Every Day Is a Holiday

Judging by the slow development of buds on the Christmas cactus, I’m not the only one who isn’t ready for holidays to begin. What’s worse, I don’t even want them to begin. I try to look back over the decades to my childhood, when this season seemed magical, when I ate horrible ribbon candy that no one really liked, and when I eagerly anticipated the arrival of Santa Claus, who by an amazing coincidence wore house slippers just like my mother’s.

Now, instead of eagerly awaiting the holidays, I eagerly await their being over. These days, ordinary daily life delights me. I find delight in the winter sunset.

I find delight in a pot of broth simmering on the back burner.

I find delight in baking and sharing a cherry pie made from cherries we pitted ourselves. I find delight in the fact that six of us were forced to savor our slices very carefully and slowly because any bite might contain a cherry pit. We found a total of 52. Barbara and I were tied for the championship with thirteen each.

And, yes, I still find delight in baking sourdough bread, in knowing that by creating the starter I captured wild yeast spores from the air, spores that transform flour and kill off any bacteria that might invade their domain – a quart-sized mason jar in our refrigerator. I love my starter, I respect it, and I am fascinated by the symbiotic relationship between myself and these organisms. My pal Linda says I should write a blog post called, “I Was a Sourdough Slave,” but I could no more fail to feed and nourish my starter than to quit feeding and caring for myself.

Holidays, schmalidays. Every day is a holiday, a celebration of life.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer