Chrerry Mistmas


Every Christmas I think of Robert Southwell’s poem, The Burning Babe.

It’s kind of an antidote to what we have done to Christmas.

I survived my Christmas eve. Feeling very exhausted this morning. Eileen and I came home and opened presents last night. That way she could sleep in a bit this morning. We are going to have breakfast with my Mom then drive up to Whitehall for the Hatch Xmas. Eileen and I made quiche yesterday afternoon (she made the crust, I the filling). We had some last night between services. I think it was excellent, but the onions were a bit much for Eileen. I had sauteed sliced onions so that they came out in delicate rings. But next time I will dice them finely.

I tried the technique of shaking a crunched up head of garlic in two metal bowls. Hey. That works. Very cool.

I’m hoping to get some resting time in the next few days now that Xmas is over at church.

In the meantime, if you are reading this, Chrerry Mistmas from Jupe.

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