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December 06, 2001: Wistful

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I want to sit in a little coffee shop and sip chai tea lattes and nibble scones. I want to order sandwiches on dense, flaky, buttery croissants, slathered with mayonnaise and piled high with lettuce and crisp perfect tomato slices and smooth avocado underneath bacon fresh from the pan, cooked til it is so well done that it crumbles if you try to break it. I want to become so engrossed in a book that I lose track of time and have no perception of the other people who sit at their tables around me, conversations condensing into a wordless hum of noise.

I want to go home and turn on Christmas music and then drag out mixing bowls and spoons and cups and spread out over every available counter space until I am covered with sprinkles of flour and there are mounds of gingerbread men piled in perfect little rows on the kitchen table beside lines of buttery cookies squeezed from a cookie press in holiday shapes, painted red or green with a few drops of food coloring added to the dough. I want to melt chocolate and stir in the sour cream and nuts and shape and roll it into truffles to be coated in powdered sugar only after they have chilled in the freezer. I want to twist almond-scented dough into red and white ropes and cover them with crushed peppermint, and bite into one fresh from the oven even though I know that the delicate flavor won't truly set until they've been allowed to sit for 24 hours.

I want to go tramp around in mud, in air so cold it makes our noses run and turn red, and our fingers chap, and pick out the perfect tree only after we have examined every other tree in the farm. I want to smell the scent of pine as we carefully trim the branches, intermingled with the aroma of cider left to mull for hours on a warm stove until the cinnamon and cloves and allspice and orange peel have imparted every last bit of flavor to the juice.

Or in other words, today I'm just not in the mood to be at work.

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