The females in the family have a fine-tuned sense of aesthetics. Me? They call me after everything has been set up. “Like the decor?” “Uh-huh.” Obviously I sound underwhelmed. I wonder why they bother asking in the first place, it’s the same every year.
What can I say? I don’t really celebrate Christmas. Back when we still had a grocery, the holidays meant lots of work. It’s how come I can tell you that you’re better off doing your groceries at least five days before the big day, the lull before the storm, when you’ll have the store to yourself. Christmas shopping is not a sport. Come the 24th I would see friends scrambling to get their hands on that last leg of ham in the freezer. “Serves you right,” I’d say with unconcealed schadenfreude. “And good luck with salad; we only have green kaong left.” (I was in a more charitable mood last year.)
My mother was rather late decking the halls this year. Instead, she started with the tableware. I really don’t fancy those heavy plates and bowls, but I also don’t want to be branded a killjoy — it’s only for a month, after all. I’m just glad she hasn’t found similarly themed cutlery to go with them: Pa and I have our own, and it will be a cold day in hell before we eat with anything else, we’ve grown so attached to those forks and spoons. Sure, the decor’s nice. Like always. Can we eat now?
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