By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
It’s a dreary grey day outside. The light rain is falling in drops so tiny they’re nearly invisible. In fact, I wasn’t even aware it was raining until I opened the door to the back patio and heard what I thought was wind in the trees. After noticing their complete lack of movement, I realized it was the sound of rain whispering against the leaves.
My dog—who had requested to go out—was just as slow to realize the weather’s betrayal. She trotted into the yard, and the moment a few cold drops touched her fur, she let out a frustrated quarter-bark that made her meaning perfectly clear, even if you don’t speak canine. She rushed back under the covered patio, glared at the falling water with indignation, and then shot me a look as though I were personally responsible for the precipitation. I assured her I had nothing to do with it.
While the weather outside is, to use a seasonally appropriate word, frightful, the tasks on hand today are ones I rather enjoy. Writing is first, of course. Let me set the scene: I am curled on the couch with my laptop in its namesake location. A fuzzy blanket in a cheerful red-and-green plaid covers my legs—but it isn’t the only thing keeping me warm. Under that blanket, upon my lap, is the very same dog who moments ago cursed (I assume, but with good reason) the rain. She has tucked herself beneath the fabric, her snoot resting on one of my arms as I type. Occasionally she exhales with great drama, as though her life is a tremendous burden. She is the most put-upon little freeloader I know.
She has had it ridiculously good today, in fact. Early this morning, her feline brother began his tradition of loud proclamations throughout the house and would not stop until I rose and fed him. She accompanied me, so both were served a wee-hours breakfast. Only an hour later, the cat began his shenanigans again, and my husband—poor soul—got up and was promptly persuaded to provide a second breakfast. They may be cat and dog, but they are equally prone to porcine qualities.
Also on the agenda today is the making of a couple of red velvet cakes. This is a tradition my husband and I take on every holiday season. We’ve already made four, but today we’ll whip up two more. We use his great-grandmother’s recipe, one that took years to properly decipher. We aren’t sure whether she did it intentionally, but several steps and details were mysteriously absent from her written instructions. For years, my husband made the cake and it was delicious—but not quite as his memory remembered. Eventually, we solved the riddles of ingredient and technique, and now he says it tastes exactly like his childhood.
Soon enough, bright red batter and cream cheese frosting will grace more surfaces in my kitchen than I care to discuss. Fortunately, the cleanup process comes with the reward of licking spoons and spatulas, an indulgence that makes the mess feel far less tragic.
The loveliest part of this morning, though, is my view of the lit tree and mantel garland as the fire glows in the hearth. It is absurdly cozy in my home, and something about Christmas décor makes the atmosphere even warmer. Sipping my coffee and looking at these lights turns the dreary weather outside into nothing more than a backdrop—one that makes the glow inside even more inviting.
These are the days that may not lodge themselves firmly in the memory, lacking any grand occasion. But they are the moments that, as you live them, seep warmth into the very fiber of your being. And a snoring, blanket-wrapped lump on your lap only makes it all the more delightful.
Prose and Possibilities 