Feast the second is a tradition with the long-time mutual friends we’ve been doing life with the last decade or more. They’re savvy, creative and deeply sensitive individuals who appreciate our culture because it's so like theirs, our history because they were there, our values because they share them and they understand our life in a way no-one else can.
I have no photos of the lamb falling off the bone and vegies roasted to perfection by our hosts, nor the drinks, nor the flashing Christmas earrings and Santa badges, nor my husband's stellar triple chocolate semifreddo. Not one photo of the food. This is unfortunate. The best I can come up with is a picture of a small, white naked man:
Speaking of the triple chocolate semifreddo, I've had a revelation about this guy I married. He is an egg genius. Put an egg in his hands - magic happens. Many have marvelled at the egg nog he makes every Christmas, his semifreddo flabbergasts, my omelettes are not even in the same league as his, and the first time he tried making meringues they came out of the oven emanating a pearlescent glow. Even our one-year-old son knows it - when my husband makes him golden, fluffy scrambled eggs, not one scrap ends up on the floor. He is the Egg Man. I love you, Egg Man.
Ho ho, two feasts to go!
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