Being home with time to breathe

It’s two days before Christmas, it’s raining, and we aren’t in the car.

I’m not exhausted. I didn’t just work a crazy pastry catering marathon for the last two months, ending in a double shift last night, mixed in with an online arts business. Even better, I didn’t work today, then go home as it was getting dark, only to throw some random clothes in a suitcase because I’m too tired to think of what I’ll need, and get in the car to start an 8 ½ hour ride east. That one was always awkward, because we’d try to stop for a late dinner, only to find everything closed because we’d crossed the eastern time zone and it was after 9pm. The years we waited until the 24th, because I worked through the 23rd, places closed for Christmas eve before we had a chance to stop for dinner.

I’ve always made confection boxes for gifts. When I first joined my husband’s family, we all exchanged gifts, nothing giant, and it was all sort of silly but sweet. I’d never been part of that culture, and I found it fun until I noticed it was absurd for the whole country to go shopping at once. There was only one child then. By the time we all had children, we switched to only getting presents for the kids, which was great until everyone stopped following it. That was a little awkward, because we weren’t supposed to get the adults gifts, but some people did. Being a pastry chef, it was an easy step to start making boxes of confections.

I’ve always been an artist, and enamelist. Before everything moved online, I did craft shows, which were packed into the same holiday season. It was a busy time at work, especially during the years we owned a coffeehouse with a bakery. Christmas morning found me frantically laying out baking cups, filling them with truffles and candied oranges, and filling twenty tins in time to take them to my in-law’s house, which was a short drive away. At least in those days, I wasn’t shipping them, or driving them across the better part of two states.

Christmas has always been an overwhelming rush. Until now. My MIL is in assisted living, and no longer hosting. I stopped being a pastry chef six months ago. I did this Christmas season as an artist only, at a sane pace, as I should have been doing all along. My last piece shipped out this morning. It’s raining and gray, the dogs are asleep, and I’m home.

Is this what Christmas is to people on the other side of the celebration, the ones who aren’t making a living with it? It’s not my tradition, and my husband doesn’t care about it, but I do feel we have time to enjoy Christmas as it was meant to be. I haven’t lost my pastry skills. For the first time, sticky buns are in the offing. A treat just for us.

Happy holidays.