|What Santa sees...|
I mean, since everybody's doing it, why shouldn't I?
This isn't one of those "If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too" scenarios that your mother used against you when you were begging her to let you go to the Peter Frampton concert with your best friend, Shelby Miller, in the 8th grade (I may or may not still be bitter and holding a grudge). It's more like, "Hey... let's all eat cheese, drink copious amounts of egg nog, and die young! Woo hoooo!"
But as I'm gleefully eating more Brie and other assorted cheeses than any normal human should ever be able to eat and not die, in the back of my mind I'm thinking, "If everyone gains 7 to 10 lbs, would anyone reallyyyy notice if I packed on 15 to 20?"
Dear Little Fat Girl,
Yes. Everyone would notice.
|FUCK YOU, SCALE!|
GOD how I love and hate the holidays!!
Buried deep within my DNA is the strong belief that once December 1st hits, it's time to eat. If you do not bake enough cookies to feed a small third world country for an entire month, then you are a failure as a human being. My childhood Decembers were filled with frosted sugar cookies in the shapes of animals and Christmas characters, gingerbread men covered with raisins and red hots, fudge, homemade gumdrops, and every other confection known to man.
|"Who you callin' a HO?"|
It was a happy time.
Christmas Day would begin with homemade sweet bread, morph into trays of meats, cheeses, olives, pickles, and even more cookies and candy, and end in rampant piggery with turkey, ham, pie, and all the trimmings.
I can remember lying on the couch, bloated and miserable, eating a final piece of pumpkin pie loaded with homemade whipped cream before I went to bed.
Dammit, that is the true meaning of Christmas.
Of course such an intense fraction of DNA cannot be denied, and I unwittingly passed it along to my children, some more so than others.
One year, when my boys were approximately 10, 11 and 13, I came down with a horrible bout of pneumonia the week before Christmas.
I. Was. Sick.
I couldn't move off the couch. Consequently, I did not get any baking done.
I did all my Christmas shopping at Walmart on December 23rd, with a fever of 102.
I was so sick that on one rainy trip to the grocery store, my kids managed to talk me in to bringing home a freaking cat that was stranded in the rain and looking pitiful.
I was so sick that I didn't put up a tree, make dinner, or do much more than hand my kids Walmart bags with their gifts inside.
And this is what I've heard ever since:
"Mom, remember the year you didn't bake cookies for Christmas?"
*Sidebar: That same year, one of my students gave me a paper plate filled with homemade holiday cookies. I came home from work and, since I was feeling like death, stuck the cookies on the oven and promptly forgot about them. (We had an on-going ant problem so I would put things in the oven, since I rarely used it, as a temporary holding area.)
Long story short, in February I decided to cook something in the oven. I turned it on and went about my business, until one of the boys shouted that flames were shooting out the back of it.
Lo and behold, the plate of Christmas cookies that I had brought home and forgotten about, had become a raging inferno inside my oven.
That's the other thing my kids remember about that Christmas:
"Remember when you almost caught the house on fire because you put the only Christmas cookies we had in the oven, and we didn't even get any of them?"
That's some stubborn, fatty, DNA.
So this year, two of my boys and my one and only girl (thank you, Kacey, for marrying her) will be here for the holidays.
All I can focus on is "What am I going to cook?"
As much as I can't wait to see my precious ones, I am probably equally excited about all the foood I'm going to make for them.
And all the cheese I'm going to eat.
Sad but true.
That's not right...
Merry Fudgemas! Merry Nogmas! Merry Boozemas!