Page 53 of A Winter in Wonderland
Chapter 24
Christmas Eve. Every year, I do the same thing.
On Christmas Eve, I would wake up, realise what day it was, and just for a moment let myself remember the things I quietly loved about Christmas: watchingThe Snowmanwith Dad; the gravy Shay made; the time Mum made Christingles with me by candlelight because we had a power cut; my secret life-long crush on Colin Firth because ofLove Actually; the song ‘Sleigh Ride’ when sung by Ella Fitzgerald because it’s a jam and I think it can be enjoyed any time of year; the smell of mulled wine; the feel of home and family.
Then, though I never demand they come knocking on the door, the bad memories would inevitably show up like uninvited party guests who paid for the booze so you can’t turn them away.
So instead you shut down the party, and all the memories, good or bad, get pushed aside.
Christmas Eve is, however, my favourite day around this time of year. It always has been. Once, because it was the epitome of weeks of excited build-up; now, because it means I’ve nearly made it to the finish line! And so, I wasn’t even mad when I heard Esteri’s voice whisper to me while I lay in bed, awake, looking up to the ceiling, at five in the morning.
‘Myla? Are you awake?’
‘Yeah. How did you know?’
‘You stopped snoring.’
I rolled onto my side and hung my head over the bunk to look at her. ‘I don’t snore. You snore.’
‘Merry Christmas Eve,’ she said by way of reply, an excited grin on her face. ‘Did you know that Christmas Eve is more celebrated in Finland than Christmas Day? We love Christmas Eve.’
‘Christmas Eve is my favourite too!’ I said, then lowered my voice back to a whisper. ‘It’s less pressure.’
Esteri nodded. ‘And more special. Good, I’m glad you feel this way. Would you like to get up with me?’
‘Sauna?’ I asked, with hope.
‘No. I’d like to make rice porridge for everyone.’
‘ … All right.’
She stepped out of bed and pulled a sweatshirt over her PJs, and an extra pair of socks over her feet. ‘It’s a tradition here to eat a bowl of warm rice porridge for breakfast on Christmas Eve, with some cinnamon in. I want to make it for everyone, but it would be nice if you could help.’
‘Of course.’ I made my way down the ladder.
‘I hope you like it. Maybe it could be a tradition you could take home, then every Christmas Eve I could know you’re having the same thing over in England, and it would be like we’re having it together. Like family.’
‘Ah, Esteri,’ I said, pulling her into a hug, which she reciprocated for three seconds before pulling away.
‘Come along,’ she instructed, and we crept out of the room and along the corridor, then down the stairs, to the quiet and dark kitchen.
Esteri pottered about, whispering instructions to me as she placed a big, heavy pan on the stove and measured out a large quantity of rice and milk. I was in charge of stirring the rice in boiling water while she opened and closed cupboards until she found cinnamon, sugar, and some hazelnuts.
‘Hmm. It would be better if these were almonds, but we only need one. We pop this in the pot at the end and whoever finds it in their bowl will have good fortune.’
As Esteri transferred the rice to the milk, the creamy, sweet aroma filled the air, and I kept on stirring, methodically. This was very relaxing. And just when we were finishing up, our first few ‘customers’ appeared in the kitchen, padding in with messy hair and crumpled pyjamas, wanting to stick on a pot of coffee or brew a cup of tea.
Esteri doled out small bowls of the rice porridge to anybody that entered the kitchen, topping each one with a sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar, and before long the chalet was coming to life. People returned for seconds,or sat down on the sofas in the lounge. Today was, apparently, going to be our busiest day of the whole season, so we all had an early start, and were more than happy to stuff ourselves with Esteri’s delicious, filling, festive brekkie.
I know I was. That was why I had two helpings.
Fine, three helpings.
Josh entered the kitchen mid-yawn, flannel PJ bottoms down below and, you guessed it, a flannel shirt slung over the top, buttoned haphazardly, and currently lifted as he scratched his toned belly.
I held a bowl of porridge under his nose and waited for him to open his eyes.
‘Merry Christmas Eve,’ I said when he stopped yawning, started sniffing, and dropped his hand.
