I am eating knishes for Boxing Day. Autolycus just did his best to precipitate himself bodily through the glass of my office window in order to get at the delicious-looking sparrow in the yew tree outside. Yesterday
spatch stayed home with him so that I could spend a slice of Christmas itself with my parents and
rushthatspeaks and
nineweaving and our traditional roast beef and brandy-burning plum pudding. I had gotten out briefly the previous evening to put the molded amber glass Star of David first of all on the tree. My parents seem to have leaned very supportively into the idea of noir as a comfort genre, as I now find myself in possession of the Criterion DVD of Robert Aldrich's Kiss Me Deadly (1955) with fantastically pulp design by F. Ron Miller and recent reprints of Murray Forbes' Hollow Triumph (1946) and Marty Holland's The Glass Heart (1946) and The Sleeping City (1952). From my husbands I got Warsan Shire's Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head (2022) and Eddie Muller's Noir Bar: Cocktails Inspired by the World of Film Noir (2023), which has so far made me happiest by appropriately pairing Decoy (1946) with the Corpse Reviver #2 and informing me that Joan Blondell had a cocktail invented in her honor in the early '30's. Today I have done very little that was not in one way or the other focused around the cat, but he remains so very worth it. My niece will be dropping by to see us later on.
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