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Mark Kinsler| Correspondent

In this holy season, when thoughts turn to more spiritual channels, our friends the ancient Romans come vividly to mind, for its impossible to ignore the clouds of cookie flour that have for weeks escaped our kitchen plus the inevitable bacchanal of overconsumption that followed.

This, the season of the shortest days, was known as Saturnalia, or The Time of Unlimited Calories by those sturdy citizens of Caesar. Their name for Decembers last full moon was the Cookie, or Custard Moon, and they spent the long winter nights reclining in their palaces moaning regret at having over-feasted and wondering if in their extreme overstuffed state it might be prudent to free their slaves and prepare for the world to come.

Oh. Ahem:

Natalie and I have spent at least ten days in continuous food preparation: she baked and I washed pans. Then in just two evenings we and our guests devoured it all and now were considering the advantages of walking deep into the forest to peacefully expire among the leaves.

I only made six kinds of cookies this year, she claimed, but I doubt it. And in every corner of our house lurks little bags of carefully selected nuts and candies brought by our friends, presumably so we can join them in whichever division of the Afterlife youre sent to after perishing from stuffing yourself like the unrestrained swine.

It might be mentioned that we, who persist in believing we remain in the flower of our youth, are ill-equipped to eat a succession of pecan-pie squares followed by a variegated parade of fudge washed down with quaffs of hearty dessert wine. Even a light distribution of our leftovers would neutralize the Roman legions..

Morning, December 26. Barely discernable on Natalies side of the bed is a lump that could be just bedclothes, but further inspection detects possible breathing.With a slight stirring from somewhere below, there comes a small, rusty voice:

It was a good Christmas.

Mark Kinsler, kinsler33@gmail.com, currently lies moaning upon the floor of our little house in Lancaster, having been given up for dead by the two supervisory alley cats and probably Natalie as well.

Go here to read the rest:
Kinsler column: This weekend all roads lead to a bottle of Tums - Lancaster Eagle Gazette