So this Christmas was unusually quiet; just the two of us and a prime rib roast ($20 for a five-pound roast that will last us three meals) that came out perfect, Yorkshire Pudding that rose to its elegant best, baby Bella mushrooms and gravy and trees (broccoli) as the required greens.
A day of napping–catching up on some much-need rest that also serves as a mental escape; better than booze. Awake and alert time spent on reading–finished up A Perfect Stranger to get started on Cannery Row. And writing–still on Draft 2 of Big Tim Dawson, it just seems that the story feels right, is what happened and that going off on another path would be of my own making, not his. So the tweaking goes on, and Draft 3 is only updated by changes made on Draft 2, standing ready and waiting to become a new base of rewriting only if there’s a strong need.
And the meaning of Christmas is not clothes and jewelry and toys. The meaning of Christmas is peace and love…and food.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology