I finished the bulk of my work Friday evening with my stomach still in knots. A dreadful virus had knocked my son and me out for about five precious, pre-holiday season days and I'd been trying to cram all the missed time into one day.
"Are you done?" asked Lane.
"Mostly. Could you get me more eggs?"
"Could you try and relax?"
"No. I need help."
He returned with scotch. One batch of Christmas cookies iced and sprinkled I sat down on a bench in the kitchen, listening to Bing Crosby croon The First Noel, surrounded by a mess I couldn't quite face. In one hand, a broken sugar cookie glittering with white sanded sugar and gold powder; in the other hand, a sifter of golden Islay. My golden-haired son stumbles into the kitchen Michael Palin-style and gets into my face to say "It's..."
It's Adriana Velez's Flying Circus. It's the night I bake a few more cookies for teachers we love plus some egg frittatas for the class party tomorrow. It's the night I ease into the holidays, relax, and have some roast chicken. It's time to claim time for pleasure.
Happy holidays to you all.