Feast of the Which?

On Sunday I dragged myself up from my sick bed to host a holiday party. (Kathy actually did most of the work.)

Since it was the holiday season an' all, I checked an ecclesiastical calendar to find out which of the Twelve Days of Christmas we were celebrating. Turns out it was the Feast of the Slaughter of the Innocents, the anniversary of the day that Baby Jesus, having been informed by an angel that Herod's hit men were on their way, took it on the lam without bothering to inform any of the other children in the neighborhood that the bad guys were on the march.

I'm not sure why anyone would make that the occasion for a feast, but what the hell, I'm not a Church Father.

Fortunately we can always trust our friend Patricia to turn up with an appropriate centerpiece. (The knife is Nepalese, by the way, and the handle made of human bone.)

Patricia said that she figured she wouldn't find any innocents at the party, so she had to slaughter one on the way.

So I brewed up some posole, and we had beer, mulled mead, tamales, stuffed puff pastries, smoked salmon, jalapeno poppers, and other holiday snacks. It was a smallish party, as a lot of our friends called in sick with the same crud that's been dogging me.

But that just meant the rest of us had to party harder, which we did for many hours, loud enough to wake the slaughtered innocents. (Though none turned up, other than the centerpiece.)

I managed to stay on my feet till halfway through the cleanup, at which point I collapsed.

Next day was the Feast of the Relapse, but at least I had fun while I could.