So I didn’t make it back to the city for New Year’s Eve.

Not for Fin, not for Chef, not for no one.

Last Sunday, I joined in the Pittsburgh-wide post Christmas ritual of watching the Steelers game. Fortunately they won, which makes for much cheerier holiday conversation with the locals you don’t know as well. Cases of Lite beer and a big pot of chili at the house, so thank God I took the time to make a beet/carrot/romaine salad with goat cheese and cashews, because my insides were done with the ever meat-centric Pittsburgh meal planning.

Even so, on Monday, watching the snow flurries out the window of my sister’s house, I was getting ready to pull out my laptop and start getting back to it when my head started to twinge in that more-than-a-hangover way. I figured a cozy pre-emptive nap was in order to make sure I would be heading back on time, but by Tuesday morning I was so stuffed-up miserable I knew New Year’s Eve at Fin wasn’t happening, at least not with me ready to play.

I knew Sis and her husband were wanting a night out without the kids, so since I was already curled up mostly useless in a blanket reading the twins stories to keep myself from stewing about work, I offered to stay into the weekend so they could get out and rage.

I mean, if you’re already going to babysit on New Year’s Eve, and you know you’re not going to be in top form, what the difference between an aging rock and roll foodie and a pair of four year old boys?

An easy choice for me, because the inevitable tantrums wouldn’t be fueled by Jim Beam.

So now I’m back and going to watch my Jets try and make the playoffs tonight with a friend, some delivered sushi and a bottle of old vine red zin I’ve been saving from last year’s trip to Paso Robles.

Now that’s more like it.