Two weekends ago, two of the MFA students hosted a Christmas party. We were told there would be cake, and to wear sweaters. I wore a party dress, red lipstick and an ugly snowflake broach as a hairpin. Way better as a hairpin.
We drank Bailey's and coffee and champagne and did not sing Christmas carols, but had a raucous good time nonetheless. I bought two pounds of chestnuts that afternoon, and took them over to roast for a party snack. It might not have been over an open fire, but I think it still put us in that Christmas spirit.
When we peeled the chestnuts, crouched around the coffee table together, I told them about France, how you can buy a newspaper cone full of hot roasted chestnuts from street vendors. Two years ago, I was in Avignon the day after Christmas, and I remember dropping chestnut shells onto the ground as we walked around, looking at the city lit up for the holidays (biodegradable! it isn't litter!). Something about it always felt so festive, so old-timey. Like I was a part of something that had already happened.
I'm hoping to roast some more this weekend at Scarlet's house, while I plan our Christmas dinner, and then bake some of these to leave out for Carl....errrr, Santa. At any rate, it's about time that I skidaddle and make some Christmas cheer somewhere else, because my tree is about as dry as a bone, and crinkles unpleasantly before dropping needles every time I walk by it.
No matter. Scarlet's got a fiberoptic one put up whose branches will never droop.