flutter, furrow, quaver

[An Imagining of Danica McKellar]

Danica McKellar is on the Hallmark Channel, remembering her grammy and how (easily!) she cooked enough food for forty people during Christmas. Danica McKellar, the doe-eyed sweet-thing that stole Kevin Arnold's heart during (our) "Wonder Years" has grown into the queen of Christmas made-for-TV rom-coms, falling into the oblivion of what is every holiday cookie-cut Christmas special. In the Hallmark commercial, she is counting down the days until Christmas, remembering grammy as her eyelashes flutter, her brows furrow, and her voice quavers with remembering. Yes, Danica, yes! Grammy does do it so easily, doesn't she? So easily. The commercial ended, segueing to a Nissan commercial, but I mostly ignore its "Star Wars" sales pitch, thinking of little, adorable Danica in the yellow-orange glow of a kitchen warmed by an oven.

At first she is standing in the entranceway to the kitchen, nearly hidden by a pillar or wall, shyly watching her grammy pick up and put down worn oven mittens as billowing clouds of steam rise and dissipate above her gray or graying hair. But now I imagine little Danica spying her grammy's cooking from under a nearby dining room table, playing with a kitten or scratching her initials into the leg of a wooden chair. But what is even more believable is little Danica, standing on a wooden foot stool built by her grammy, watching her grammy mix and measure from the frontline of the kitchen counter. Flour laces dark hair. Egg yolk dries on a little knuckle. Grains of brown sugar speckle lips. Grown up Danica is a mathematician, after all. And what is cooking and baking, but delicious, intricate, measured chemistry? What is cooking and baking but a fair equaling of measurements tempered by degrees? Little Danica smiles, spooning teaspoons of batter onto cookie sheets. Little Danica smiles, spearing a stick of kitchen-temperature butter and balancing its arc from the tray to the piping-hot homemade biscuits.

She counts and recounts the amount of people who were in and out of grammy's that day. Forty-three people, forty mouths to feed (three were suckling infants), four-hundred-thirty fingers scooping and grabbing, eighty-six ears listening to a drunk uncle sing along with Nat King Cole, and only seventeen chairs. Before the guests arrived, she arranged the spare chairs in patterns that she hoped would inspire merriment and awareness of grammy's bounty. Three chairs near the space heater so to encourage warm, comfortable conversation between a couple and a loner. Turn that space heater off, Dani. With all the cooking and bodies, it will be too hot. She removed all but one pillow from the couch for whoever may want to hold it on their lap or against their chest. She can't be the only person in the family to find comfort in this. She placed a chair by the window on the far side of the living room for the person who came to the party, but wants to leave. She dragged two chairs to both sides of the couch, creating an arch for any and all topics of conversation and camaraderie. She stood on a chair to try and hang mistletoe on a small hook that was drilled into the ceiling years ago for that exact purpose. She was still too short, so grampy did it. She placed a chair nearby the mistletoe--where she later sat--so she can watch the romantic awkwardness:

[Lady coming out, man going in. They try to squeeze through but the lady spills a few drops of spiked eggnog onto the man's forest green Christmas vest. A clamor of hooting and hollering comes from the camaraderie couch and then it happens. They look up and realize they're under the mistletoe. They laugh, embarrassed, and they peck each other on the lips. She follows him back into the kitchen to help him clean off his vest.]

or

[Grammy stands in the entranceway to the kitchen, under the mistletoe, watching her family and friends. One by one, grown ups give their little ones a nudge to go meet grammy under the mistletoe to give her a smooch. Danica, not needing the nudge, got in line behind her younger, toddling cousin. Grammy's smooches are especially wet like the one time she gave her dad a kiss on the forehead after he went for a summer evening run.]

At the dinner table, she is awe-struck. Ruby cranberries reflect the overhead light from the modest, antique chandelier. Golden-crowned biscuits are snatched from a dark, wicker basket lined with Christmas napkins. A cumulus of mashed potatoes floats from hand to hand down the length of the smorgasbord. Yams doused in coagulating syrup and walnuts sloughs from the spoon onto the plates that she so meticulously arranged on the table. She folded paper napkins into obtuse angles only to learn that this feast called for the fancy cloth napkins that would be rolled and squeezed through wooden holders. There were only twenty. She watches, from her small space at the table, all the napkins unfurl in their green and gold majesties.

Navy blue with pockets on the shoulder.

Black leather, silver zipper.

Maroon wool and a cream hat.

Gray pea coat, almost looks black. Red checkered scarf.

Little Danica retrieves dozens of coats throughout the evening. Her grammy's bed is covered in layers of wool, cashmere, leather, and silk. She thinks of "The Princess and the Pea" and immediately changes the tale to "The Princess and the Button" because of all the coats. She carries armfuls of coats down the divided staircase. As each grown up receives their coat from her arms, her little round face appears from behind, delighted and thankful.

She has four other children to play with, but she insists on helping her grammy and mother clean up the kitchen. Her grammy opens a cupboard and pulls out a cellophane bag full of fragile snowflake puzzles (vanilla flavored without the anise, Danica's favorite). Danica holds the bag gently in front of her with both hands like she is carrying a candle and walks to the couch. Her aunt and uncle make room for her. And so she sits deep in the couch, her feet dangling over the top of the cushion. She delicately nibbles at a cookie whilst the adults wax poetic about Reagan.

Danica, upright on the couch, pillow clenched to her chest, is asleep. The lullaby of her father and grampy talking and the hypnotic snow falling on the other side of the window whisked her into much-deserved depths of sleep. The kind of sleep that even when gently pressed awake by her grammy's hands, stirs her heart--flutter, furrow, quaver.

#essay #christmas