3:07 p.m. - 2005-12-13
I'm debating on baking pies for Christmas this year. My mom or my grandma always made chocolate meringue and egg custard. Now they're both gone, and it's my job to pick up the torch and teach Chloe how to carefully stir the custard so it doesn't stick to the bottom of the pan and burn. I loved baking pies with mom. She let me stir, and I would watch her hands move so quick and competent over the dough. Making perfect circles of flour and butter and whatever else goes into pie crusts. I always buy them. I hate making those fucking things.
I love the anticipation of Christmas. The parties, the little presents, friends, alcohol flowing freely. Letters to Santa and good wishes for people who you can't stand the other 11 months out of the year. Being magnanimous. (of course that's just probably the vodka) After Christmas, when I take down the red ribbons and wreaths and stockings, it feels a little desolate inside. Because after Christmas, it's just winter with no good reason to sing silly songs about reindeer and Grabbe Ye Balls and Walking 'Round in Women's Underwear. That makes me sad, worrying about Christmas being over.
But fuck it man, I have LOTS of presents under the tree with my name on it. And nothing makes you feel better than presents. (not counting really good sex or an icy cold cosmopolitan)
Happy Early Christmas!