My mother, on the phone this morning, reminds me I had the flu last Christmas too and sure enough, she's right. It's as if I can just flip the switch from keeping the household running smoothly to standing on the platform above it, throwing furniture into the gears until it pops and shudders and explodes into certain ruin. When I am this sick things get done in interesting ways or at interesting times. Case in point, baking and decorating snowman sugar cookies with the children after eight on a Saturday night is about as much fun as frostbite but here we are.
I've heard I need to relax, but that could just be a rumor.
In any event we have no firm plans for the next several days and I like that. I want to get better, watch the children and the boys open their gifts, do the usual cook-and-pray turkey dinner cooking method (I'm not very good at this and it's WAY MORE PRESSURE than spaghetti, especially since I was grilled at the breakfast table.
Do we have...cranberry sauce?
Yes.
Stuffing?
Yes.
Gravy?
Yes.
Real butter?
Yes, of course.
Potatoes?
Yup.
Creamed corn?
Fuck no, gross.
What time do we put the turkey in?
I don't know. It says the time per pound but the label is in kilograms. I have to find a calculator online.
Just multiply it, Bridget.
I can't. We never did kilograms. I think it's 1.5 or maybe 2 pounds is a kilo...
Christ. What did they teach you in school?
Ask me anything about Oliver Cromwell. Or ask me to recite 'Evangeline'.
What are those things?
See? I learned more than you did.
At least I can convert pounds to kilos.
Once a year. We need to do that ONCE a year, Benjamin. What a waste of American resources.
We make really good turkey dinners though.
Really? Okay, you cook tomorrow. I'm sleeping in.
You're on.
The only rule is you have to use common kitchen implements, Ben. So no chainsaws, blowtorches or lawnmowers.
Okay, how about this? We'll cook together. The Americans can do the math, and the Canadians can provide the nuance and....stuff.
Tonight everyone is home safe and sound with me. The doors are locked, the lights on the tree are lit, there's a fire in the fireplace and fucking sugar cookies everywhere. It's awesome.
Merry Christmas to you and yours, from all of us here at the home for wayward musicians and runaway freakshow performers. May your days be psychotic and blown out and may all your Christmases be dark and decadent and wonderful and loud.
And I hope Santa finds you.
xo