How to Cook Your Daughter by Jessica Hendra Read Free Book Online

I sat, as if worrying with me that the ice might not be thick enough. That it would crack beneath him. That he would be swept into the dark water. That the ice—like the cars in the city, like Heroin —might take away Daddy. But then I’d smile as he came skimming back to us, yelling that it was safe and then holding us up until we got our skater’s legs.
    On the afternoon that we went looking for our tree, the day had turned gray and damp, with the sort of dim sunlight that promised snow by nightfall. Kathy and I pulled our empty sled and followed my mom and dad, who carried a large, sharp spade. We headed about a quarter of a mile down the road to the icy driveway of Hall’s Christmas Tree Farm. There, we knocked on the door of the farmhouse. Mrs. Hall answered, and the smell of cinnamon and hot chocolate wafted onto the porch. Could it be? I couldn’t stop myself from wondering: That’s Santa’s wife. Mrs. Claus. It had to be! She smiled slightly at the sight of the sled and the spade, and when she heard my parents’ request, she offered us the use of her handy chainsaw. No thank you, my father said, but might we have a garbage bag to wrap the roots in? Even if we were forbidden to buy garbage bags, we could, in good conscience, beg one for this cause. Mrs. Hall went into a kitchen drawer and handed my father the bag. Go ahead and take any tree, she told us. Free of charge.
    â€œThat’s for being neighbors!” she said, handing Kathy and me eacha gingerbread cookie, which made me certain she must be Santa’s wife. After all, who else would reward us for being their neighbors?
    We tramped up the hill and into the woods, in search of the perfect tree. The forest was stunning. Acres and acres of green pines in all shapes, heights and varieties. Snow blanketed their boughs as they swayed gently in the wind. We crunched from tree to tree, assessing the width and general beauty of each, and, of course, its height. That could be a problem in a house with low ceilings. I wanted a wide, furry tree. Kathy wanted something more stately. So Daddy helped us choose, going from this one to that, arguing merits and defects, imbuing each tree with a separate personality.
    â€œThis one is a real crazy,” he’d say. “Look at those branches flying all over the place. Now here’s more of the quiet type.” He’d move on. “Reads Plato….”
    After a while, all of us were getting so cold that a decision had to be made. Kathy and I compromised: We’d take a Norwegian pine that was full but rather squat. It seemed, as my father put it, “jolly.” We hopped and stamped our feet to keep warm as my dad worked up a sweat digging…and digging…and digging through the frozen ground with his spade. After more than an hour and a flurry of curses that I hoped Mrs. Claus couldn’t hear, Daddy finally hefted the tree out of the earth, roots intact. My mom helped hoist it onto a sled that was far too short for the tree. Then my parents wrapped the garbage bag around the roots, and Daddy tied our tree to the sled with some twine he had stuffed in his pocket.
    The sled proved too heavy for Kathy and me. So my dad and mom began pushing from behind, trying to do as little damage to the tree as possible. We made the journey back toward Mrs. Hall’s house and then down her driveway. As we trudged along the road home, a stationwagon appeared behind us, a cut tree strapped to its top. As it passed, the kids in the back looked through the window at our sled and dug-up pine. They seemed puzzled, but I was proud. I thought about how we would replant the tree after Christmas, how we had saved it. I knew it was grateful.
    We brought the sled to the side of the house and opened the door as wide as we could. Kathy, my mom, and I cleared a spot in the corner of the living room. Then we helped my father fill a deep pan with dirt. He stood the tree in it and buried