December 27, 2005
All Presents and Accounted For
It was thus, then, that your mum and dad gave you a hand with unwrapping the many and astonishing gifts that you received on this festive day.
The bounty was astonishing. Surpassed only by the feast.
We woke (early) on Christmas Morning, after going to sleep (late) on Christmas Eve. Late due, more than anything else, to the chorus of barking dogs in our neighbourhood (not least of which our own). I'm convinced that, in our house move, we have somehow created a situation in which the dogs who live in this area are now at the perfect equidistance to each other to create some kind of doggy barking resonant frequency. Like signal fires, punkin, each one sets another off, and another and another, but then the last one faintly hears the first one and starts again.
In any case, sleep was eventually obtained, and Christmas Morning was upon us.
Unky Dave made the scene complete, and we sat down (with cofffffeeeeee) to open stockings and to give Unky Dave his Giant Present.
There had been some discussion around the title of Largest Christmas Present, but once we got to your Grandad's house, it was obvious who the winner was. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
We managed to get all of the techamanology working well enough that we could spend some time talking over the intermawebnet with your grandparents overseas, although it was not without its small issues. It was great fun to be able to see them, and I'm sure they thought it was fun to see you.
It was immediately after this that your Unky Dave set off for his house (apres a quick bacon sarnie) and your mum and dad set upon the cooking for the big day ahead.
Having just moved into a new house, its no surprise that we're not 100% across all of the little foibles and quirks of our new kitchen just yet, most particularly the fact that the oven has decided it wants to be a HOT oven, and that if you dare to turn it down below about 200 degrees, it will just go out.
It would be unfair to suggest that I had a tantrum.
Let it be said that the oven and I had what would be recognised around the world in any language as a frank and open exchange of views and ideas. That I was frank, punkin, and open, when I informed the oven of my requirements in the roasting of turkeys, and that I would not hesitate in the slightest to reduce said oven to its component molecules should it continue to fail to meet my needs in this area.
Eventually, the oven and I brokered a compromise, whereby I would not set the oven to under 200 degrees, but the oven would in fact stay cool enough to properly roast a turkey. This was accomplished through the clever strategy of opening the oven door every fifteen minutes through the two hour cooking time of said turkey, and might I say it worked a treat. Of course, it could easily have been a complete disaster, but there you go.
So with literally minutes to spare before the 2pm deadline, we were out the door, turkey safely ensconced in a layer of foil and a layer of esky, Bramble safely ensconced in his carseat.
To Be Continued.