Last night I gratefully tucked myself into bed at 8pm, early by any standards, including my own. This morning I rolled out of bed at 4:45, anxious for an hour by myself. Sliding the leather recliner back it was just the warm lights of the Christmas tree, some highly sugared and creamed coffee and my journal, hanging out together in our family room. After 35 minutes of carefully pasting the words of each concerns across the landscape of the wide lined paper, I felt as if I may not have solved every issue, but at least they now stood obediently before me, lined up like wide-eyed preschoolers, ready for the next set of directions.
I love National Public Radio, but lately, I find myself turning it off. It feels as if everywhere I turn a company is laying off thousands of people, personal stories about how these struggling families plan to make it through the holidays stings with the realization that we ourselves stand only a few feet from that line. Have we saved enough money? Are we living simply enough? The questions begin their familiar dance. I take a deep breath and pray that both Josh and I keep our jobs. I switch from the news to Charlie Brown’s Christmas album.
Today, the kitchen fills with swirls of vanilla, cinnamon and lemon as I make yet another loaf of sweet bread for the teacher gifts this year. The dishes pile up in the kitchen sink, somehow reminding me of the huge drifts of snow the plow left behind in Minnesota. As a child, I couldn’t wait to get my snow suit on and play, “King of the Hill” with the other kids on our neighborhood. We would find the biggest mound of snow, usually taller than my eight year old self, and take turns being the king. The king stands at the top of the hill, and all the other players take turns pushing the king until he or she falls over. I loved being The King, but I also loved the tumble off the hill, rolling in the snow, only my cheeks feeling the bitter cold air, the slow drip of melting snow on my skin.
The dishes in the sink remain unchanged as I write, the batter hardening with each passing minute. Sweetie, our appropriately named kitten, sleeps with her head tucked into my hip on my lap. Ice coats the streets outside the office window. They are slick and hard, a winter armor, the type of conditions that begs for elderly hips to be broken. It is a perfect day for baking.
A snow drift hasn’t appeared out by the curb, so instead, I’ll be The King of the Kitchen Chaos . An economic crisis you say? Banished by my royal hand! (At least from my mind for the next 2 hours.) With my mighty powers I will dismantle the dirty dishes and turn a goopy, sticky mess into a tasty treat for all to slice and enjoy. The best part is… I won’t even need my snowsuit.
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