roasting.

it's christmas!

lincoln center was beautiful last night.



so was mass, but anni gave me the giggles and we've been excommunicated. we heathens stopped for a nightcap--in bar that completely gave the lie to the popular image of sad lonely folks drowning their christmas sads in vats of irish whiskey; it was warm and joyful and full of happy people--we lay us down in our new sock monkey pajamas to sleep.



our breakfast was weird. my streak of successful--admirable, even--baking was brought to a halt with the enormous failure of the morning's cinnamon rolls.



i won't get into regrets and recriminations, but suffice it to say that the right pan and the amazing rolling pin my mother gave me for christmas would have made a difference.

opening the stacks was a joy. carnage!







and the bounty is indescribable.


and also, since i previously introduced you to the aged toaster of my discontent, let me present this year's model:



i love a toaster. good job, christopher. a man who gives you yellow bowls is a keeper.

we're trying the lamb roast right now. the damned butcher didn't butterfly it as requested, so chris took the knife to it. it is now what we call a puzzle-roast; however, chunks of roast lamb are just as delicious as one unadulterated lump. wish us luck.

merry christmas, all.