Boxed in

Moka House opened later this morning -- 8 am, so when I arrived, about half an hour later, the baked good shelves had little on them.

I know from experience that many of the Danishes and croissants are being baked -- well, heated, really - in the back, but the barista on duty seemed hesitant, so I was just ordering my usual mocha, when the proprietor appeared, bearing a hot tray of my very favourite cherry and yoghurt Danishes (which aren't nearly as good for you as they sound).

I broke into a very strange little dance.  "Oh-oh-oh-oh!" I squealed, before getting myself under control and murmuring:  "I'm so mature..."

"It's like Christmas," said the barista soothingly.

"The second day of Christmas!" I burbled through my mask.

Outside, the patio filled steadily.  People keeping their distance -- sort of.  They clustered at tables and sat on ledges.

On my way home, I mused about how dogged Christmas traditions are.  In Victoria, certainly, and probably elsewhere, Boxing Day is the day you visit, and people are loathe to let go, saying that "Christmas isn't Christmas without . . . (insert your tradition, habit, or practice)"

In the couple of days before Christmas, there were huge line-ups of cars to the Cypress Mountain Resort in West Vancouver, containing people for whom Christmas isn't Christmas without skiing or snowboarding. I understand, but have little sympathy.  Definitely a First World problem.

Christmas was Christmas for us, but we're introverts, and our party included someone on the autistic spectrum and Demeter, whose deafness rules out overlapping conversations, and even music.  

The extroverts were on ZOOM, which, mercifully, got cut off early.

Next year, we'll be dealing with them in person.

In the meantime, I have warm cherry and yoghurt Danishes.