Holiday food is fantastic, in its own, often hugely over the top, pairing creme fraiche and caviar with as much stuff as is humanly possible. It's the pink feather boa of food, not always tasteful, but fun. And restrained good taste is really not as much fun as well, fun. However, when you feel lousy, you don't want a pink feather boa as much as you want a flannel robe. So I was wrong; the holidays are often about food and celebration, but, oy, was I not in the mood for celebrating this last week.
Actually, holiday food is not always so over-the-top; a neighbor brought by some lefse today (not being remotely Norwegian, I appreciated the little note explaining it, which boils down to: Norwegian tortillas, made with potatoes), with a little honey, because that's how her dad likes to eat them. It was kind, and such gestures are what make me love the holidays (and also, thank you, thank youthankyou for it not being lutefisk, which seems quite possibly even scarier than scrapple, although I don't think scrapple was ever included in a high school cheer). One of Curly's school buddies shyly delivered home-made cookies. The kids both went carolling with their classes. My boy and Curly wrote their letters to Santa (excerpt from Curly's, spelling and punctuation corrected: "I have been good this year, not naughty. Well, not too naughty.") Physically, I'm still... notso-hotso, but somehow, I've been reminded that I do adore the holidays.
Bedazzled holiday sweaters and all.
Although, the grinch has not entirely left me. To the person who took the opportunity to cut in front of me in line while I helped an elderly lady in a wheelchair pick up some gifts she'd just dropped (seriously, lady, do you run over frolicking puppies if they're in your driveway as you pull in?): I hope you have the Christmas you deserve.