Back to Bed

I didn’t taste the fruit cup on Christmas morning because I was too busy screwing up the rest of the meal.  Turns out the oranges were piercingly tart.

I had it all planned the week before: caramel rolls and eggs benedict for Christmas morning.  Then SOMEONE mentioned that caramel rolls were an X-mas tradition in another, previously married life.  I, of course, instantly vowed never make another caramel roll as long as I live.  So began the hunt for an alternate breakfast pastry that was gooey enough to match the indulgence of the caramel rolls, because my trusty blueberry muffin-making abilities were just too … everyday. 

Nineteen hours and eighty-two crumbcake recipes later, I decided to hell with it: I was making caramel rolls.  So there I was at midnight on Christmas eve, rolling out dough and trying to remember where I hid the stocking stuffers.

They rose too much and escaped from the pan in the oven, oozing butterscotch drippings that made for a sweetly smoky house. 

The handy microwave egg poacher I picked up to make the benedict a snap?  No good.  After the third egg exploded and I was sure everyone would be cursing me in their beds, I abandoned the plan.  I was really looking forward to making blender hollandaise, too.

I tiptoed back into the bedroom and stood beside the Count of caramel. Tears filled my eyes as his fluttered open. 

He cleared his throat a little and squinted at me. “What’s wrong, Smoochie?”

I sniffled, “I wrecked breakfast.”

He reached an arm out to take my hand.  “Oh Smoochie, I’ll make the Kernil’s special omelettes.” Omelettes made to order, for six. 

I sighed and sat on the edge of bed.  My Christmas miracle-man.  Every single day.