Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. A peaceful night it was, and after I did my baking and dancing along with the show, I made some hot chocolate with a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream, and sat awhile by the picture window, my favorite place when I feel quiet, and I read “The Gift of the Magi” and looked out at the Christmas lights twinkling on the fence and over in the trees at the neighbor’s house. Yep. Every Christmas, I watch It’s A Wonderful Life, and I read O. Henry’s short story. Never go year without those two fine stories.
Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. It’s been a heck of a week, people, and I’ve been on a roll. Seriously. Gifts bought, and plan to wrap ‘em in short order. Ten pounds of cookie dough waiting to be pressed or rolled and baked and frosted. A few cards and cookbooks mailed, house clean, kids picked up and home and already out with friends, cupboards full, tree up and almost all decorated, all of that. And every day in the next ten is full up with things on the calendar. Not a complaint, mind you. Just fasten your sleighbelts.
Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. I spent those two hours as I most often do, in the kitchen with my apron on (the white one that looks like one a butcher might wear, my favorite) and cookbooks open and several bowls going with cookie dough in one and meat for meatballs in another and cinnamon and cayenne and flour spilled here and there on the counter. It’s my element, I think, or one of them. A place I feel most myself, most productive, most alive. It seems silly sometimes, to say that, but it’s true. The kitchen is where I center myself, bring myself together again. And let me say, with a song about being all alone playin’ on A Prairie Home Companion as I mix with my hands the flour and egg and butter for a batch of Spritz cookies — a candle lit on the windowsill and the sun sinking into forest just outside of town — I’m as content for a time as a woman might be.