A (Carnivorous) Christmas Story

November/December 1989.

I was very sick.  In hindsight,  I’m pretty sure it was mono; at any rate, it started as six weeks of mild tiredness and escalated into coldlike symptoms, inability to keep food down, an enlarged spleen, and passing out if I tried to walk more than about 25 feet.

Finally, however, I started getting better, spending most of my time on the couch in the living room watching Dirty Rotten Scoundrels on cable over and over.  At this stage, the doctor told Mom, what we needed to do was put me on a bland diet.  No problem; my favorite food at the time was Mom’s chicken and noodles with white gravy, right?

After five days of nothing but that, and Campbell’s chicken noodle soup with enough pepper in it to make God sneeze, I started to crave red meat.  And that’s why, when Mom brought home this reindeer from her friend’s flower shop, I named him B.D. Cheeseburger.

B(acon).
D(ouble).

And that’s why he gets a place of honor in my office every year at this time.

 

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