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Have you tried the viral sensation Dubai chocolate?
You have?! What’s it like? Is it unique? Is it delicious? Oliver-like, I ask you: “Please sir, I’d like to know.”
Dubai chocolate is a mystery to me. And, given recent family developments, will remain so.
You see, I balk at the price. At almost $25 a bar, I’d never buy it for myself. Never. There was a time, however, when I might have expected to find this confectionery craze in my Christmas stocking. But not this year, and maybe never again. My daughter has disabused me of that expectation. Apparently, we’re not exchanging Christmas presents this year. Nope, she says: none. And none going forward.
I want you to imagine an austere Dickensian wretch wagging a spindly finger and intoning, “No, nay, never. No presents.” Not that she looks at all like this description (and she’ll hate me suggesting that she does), but that’s all I’ve got now – sly retribution.
Apparently, we all have enough stuff. In fact, according to my personal Scrooge, too much stuff.
I suppose that’s true. I’m a bit choked with possessions, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want something at Christmas. I mean, there ought to be at least something for me under the tree, right? No, she says, enough is enough. We bicker. She plays her trump card: Does it occur to me that I equate gifts with love? Well, no. Well, maybe. Okay, not love exactly, but I do equate gifts with thoughtfulness. And I want to feel that I’ve been heard. Heard and appreciated.
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So, what is it that I want on the 25th? Not more stuff, exactly. Certainly not bath bombs or cellphone charms or drugstore slippers or polyester pyjamas.
No, if my family was paying attention they’d know that there’s a long list of items that, in a perfect world, I’d have provisioned myself with. Things that would solve problems. Things that snagged my attention. Things that would fill a hole in my life.
The list isn’t glamorous but that’s no measure of how charmed I’d be were any of it were to turn up Christmas morning.
I want the mother of all garlic presses. I want suet blocks for the birds. I want my car miraculously detailed and delivered back to me as a surprise. I want someone to sharpen all my knives, and to fix the wonky task lights in the kitchen. I’d be tickled to get one of the recycled Loved Before stuffed animals if only to support the cause. How about just one pair of Darn Tough socks, socks with – can you believe it! – a lifetime warranty? I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like to put that claim to the test.
What about a donation to the SPCA? Or just about anything from the London-based School of Life gift shop. A pad of black drawing paper would be cool, too. I want an idiot-proof tape measure with all the increments shown in big print, a flashlight so powerful it could scorch paint and an ice cream scoop that means business. And, sure, I’d like to try that chocolate bar.
In short, I want something that’s a clear declaration that my fancies haven’t fallen on deaf ears. That someone has inconvenienced themselves and spent at least a few moments thinking about me. That there is an intense desire to see my face light up in delight on Christmas morning.
My son-in-law feels that my list is antithetical to the spirit of gift-giving. He believes that a gift has to be glamorous. The glossier, the better. Expense is important. I was contemplating replacing the two dead cedar trees in their hedge – something they never seem to get around to doing – but to him that wouldn’t qualify as a gift. In my estimation, it’s up there with frankincense and myrrh, though I suppose one ought to consider how a gift will be received.
Growing up, practicality reigned in my world. My dad used to give my mom two giant bags of steer manure each Christmas. She could have certainly bought these herself but she hated lugging them home from the nursery. It was a standing joke but also a considerate gift that she, honestly, did appreciate.
Come to think of it, I’m adding steer manure to my list. And maybe I’ll leave a bag on my daughter’s doorstep on Christmas Eve. She can make of that what she will.
Jane Macdougall is a writer based in Vancouver.