Last Christmas was one for the books. I wasn’t working much, so all of my energy went into indulging my every holiday whim. I wove boughs of evergreen through the bookshelves. I wrapped gifts in cheesecloth and velvet ribbon. I crafted an advent calendar full of daily festive activities. I made a multi-course Christmas Eve dinner for two that took me days to plan and put together — roasted whole duck rubbed with spices, fingerling potatoes and purple carrots fried in duck fat, fluffy rolls from scratch, steamed oysters, traditional butter tarts. I’m not gonna lie. It was pretty fantastic.
This Christmas is more than a little different. There’s a disturbing lack of snow on the ground, I’m up to my nose with wonderful clients and exciting projects, our Christmas tree is… imperfect (in a fetching, Charlie Brownish sort of way!), and I’m not even close to being done with my shopping. But I took a little time over the weekend to whip up some homemade Irish cream, and let me tell you, this stuff makes me feel like Bing Crosby himself is about to rise from the grave and serenade Eartha Kitt and I with old Christmas standards while we lounge on a fur rug in front of a roaring fireplace in a haunted chateau nestled in the French alps.