Thursday, December 24, 2009

Gold, frankincense, and crispy bacon.

Whipping up a tradition from scratch is proving to be a real son of a bitch.

Seldom home on Christmas Eve, this year I decided to stay put, and get a traditional Christmas Eve ritual of our very own – and by ritual – I of course mean food, booze, and something to do before, during and after. A tradition. You know, like sacrificing a lamb while doing tequila shots, then setting off fireworks after the fist fight. That kind of thing.

Christmas Day brunch is covered. I always crack open some bubbly, crank the Christmas tunes and make my labouriously layered asparagus bread – whereupon Jack routinely picks out the green onions, asparagus, cheese and ham – so his brunch is basically warm bread, but who cares. It's a tradition.

But back to Christmas Eve. We sometimes head down to St. Matthew's Church for their rollicking rendition of Bethlehem on Barrrington, but it's indoors this year, and being stuck inside a church without a dead body or a bride, kind of makes me jumpy.

So, since we are winding up our "Mommy needs a fucking break" retreat at White Point, we will soon be passing through uninsured Ford Topaz and lobster country on our way back to Havenot, so I naturally suggested picking up a couple of lobsters.

No. Said the little bastard. Not lobster.

Okay, how about scallops? No. Smoked salmon? No. Tortière? What's that? Nevermind, it's French, what about sushi? No. Fondue? No. We could barbecue some steaks. No.

Okay, asshole, you decide. And since this will be your tradition, that you will in turn inflict upon your own family someday, choose wisely.

Without hesitation, and sporting a big grin, he said, Baconators.

Left to my child, our new Christmas Eve tradition would be Wendy's Baconators, washed down I suppose with Bud Lime, followed by flicking cigarette butts at the pit bull chained out back behind the trailer. I think not.

And, so, our yet-to-be-born tradition remains up in the air this Christmas Eve. Just as the Magi were guided into Bethlehem by a Star, so shall we be guided back to our own little manger by the Golden Arches, a glowing bucket of KFC, or an Anne of Green Gables look-a-like packing a premium bun filled with three 1/4 lb. fresh, never frozen patties, piled high with Applewood smoked bacon, mayo, ketchup, and sliced American cheese.

"Merry fucking Christmas!", shouted Franny, from downstairs.*

Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.

*From John Irving's Hotel New Hampshire. The book, not the movie. Now there was a family with traditions.

Bethlehem on Barrington is 6:30 tonight at St. Matthew's Church, 1479 Barrington Street. It's worth the trip even for Catholics or heathens. Livestock, rock 'n' roll, and a real baby Geezus. Toss some coins into the pot and support their Out of the Cold homeless shelter.
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