Yeah, yeah, eggs/feast/joy yada yada, I’m always going to do all of that too, but the mandatory annual event I speak of now is the listening to of a certain soundtrack
Jesus Christ Superstar
It’s a commitment, this soundtrack. Much like my beloved Hamilton, it requires 86 minutes of
*singing at the top of the lungs with intermittent interpretive dance
The Listening* also has the quality of being potentially annoying to some people despite their exposure to the phenomenon a bare minimum of 19/16 times, respectively. People who may or may not also have other expectations of their single parent on this most blessed holiday.
My personal preference is to plug a speaker in to the kitchen outlet and request that It Begin during the time I will inevitably spend in my kitchen preparing the traditional Holiday feast for the masses that need only feed we three.
This year my girl wanted to hover while I prepped the feast, which I was delighted to oblige after obtaining the necessary waivers and memorandum of understanding that my primary role for the next 90ish minutes was to sing. And to dance.
|posted at noon with caption: Eggs found, chocolate consumed, time to prep the boid and start the soundtrack|
Oh yes, the eggs had been found
This year’s loot made the empty feeling eggs most coveted
So by 11:31am I was ready to prep, and prep I did. I prepped, I sang, I danced, and then I had plenty of time to run out for cranberries and pie crust
|I even took the scenic route|
before the obligatory dying of the eggs
The epic feast was presented with flourish. We are a small family, yet mighty.
|Don't worry, I drank everyone's champagne|
The epic mess was eventually cleaned, and we retired to the davenport with wine and jellybeans, because this year there was a new tradition to behold, one that I fervently hope will be repeated or recreated annually from this day forward into eternity