Christmas is Over, the Guests are Getting Fat
My brother was very excited about the CDs he'd burned us all as Christmas presents. He's not much for the surprise element, and was bursting to tell us our playlists before he even got here. "For Mike," he told me on the phone, "I made a Playatastik mix. It's all songs about bitches and hos. I thought that would be funny since he's married to my sister. Then I made him a Honky mix to make up for it."
When the families arrived, however, as usual they all went off to do their own thing and left us in the apartment alone because they don't actually care for our company. Only by dint of extreme whining was I able to get them into the apartment and feed them. Because some of you care about this sort of thing, here is what we served:
Asparagus wrapped in prosciutto (a reprise from last year)
Fusilli with caramelized onions
ice cream (because the intended meringues came out Cajun style)
baked brie w/ sundried tomatoes and classy chips
white bean and black olive soup
gingerbread with more ice cream
Our actual dinner conversation was less outrageous this year than last because we didn't have Scott. But we did have my boss Kathie on the 25th, who made herself instantly beloved. And Mojo (before Form pops a vein, Mojo is the child's given name, not a blog nickname). And everyone either liked the food or did a good job pretending. Also, for those of you who are keeping track, both meals were cooked in concert, with Mike heading up the pasta and the kebabs and me the other stuff. He's a very good cook now.
In the afternoon the families all split up to see various movies. The women (not including me) went to see Rumor Has It, despite the obvious portents of suckage, all of which were fully realized. Mike, Fritz and Mojo attended Syriana, which they liked. Dad, David and I went to see King Kong, which is just a really great movie. I honestly think it's the best action movie I've ever seen. The three of us couldn't stop talking about it all through dinner, till Mojo snarked "Wow, it's like the three of you just saw Casablanca for the first time." Fritz' curiosity was sparked and he went to see it the day after. He felt it was racist, which just goes to show that Fritz has fallen for the ecologic fallacy. If 34 wants to fund a return trip to the theater I'll gladly write a review. At dinner that night I made the mistake of sharing my frustration at not having an occasion in which to break out the phrase "Sam Bowie Syndrome." The boys (Mike and David) loved it, loved it, and for the rest of the visit I had no peace because every change of topic led to a discussion if its appropriateness for Sam Bowie Syndrome. "James Madison was the Sam Bowie of presidents." "Chanukah is the Sam Bowie of Jewish holidays." "3 Montague Terrace is the Sam Bowie of Montague Terrace." Why? "Cause it ain't got no plaque." And just for good measure, at the end of the meal David told the waiter he was the Hakeem Olajuwon of waiters.
The next day it was pouring and I was even sicker, so while Mike went to work and everyone else went back to the movies, I read my book in bed and gargled. Mojo and David left for their California road trip, with my mother predicting doom and pestilence for every leg of the journey--"Oh, but you should really look up Cousin Lolly when you get to San Diego. If you make it that far." I emerged that evening to meet the group for dinner at a restaurant we never eat at when we're paying ourselves. The wait was long, but no one was very hungry yet so we stood around a tall table getting drunk. My mom, being a small person, became drunk rather quickly, so when Queenie offered me a chair and I said I didn't want one and Queenie got one anyway my mother turned to me and threatened, "If you don't sit in that chair now, I'm going to put that umbrella where the monkey put the nut." I sat.