Christmas Gets Jew-y, Meat That's Chewy, and Mom's Boozy

My computer decided to go belly up, so I have to use Rob's downstairs. This is fine, except that it's not set up the way I like. But I'll live.


Saturday night Stu, as well as Rob's friends Jared and Adam, came over to help me decorate my tree, and it turned out gorgeous. Stu's mom sent over Star of David sugar cookies for Rob in a plate of Christmas cookies, and later in the month we're planning to go all Martha-syle on my kitchen and whip up a few batches, as well as make Glug. (Grog? Glugg? Mulled wine?)

I'd post pictures, but I'm not sure if my camera and Rob's computer are friends. I'll ask when he gets home; there's some high-quality shots in there. It was one of those nights where you laugh so hard your sides hurt, and I'm pretty sure I have the most gorgeous tree in the world. The guys were so excited by their decorating skills they wrote a song called "Christmas for the Jews" (subtitle: "Fuck Hanukkah")

Sidenote: Sorry, Jen! Everytime I type the eff-word, I picture you reading it, and I feel bad. I'm so glad you still love me anyhow.


Last night I made dinner for my dad; his birthday was earlier this month. I decided to try pot roast, with carrot cake for dessert. I had this vision of myself getting up at the crack of ten am and breezing through dinner prep, no prob. Make the cake, let it cool while we grocery shop for last minute dinner items and other stuff we need, make dinner, frost the cake and hide it, take out dinner just as people showed up at the door, perfect perfect perfect.


The first "cake" was flat and oily and tasted like cardboard with cinnamon. Not enough flour. I was reading the receipe out to Rob while I made a grocery list, and something got lost in translation. I added more carrots to the list, and we rushed through our shopping because I knew we had to go home and whip up another cake. Of course we got way-layed with checkout, adding about ten minutes to our trip, and then I had to go back in because I forgot something.

The second cake turned out ok, and I turned to the roast. You're supposed to make pot roast in a Dutch oven or a crock pot, neither of which I have. I figured someone would have directions online for what do with it in a NORMAL kitchen without either of those things (both of which, by the way, I can't say without giggling; the first for obvious reasons and the second because it sounds like "cock pot", and I'm immature). I eyeballed the roast, and declared it too small. After complaining and arguing, Rob went to the store for another one. I ended up cooking them both like a roast beef, (cover tight with tin foil, cook with meat thermometer). Of course, we only ate one making all previous arguments vain, so if anyone would like to come over for some well-done pot roast, I have a whole one sitting the fridge that we can warm up.

Everyone said it was good, although it was a bit over done for my medium rare taste. Better chewy meat than e.coli, though, right?

My sister and her fiance came and both my parents came, but my brother was MIA because he had friends over. I sent him home a teeny-tiny piece of cake with a note that it would have been bigger if he showed up. Punk. I almost took a bite out of it, but I didn't want to be TOO mean.

My mother showed up two gin martinis in and downed a good part of a huge bottle of wine over dinner, and then passed out at the dinner table. When everyone moved the living room, she passed out again on my couch clutching her glass of wine, which my dad removed before she redecorated my couch and brand new rug in "burgundy". Then she babbled on about how she was going to move in with me and Rob could move out and live with my dad. Everyone was looking at each other like, "What the fuck?" Then she started saying the most random, stupid things, most of which I can't remember because they didn't make sense. It was gross to watch; alcoholics just don't care how they look.