Today, from retardosity, I spent way too much money on ingredients for candy-making and learned some important lessons about cookery. It turns out that some kinds of chocolate mixtures will come out of a candy mold nicely, while other kinds will stick to the mold stubbornly and refuse to come loose and eventually you have to abort, with scraping and sadness and unpleasant goo. So I have a lovely pile of mint chocolate Christmas trees and three bowls of other variously-flavored chocolate mixtures glowering at me balefully in the refrigerator and refusing to conform. If they bust out their long chocolate trench coats I am expelling them to the trash. We also got a (real) Christmas tree today, for which I have made several ornaments, none of which came out looking like the pictures on the DIY websites, but more like sad, lumpy balls of ribbon and paper.
I have that feeling you get when you’re a little kid trying to do a craft and your hands are too pudgy and uncoordinated and everything is frustrating and ugly and you just have to burst into tears and be comforted by your Girl Scout leader. Except my hands aren’t pudgy. But with these holiday failures I feel like I’m in a realm somewhere between handicrafts and handicapped. I think possibly I am handicrapped.