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Vacation Day 5: Christmas Eve
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It's still hard to believe I'm on vacation, when I'm so busy. Yesterday was baking day: bread, carrot muffins, more bread, Irish soda bread for today's munchies between early Christmas Eve service and late Christmas Eve service. Must find out what time today I'm supposed to deliver said goodies to the church.

Today I'll do more baking for tomorrow, Christmas day, when we'll visit brother-in-law, sister-in-law, nieces, nephews and grandbaby (grand nephew?), who will be the center of attention, as he is the first and a boy. (By the way, the boy adulation is getting on my nerves.)

My husband always wants me to bake Irish soda bread, because he is Irish Catholic and anything Irish has to be good: Irish music, Irish dance, Irish folklore, Irish food. Not so much Irish history, as it reveals unpleasant truths about the Irish bifurcated tendencies toward glory and self-destruction, reflected in his own personality.

He has really been eating a lot. It's like having a teenager in the house. At night, after everyone's asleep, he goes to the refrigerator and the counter where the breads are cooling, and grazes. I went into the kitchen this morning to find trails of crumbs everywhere and breads missing slices and whole muffins gone. Down the gullet.

I looked accusingly at the cats, but they looked back at me, smirking. Do we look dumb? We know there would be real trouble if we got up on the counter. Treats now, please, since we've been so good all night.

I explained to them that the baked goods were all in containers and plastic bags, none of which had teeth marks in them. Since you don't have opposable thumbs, I continued, I know you are innocent. This time.

Husband is sleeping and digesting. I'm tempted to roust him out with demands that he replace the missing breads, and omigosh, the salads have been eaten, too. I wonder what else is gone? Yup, the chocolate. Dang. I may have to put locks on the cupboards.

I can't get angry with him, though. I know this is the result of his dementia. It's been getting worse gradually over the past few years, and it will continue to worsen in the future. At least he can't get in a car and drive any more. The DMV took his license away, thank heaven.

And it's not really like having a teen in the house again, because this one won't grow out of it. I just try to make him as comfortable as I can--and keep baking.

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