So Jesus's birthday is upon us. I come from a long line of short, loud Italians, so this holy day means I'm about to embark on a two-night marathon of stuffing my face. (Prosciutto is involved. So is lasagna. You know I didn't eat lunch today for a reason!) Word on the street (a.k.a. from my mom, who is in the kitchen appx. 15 feet away from me) is that my older bro is bringing the dessert.
If I had to guess, I'd say he's bringing Italian pastries. Crispy clam-shell shaped, cream filled sugar fests for the mouth. (I'm also hoping for a canoli, fyi.) So bascially, what I'm saying is that all bets are off. These days are the last in which I can eat these things before I delve into what will undoubtedly be the hardest bit of immersion journalism in which I have participated.
Let's get this party started. Merry Christmas!