“You lied to me!” So said my 6-year-old daughter to me one merry Christmas.
We always made a big deal out of Christmas Eve. It was the one night that I did the cooking, and that alone made it interesting.
After the guests pushed the food around on their plates long enough that they could plausibly pretend they were full, our tradition was to open gifts. We thought that we and the gifts looked better in the dim Christmas Eve lights after a few single malt scotches than in the bright Christmas Day lights with a hangover. The kids often put on a play.
Eventually, the party ended and the guests went home. After the stockings were well hung by the chimney with care, the kids would nestle all snug in their beds in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. Hallucinogenic visions of plums and whatnot danced in their sugar-infused heads.
After even the mice weren’t stirring, the curtain lifted on my own little play. Continue reading