Yesterday's sunrise was a harbinger of colors to come. You know we like a candy-colored Christmas around here.
My cookies from the previous night were waiting. I find baking and decorating cut-out cookies a ton of work, so I've always used packaged dough and packaged royal icing because, even using those shortcuts, I'm (historically) ready to be done with the whole thing when I'm about 5/8ths done, which is the point at which I become fatigued with almost every project I undertake. I think it's like the Golden Mean with me. If I had to add dough- or frosting-making to the equation, I fear I wouldn't get past the baking part. Or perhaps the rolling-out part. Or actually I might just skip straight to the not-doing-it part. And the other thing is that I like the taste of these just fine. I prefer it, actually. It's like having a craving for Kraft macaroni and cheese. Sometimes it just hits the spot.
I do, however, hand-make all my sprinkles.
Showers and showers of sprinkles. Sometimes it's hard to remember that "sprinkles" are actually "sugar." Biting into a cookie that actually crunches reminds you . . . as well as the sudden urge to lay down and take a nap about a half-hour later. . . .
The sprinkles reminded me of these beads, a big bowl of which I put together the other day. They're all just kids' beads from the craft store. I find stringing beads to be very relaxing. If you add pom-poms (see Heidi's adorable garlands over at Kiddley), you have a great TV-watching activity. My mom was looking for a project to do and I suggested this to her, and asked her to make me one. Immediately after hanging up the phone, I realized I felt a bit flushed . . . put hand to forehead . . . yes, I had the stringing-fever myself. So of course went out and bought three bags of beads and five bags of pom-poms and have made, so far, seven garlands. Sigh. I drive myself insane, I really do. I now have enough poms to fill a standard pillowcase. They do make adorable strands of cuteness for the tree or the mantle
When we were house-hunting six years ago, we looked at a house that had a fireplace in the master bedroom, as well as a tiny nursery with a mint-green linoleum floor and little paned French doors off of it. The place was a fixer, and by the time we wanted to write our offer, one had already been made. But I drive past that house every few days on my way downtown and I think about it. A fireplace in the bedroom. It's a spectacular dream, don't you think? I could do a lot with that.