I've been feasting. Feasting instead of writing, in fact.

The evidence is in the pants. They're snug. My shirts and sweaters accentuate what could be described as a solid a-to-fledgling b cup. Chin #2 is getting its own congressional district. I even think my socks were tight the other day.

But such is the tradition of Christmas. Sure, the etymology of the name equates to "Christ's Mass", a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Yet, as the swaddled Jesus slept and the kings of the Orient were busy taking tokes off the myrhh pipe, I'm pretty sure there was nary a decorated pine tree, crackling yule log, or a fat guy with a beard (as Renaissance paintings have taught me that all Israelites were quite fit).

Indeed, much of what we know as "Christmas" today is tradition pulled from pagan celebrations, Germanic Yule, and the Roman Winter Solstice, among other wacky exercises in debauchery for the toga-set. One such was known as Saturnalia, or the feast of the titan god Saturn. The week-long fracas involved a role-reversal, with masters serving slaves, elaborate spreads, and- well- it wouldn't be a Roman celebration without orgies aplenty, the pinnacle of wine + nakedness. In fact, things got so out-of-hand that even bat-$@#% crazy emperor Caligula tried to shorten the festival to 5 days, without success.

So, with Christmas Eve upon us, I try to find a happy medium between the many bits and pieces of its origin. I wish that everyone out there- Christian or not- is filled with the joy of the season, spending time with family, friends, and loved ones. Let this be a time of hope, of reflection, and of anticipation towards the challenges and opportunities that a new year will bring...

...but we needn't forget to pepper in a little Saturnalia. Stuff your face. Have that extra slice of roast beef. Fill your pockets with mashed potatoes for the road. Drink wine. Have an extra glass. Open the good stuff: Burgundy, Barolo, Sauternes, Champagne, that cult Napa Cabernet. Sing. Dance. Strategically place yourself under the mistletoe (a note to the ladies: man-boobs are exempt in the presence of mistletoe). Find a friend, put him in a half-in-the-bag headlock, and tell him how much you love him.

But please: keep your clothes on, at least in public. Orgies are so passé.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and, of course, Sláinte!

To set the scene, our neighborhood has a Progressive Dinner around the holidays every year. Basically, a concept where a group of folks move from house-to-house; first house hosts appetizers and cocktails, then main course at the next house, then dessert, and then, well, tater tots. Okay, more generally, late night snacks. And, clearly, if you harken back to your younger days, what were you eating at 2, 3, 4 in the morning? Watercress sandwiches? Waldorf salads? Hell no! Gorgings at Waffle House, IHOP, Krystal/White Castle, or Taco Bell were the modus operandi; anything to suppress a sustained binge of well-liquor shots and Natural Light. Those meals- perhaps- saved the life of many a college student.

So it was manifested: the tater tot bar. A cornucopia of golden-fried jewels of shredded potato, along with any condiment that could be mustered: chili, nacho cheese sauce, sour cream, bacon bits, chives, salsa, BBQ sauce, assorted hot sauces, more cheese...getting heartburn just reading? Clearly not haute cuisine by any stretch, but- somehow- satisfying, comforting; a perfect nightcap to calm our mature bellies, now full of fine wine, craft beers, and single-malt scotch...

Yet, despite the sophisticated nature of the cocktails creating the need for the late-night snack, said snack has remained a constant: crap food that could be replaced by nothing else, being the only feasible option to satisfy at this late hour. I really think food has the unique ability to connect us with the past; the smells, tastes, and textures remain in our memory banks more clearly than anything else. Ergo, it's only natural that when one finds himself with too many drinks in the belly late at night- whether fancy drinks or swill- the sustenance desired is pulled from our collective memories, and junk food registers as the antidote. Pretty amazing.

In the same sense, I think when Christmas week comes around, my sensory memory tells me that every day is a reason for a feast. And so it happens, leaving me in this gluttonous, shameful state (the detailed means to the end shall unfold on these pages soon). And I can't do anything about it until after Jan. 1st...my subconscious tells me that New Year's celebrations require more debauchery and food.

Oh well...I can either fight it or raise my glass. How 'bout the latter? Cheers, Sláinte, L'Chaim, Salud, Prost, Skål, Konbe, Kampai, and Laissez les bon temps rouler!