Counting Down to Christmas
In a flurry of insanity, I went out today to finish buying things for my Christmas dinner.
Note to self: Next year, don't do that.
Oh, it worked out fine. I have turkey (!), and stuffing and dressing and salad and eggs and milk and cranberries (!) and all sorts of wonderful things.
I am also panicking like a mad woman. And I'm only preparing Christmas dinner for three. Can you imagine me with more?
I was trying to remember earlier if my mother had ever panicked over Christmas meals. She may well have, but I can't remember her ever doing so. I just remember always perfectly prepared meals. Maybe mom never panicked because she knew she was a great cook. Maybe she kept her panicking to private.
Or maybe this is just further proof that I sprung, fully formed, from my father's head after a really bad headache.
This is not, in fact, the first Christmas dinner I've made. I was thinking about that today, too. That one, we had a frozen chicken, and I had completely miscalcuated how long it would take for that damned thing to thaw and cook. Everyone was so good about it, though, no one even gave me the slightest bit of hard time, even though we didn't have Christmas dinner till midnight. I think at one point the menfolk (there were two of them, three of us womenfolk, and a newborn) went out to forage for food, and came back with lots of candy and slurpees to keep everyone going till the chicken was ready.
Ah, good memories. The best thing to have for Christmas.
Who needs perfection?