I feel like a bootlegger's wife!
Here I am again…doing my yearly quote from one of my favorite movies. And this year it isn’t, ” You call this a happy family? Why do we have to have all these kids?”

In a fabulous moment – a cross between Extreme Home Makeover and one of those smarmy Lexus in the driveway with a big bow ads – a day that had started out with a plethora of aggravations turned absolutely golden. The second printer at work to die in about 72 hours? Who cares? The 4th grade Messiah that ran long and delayed a funeral? What? Me worry? The phone that wouldn’t stop ringing??? What phones?

Bridget picked me up after work, supposedly to go Christmas shopping. The morning had been so annoying that I left the rectory right on the hour and stood outside without a coat for ten minutes waiting. Standing outside, modeling bad winter time behavior for the 2nd graders leaving church after their pageant rehearsal, was better than one more minute at my desk. I feigned patience when she said she had to stop at home to change her shoes. This faux patience was wearing thin when she told me to come in the house because it might take her more than a few minutes and Eddie wanted to talk to me, too. Then, as I stood in the living room, tapping my toes, Rick called me to come out to the kitchen.

And as I came around the corner? Well, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a new, black, shiny, fabulous professionally leveled stove. Rick had scrimped and plotted and totally surprised me. He wanted the stove delivered before Christmas so we could bake some cookies that weren’t burnt. Anyone who thinks a stove is not a dream gift hasn’t cooked on my old stove. Not level, little burner power and two oven settings – off and 500 degrees. I would grumble that the wood stove my Aunt Tommy cooked on as a young girl had a better temperature control.

So the shopping was a ruse. And then, because the stove was delivered early in the day, Bridget came up with the “let’s stop at home” ploy. (Talk about strange happenings… the appliance store called at 6:30 in the morning to tell Rick he was the first stop of the day – now isn’t that like something out of science fiction? - and he had to stall them until I left for work.)

I just keep walking through the kitchen staring at it. The sports car of appliances.
No fur coat or diamond thingamabob could make me feel as loved and appreciated. Even the intense team work and secrecy of the family effort touches me. And no more flaming meringues…or tough chops…or quiche on an incline.