I got a Twitter this morning from a bike-program guy at my work, asking me if I'd like to drop by for Christmas brunch. I've met him all of twice in the bike-parking garage. So, what the hey!
avventura1234 and I, looking for an excuse to get out and show off our Christmas-decorated bikes, Tweeted back "yes" and headed on across town.
It was the start of what has been my best Christmas in ages. GORGEOUS day, sunny and freezing with a bit of a wind-chill. The ride to the brunch was into the wind and up a slope, so being cold was
not a problem. An interesting group was gathered to eat cinnamon buns and drink coffee at the home of a couple who have gone car-free. They had a parking lot in back for ten guest bikes!
When I got home, I spent two hours listening to my
gift podfic from
riverbella while putting together my
potato dish for Christmas dinner. Taking everyone's brilliant suggestions into account, I wound up making the
simplest possible gratin involving the greatest possible amount of heavy cream.
I pulled it out of the oven, wrapped it up in swaddling clothes, and laid it in my
tea strainer* furoshiki, then pedaled furiously to my mom's house, where I was the last to arrive. Amazingly, the spuds were still hot when I got there! A standing rib roast was just coming out of the oven. We squeezed all nine of us around a couple of tables in my mom's small condo.
There were no gifts. No wrapping paper, no batteries, no excess spending, no concealed disappointments. There was just a delicious meal (the gratin was a smash hit), and passed-around phone calls from distant relatives. We don't even drink at family gatherings because of some alcoholism in the clan, so everything depends on laughter, of which there was an abundance.
On my way home, a small clutch of other cold-hardy cyclists came ching-chinging up to me with bells on and declared themselves to be Cycle Santas. They gave me a blue ribbon! Presumably it was for just being out cycling in the cold on Christmas night.
So, it was a winner of a Christmas. And now, eleven days of vacation.
\o/
*
hat-tip to
executrix and her vegetable Jesus heresy.