1
Holly
Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. My first Christmas memory is when my mom dropped me off at my grandmother's house then took off to find herself. Talk about being home for Christmas! The tiny 1950s-style bungalow was stuffed with all things yuletide: lights in every window, a nutcracker collection on the bookcase, and antique ornaments on the Christmas trees in every room. To six-year-old me, it was magical, though in hindsight it might have been veering dangerously intoHoardersterritory.
Even more magical was how none of those decorations came down in January. The neighbors complained bitterly when Granny’s elaborate nativity scene lit up the sky in August. But my grandmother loved all things Christmas. Some might even call her a fanatic. Every six weeks, she even installed a whole new set of Christmas trees, supplied by her boyfriend, who owned a tree farm. Every night, I would drift off to sleep lulled by the blinking lights. That kicked off eight years of nonstop Christmas, and it was just the way I liked it. My grandmother and I baked cookies, decorated wreaths, and sang carols all day every day.
I didn't see my mother again until I was fourteen and my grandmother died. Granny and her Christmas tree farmer boyfriend were doing a raunchy role-play of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. She went with a smile on her face and cookie crumbs on her collar. Best way to go if you ask me. My mom missed the Christmas-themed funeral. I barely had time to pack all of my grandmother's decorations into a way-too-expensive storage unit before my mother dragged me back to her new husband and his deranged teen daughter.
They did not love Christmas. Instead of nonstop wholesomeness and baking Christmas goodies, it was nonstop drama revolving around my crazy stepsister, Amber.
I would be minding my own business, baking Christmas cookies and watchingHoliday inHandcuffsin July, as one does, and Amber would storm into the kitchen, accusing me of trying to move into her territory because I dared to talk to some guy she liked.We had a group project, Amber, so I don't know, excuse me for trying to not flunk out of high school.
Ahem. Got a little carried away.
My stepfather regularly threatened to cancel Christmas when he would hear us arguing. One year he actually did, picking up the Christmas tree and throwing it out onto the street in a fit of teenage-girl-drama-fueled rage. He also threw out his back, prolonging the Christmas misery.
But my Christmas cheer would not be snuffed! As soon as I could, I escaped that house and into the money-burning embrace of culinary school. When you think about Christmas, what do you think of first? The presents? The twinkling lights? The happy families gathered around the fire? For me, it was the desserts. I loved the rich cakes, exquisitely decorated cookies, and homemade candy. Desserts were my specialty. I could make a buttercream so stable you could caulk a tub with it. My piecrusts would add years to your life, and I have been told my sugar cookies will cause a religious experience.
I wanted to be the next Christina Tosi with Milk Bar or Chloe Barnard with Gray Dove Bakery, but my big break as a dessert chef never happened. After graduation, I took a series of jobs at restaurants that were all horrible and awful in their own unique special way.
Somewhere around chopping my thousandth pound of onions to the tune of an angry chef screaming at the dishwashers, I realized I only had so many Christmases left—and I wanted to spend them baking. So I quit my job and started a subscription baking company. Every month, my subscribers received a beautiful box filled with yummy baked goods in the mail. I had a kick-ass Instagram account with beautiful photos. I was on my way to success!
And just to spoil it, yeah, turns out that wasn't a smart decision. I was up to my eyeballs in credit card debt before you could say “deck the halls.” I had started hemorrhaging money out of the gate. New York was expensive, and I was illegally subletting a bed in a studio apartment plus renting a shared kitchen space. My subscriber numbers were in the toilet, and I had had to resort to posting slightly raunchy photos on Instagram to generate any visibility. My costumes were starting to border on bodice ripping due to the amount of unpurchased desserts I ate. The topper on the Christmas tree? Someone had complained to code enforcement and we had all been evicted from the shared studio.
And lo on the third day of the month before Christmas did my true love give to me a mountain of debt, a failing business, and a Christmas stocking’s worth of broken dreams.
But I had one more cookie in my arsenal. I had managed to secure a spot inThe Great Christmas Bake-Off. There was a huge payout for the winner, enough to wipe out my debts, including the payments I was behind on for the storage unit with my grandmother's Christmas decorations. Best of all, it came with housing.
It was a new Christmas season! This was my last chance, my big moment. I had to win the bake-off. Christmas and my grandmother's beloved holiday decorations were on the line.
“I am going to winThe Great Christmas Bake-Off!” I yelled out. I was in front of a huge tower with a sign on top that said Quantum Cyber. It glowed against the grey winter sky. Some billionaire trying to overcompensate for his tiny Christmas package probably built the skyscraper. Still, it was going to be my home away from—well, basically just my only home for as long as I was in the bake-off.
A Goth girl was leaning against the door inside the sterile lobby space, inspecting the black polish on her nails. She let out an exaggerated sigh when I walked into the building, dragging all my worldly possessions behind me on a trolley.
“Once again we come to the worst holiday season,” my friend Morticia said. People always found her strange and a little scary. And once you got to know her… you realized your first impressions were in fact correct.
“Santa's going to bring you a lump of coal,” I said, hugging her.
“Better coal than anything related to the Christmas bake-off,” she complained. “You should see these people. You better win every round so I'm not stuck here by myself!”
“How's your decorating job going?” I asked her as she picked up one of the bags that was listing on the tower of boxes on the cart.
“I'm a serious artist. The only reason I'm here wasting my talents is because Penny McCarthy wanted me to help her with theVanity Ragvideos. They're partnering with the bake-off.”
“How's your foster sister?”
“Snagged herself a billionaire. She's very proud,” Morticia replied dryly.
I followed Morticia to the bank of elevators. She pulled a key card out of a purse shaped like a spider. If Christmas was my holiday, Halloween was Morticia's. She even had extra black lipstick on to combat all the Christmas cheer floating around.
“I can't believe I made it through,” I said as the elevator took us to the 95thfloor of the building.
“It's because of your Instagram account. Seriously, Santa is bringing you clothes and a Bible for Christmas,” she said, adjusting the spiky choker she was wearing.
“My Instagram account brings in a lot of subscribers for the Taste My Muffin baking box,” I retorted.
“I'm sure, especially seeing that sexy pilgrim outfit you posted yesterday on Thanksgiving.”
