Joe Gibbs recounts a dinner party which he will never forget. And neither will you.
Before Christmas, a seasonal invitation blew in on the west wind from the Lovelorn Laird. It was a summons to a pow-wow in his mountain fastness on the 33rd of the month, a date that I felt was stretching the elasticity of time even for a West-Coaster.
The laird wanted to run past me the menu for an alternative Christmas lunch designed for the times we live in. The bird-flu hullabaloo,…
