A number of Christmases ago, an elderly friend of mine that I have known for many years invited me in for a snifter of Baileys’ Irish cream. As I was shedding my coat and stamping the snow off my boots at the door, she was already ranting about the price of cheese, the rudeness of that woman at the bank and the tardiness of a new letter-carrier who also had the audacity to cut across her lawn. In December. If you are imagining a sweet-natured, gentle older lady please stop now. This person once literally chased one of those conserving-energy types with a clipboard up to the corner of the street, shouting the F word and advising him not to come back.
And, I remain very confident that he did not.
Niles asked for a “whizzer stick” this year (my own bastardizational term for an immersion blender) but in the few days since Christmas (which feel like as many years) I have felt as though someone has lowered one into my emotional core. I don’t know if I am the only one who needs to just sit and stare at the wall after Christmas but after ten solid days of cooking, cleaning, fretting and trying to pretend I don’t feel like hiding in a closet with some (decent) gin, my tranquility resources are, (in keeping with the season) in the red.