Dec 28, 2014

Glutinous Maximus

Our sort-of-real Christmas Feast happened a couple of days after Christmas. It bucketed down that day, if memory serves. It must have done because I have pictures of Lyra jumping up and down in the gutter, dressed in her Sunday best, with dirty dribbles running down her tummy from the puddle-guzzling she'd been up to.

It was a two-table affair with a posse of Nicole's work-buddies and assorted children demolishing some roast thingy the details of which I am unconcerned with which Nicole overcooked in the barbie. I, the difficult veggie, was served up with Nicole's signature nut roast and cranberry pie, which is lovely, to say the least, and was destined to last into the New Year as the staple leftover of choice. People brought nibbles and cake and cake. We ate the nibbles and cake and cake as well as the gastronomic piece de resistance.

And so, we ate and drank into the early evening, and in the immortal words of some poor mortal, "a good time was probably had by most."

I almost made it through without farting uncontrollably in front of Nicole's esteemed colleagues.

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