Yet another Christmas party with a fancy festive theme.
“The third one in three weeks!” exclaimed Koji, half bemused and half annoyed (Grinch that he is).
“Yes, but you know everyone at this one, or just about know them, and we only have to make one thing each” replied I, contemplating the theme. “Also, we agreed to go way back in October. Or November. Or something.”
“Well in that case, I’m making jelly.”
“Peace, joy & a time of noël – that’s what I’m wishing for this Christmas…” said I, my voice trailing off as I thought of all those who’d be lacking in one, if not all three, at this time of year.
“That’s not very helpful” replied Koji, just a little shortly.
He always gets more than a little flustered around this time of year as the frenzy of shopping and buying and wrapping and receipt saving commences.
“Well, perhaps some nice earrings then?” said I, in an attempt to mollify the Grinch.
“How about some coal?”
Would you believe me if I told you that I refused to eat cheesecake in my childhood years?
Something about the heavy creaminess and rather plain appearance must have dissuaded me from ever giving it a try.
(The Bean – she who loves all things orange vegetable and won’t eat a meal without meat in it – loved it. Of course. She was always eating all of the things I didn’t like, and in double portions too.)
Oh I know you’re all hankering for that cheesecake recipe (and boy am I hankering for another slice of said cheesecake) but you’ll have to wait until maybe Monday or Tuesday because I couldn’t help but bust this guy out into the internet first.
Mainly because of its insides.
Make that its delicious layered green, cheesy insides.
It has become tradition, over the last ten or so years since the girls & I left school, for us to gather for a meal around Christmas time.
What started as a fairly simple wrap-your-own-Vietnamese-rice-paper-rolls party (complete with tinsel halos and seasonally appropriate attire) has now become a full blown, Shez-hosted, annual pot luck affair with a specially selected culinary theme to boot.
Which, of course (for me) means an excuse to dress the table.
