Cookies and pies. Movies and games. Blizzards and family. No place to go. Hot apple cider and cocoa. Good tidings of great joy. Soft blankets. Warm fires.
Except the warm fires are usually toasty and pretty. And they are usually in a fireplace. This year our Christmas fire surprised us by happening in our electrical outlet.
Nobody was hurt. The smoke pouring out of the wall was a dead give-away that something was wrong. The horrid smell confirmed any suspicions we had.
Mike, who knew nothing about home maintenance when I married him and is now somehow a genius at it, worked his mojo on the power and took the cover off the outlet and put out the hopeful flames that were trying to dominate that space.
Like the pioneers of old, we were forced to improvise, so we made pancakes on one griddle instead of two, causing the grumbling stomachs of four teenagers no end of despair as they waited for sustenance far longer than they believed possible.
With freezing air pouring through the opened windows and a lot of Febreeze, the smell eventually dissipated. The teenagers survived until the pancakes were available; gifts were opened and appreciated.
Merry Christmas.
Fire and all.
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