Christmas Goodies

Your comments continue to buoy me. Thanks. But herewith some random holiday fun!

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My in-laws are here for six days, for Christmas. I made up a chart, of every meal for all six days. Then I made a grocery list, and collected all the recipes together. I taped the meal chart to the inside of one of my kitchen cupboards, for easy reference.

I think I've spent more time cooking this week than I have for months. My family eats every thing I put in front of them, pushes away their plates leaning back in their chairs. Full. Grateful. I love it, the warmth of the kitchen, the feeling of being in my home and useful and organized. I love that my inlaws keep talking about how lazy they're getting, about how little they're doing. About how full they are.

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I bought a Jones New York cashmere blend red car coat two winters ago. Last winter, I brought it in to the tailor to have every single button resewn.

Have you noticed that new clothes seem more and more to come bundled with extra buttons, and mending yarn, and other assorted doodads meant to assist reconstruction? Have you noticed, also, that you often have occasion to use them?

How is it thoughtful or classy to basically sew crappy seams and half-assed buttons, and then provide replacements you're pretty sure are going to be well-used?

Pynchon bought me beautiful, soft, man-style pink flannel pjyamas. I have put the extra buttons in my jewelry box, where they join quite a collection.

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Pynchon and I found ourselves frantically at work, at 11:00 pm Christmas Eve. He was sitting at the breakfast bar, gleefully tucking sockettes and mandarin oranges into an old pair or work socks, making 'stockings' for his parents to discover in the morning. He was trying to fasten sticky name labels to the fuzzy socks. I had my hands dunked into a bowl of cold water, delicately separating pomegranate seeds from pith, for a fruit salad for Christmas brunch. At the same time, I was cutting cubes of butter into the biscuit batter, and soaking dried mushrooms in boiling water for the fritatta.

"Hey!" I said, to him, bleary-eyed but happy, "We're in charge of Christmas now!"

Diana Krall sang carols on the kitchen stereo and as our fingers fumbled at our tasks, we thought about what it meant to make a holiday for both our child and our parents. It was nice. I feel like a grownup.

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Brunch looked so good, and took so long! that I had to take a picture of it:


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I was feeding Munckin a bottle in the dim of her room at naptime. She wrapped her little hand around one of my fingers and gurgled. Then:

"Ho-ho-ho ... hee-hee ... ho-ho-ho."

(pause)

"Rudolf!"

(pause)

"Frosty-snowman-Santa-CLAAAUUUUS"

(pause)

"Jing-bo-bells. Jingo-bells. Jing-bo-bells ... ... ... HEY!"

(pause)

"All done. Bed! Biiiiiig stretch."

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Munchkin adores her paternal grandparents just as much as her maternal ones. She took to them immediately, and the only way we can keep her from whining for daycare in the mornings is to remind her that Gramma and Grampy will soon be up. She sits on Grampy's ample lap and he points out pictures to her in the paper. Gramma shows her pictures of Pynchon as a boy, narrating a family history. Munchkin is rapt. It's been days since we've had a tantrum. She sleeps like a champ and is eating like a horse. Extended-family life suits her, and I'm amazed how much my heart swells to watch her with them, these old, unhip, slow-moving, part deaf, nap-taking grandparents. How kind they are to each other! How much joy each generation gives to the other, and how much raw pleasure they take in each other's company!


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You are all right, of course: home is where my family is, and my memories live in my heart. This week my house and my heart are both full. The fire has been lit in the evenings and for Christmas morning. The ceiling fan in the kitchen disperses the awesome heat of my perpetual cooking, wafts the soft smell of rosemary biscuits, of sage and mushrooms, through the house. Ernie and Elmo rest in their little boats, with rubber duckie, in the basket I've installed for them next to the tub. My father in law naps in the guest room, two doors away from Munchkin, who naps soundly in her crib. My mother-in-law reclines with her lists and her papers on the living room couch, and Pynchon checks his email in the office. I sit in the basement, watching Christmas movies and wrapping presents, sipping my grande-nonfat-latte from a Christmas travel mug.

Everywhere I look I see people I love, things I have chosen, comforts we can share. We built this home, this family, Pynchon and I. It's part bricks, but it's mostly love. And a lot of paint from Debbie Travis and furniture from IKEA. But a lot of love, still.