Holidaze

We've all heard that cliché a million-and-a-half times: "It's that time of year again." For me, in winters past, this time of year usually meant nothing more than the start of the new snowboarding season, and was excitement enough. I paid zero to no attention to the bare trees adorned with twinkling Christmas lights or the emerald wreaths hanging on front doors. After all, what was in it for me? In my family we barely celebrate Hanukkah. When I was younger it came and went without much fanfare. Today, it barely gets an honorable mention. Back then, Chanukah (alternate spelling used here in the interest of equality) just meant another $20 from the grandparents to last me until New Year's Eve, which is when I would maybe score a couple of more gifts.

I guess growing up in communist and therefore atheist Russia did not easily lend itself to partaking in and maintaining religious holiday traditions. Hanukkah was not a big deal—never mind the actual high (real) holidays—and I did not even know that Christmas existed until I moved to this country. For us Godless Ukrainians, the biggest celebrations took place New Year's Eve, which is when "Grandfather Frost" would bring presents to all the young boys and girls. We even had a "New Year's" tree that my parents would still put up for several years after we had immigrated. I would constantly have to explain to my friends who saw it that it definitely was not a Christmas tree. They eventually took to calling it my family's Hanukkah bush.

"Are you putting up the Hanukkah bush this year?"

As I got older, my parents got more lax and the New Years' gifts dried up along with my feelings about the season. Since then I haven't really been able to—nor did I really feel a need to—"get into spirit" as they say. I would just be excited about and looking forward to hitting the fresh powder on my freshly-waxed snowboard; dreidels and baby Jesus be damned.

This year, however, the holiday season has a different feel to it. I'm in a much happier place emotionally and as a result I think I'm able to soak up the excitement that others are feeling about this time of year. None more so than my girlfriend, whose Christmas spirit is absolutely intoxicating and highly infectious. I really think some of her excitement is beginning to rub off on me and I don't mind one bit, because I really want to feel that anticipation that I remember feeling as a little boy, the one who waited for Дед Мороз to come and leave him presents under the New Year's tree.

I feel like a backwards bear coming out of a long summer's hibernation. Hopefully I'll be able to come out of my holi-daze.

Idling

I spy my girlfriend through a narrow crack between the living room and kitchen doors. It's only a crack because my line of sight, while reclining on the couch, allows me only about a six inch wide portal. I see about quarter of the red Kitchenaid mixer (currently set to medium speed), a bit of counter top, and the rest is all umbrellas and chairs. The Wedding Singer is on the television, but I'm not really interested as I've seen it way too many times. Oh, Jon Lovitz! ... Ok back.

What made me want to write about this? Because every 40 seconds or so I am treated to the delightful sight of my lovely girlfriend hard at work mixing up some wonderful concoction that I can't wait to try. Today it happens to be a pomegranite and poached quince sponge cake.

Although I can only see about 2/3 of her back through my little porthole, every so often I catch a glimpse of her beautiful profile (she looks so cute in her glasses). Every time she makes an appearance, like the marquee star of a Broadway play making her first, long-awaited entrance from stage right, I'm filled with a warmness that is only matched by the heat radiating from the pre-heated oven (350 degrees Fahrenheit) and by writing about I hope to capture this feeling and linger in it a while longer as I try to find the words with which to describe it (and doing a poor job of it (a wordsmith I am not)).

That is all. Carry on.