[dropcap]O[/dropcap]nlookers thought I was drunk. I wasn’t. I’d eaten too much of Jamie‘s fried chicken at the Christmas party, and had to be escorted to my truck. After inhaling twenty-three drumsticks, I lost the ability to pronounce the letter D.
I do this every year. Why do I pretend Christmas is about anything else? I know better. Christmas isn’t about lights, trees, or stockings. It’s about eating so much I piss myself.
Creamed potatoes, biscuits, ham, turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, gravy, sweet potato pie, and shut my mouth. Along with: white chocolate pretzels, pecan pie, fudge, gingerbread, fudge, chocolate, fudge, spiked eggnog, fudge, walnuts, almonds, and fudge.
Say what you will, but without these foods, December’s about as Christmasy as an afternoon at the DMV. Don’t believe me? Try this: sing a Christmas carol and see how you feel. Nothing?
Try watching a Bing Crosby special.
Try this: eat the hindleg of a momma hog, smashed between two biscuits, then smear it with jam. Now have a seat by your tree. What happens? I’ll tell you what happens, “O Holy Night” practically sings itself, that’s what.
I’ll say it plainly. Holidays are the opening acts for supper.
God. I feel better admitting that. As a matter of fact, I wish church deacons passed out food instead of candles at Christmas Eve service. You want joy, peace, and love? Eat a handful of Miss Vickie‘s coconut cake and tell me you don’t feel those things in earnest. If that doesn’t work, try cheese dip.
If that doesn’t work, try telling someone how much you love them. Look them in the eye when you say it. Then eat Christmas supper together.
You’ll feel something.