My relationship with meatloaf runs the gamut from love to hate depending on whose meatloaf it is. First and foremost, anything called mystery meatloaf is out. Served at a cafeteria? Ditto. Any meatloaf made by a person who is less than particular about the sorts of ground parts than I am comfortable with (innards? animals not normally consumed in identifiable cuts? skin and feathers? You hear me McDonald’s?! … oh, sorry, off on a toot. Though in that vein, thank the gods they aren’t in the meatloaf business. Could you just imagine? I shudder to think).
Growing up in a large extended family, I learned two very important family meal rules pretty quickly. First, never giggle while saying grace. The hand of Bunny, backward with onxy ring a’flashing would be down on the back of your head in a New York second. Second, and probably even more importantly, never ever sit across from Cizzie at the table.
It’s been 148 years since I’ve had any desire to go out on the eve of the new year. The combination of amateur hour, price-gouging, over-crowded rooms and bad food, not to mention the elusive NYE babysitter, have made staying in not only the better option but something I look forward to. We get to visit another country (and this year have the added bonus of visiting an alternate world of witches and wizards) without leaving the house. The end of 2013 saw BD, the fellas and I visiting Spain in the company of Harry Potter and gang.