While the cider softly boils on the stove next to a pot of warm butter–ready any weary traveller with fresh buns on his knees–you sit down in front of the TV and excitedly peel back the December 8 window on your calendar revealing these two staring into your yellow eyes:
After some initial disgust you realize that they aren’t the prize but rather the prize-mongers, presenting a potted weed, just for you.
“Plant this next to your toy shed,” said the one you figure is a man.
“It will ward off child bandits,” furthered the one you assume is the man’s wife, who you assume is a woman.
You take the weed and close the window on the calendar. You take a long sniff of the thing and it smells like the most delicious candy you’ve ever smelled with rich notes of chocolate, caramel and cherry dust. You remove a small leaf and feed it to your test cat, who gobbles it down without a moment’s notice then ages in front of your eyes into the old girl you always wanted. You now understand the power of the weed and quietly thank Saint Nicholas, for your toy shed had up until that point been the most vulnerable on the compound.
Only 17 days left until your family takes turns bringing gravy to the toilet because you used baking powder instead of flour and they were too scared to tell you. Remember what happened when no one liked your Brussels sprouts? Your cousin never did regrow his nose like you said.
GLENN W. MACAULAY 