This skiing hippo has nothing to do with anything, but he's cute so I thought I would give him some face time...
Merry Christmas! It’s here I suppose. All signs point that way. The Christmas tree is up, the snow is on the ground, the lights are on the fence, the pug is hiding out in his Santa suit and my little sister came home yesterday.
Complete with holiday sweater and jingle bell earrings.
So we kicked off the weekend and broke in the holiday like it was meant. While husband was at work (bless is little heart) we lounged it out like only a tried and true college student knows how to do.
It didn’t take me too long to snap right back to those days. We filled our snowman mugs with coffee and shuffled around in our wool socks and sweatpants as we fried up some bacon and eggs and I told her all my troubles in like, three breaths (I don’t have too many these days) and then we moved on to her life plans really quick, and her latest boyfriend, and then some embarrassing little tidbits–like how I fell on my face in a restaurant and unintentionally bared my floral underwears to the entire occupancy and how she dropped a bottle of bread oil while out with her friends trying to be fancy, shattering the entire thing all over the floor and splashing oil on her fellow diners, sending them packing and saying things like “someone doesn’t get out much.”
And then we plopped down on the couch and watched a movie that involved a love story and inner conflict and cute boys while the pug made his way to a new lap….and so did the lab…and the cats…little sister was in heaven.
So were the pets.
When the movie concluded, we stretched and contemplated doing something constructive, so we took two steps to the kitchen and whipped up a batch or two of hard candy…because I found a candy thermometer somewhere and I was going to learn how to use it….
…then I painted white snowflakes on her tiny, nubby fingernails….
…and then we melted some cheese and salsa and dipped half a bag or tortilla chips in it and got back on the couch to refresh our memory of how the Grizwalds spent their holiday.
Then Momma called.
She wanted to make Christmas cookies.
So we peeled ourselves out from under the blankets and obliged.
See, the women in my family have little traditions like these. We are not bakers. We do not attempt bread dough or pie crust or elaborate gingerbread houses with gingerbread men and women standing outside hand in hand in little dresses and overalls.
We do not make beautifully decorated and personalized delicate treats in tins with fancy wrapping and beautifully piped frosting.
No. We do not do these things.
But we do raid momma’s liquor cabinet and find what we need to mix our selves a fancy cocktail…
…and dip things in chocolate…
…and pops sometimes helps and makes things like this…
"My chocolate covered pretzel glasses, my chocolate covered pretzel glasses, without them, I am powerless."
..and then we dig out the cookie mix that comes out of a bag or box and proceed to exercise our creativity by cutting out holiday shapes and decorating the cookies into tie died peace signs, Santas in green and blue suits, multi-colored churches and green stars, all the while wondering why there is a sailboat mixed in with our Christmas cookie cutter collection.
Why the sailboat every year? I don't get it. I just don't get it.
There have been multiple explanations. None of which I accept.
By the time it’s all over momma’s kitchen looks like this:
A Christmas war zone complete with frosted walls, sprinkle coated floors, cranberry vodka puddles and half eaten Santa cookies. We might be in the middle of an argument about who has the most beautifully creative cookie and then we might make pops make the final decision. He usually picks the top five, in no particular order, so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings. And I might stomp my foot and say something like “No, that is not acceptable. Pick one. You must pick one and only one!” while presenting to him, in the least obvious way, my best effort.
And then, when he doesn’t chose mine, I might accidentally throw flour in someone’s hair, or wipe green frosting on someone’s ear or chase someone down the hall with both ingredients, threatening a full on food fight….while screaming “I am not a sore loser…I. Am. Not!”
No, this is not a Martha Stewart Christmas cooking experience.
But it’s ours.
And the cookies are delicious, out of the box or not.
But they are always out of the box.
And there is always laughter.
And that’s how we get ready for Christmas around here.
It’s my favorite part of the whole ordeal.
So Happy Christmas Eve everyone.
I hope your little sister comes home in her sweatpants with a matching pair of jingle bell earrings for you…
…and if you have another sister, with a new baby and a nice husband, I hope she comes home too.
Cause this Christmas I miss my big sister that has a new baby a nice husband…
But, you know, she usually wins the cookie decorating contest….
…hmmmm….so I should have actually had a chance this year…
I demand a re-count!
See ya at church.