Let me be the first to admit that I am not a voluntary Christmas celebrant. This is the one bad thing that I will lay at the feet of The Times. For more years than you can imagine I had to work on holidays. This means that Adrian had to be prepared for Santa to show up on any door step where he might find himself. Santa might come days early or late. Poor child must have guessed something was afoot before he could really start believing in the magic.
When I got out from under the yoke (misspelled as yolk. I can't get that image out of my mind, so I thought I'd put it into everyone else's mind) of work, I would spend Christmas with Mom and Dad and then Mom alone. We didn't have any traditions to disrupt (thank you, Times) so we kept them company. I remember one strange Christmas spent on the Queen Mary. Actually, that was pretty interesting, but Mom was becoming a little more unsure of life by that time.
And now it's just the two of us, so we are spending the time in our undecorated apartment doing what we do best, cooking up a storm. And reading. I just got the most wonderful present, a new mystery series. I read the last book in the series first, A Brutal Telling. It is set in a village south of Montreal, just above the Vermont border. The plot is intricate. People are complex. Fabulously written. My only warning is that you should really start at the beginning. I am now reading the first in the series. I have the second waiting on my iPod. The only danger I see here is that I may read them too fast and get to the end of the short series before she plops out a new book. That would be sad because I know I will be sad when that happens. Until then, I will just enjoy an expected Christmas present.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good read.
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