Well, most mornings I step out the front door and say, 'Another damn day closer to death.' This morning I said, 'Another damn year closer to death.' We hew to the folk observances of our culture, so we we lunched on blackeyed peas and hamhocks plus steamed cabbage. May not guarantee prosperity, but it did make a nice lunch. Blackeyes taste like dirt, but in a good way.
Had my customary birthday dinner last night – pot roast and spaghetti, vino, antepasto, and a nice little dessert of pumpkin pies that herself baked. Served beer bread with it, simple as one-two-three: One can of beer, two tablespoons of sugar, three cups of self-rising flour, mix it together, leave it sit for a quarter hour, then bake on a greased sheet at 350° for an hour and fifteen minutes. Operating in the spaghetti mode, I sprinkle it with Italian herbs, brush it with good olive oil, and sprinkle it with coarse sea salt. Not as good as real yeast bread but not bad.
The guests were a good bunch – the Girl and husband, a newspaper guy and his wife, plus Mad Mike himself and his girlfriend, a very prodigy of accomplishment. Entertaining conversation on a lot of topics, including music and newspapers. The hardier then took boys over to Swan Point to shoot off midnight fireworks. I admired the show from the sidewalk as I smoked a fine cigar. I would observe that every year we bang the vino a little less. A nice way to end the old year and initiate the new. I wish all a Happy New Year, one damn year closer to death. Try to eat as well as your purse and your digestion [and your narrow-minded, niggling doctor] permit.
We all suffer some for the holidays, dogs included. Without benefit of bipedal locomotion, that baby has achieved rapid deployment techniques.