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.
Today, I ate braised short ribs and polenta while watching a documentary on people who run the Chicago marathon.
Someone else–a better woman, perhaps–might have taken one look at those fit folks pounding the pavement in the name of personal betterment and dropped her fork. Not me. Not even on New Year’s Day, which is THE DAY for pretending like you’re going to become a better person. Maybe it’s a sign that I will not become a better person this year–that I can’t even pretend I will change anymore. All I know is I watched Deena Kastor talk about running a 5-minute mile, and then played “here comes the airplane” with a fork full of creamy polenta without guilt.
What can I say? It felt right.
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