Yesterday was Christmas Eve eve. It is the night where Chad and I celebrate the holiday together at home with our little family (Charlie the wiener dog and now, Elliot). We sit around our Christmas tree, turn up the heat (we don’t have a fireplace), watch a holiday movie or two, devour a crab feast and sip on Tom and Jerry’s. I love Christmas Eve eve, not only for this tradition, but for the fact that it always feels like the calm before the storm (a very fun, lovely, family filled, exciting, enjoyable, wouldn’t give it up for the world, storm). It is a night where it is just us. Home. Bellies and hearts full. Reflecting on the year. Celebrating the season. Celebrating all that we love.
This has been a weird winter in Minnesota. Instead of the normal crisp, chilly air dotted with the distant smell of wood fires burning and the fluffy, white evidence of winter peppering your hair every time you set foot outside, we have been experiencing
The turkey is picked to the bone. The pie plate has been all but licked clean. The dishes are drying one the rack and you are fully enjoying your stretchy pants and the well deserved afternoon snooze that always follows that delicious victory which is Thanksgiving dinner. You did it. You officially made it through the greatest food holiday of the year.
Clanging pans, chopping onions, beeping ovens, slamming drawers, burning eyes, streaming tears, a humming dishwasher; all signs of our 6:00AM Thanksgiving wake-up call growing up. Every Thanksgiving eve my grandmother, who lived with us and was a baker by profession, would argue with my mom, “I won’t make noise.” My mom would counter with “There is no need to wake up at 6:00AM on Thanksgiving to start the stuffing!” Grams would hold her ground, “I like to get it done with. I won’t make any noise. I never do.” Fast forward to Thanksgiving morning, 6:00AM, coffees in hand, bags under our eyes, pre-parade TV on and sweet Grams finishing the stuffing.