Due to unforeseen circumstances, we are moving the youth group to our house, where there is a selection of Christmas movies. Come and see our family's excessive Christmas decoration hysteria. -Oscar
Can you guess which window belongs to my American friend Oscar?
I spent last night with Oscar and Jenny and their twin daughters, Tracy, Jakob, and a few othters: we ate popcorn and watched Home Alone. It reminded me to tell my friends that I'm gonna give 'em to the count of ten to get their ugly, yella, no-good keisters off my property before I pump their guts full of lead. Oscar and Jenny had put up the rest of the decorations, which were loud and outrageous. There was Santa Claus in his sleigh, his reindeer looking the worse for wear without their antlers; there were the strings of lights and the many tiny Christmas trees and long bows of plastic holly.
There is something serene about a kitchen scene. I realize I have taken quite a few pictures of kitchens, and you perhaps (rightly so) would say they look the same. People clustered around a kitchen table cluttered with bowls and warm cups of tea and elbows on the worn wooden surface. But I suppose that is the point. It's the world as it should be. The kitchen, the nave on which the wheels turn in the sanctified ritual of saying grace, of takingt that first stab at a potato, hot in its jacket, of leaning on family and passing the milk.