Nutcracker and Glurg and the story of Christmas

If you had told me that I wouldn't eat all Saturday in preparation to gord myself before the Nutcracker, only to arrive at the much dreamed about Italian buffet (I had mapped my eating route! Beet salad, crepe table, eggplant parm, crepe table, pizza, cannoli, shrimp bowl, bag of wine under the table) and be told there was no more room at the inn, I would have slapped you on your stupid face. Alas, as Bab and Yay and I trudged down the streets of Denver in the cooold (think Charlie Brown soundtrack), shunned from glorious gluttony, we saw in the distance twinkling light and a collection of Russian nesting dolls. And then, it was as if I was being lead by the warmth, but I knew - knew - there was some hot wein (we lived for the good stuff on our Europe tour) waiting for us. A hot pretzel, a curry wurst, and a few cups of glurg later, we were in the warmth of a giant tent full of dancing Germans and a hay-covered floor. I wouldn't have believed it, but I was no longer sad about the crepe table -it was like we were back in Europe, cold as ever. And then right before the ballet started, the snowflakes fell, and I shouted on the streets, the town crier, "IT'S SNOWING!" and while the rest of the world pretended not to hear what I had just yelled, I was very very glad to have my best pals right beside me. And I was very in love with them both.

Looking back, we were like the wisemen, and glurg was our promised precious baby.