Steve has symbolically announced the end of the holiday. He brought the last Kirschbaum’s Christmas Tree Coffee Cake up from the freezer. This is the pastry that called his name at 6AM on the Saturday before Christmas. I thought it was a dream: Steve lumbering out of bed, dressing, and heading to the bakery. He was prepared to to cajole the comely bakery lasses into giving him his fix. Turns out, he did not have to beg. He was, however, prepared to wrestle one from any other customers if he was denied. Thank God, he scored. It was his Christmas miracle.
The first three were eaten at a pace unbecoming to any human being. For Christmas breakfast, Steve, Roger Dahl and I plowed through the better part of #1. The kids acted as locusts for # 2 and 3, but Steve tucked his fourth tree where he would not have ready access- in the basement . It was frozen to prevent incidental consumption.
Last year one of these pastries languished under a few boxes of freeze pops until summer time. It was as if we had found the Hope Diamond when the styrofoam tray was uncovered. Boom. Gone.
This last, sad coffee cake has languished on the counter. Its festive green and red cherries have lost their luster. The icing just looks like more unwise calories. It is no longer true that “it’s the holidays” so we can dispense with calorie counting.
( An aside- I just went to take a picture of the remnants, and it has disappeared. Dogs? Steve? I choose not to ask. In either case, I am safe from its siren call)
The house still wears its Christmas jewelry, and I dread the process of going from twinkling to stark. Winter is long and dark. I think holographic garland and Italian lights should be a constant until daylight savings time returns. I am alone in this belief.
Additionally, Steve will soon head South for his Seasonal Affective Disorder cure. I refuse to trundle up into the attic with all of my booty, unassisted. In truth, I do not have the knees for the 50 round trips it will require to bring the crates down, fill them and return my holiday magic to its dormant form. I hate being needy. I love spreading the misery around.
Like Scarlett O’Hara, however, I will think about that tomorrow.
Tonight I am going to Book of Mormon– my Christmas gift from Steve. I do not wish to dim the pleasure of this perfect evening by deflating my Christmas joy. I plan to return home to my twinkling palace, wander about, take in the magic and have one last glass of holiday wine.
God willing, there will be other Christmas seasons to dazzle me. And this one, in the book, was pretty swell.
I will return here to whine about the undecorating, crow about Book of Mormon, and subject you to further tales of the morose post-Christmas suburban housewife.
I have stories stacked up like planes over O’Hare. If you hit the subscribe button, I think you can get an e-mail when I have new tales to tell. Try it and let me know if it works.