an open letter to my leftovers

Recent evidence to the contrary, I have had my fill of holiday-time treats. I’ve seen all of the sugar cookies, eggnog, black-eyed peas and fudge I can handle.

It is my greatest wish that these leftovers would kindly see themselves out (Is that possible? I don’t want to do the dishes.)

One can dream, right? In the name of dreams and my long-suffering waistline, I leave you with this:

Dear seasonal fare,

Please get the hell out of my house. Go and don’t come back for one whole year.

Regards,

The Mrs.

P.S. Leave the champagne.