The Chicago suburb of Lincolnwood has a well-earned reputation as going whole hog -- and then some -- when Christmas rolls around. Leah, Dick and I tool around this sometimes-tony suburb for a look at ways to dress up a McMansion for the holidays.

As you'll hear, the displays range from the simple to the complex. Many feature those inflatable snow-globe displays that have been on sale at every drug and discount store. And some even continue to trot out deacdes-old illuminated Santa Clauses one given out as premiums to customers of Polk Bros., once a major appliance store.

The City of Chicago itself doesn't really go in for a municipal display, although they do run a traditional German Christmas market of sorts in Daley Center. I'm happy to report that my hometown of Denver continues to pull out all the stops in its annual makeover of the City and County Building into a time-exposure Kodak Moment.

To see the 2006 Denver display, check out these excellent images on Flickr.

Denver's been doing its Christmas display as long as I can remember -- and long before that. I hope to visit the display when I'm in the Mile High City in a couple of weeks, assuming the city's continuing the tradition of keeping the lights up until the end of the National Western Stock Show.

I grew up in Denver's western suburbs, and my secular humanist parents never really had much of a problem with the display. What did torque their jaws, however, was that giant illuminated crucifix on the mountain west of town. "What's next?" Mom liked to ask, "a giant neon Coors beer sign?"

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Your humble diners steer the Mobile Recording Studio to Fox River Grove and enjoy the Five O'Clock Steakhouse. On the drive back, we talk about the food, the service, waiters' names (why are "Mike" and "Steve" seemingly the norm in the suburbs, while the city is saddled with "Kyle" and "Cody"?) and Leah's affection for Ruth's Chris Steak House.

Leah also suggests the reason why women enjoy gnawing on bones more than men do: a "viscerally satisfying racial memory" of when the better half was relegated to waiting around the cave for Ugh to bring back a sabertooth tiger for dinner and had to settle for the leavings after the menfolk gorged on the kill.

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Leah, Dick and I start with a fine meal at Rio's D'Sudamerica in Chicago's Bucktown neighborhood -- and then progress into conversations about why fresh pineapple screws up Jell-O, the amazing fact (at least to me) that all canned food has actually been cooked, and a brief discussion of why I don't eat rabbit. (It has to do with when I was a kid and our standard-size French poodle, Suzette Francesca da Rimini, got ahold of Carrot, my pet rabbit, and you can guess the rest.)

Speaking of canned food, ever since I was little, I've known that "No. 303" is a common can size. I probably remembered this because growing up in Colorado, that number was our area code, too.

Besides, I like the idea of a recipe calling for a No. 303 can of peas instead of for 2 cups -- or, God forbid -- 480 milliliters. It just feels more comfortable, sort of like those trusty old Wratten filter numbers.

Leah's review of Rio's D'Sudamerica.

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