Wed., Dec. 25, 2013. Christmas.

Ever since I stopped singing in the choir at Our Lady of the Lake in Mandeville, our family is nomadic as to our churches. This is especially uncomfortable on Christmas, when we join Mary Ann's family for Christmas dinner on the South Shore, usually at her big sister Sylvia's house. We never seem to go to the same church twice. But we found a good one this year: St. Ann's in Metairie, not far from where we were headed, a big, modern church in the round. It even had a priest we knew from Our Lady of the Lake years ago. Felt like we were home. We were halfway across the lake when I did a mental inventory of all the ingredients I needed to make the oysters en brochettes. I thought I had it all, and then it hit me: I'd forgotten the oysters. I was ribbed all day about this. As is our habit–one we hate when other people exercise it with us–we were the first to arrive at Sylvia's house. I was having back problems again. I think this comes from hours of cooking. So much for my chef career. I sat down on the sofa and watched Jean Shepherd's A Christmas Story, about a boy in the most glorious time of childhood. BB guns loom large in the story, as I remembered they did for me when I was that age. And why can't you have a BB gun? Because it will put your eye out, of course. One of the cable stations was playing the movie over and over for twenty-four hours. It's almost good enough to watch more than once. Shepherd was a radio guy for a long time on WOR in New York City. His show was an hour long every day, and all he did was tell stories. The food was, as it usually is at these gatherings, including the ones at our house–ten percent entree (a turkey) and ninety percent side dishes, always including a vast oversupply of macaroni and cheese. The cheesecake was well-received, except by one of the twenty-somethings, who found the color so disturbing that she couldn't bring herself to so much as try it. I guess she never had a red velvet anything before. Come to think of it, it's not as common as it was in, say, the 1960s. We didn't have time to open our presents before heading across the lake. That was serendipity. Christmas Day after dark is so anti-climactic that it almost feels depressing. Not with gifts to unwrap, though. I had more than anyone else in the family. Mary Ann's theme this year for my gifts was "Closeout Books Bought For A Song That Tom Might Like." Two big books about trains. One about antique cameras. A book of crossword puzzles. A calendar with a daily crossword (in case I ever finish the one she bought me two years ago). And another day-at-a-time calendar with New Yorker cartoons. Good stuff! Good Christmas! Except that Jude is not here, which dampened MA's mood more than a little.