I don’t expect people to make bûche de Noël. I can barely believe the energy that goes into making one. And those cookies I made were pretty labor-intensive; I completely, totally admit that. I understand the desire to not want to spend an entire day in the kitchen, which is why you rely on the relatives who don’t mind doing so to cook dinner for you. But here’s the thing about traditional holiday foods–they’re supposed to be special, they’re supposed to be a little time-consuming, which is why you only have them on particular occasions. You don’t have a giant, bronto-ham with the bone sticking out, studded with pineapple and cloves every goddamned Sunday, you have that at Easter, and maybe Thanksgiving. And let’s talk about Thanksgiving, one of the few times of the year we eat ninety-pound birds you have to start cooking the day before, because they’re stuffed with chickens and ducks and the neighbor’s pet canary and whatever other sort of fowl you can think to cram in to another bird’s chest cavity. Anyone, at any time of year, can have a crappy Yule log made out of a giant Ho-Ho and some Cool Whip, and in fact I think I’ve eaten that very combination of foodstuffs during at least one of my more spectacular moments of self-loathing-fueled binge eating. Yeah, let’s celebrate the holidays with some classic shame-food, and then get drunk enough to tell Uncle Cletus how we really feel about him.
Note to Cletus Mergitroid: Relax, dudes.
God, I HATE that there’s a cooking show hosted by someone who hates to fucking cook.
As always, thanks to Food Network Humor for all the BS you weed through for my entertainment.