While I don’t celebrate Christmas, I have, for many years now, spent Christmas eve with one of my best friends, her husband, kids, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and her husband, niece, nephew, and her sister-in-law’s husband’s mother, whatever she may be called (not by name, but on the family tree). Oh, and two dogs and two cats, except we usually don’t see the cats until the later — and quieter — part of the evening. The dogs, one of which is large enough to be a small pony, either beg for food or use the convenient hardwood floors to slide onto your feet and demand a belly rub. It’s a house filled with ridiculous amounts of love, as if any amount of love could be considered ridiculous.
Every year, my friends and their kids bake Christmas cookies. Or cookies for Christmas. Gingerbread. Magic bars. Cheesecake bars. Shortbread. Lemon poofy things with a lemony glaze. Cream cheese cookies. Decorated sugar cookies. It’s as if some of the love manifests as piles of festive and delicious concoctions of flour, sugar and butter.
I had to taste everything, so I grabbed a knife and took a little sliver of each. Someone joked that I have commitment issues. I can’t deny it, at least when it comes to food. Considering I was in the home of people with whom I’ve been friends since elementary school, he couldn’t have meant it in all respects.