We will celebrate this year in the usual way. As long as they keep sending elves, fat juicy ones, we will eat well. We will repurpose the red and white garments into warm sweaters for the hounds. How I wish it came more than once a year, I told my sister. She replied that it would then seem less special. Upon reflection, I realized that she was right. When the leftovers are gone, we will go back to our usual fare: lost travelers, usually tough and stringy by the time they get here, and the occasional strayed Iditarod team. We will chew contemplatively, and dream of Christmas.
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