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