Christmas is my absolute favorite holiday. It brings back childhood memories of family fun, traveling around town to see the lights, and waking up at an obscene hour only to wait for my mother to let us out of our room at a more appropriate time. And actually, all of these things characterize Christmas Eve, which is my favorite part. The anticipation of giving gifts, the sparkling lights of my parents' tree -- it all makes me feel, if only for a moment, that anything could happen.
As I write this on Christmas Eve morning, I am no where near my parents' tree. I have not seen my family in months. The weather was just near sixty last week. And I have spent almost every day at work wrapping gifts and strategically staging the best stocking stuffers closer and closer to the register. With the exception of helping parents hide their purchases by using the bag-within-a-bag method or surreptitious exchanges of diaper bags, I have not felt the least bit Christmassy. So in effort to capture some of that feeling and supplement the very short time I will have with family, I decided to embark on a bit of domestic insanity.
I baked cookies.
A lot of cookies. Gingerbread, raspberry macaroons, peppermint truffles -- I baked them all Saturday evening while Chris was at work.
I know that this does nothing to improve any health goals, and that no one truly needs nine pans of cookies, but it went a long way toward my personal state of mind. Despite how tired and stressed I was, baking cookies for the people I love was my way of remembering Christmas was right around the corner. I may be in my own home with my own tiny tree, but if I can be involved with the prep and show up with treats for everyone, then the magic must be about to happen.