Guys, we’ve been doing it wrong in America. By “it,” I mean Christmas. By “wrong,” I mean dinky lights, scraggly garland, and last-minute drugstore stocking stuffers. Christmas in England is next level. Christmas carols have been blaring on the streets for weeks now, and the city is dripping in twinkle lights. You can’t walk by a pub without seeing a gaggle of ten or so friends wearing ridiculous Christmas sweaters and clinking glasses. It’s as if the entire country decided that for at least one full month, we need to forget about all the tragedies happening in the world and just embrace merriment, full on.
We’re also in high holiday spirits at our house. A few weeks ago we had a Christmas open house for our new friends and neighbors. A few nights before the party, I spent the evening building a smoker out of our oven and then shoving 15 pounds of dry-rubbed pork shoulder inside. While we slept, the warm hug of hickory smoke and rendering pork fat wafted throughout our apartment. The hubby told me that sleeping through that delicious aroma was simultaneously the most wonderful and tortuous experience. I woke up smelling like the inside of a North Carolina barbecue joint. It felt really good — confusing, but good.