The Best Christmas Present(s) Ever.
By: Matt Lorelli, Senior Editor, POWDER
As I rolled over to look at the neon-green numbers of my bedside alarm clock (I didn’t have a smartphone quite yet), I smiled. “6:12 a.m.? That’s late enough.”Popping out of bed with the teenage limberness I now yearn for, I opened my bedroom door to a dark and quiet house. I could smell the delightful scent of the 11-foot Christmas tree that stood tall in the first-floor family room, presents now loaded underneath it, I presumed.It was Christmas morning, and as usual, I was the first one awake in the house.I walked downstairs, but before letting the family dogs out for their morning routine, I stole a glimpse of the gifts wrapped under the tree. My eyes were immediately drawn to the two long planks leaning against the wall adjacent to the tree. They were sandwiched together and perfectly wrapped in Santa Claus wrapping paper. Skis. Oh my god. Skis.My Mom has a strict rule that all presents must be opened with the entire family in the room. Remembering this, but also floored with excitement, I walked over to the skis, picked them up ever so carefully, and then placed them back down. I noticed a gift tag attached to the wrapping paper.“To: MatthewFrom: Mom + DadWe hope you enjoy these in Utah!”“Utah? We’re going to Vermont next week, not Utah,” I whispered to myself.Confused, excited, and worried that I would get caught looking at presents before I was supposed to, I ran out of the family room. I let the dogs out, came back inside the house, and then…waited.For two hours, I waited. When my parents and brother finally came downstairs, I sprinted into the living room, tore open the skis, and practically exploded with joy. A brand new pair of Salomon Shogun 182s. A dream come true.Laughing, my Mom asked, “You saw those before you were supposed to, didn’t you?”“Yes,” I admitted, “But what’s this about Utah? I thought we were going to Vermont next week for our ski trip.”“Santa doesn’t come to this house anymore,” my Dad chimed in, “But that doesn’t mean your parents don’t have some tricks up their sleeves.”Reaching over to me, my Dad handed me plane tickets to Salt Lake City that were scheduled to leave the next day.“Merry Christmas. You ready to ski some Utah powder on those new skis?”Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, friends. Be safe, have fun, and consider giving a loved one a pair of skis for a Holiday present. Who knows, it might change their life forever.
Christmas Goose
By: Ian Greenwood, Writer, POWDER
For as long as I can remember, my dad’s cooked his “famous” Christmas goose. I call it famous because to our family, and the 20 or so Christmas regulars we invite to our house each winter, it’s a recurring staple. Without the goose, there is no Christmas in the Greenwood household.Is it good fame? Or infamy? I haven’t interviewed everyone who’s tried the goose for this tidbit, so really, who knows? I like it. I’m also biased. It’s my dad’s thing, and I’ll always support my dad. He could mix Hamburger Helper with cranberry sauce and mayonnaise, and I’d happily pass off the resulting gruel as a secret family recipe. Anyways, one year, in my early adulthood, I finally got recruited to help him cook. It was time to pass the torch, marking a pivotal moment. I imagined that someday, in the distant future, I’d teach my kids the same arcane techniques. I paid close attention as my dad ran through the weathered recipe. But before stringing the bird or coating its skin with salt and pepper, we had some preparation to attend to. That included sharpening knives. This is not a red herring.Carefully, I started slicing an onion for the stock. Well, maybe I wasn’t being careful, or I got distracted. Either way, the knife, glancing off the onion’s exterior, slid down towards my finger, which was perched like a juicy, vulnerable sausage on the cutting board. Metal met skin, and a tidy chunk of my index finger got separated. It hurt, I think. Surprise injuries have a funny way of blurring your senses. Blood welled up on the tip of my finger. My mom and I raced to the hospital, where, using chemicals, a doctor cauterized the wound. This part definitely felt bad, as my shock had worn off. So did the throbbing in my finger, which persisted for days afterward. Mostly, though, my ego stung. A goose and an onion had defeated me. This didn’t bode well for the future of the Greenwood mantle.And that’s why the tip of my finger is flat on one side. I hope, rather than visiting the ER this Christmas as I did, that you go skiing. Unintended body modifications aren’t a great gift. Powder turns are much better.P.S.The goose lives on. I’ve since helped cook it without losing any digits.
Gin n’ Juice in Casper, Wyoming
By: Izzy Lidsky, Writer, POWDER…