Ice Cream at Christmas

To someone whose blood sugar is always precariously at high-normal levels, ice-cream is taboo. There are sugar-free flavors, but they're a poor copy of the original.

So if you can't eat them, hang them.

These ice cream cones were painstakingly made by three pairs of hands: Ate Vi's, Analou's (her niece and now her adjutant), and mine.

The idea was suggested by my friend G, an art director whose mind traverses the universe and back looking for beautiful things to do and behold. She sent me photos of various kinds of ice-cream, but I chose the model that is easiest to make.
It took weeks to look for the materials and more weeks to put them together to arrive at the perfect look.

I got great, gushing compliments from my boys as usual.

“How does my Christmas tree look?” is the standard question I ask, with a matching look of euphoria, after the tree is completely trimmed.
 
“Okay.”

“Don't the ice cream in cones look yummy?”

“Yeah.”

End of rave review.

It is now December and so my tree is up. Trimming it is my yearly break from all the many things I slave over most of the year; it tells me to pause and ponder why God became Man for my sake.

Yet always, the most astounding Grace that was delivered on Christmas has remained the most perplexing mystery from then till kingdom come.

That holy birth can't be figured out; it can only be celebrated.