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The kids have their own table, which brings back memories. At holidays like Thanksgiving, my parents always had a table for adults and a table for kids. I always preferred sitting at the kids’ table. I didn’t need to listen to the adults prattle on about topics I had no interest in. The economy? Forget it. Politics? No thanks. Inflation? You’ve got to be kidding. It was a lot more fun playing with the muffins as if they were puppet heads than sitting at the big table, where you’d be reprimanded for playing with your food. Or blowing through the straw into your carbonated drink to make it bubble over the glass onto the tablecloth—now, that’s entertainment. At the kids’ table, you could be as goofy as you liked.

It’s a good thing for me that the kids have their own table, since at this point in my Christmas merrymaking the wine is taking a toll on my verbal-editing equipment. As you may have heard, I have a tendency to swear a teensy bit more than other people. The last thing that the tender young sensibilities need at Christmas dinner is to listen to me spout off about the load of bullshit that the douche bags are dumping on us because both political parties are so full of shit it’s coming out their fucking eyes, or something equally thought-provoking and tasteful.

I should just shut up and concentrate on eating.

The meal is always wonderful. Prime rib. Can we please hear it for prime rib? I know the bovines and the vegans will be upset by this, but I can’t help it. I love prime rib. I realize it’s not as good for the cow as it is for me, but I’m sure she had a long and fun-filled life. I can tell by the way the meat cuts. Utter perfection.

I know this is wrong. Everything one does is wrong, when judged by someone who thinks it’s wrong. And there’s always someone who thinks whatever it is, no matter how innocuous, it’s wrong. Even if most of the world thinks it’s right. I mean, I get it. There are people who think eating meat is wrong. Taking the life of an animal is probably not the most moral thing to do. Even if you kill it in the nicest way imaginable, you are still killing it. If I am not screwing up one way, I am screwing up another. I was a vegetarian for a year. Not out of some moral choice, but because I wanted new stuff to taste. Except tofu. Fuck tofu. It’s the lamest reason to chew. And in the end how do we know that vegetables aren’t more intelligent and sensitive forms of life than those made of meat? We don’t. Maybe they are an alien life form that is so advanced it’s beyond our limited comprehension to recognize and we are seriously fucking up by throwing together a salad. And we are just not listening. I am sure there’s someone somewhere who thinks it’s ethically wrong to eat vegetables.

Eventually I gave up my vegan ways, not for any moral reason but because I missed meat. I missed the occasional burger. I found I had no interest in life if there was no barbecue.

Prime rib is a Christmas tradition in this household. There’s a reason they call it prime. It’s sublime when it’s done right.

Neil always does it right. Steve loves the prime rib, too. He also loves the Subway meatball sandwich. It’s amazing he has such a good restaurant, because his eclectic tastes go in some strange directions.

But even Steve knows a perfect prime rib when he tastes one, and this prime rib is perfect.

If that weren’t enough, Neil also prepares pasta with a marinara sauce and hot and sweet sausage.

Not enough can be said about the joys of sausage. I love it at breakfast, though certainly not on a regular basis. But when it shows up at the evening meal, I weep with joy. And with an excellent marinara sauce and an unselfish pasta, it’s a rhapsody. And with prime rib. Happy Birthday, Jesus, and yes I’ll have another glass of red wine, pleeeeeeze.

No one should love food like I do. I approach food much the way a Christian approaches Christ. It sure makes me happy to know it’s there.

The food is served and the wine flows. The dessert is excellent. I won’t go into detail, because by now