where I grew up. Same rich kids, different year. New pint-sized replacements of my former peers.
On Christmas Day I cooked a grand meal for everyone. I've been handling the holiday meals in my family for maybe the last four or five years, and I make a once-a-year splurge on some premium ingredients. In honor of Grubby I decided to try out my new digital camera and take a few shots of my handiwork:
Cognac-Flambed Filet Mignon
Truffle Mushroom Risotto
Showcase and I are going to catch a flick tonight... Munich I think. We head up to San Francisco on Thursday for New Years'. We're thinking scenic coastal route on the way up and 90 MPH through Steinbeck country on the way back.
I'm going to do my damndest to finish up both Vegas trip reports tonight and tomorrow. I still can't sleep. I think Pauly's insomnia has rubbed off on me.