Earlier today, I wrote the following:
Tonight my husband’s parents, siblings, spouses and families are gathered in Minnesota celebrating Lille Juleaften or Little Christmas Eve. In Denmark, ‘the old country,’ the main celebration of Christmas falls on the night before, December 24th. In Minneapolis the Hanson/Knutson clan is eating oyster stew. The nasty liver paste I can’t spell, let alone pronounce, is probably on the menu too. Over the next few days the exquisite risalamande will be made and served. It’s a dish of rice pudding, whipped cream and almonds served with raspberry sauce. A whole almond is hidden in the dessert and served to the youngest member present who receives a gift of candy, sometimes even the traditional marzipan pig.
There’s more, but believe me it just gets worse.
I can’t find the words to say what I want to say, to tie the examples and the theme and wrap it up all nice and neatly like a Christmas package. One not wrapped by me.
Maybe it’s all the sugar fumes I’ve inhaled during my baking binge today.
Hard to believe reading this, but I do get paid for writing. But not this. This is about things that have been on my mind for years or minutes.
Tonight Denmark is on my mind. Erik, is just a hop, skip and a ferry ride away from the ‘old country.’ I want to write about Vikings, and wanderlust and the unaccompanied bus ride my husband took in Aarhus, Denmark when he was seven. I want to wax eloquent about how I'm the poster child mom for ‘letting go,’ but this holiday season I’m in a ‘holding on’ mood. I want to articulate how I’ll be happy when my son’s gorgeous, generous girlfriend lands in Heathrow at the end of the weekend. And I want to thank her parents for letting her go. Instead, I’m waning.
So I’m going to go dip the second batch of buckeyes in chocolate and direct you to my son’s latest blog post…on homesickness. It’s eloquent and expressive, and I’m a proud mom.
Happy Holidays all.