Slowly emerging from a profound and complete stupor. Every year I wander around on Christmas Day muttering that I am So Tired and that I will never get enough sleep to fill up the giant gaping maw of sleep deprivation, only to wake up two days later basically caught up. Basically. Almost. A little bit. Maybe.
Also, two days out, I can’t remember any of it. The house is strewn with confetti but I don’t remember that being part of the festive proceedings. It must have come from somewhere. Also, there is a large piñata sitting under the tree which lends to the living room a debauched air. It’s origins are known, at least. One child asks for a piñata for every birthday, and never receives one, because she was born three days before Halloween and I cannot fathom giving her a giant vat of candy mere moments before she herself fills a giant vat with candy. So every year her birthday is a failure. This time, the failure having been duly noted, she turned right round and asked for a piñata for Christmas, and out of sheer hideous guilt, we got it for her. It’s shaped like a butterfly, and on the package, Matt wrote, “May you strike the butterfly of life and taste it’s sweetness. Love Santa”
“That’s a terrible thing to write,” I said. “What kind of horrible person strikes a butterfly. Also, what is the ‘butterfly of life’.”
Truly, there are no answers to these questions.
For me, the pinnacle of the feast was cutting into my collapsed persimmon pudding and finding that it was so moist, so delicious, that, spread with a little Lemon Curd and then drizzled with cream, it embodied all that the dreaded Spirit of Christmas should be. Delicate, aromatic, creamy, delicious. Wish I had made three of them instead of only one as not even one crumb remained at the close of the day. How could I have been so short sighted?
Speaking of the Christmas Spirit, whatever ridiculous pagan idea that is, springing full form from the bitter mind of Charles Dickens, I really do need twelve days of it. In fact I believe that I could be truly happy at Christmas if it could all be spread out seriously over the whole twelve days. The Christmas Pageant one day. The presents another day. The dinner even a third day after that. And even the dinner could be stretched out. Goose on Christmas Three, cheese and pate on Christmas Four, dessert on Christmas Five, moderate clean up on Christmas Six and Seven, skip New Years and drink lemon water for the rest of the days. It’s just so overwhelming–church, presents, dinner in a twenty-four hour marathon.
What I’m trying to say is, I don’t actually hate Christmas. I just virtually hate it.
And I think I will paint the kitchen today, for New Years. Pip pip.
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