She is in bliss.
I have set before her a steaming mug. Its contents are simple - milk, cream, cocoa, vanilla - but really, the most important thing it contains is memory. This is a mug of childhood, of the time before things have too many calories, are too verboten. In this moment in time, this fervor of Christmas, all bets are off and she is allowed to eat the unthinkable. She has had hot chocolate before, but never like this. I take my time, whipping this tender brew into life. I steam the milk gently, whisking frothy air into it, coaxing it with vanilla and my secret weapon: a few drops of maple syrup. I plop three fat, impossibly white marshmallows into the mug and spoon over the steaming cocoa to start them melting. The piece de resistance is a sweet white chocolate peppermint kiss, shaved over this glossy, sticky piece of childhood heaven.
I set it before her. She eyes it warily, sizing it up. Her lashes dance up and down as she follows the steam. She peeks over the mug's rim where the melty white pillows are lazing in their nice, warm baths. She pokes one little baby with her spoon and it spins lazily on some unseen axis, like a chicken on a spit. It looks gloriously, sublimely sweet. She plunges her spoon into this riot of frothiness and scoops a dripping spoonful of it to her yawning pink mouth. She closes her little lips over the spoon and for a moment she pauses, speechless. Her eyes flutter up to mine and we have a perfect moment of understanding: this is the best thing ever. She bobs a little dance of glee and spends the next 8 minutes poking and prodding the slowly diminishing balls of gooey goodness until there are only threads remaining, gossamer webs on the side of the mug. She licks her lips, places her little arms akimbo and declares in her most eery imitation of me:
Well, that was just too good!
Yes it is, even if you're just watching.
No comments:
Post a Comment