“We trudged back into the house, our mittens hanging from their clips; the ones intended to keep us organized. The mittens we were supposed to wear at all times, to heed frostbite warnings that blared from the television each night. The mittens that were wool, and therefore stuck to the snow, making it impossible to craft the perfect snowball. We abandoned them every single time. We would take our chances, thank you very much.
We peeled off the snow day armor as quickly as possible, ignoring the faint request coming from behind the kitchen door, “wipe your feet, hang up your jackets, put your hats and mittens by the radiator.” Instead we threw them in a soggy heap by the washing machine and made a run for it, racing to be the first to open the kitchen door. The one that stood between the finished product and us.
We were immediately accosted by the telltale scents of the holiday season: Gingerbread men, fresh from the oven, hot chocolate piled high with fresh whipped cream, and beef stew slowly simmering on the stove. Beef, carrots, celery, and potatoes cooked until they practically fell apart. “Yuck”, we whispered in hushed tones, “we will never make our kids eat that when we grow up. NEVER.” A statement that would prove almost true in years to come. Almost…”