On this day in 1666, Samuel Pepys wrote in his diary:
25. Christmas day. Lay pretty long in bed. And then rise, leaving my wife desirous to sleep, having sat up till 4 this morning seeing her maids make mince-pies. I go to church, where our parson Mills made a good sermon. Then home, and dine well on some good ribs of beef roasted and mince pies; only my wife, brother, and Barker, and plenty of good wine of my own; and my heart full of true joy and thanks to God Almighty for the goodness of my condition at this day.
Think that came from the Writer's Almanac for yesterday. We had the good ribs of beef – ate almost all of what was billed as rib roast sufficient for eight – and good wine of our own, and enjoyed the company of the girl. My brandy was, as predicted, resupplied by Santa, and I am now dashing fearlessly into the last decade of the 20th Century with a cell phone. I've not had one, as it always seemed to me that giving people the wherewithal to annoy the hell out of you at all times and places is not actually progress. However, the arguments for it finally outweigh the technophobic revulsion, so I've got one. My wife said the last post here sounded like Oliver Twist, what's with the ball of kitchen string. Said it sounded as if kitchen string was all I got. This year, I got a sack of cornmeal with an Italian alias, polenta. It's milled somewhere nearby, so it fits the local-eating theme that is likely to be forced on us by changing transportation methods.
The girl gave us frequent-flier miles she'd accumulated at work, miles sufficient to see us to New York for a dog-sitting gig in February. The girl, bless her gravid little heart, is due to deliver about the same time and can't use the miles herself. It was a generous gift. I'm already figuring out which sandwich to have at Katz's Deli [pastrami, I think] and which museums to visit.