At 10:15pm on Christmas Eve, I listened to Hanson's 'Snowed In', mixed the dry ingredients of sugar molasses cookies into the wet, and smoothed the confectioners sugar which encased the chocolate rum balls. My mother was in the next room, she wrapped presents, watched 'A Christmas Story' four times, and drank burgundy wine from a goblet made for her wedding. I was not allowed to go into that room, so whichever questions or comments we made to each other, we stood in the hallway to say. Watson enjoyed those exchanges for their approximation to the door. He walked the beaten path between the kitchen and living room to pursue the possibility of going for an unnecessary walk. Lake was upstairs in her bedroom, directly above the kitchen, to wrap the last of her gifts, and, more likely, spent most of it on the floor with my uncle's new lady puppy, Sandy. Meanwhile, James did not tell Sandy how adorable she is, but rather, laid in a mad slumber which he gave into around 8pm. My father did the opposite -- he worked on a court case in his office. I looked over at the time and thought to write this, then came 10:16pm.
on November 20th, 2007 04:07 am:
New York is extraordinary. New York is autumn air and winter coats, men escort their mothers across avenues while other men drive taxis and talk to their wives with bluetooth telephones, restaurant doors open and bouquet the chilled area with good foods, babies bundled in all sorts of unnecessary layers wobble about like penguins on wet leaves across central park's paths, jolly red cheeked tourists with christmas tree arms decorated with shopping bags like branches holding bulbs, and each business and salesman glow spectacular. Everything smells clean and genial. I love anything good and everyone giving, and maybe it's the smell of hot chocolate on my nose or apple cider over my lip, but it seems like all things are redolent of goodness, good favour, good taste, good humour. I love New York.
