We were in a bit of a funk over Christmas this year. My folks took off to Germany to celebrate with my siblings there, and Michael’s parents ditched us for the new grandbaby and cable-tv football games in sunny CA. We thought about trying to cook a standing rib roast and Yorkshire pudding, but we just didn’t have the heart.
With the feet (and feet and feet) of snow that’s been dumping down on us, we haven’t done much more than shovel and blow snow, and keep the fire going in the woodstove. We did, however, make it down the mountain to practice music, and were prepared to buy a gazillion eggs to carry forth with the Christmas Day service and brunch.
Then, Tuesday night, we got a call from the one priest that the other priest (our lovely curmudgeonly associate priest) had decided that the weather really was so frightful, and that we ought not go forth with the service . . . which, ironically, left us going out, once again, to get the groceries we’d planned to pick up for ourselves on the 24th, when we were going to go shopping for the brunch. We spent a chunk of the 24th in a “no Christmas” funk, and decided to bake our way out of our collective funk, and resolved, further, to take said baked goods around to the folks who were bummed that the service was canceled. Christmas Eve brought us another 8″ of snow, so we chained up (while the car was still in the garage! before we were stuck somewhere! what a concept!), and headed out on the unplowed roads of Christmas morning with a car full of baked goods.
We stopped in at the home of the church’s matriarch, and scored several hours of lovely conversation, cups of hot tea and coffee, and a blueberry coffee cake for us, and another for the curmudgeonly priest (along with a tub of mac n cheese for him as well). The priest was out walking his dog when we made our way into his gated apartment community, and was surprised to see us, and happy to receive baked goods. At our next stop, our friends gave us a three pack of olive oils from a local company (woot!), and we left baked goods on the steps of our friends, the fiddler and his wife, who weren’t in.
We stopped by a service station for some “lunch” — it’s Christmas Day, so beyond gas stations, the only things open are the occasional tavern and the titty bars. We had a lunch of nuked hot pockets and juice, and watched a guy in shorts pull up and purchase a bag of ice. We wondered if it was sadder to be eating Christmas lunch at a service station or a bar, but Farmergirl isn’t old enough to eat at a bar, so that question is left unanswered. On the way down the road, we pulled a second car out of a snow bank, and picked some side roads to cruise further through town, arriving at our friends (the pianist and his family) near the downtown, but messed up the scheduling, such that we missed E and her extended family.
Our path took us north to the Coys, who invited us in for — get this — prime rib and Yorkshire pudding! They didn’t know we were coming, we didn’t know they were making dinner . . . they were supposed to be in Portland with their grandbabies, but a combination of weather and health kept them from traveling this Christmas, and, like us, they were home and bummed and alone.
We got back around nine, traveling again through 8″ of unplowed snow on our windy mountain road, following the tracks of the lone vehicle who passed through while we were gone, freed our crated doggy to frolic in the snow, and finally sat down to open the presents Farmergirl was going to just burst over if we waited any longer. After a bit more snow shoveling and firestoking, we tumbled into bed, fat and happy and full of strange but wonderful Christmas cheer.