Normally, this time of year I’d be offering suggestions for something with which to charge the flowing bowl, so that its bounty, ladled out with cheer and kindly hospitality, would make the intolerable among your family and acquaintances tolerable and the tolerable truly delightful.
There would be soft-focus anecdotes about Charles Dickens or some old English earl, Dutch “Mynheer” or not-so-very-proper Bostonian. There would be rum and port and a thick dusting of freshly grated nutmeg. It would be jolly—damned jolly.
But this holiday season, with the specter of COVID-19 hanging over us all, the idea of gathering in close and cozy quarters with a gang of people who aren’t in my immediate household sends a rivulet of cold sweat down my back. And if I’m not going to do it, I’m certainly not going to cheerfully suggest others do.
