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Chapter Nine
Sawyer
There’s one day a year when I force myself to wake up before my dad’s ungodly alarm.
That day is Christmas.
I start the ham first, since it’s gonna take about an hour and a half to cook, removing the skin and scoring the fat. Once that’s in the oven, I slice the brioche for the French toast bread pudding, then whisk up the eggs, cream, honey, orange zest, and cinnamon. I pour the custard over the bread slices in a casserole dish, then set the dish in a larger pan that I fill halfway with hot water. After wrapping the whole thing in foil, I pop it into the oven.
God bless Gram for convincing Gramps that yes, she really did need a double oven.
My dad comes down just as I’m whisking up the glaze for the ham.
“Smells good,” he says. “Coffee on yet?”
“There’s a good-sized cup left, but Noelle will probably want some.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot.” He busies himself with the coffee while I pull out the ham to start brushing on the glaze.
“When the hell did you get a ham?” Dad asks with a chuckle.
“Picked it up on the way.”
He turns the Christmas tree lights on, gets a fire going, then unlocks the door to the lobby.
As the first round of glaze heats up in the oven, I’m transported back to my grandmother’s kitchen. I take the foil off the bread pudding and toss it back in to brown the top, then use the few spare minutes I have to wash some of the dishes.
Soon after, Noelle practically comes bounding down the stairs, dressed in a long, white sweater and heavy wool knee socks.
“Merry Christmas!” She hums with pleasure. “The house smells incredible.”
She wraps her arms around me from behind. I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I say. “How do you want your eggs?”
“Today I’m feeling over easy,” she says.
“Easy, you say?” I dry my hands on a dish cloth, then pull her closer. She grinds against me. “Keep doing that and you’re gonna make me over hard.”
“Maybe that’s been my plan all along.” She grins.
I hold her tight, resting my cheek against her forehead. She’s so warm, like my own personal furnace.
My dad returns from the lobby. He smiles as soon as he sees her, coming over to sandwich her between the two of us. She sighs as he kisses her neck, her body still pressed against me. I’m struck by the thought that it wouldn’t suck to do this every morning.
The timer dings for the ham.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I have a slab of pork to attend to.”
My dad fixes Noelle a cup of coffee with maple syrup and milk. She watches intently as I brush another coat of glaze all over the gleaming pork.
“So you guys do this every year?” she asks.
“It’s not usually this elaborate,” I say. “Gram always used to cook a big Christmas breakfast when I was a kid. After she died, I wanted to keep the tradition alive.”
“It’s about the only tradition you honor,” my dad says, earning him a glower. “But you honor it well, so I won’t complain.”
“Oh, he’ll complain,” I say to Noelle. “Just not about breakfast.”
