Christmas Morning

I don't know what woke me on Christmas morning, but my eyes popped wide open and I was alert. The only light was from the twinkling of the Christmas tree. All around me lay sleeping children, in chairs, on bean bags on the floor, at my feet. This is our Christmas Eve tradition: Everyone opens two gifts--their Christmas pajamas and a container of Pringles; everyone models their pajamas; everyone eats two or three Pringles, or the whole can; everyone drags their bedding to the room where the Christmas tree glows and we sleep there, beneath the tree. In years past, Bo and I have been awake until 3 a.m. wrapping gifts, but this year, Bo did all of the wrapping, which made me very, very pleased. I'm perfectly content to cook, and I can even force myself to clean, but I absolutely abhor wrapping packages.

So, this Christmas, we were finished with all Christmas preparations. Bo and Houdin both opted out of the sleeping-under-the-tree tradition, but The Baby took it quite seriously, moving all of the gifts that the children had so dutifully transported from my room to the skirt beneath the boughs of the tree, so that she could snuggle directly beneath it. That didn't last long, and soon she was curled up beside Sweetheart and I was reading from an anthology of Christmas stories. By 9 p.m., we were all asleep. Some slept soundly; some slept fitfully, but all slept until Christmas morning.

There I lay, with my eyes wide open. I peered toward the east, but there was not even a hint of a sunrise. Not even a faint glow. My bladder announced that it was time to rise, so I did, first visiting the powder room and then turning on the light in the kitchen. I squinted at the clock. Three in the morning. Shuffling back to the couch, I told my body and brain that they had no business being awake and they were to get back to sleep immediately. Like over-anxious children, they just couldn't do it. I remembered the advice my mother-in-law had once given me about how hormones affect sleep, and how, as she grew older, she would awake at odd hours--be completely and totally awake--and though she tried for a while to force herself back to bed, she finally decided to take advantage of the alertness and use the energy. She found that they were some of the most productive times she had.

I figured that there were things that needed doing before the rest of the family awoke, so I took my mother-in-law's advice and headed back to the kitchen.

Quiche for Christmas morning. That was the plan this year. In years past, we've done Monkey Bread, but it's not as nutritious or filling, so I planned to make my favorite quiche recipe instead, along with some fresh pineapple and orange juice. The pate brise was already in the fridge, so the first step was to brown the bacon, and then deeply saute the onions until they were golden brown. With the bacon sizzling on the stove, I was sure that the aroma would snake its way into someone's dreams and rouse them from sleep.

Sure enough, I heard stirring, heard the squeak of the powder room door, and, before long, there was Monet standing beside me, wrapping his arms around my body and saying, "Merry Christmas" and "Can I help you?"

Let me say that if I produce one real chef, one true culinary-school graduate, I will be satisfied. Out of all of my children so far, Monet and Houdin are the ones most likely to pursue this path. They watch Good Eats on DVD fairly regularly, a gift from Impromptu-Mom that has been one of the most valuable gifts we've ever received.

I welcomed eleven-year-old Monet into my kitchen and invited him to join me in the quiche-making experience. His current favorite pie, he says, is quiche, leaving apple pie and chicken pot pie in the dust. That's really saying something.

I taught him to roll out the pate brise, had him experience the perfection that is golden-brown onions--from the cutting and food-processing (which left him quite teary, but he bore it and plodded on) to the final moments of the forty-minute sauteing process, let him process the Gruyere--an expense that was not spared (there is no quiche cheese like Gruyere), and let him assemble one quiche on his own (though I grated the nutmeg). He was tortured with the smell of the baking quiche, his hunger having already kicked in at 4 a.m., but I encouraged him to eat a banana or some other yummy thing while he waited.

Before long, sixteen-year-old Bard stumbled into the room. Most days, Bard, who is a bohemian like her father, is just snuggling into her bed at this hour. I pray that she gets a night job, truly I do. She poked her head into the kitchen long enough to see what we were doing, realize the unGodly hour in which we were doing it, and crawl back under her covers.

The quiches were beautiful. I explained to Monet how they must be baked until they are just-set in the center, so he was able to remove them from the oven at just the right time, the crust golden and flaky, the eggs still damp and glossy.

It was still too early for the masses to arise, so Monet worked on his Flash cartoons, I cleaned out a few of my cupboards, did a couple of loads of dishes, and then, just in time for children to show their sleepy little faces, I remembered...the stockings hadn't been filled!

A mad rush ensued, the stockings were hung by the, um, er...window casings with care, and that's when, one by one, every member of the family, down to the very last sleepy-headed bohemian, made their appearance in the kitchen, some bouncing, some murmuring, some embracing me and each other with Christmas greetings.

Christmas day had truly begun.