The World is Brand New

I think I knew you

Before time began

I wonder if you were here 

Watching and waiting

For just the right time

Knowing us better than we know ourselves.

You didn't fill a hole

Of something missing

But created a space

Stretching and breathing

Possibility into plausibility

   Hope into happy tears

   Fear into courage.

The world is brand new.

Dearest little Hugo,

We brought you home just before midnight on Christmas. There are some things you need to know about us and the world, but the most important thing you need to know about Mama and Papa is that our lives revolve around food. We'll teach you these things, slowly but surely, as you grow. This is pure joy for us, and you are pure gift.

What you need to know about feasting:

There are no half measures allowed. If you cannot bring yourself to feast properly, content yourself with a slice of bread, butter, and some radishes. If you feel the impulse to be miserly when showing love, force yourself to go to the store, buy the most expensive bottle of wine you will consent to buy, a loaf of baguette, some salami, and call a friend who will sit with you patiently until you find yourself again. Even when we are at our most awful, we are not meant to be alone. 

Speaking of which, feasting is never done alone. It is what connects us to each other, to the world, to the sinner-saints who have gone before, and to the Creator, who laughs with joy as we trip over ourselves attempting to be good or do life right. We were made for joy, made to tell stories and laugh, and to savor moments in time that exists in the veiled middle space between the absolute knowledge of Now and the ephemeral awareness of the Eternal.

Now, for some apologies:

- We will hold you while we feast, which means we will spill food on you. We may not notice this at first if we do. You will probably get dirty in the kitchen. A lot.

- Our kitchen sometimes gets very warm (which you do not like any more than being very cold); it will be worth it in the end, but you may have to endure some heat in the waiting spaces (it's a good life lesson).

- You will likely someday tire of your Papa and I saying dinner is at 6:30 but forgetting ourselves in the moment, sipping our martinis as 6:30 slips toward 7:30 and 7:30 to 8:00. (Last night, dinner was supposed to be at 5 but began at 7; for having a 3-day old baby at home, I felt like this was still a victory, but it was a victory in the same way raising a child or making a delightful feast or doing anything that reveals love for something other than oneself is a victory).

- Sometimes, our food won't taste good. It comes with the territory of trying new things. Sometimes, trying new things leads to disaster; sometimes it leads to new levels of awareness of life. One never knows which until one tries; the only guaranteed way to fail is to refuse to try something new. It also leads to a small life guided by Fear, which is terrible at making decisions, at loving others more than oneself, at generosity, and most disappointingly, at recognizing the gift of life and creation.

Late on Christmas night, we welcomed you home the only way we know how: by saying a blessing over you in every room of the house and toasting you with scotch. Yesterday, we celebrated your coming also the only way we know how - with making a Christmas feast for our families. We ate roasted goose, mashed potatoes, gravy, sautéed green beans, freshly baked bread (with cultured butter... no half measures for feasting), champagne to toast, and a 100-point Pinot Noir to sip. Family took turns doing dishes, helping in the kitchen, and staring at you. When dinner was finally ready, we lit beeswax candles, turned down the lights, and raised our glasses in your honor in prayer, in thanksgiving, in blessing, in the fullness that we didn't know was possible until you came.

I pretty much only paid attention to you and to dessert. 

For dessert, I made Buche de Noel. I forgot to make Swiss merengue the first time (leading to blowing through 1 dozen eggs instead of 1/2 dozen). At one point, I needed to have my feet up, so I sat on a barstool with my poor swollen feet on another barstool, watching the mixer as I tossed in cubes of butter for the Swiss buttercream. Sadly, the heat in the kitchen was too intense for the buttercream, so I managed to curdle it as I was attempting to beat it in preparation for putting on to the cake and didn't have sufficient time to exercise patience for it to come back together (next year will be better!). Over dinner, we told stories (mostly about your Mama's siblings while they were growing up) and watched the beeswax candles melt as you slept peacefully in your crib and then in your Papa's arms.

Our lives are forever changed, and you deepen our roots: re-discovering the joy of the Feast, the promise of new life, and remind us that every day, to an extent, is a new life, each drop of water a reminder of who and Whose we are, each feast a foretaste of the life to come.

May you be blessed with love, with peace, with hope, and with hunger that teaches you to long for the Feast of all creation.

Love,
Mama and Papa