In most ways, it couldn't have been a better Christmas Day. (The other ways are spelled m-e-l-t-d-o-w-n-s.) The weather was perfect: high 20s, light snowfall, that bright gray light of midwinter, no wind. The girls enjoyed their "Santa gifts," which were stuffed in their stockings overnight. Julia talked on and off all day about just how Santa could have made it in and out of the house without being detected, whether his sleigh made tracks on the roof, and other matters saintnickian. We gorged on excellent fare prepared wonderfully entirely by Shannon, an elf who makes Kris Kringle look like a slacker and who really outdid herself this holiday. (If you know Shannon's penchant for Doing Things Right, this means something.)
To top the day off, the girls and their grandma and I went out for an hourlong walk and sled ride before dinner. We soaked up the holiday decorations, the novelty of making the very first tracks in the new snow, the smell of neighbors' outdoor fireplaces, the muffled shouts of kids skating on the pond. It's like exurban Bruegel around here, I tell you. But rather than having hunters in the snow, we have sisters in the sled:
