The snow that fell last night leaving a light coating over the yard has left no trace, so our Christmas is mostly green. A few cars on the street have the remnants of the dusting gripping at the corners of their frosted windows. The smell of pine is strongest in the large room with the fire place, and is augmented there by a green “balsam fir” scented candle. The feeling is a rumbling in the stomach, and a nostalgia for the days when my Dad had to sleep at the bottom of the stairs to prevent us from entering Santa’s installation before dawn. I hear the creak of the floorboards as last minute Christmas perfections are crafted. The taste is mint, but soon will be sweet breakfast, a shift from the usual eggs and toast or oatmeal. Swedish pancakes or cinnamon rolls. Perhaps even some Christmas cookies out of turn.