Tuesday, December 31, 2013--Mary Ann and I have never been big on New Year's Eve celebrations. Not the kind you'd expect a restaurant fanatic like me would attend, anyway. Early in our marriage (a month short of twenty-five years old), we went to a New Year's Eve party at Commander's Palace. I don't think we ever did that again. Two years ago, we found ourselves at a very expensive New Year's Eve dinner at The Homestead in Virginia, but for most of us the event was the low point of our visit there. Most years, we just watch the ball drop in Times Square--if we can figure out which station is showing it. (I have become incapable of changing the channel on the television, so this has become a challenge.) And that's what we did tonight. The usual explosions were being set by our few neighbors--it sounded more like guns going off than fireworks. They only slowed down when it started raining, not ceasing completely until the rain began to pour. If the end of 2013 will be remembered for anything, it will be for the rejection of a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame in favor of Mumm's Napa Rose, brought to our little gathering by The Boy. Who shared a toast with our daughter and us. I've seen her have a little beer and wine, but the sips of bubbly she drank at midnight struck me as another line crossed. Good for them!
