And whaddaya know? I’ve got more pictures. Sorry there hasn’t been much time or energy for commentary here, but that’ll change soon enough. We’re returning to our palatial estate in Ringwood this afternoon, where we’ll sift through a mountain of mail, get reacquainted with our Tivo, and likely avoid all pork for a month.

As always, click on the image below to see the rest of the group.

A few photos taken on a gray day here in Louisiana.

As reported yesterday on VM, we made it to Des Allemands safe and sound. The flight was bumpy, but similar enough to my morning commute that I was able to nap on-and-off throughout. I knew teaching myself to doze on public transportation was going to pay off, somehow!

Pops picked up catfish po-boys for lunch and made a huge pot of chicken-andouille gumbo for dinner (or for dinner and supper, I guess, now that I’m back). Yum! Can’t wait to see what today brings. (I’ve already requested oyster dressing for Christmas dinner, so there’s that to look forward to.) He got a couple of calls yesterday from people asking for recipes; you can see where the cooking-obsessed gene comes from.

Mason’s pre-school Christmas spectacular-spectacular was a hoot last night. The kids were cute and sang their hearts out to the secular Christmas standards and looked around quizzically during the Christian ones, which seemed odd for a church-run school, but hey: No one’s asked for my input on the curriculum. I’ll post pictures later, once we download and see if anything is usable. Sadly, I couldn’t manage to get a picture of The Most Egregious Christmas Sweater in existence, but maybe an aunt or cousin will satisfy my longing for one in a couple of days. Fingers crossed. Anyway, I’m happy to report no looting took place while we were gone (except for a few missing cookies), so Guardian Gil fulfilled his duties.

Take care, everyone, and have a great weekend. And Merry Christmas!

P.S. If you watch the Sugar Bowl next week, keep an eye out for my brother-in-law, Tommy (the “dancing guy” from our wedding). He’ll don an LSU skull cap with purple and gold “Don King” hair for the occasion. I’m sure he’ll get on camera, especially if he takes my advice to go shirtless with body paint.

Justin Timberlake has a suggestion (not parent- or MIL-safe). Yeah, I know, but it’s been on continuous feed all week at work, so I wanted to share with the two of you who haven’t seen it already. You can thank me by signing my petition to nominate Justin for a permanent SNL guest-host spot.

Damned shame he didn’t win an Emmy for his work on The Barry Gibb Talk Show.

Bob Barr (-booey) jumps ship.

Posted a new set of pictures taken on my walk to work last Friday. Click on the image below to see them all.

I have mixed feelings about Rachael Ray.

The YUM-Os, the sammies, the sartorial missteps*, the hands—argh, the hands!—make my insides shrivel. And I’m not alone: She has whole communities devoted to her destruction and no shortage of independent bashers. Testify.

While I understand where they’re coming from, I figure you don’t have to watch her if you don’t want to. And I hate to admit it, but some small part of me definitely wants to. 30 Minute Meals is great treadmill viewing; I watch transfixed, Ignatius Reilly-like, waiting for the next abomination to flicker across the screen, igniting my wrath and increasing my stamina. A RR marathon, you say? Sign me up for the next Ironman Competition!

Despite the haters, RR’s popularity has skyrocketed lately. Her empire has expanded into the daytime talk show arena, a new burger joint in NYC, and the branding of everything 30-minute easy from olive oil to cookware. How is this possible? We’re talking red state/blue state-level differences here, so it’s tough to see the other point of view, but this is where I have to admit grudging admiration: The woman knows herself and her audience, and she keeps her business aligned with both. People don’t mind your success if you don’t forget your roots, so she steers clear of selling her items at specialty retailers in favor of grocery stores, because that’s where her viewers shop. She also has a sense of humor, billing herself as the “eh” to Martha Stewart’s “ah,” so it’s not too surprising people love her. Guess she’s not too big for her britches, though that’s a hard argument to make if you’ve seen her gallumph across the soundstage of her talk show.

If we watch cooking shows in part because we identify with the host, what does our hatred of RR say about us? I wonder how much of it is pure snobbery. If you compare her to the other Food Network darling, Giada De Laurentiis, that explanation makes sense: RR is the townie to GDL’s ivy leaguer, the Pabst to her prosecco, the fried chicken leg to her duck confit. RR would happily go to a ball game with you, eat dogs and drink beer, then initiate a farting contest on the way home, while GDL would keep it real by serving the most precious rollatini on the patio during a croquet match. It’s an aspirational thing, I suppose; GDL is the fantasy—a delicious meal perfectly prepared by a refined, capable woman—and RR is the reality—after spending 9 hours at work I’ve got 30 minutes to get this meal on the table before my do-nothing husband and kids turn into wild animals and you want garnish?!

Or maybe I’m just talking out of my ass and RR really is that annoying.

If nothing else, she’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. A friend of mine is a full-fledged member of the Rachael Ray Sux community, so I sent him the link of her latest triumph—getting EVOO into the dictionary—knowing it would set him off. Little did I know how badly he would take it! Less than 15 minutes later, Ben “Piss & Vinegar, or PVOO” Canlas penned a blistering screed to Food Network, which he allowed me to share with you:

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