By the time you read this, I'm probably already in Tassie a few kilograms heavier than I was before Christmas - I bet we are all making weight loss resolutions for the new year, am I right? This year I didn't have much headspace for the family Christmas dinner - but there was heaps of food anyway. My contribution was foccaccia with camembert and cranberry sauce, which was a little insane but hey I've seen some more insane things on Instagram. My nephews adore foccacia, I mean, who doesn't? And as I make it all the time, I didn't think I'd stuff it up too much - though the dough did rise over the bowl. Dammit.

"I'm bringing penguins," Jamie says in the group WhatsApp when we’re organizing what to bring for our family Christmas dinner. "Penguins?" they ask, utterly puzzled. We didn’t reply. Some things are best left myserious and suprising, don't you think?

Lately I've been referring to my father as 'ghost dad'. It's kinda fun I suppose, a counter to the sadness of his absence, but also in a way that makes him more present. If I can just have a brief conversation with my imaginary Dad, I can then move on to other things.

Normally on Christmas Eve I'd be making something for our family dinner (we have German roots, plus it's convenient for us all to keep this eve tradition - everyone scatters to different families on Christmas Day). Jamie would clear out coz he hates Christmas jingles, and so do I most of the year. But gimme a bit of Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong whilst I tidy and cook and I feel cheerful.

I love travelling, but for the last few years, I feel utterly sick in the two days before we go - sometimes even two weeks. It's a sense of overwhelm, my head going through all the things that must be done, from the minute (don't forget the eggs, don't forget to turn off the hot water) to the larger - I need to tidy up the chook pen and make sure the garden is soaked. I honestly feel like I'm going to vomit even writing this post. There's little reason for it, but there's certainly a lot of rhyme - my body has been somehow trained to repeat the same patterns of anxiety just before we go away.

I know it's a little late for this topic—but I don’t suppose it matters. A memory is a memory, and does not stick to deadlines. I’ve been contemplating my favorite childhood book ever since @ericvanwalton posted the topic, but I haven’t been able to write, as how is it possible to choose? But there’s one that I keep returning to again and again, so I guess that’s the one that made the most impression on me.