Fa La La La Burp

Jesus. That's why there is a Christ Mass. Duh!

If you don't realize (or accept) that this is, at the core, why we celebrate this holiday (heck, why it's even CALLED Christmas) you're a moron. Period.

That said, the manner in which we celebrate this holy day typically revolves around a gluttonous, sinful, overindulgence in yummy goodness.

Yes, there are gifts. Of course, there are carols, but when it's all said and done, it's the food that brings us over. It's the food that makes us stay. It's the food that knocks us down (Although, the wine sometimes helps.), and it's the food that makes us get up at 2:30 a.m. and rape the refrigerator. (Yes, I really did write that.)

So, this entry is my thank you letter to fried chicken. It's an ode to

potato salad. I'm paying homage to mashed potatoes and putting Hummingbird Cake on it's well-deserved pedestal. All hail.

Dear Butter, Chocolate, Gravy and Fried Potatoes:

You've done so much for me this year. You calmed my nerves when I was unsure what decision to make. You tempered my temper and kept me from stabbing Mr. Do-Right when he'd done wrong. You quieted my children when I needed a moment of silence. You fed colds (and some fevers, despite the adage). You were, sadly, closer to me than most. I thank you for your being here for me. Always.

But, in this approaching new year, I think we may need to see other people. I'm thinking of spending some time with my running shoes. I may even have a weekend getaway with the Wii Fit. It's not that I don't love you anymore. It's just that ... well ... some relationships are for a reason. Some are for a season. Some are for a lifetime. I think we are seasonal.

I know we'll see each other again. I'll save room for you. Don't say goodbye. Just say, "Until we meet again." Au revoir, mon cheri.

(Chocolate, call me in February. Maybe we can hang out for a bite - I meant "bit.")

K.

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