[Here is where there should be a great picture of Murph, on a hill above the Allegheny River, surveying it much like George Washington did, about 250 years ago.  Alas, I could not get the thing to copy.  You’ll have to use your imagination.  Picture Murph in a cockade hat with wooden teeth.]

I refuse to litter your lives with recipes during a week when you need to focus on recreating the food traditions you grew up with.  Christmas is, in one sense, about renewal – the birth of a savior, a turning point in history.  But it has become, over time, its own sort of stability and tradition.  When you put together a crèche, you’re following in the footsteps of St. Francis, albeit 800 years later.  Or, to switch traditions, when you light a menorah, one legend has it that you’re commemorating a miraculous supply of oil for the Maccabean restorers of the Temple (a sort of precursor to the New Testament miracle of the loaves and fishes).  Yeah, delayed celebration of the Feast of Booths, rededication of the Temple, all sorts of other interpretations are Kosher, but allow a poor Mick his delusions, okay?

At Casa Stuarti, we will host UFR and the boys on Christmas Eve, exchange some gifts and get a good night’s sleep.  No cookies will be left out for Santa, Santa having already stuffed himself with Coq au Vin and a Rob Roy or two.  On Christmas, Greg and Mike and Kellie and Gabe will join the group for a real celebration and we will catch up on the news from Skinnyatlas and the East End of Pittsburgh.  But perhaps the best time will be waking up on Christmas morning with Beez and enjoying the peace and quiet, the lull before the storm.  We have lives through seven decades of Christmases and the day and the season are still magical.

So, gather with family and friends, put together that green bean salad, roast that beef, make those Christmas cookies, decorate that tree, build a fire, drink a toddy, sing a carol or two, and forget all the petty grievances and disappointments of your everyday world.  You and yours are miracles, just like Christ, or the Maccabees, or Franco Harris’s immaculate reception.  And, while none of us can be as thankful and grateful for those miracles as we ought to be – it’s just how we’re made – please take the time between now and, say, the 2^nd of January, to count your blessings, hug your children and grandchildren and sleep in.  Oh, and turn off the phone.

God Bless and Merry Christmas

(This is my way of taking the week off – I’ll catch up with you soon.)