So I arrive in DC sleep deprived (bad child) and immediately realize that I need to snap out of it, because my dad and grandma have gotten a horrible stomach bug that has left my 92 year old grandma looking completely exhausted and my dad running to the bathroom with alarming frequency. My sister-in-law has been so preoccupied with her own baby baby that she hasn't had time to go shopping for the teenage mother she 'adopted' for the holidays.
Task 1:
Hey bloggy! You work with urban youth, can you find a collection of wintry items, not too expensive, that a 19 year old mommy might like?
Done. I know just the thing, and Dad’s coming along for a run to Best Buy. Piece of cake. Excepting the epic lines at Old Navy, and the DC traffic jam. Do the grocery shopping while we’re out? No problem! C'mon people, challenge me!
Task 2:
Christmas Eve: all things.
Task 1:
Hey bloggy! You work with urban youth, can you find a collection of wintry items, not too expensive, that a 19 year old mommy might like?
Done. I know just the thing, and Dad’s coming along for a run to Best Buy. Piece of cake. Excepting the epic lines at Old Navy, and the DC traffic jam. Do the grocery shopping while we’re out? No problem! C'mon people, challenge me!
Task 2:
Christmas Eve: all things.
Ok, I've been challenged. Christmas Eve, it may come as no surprise, is rife with traditional food that my parents typically handle. I know how to do a fair number of the dishes, but the lihamirakkapiraas (sp?) is something I've never attempted. Since I’ve barred my dad from the kitchen for obvious reasons, and the bro and sis-in-law are busy with the baby, and my mom is so worried about my grandma as to render her more or less useless, I make the damn liha. It's an elaborate affair involving three kinds of meat enveloped in a sourdough crust with interlocking lattice on top.
I also whip up lunch for everyone and wrap all the presents for Santa's bag (that's a whole 'nother goddamn Scandinavian tradition to be addressed later...), and make the chocolate raspberry torte for Christmas Day.
Successful completion brought on the terrifying feeling that I might, finally, be an adult.
I drew the line at playing Santa, though I would have done it if my brother had procrastinated for ten seconds longer. You see, every year on Christmas Eve when my brother and I were small, my parents carried out an old Finnish tradition, in which Joulupukki comes to call leaving gifts for all the (overgrown in our case) well-behaved children. Joulupukki is Finnish Santa, though the original tradition involved a goat ramming his head on the door and demanding gifts. I always wondered why we had a goat at the top of our Christmas tree instead of a star or an angel like other people.
In any case, when we were kids, Dad dressed up as Santa Claus and delivered one present to each family member on Christmas Eve. Now that we’re bigger, Dad’s duties have been transferred to whomever Mom picks, or to the person who drinks too much and thinks it might be fun. We knew my Jewish sister-in-law was a trooper when she agreed to be Santa one year, but now she, like the rest of us, tries to rest on her laurels unless called upon. Anyway, for the photo op, my brother plays Santa, and holds his one-month old baby, who doesn’t even flinch at his exuberant ringing of sleigh bells.
Task 3:
Christmas day. Make the boula (here again I've made up the spelling. Feel free to correct me) before xmas breakfast. It’s a delicious yeasted cardamom bread that is my favorite tradition, which is why I get up at 7 to knead and rise, knead and rise, braid and rise. Then I relinquish the Christmasy reigns, which is a lovely break, except that when it comes time to make Christmas dinner, my brother is wrapped up in photoshooting the baby for the billionth time with his new camera lens, and he burns the shit out of the first element of dinner. I tell him to concentrate on the baby.
Christmas day. Make the boula (here again I've made up the spelling. Feel free to correct me) before xmas breakfast. It’s a delicious yeasted cardamom bread that is my favorite tradition, which is why I get up at 7 to knead and rise, knead and rise, braid and rise. Then I relinquish the Christmasy reigns, which is a lovely break, except that when it comes time to make Christmas dinner, my brother is wrapped up in photoshooting the baby for the billionth time with his new camera lens, and he burns the shit out of the first element of dinner. I tell him to concentrate on the baby.
Task 4:
Leave DC in the midst of an Eastern Seaboard disaster of a Christmas storm. None of us proved capable of this.
