Dear beloved member of our family,

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The holidays can be a really tough time. Not all of us have the choice to spend it with people who love and accept us for who we are. In their stead, I offer you Christmas at the Pugatschew household:

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Upon entering our home, you will be greeted with warm but distracted hugs - for some reason we're always running around fixing up last-minute foodstuffs. The smell of rosemary and turkey will surround you next. The bird is waiting patiently on the counter as we prepare Brussel sprouts and stuffing in the oven and on the stove - because of course, I've timed everything wrong, but at least all of it will be ready at the same time.

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Bows glitter beneath the hall lights, though there isn't much ornamentation throughout the house. As badly as we wish to look like a Michael's store explosion, it's not yet in the cards. But we try. You will be seated in our living room, which is likely far too warm. We often have our space-heater running to warm our chill little basement suite and forget that sometimes people aren't as incessantly cold as we are. Paired with the heat from our oven, the place is positively toasty, a nice contrast to the winter chill outside. In the corner, beside the TV, stands our Christmas tree, glowing with warm-white lights and sparingly decorated with hand-made ornaments. We decided to try something a little different this year and hope that you like it as much as we do. 

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Within moments of sitting down, Alex will offer you something to drink, and will likely continue asking you throughout the evening. We may have had the forethought to prepare a platter of hors d'oeuvres to tide you over until we've caught up with our cooking. There will absolutely be a small bicker about cranberry sauce, and I will remind Alex that neither of us actually eat the stuff. We will, of course, defer to you for the final vote, but unless you indulge in the sauce it will remain on the counter, untouched. 

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Dinner will be an informal affair. we may bring out the table and eat there if it suits us. Otherwise, we will eat on the couch, with our laden plates cradled carefully in our laps. Our TV displaying a crackling, too-large fire and playing soft Christmas music to fill the silences between conversation. Topics will come naturally and easily. We'll discuss Netflix shows, community events, likes and dislikes. The conversation may stray toward politics, and Alex may get heated and huffy about how the world is being handled. But this is fine. Things like politics and religion aren't taboo in our home. 

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Once dessert rolls around, Alex will get excited. This is what they spent all their time on, and will proudly present a Yule Log cake: a swirling roulade of gluten-free sponge cake and lactose-free cream filling. It won't be Instagram perfect, but it will be delicious, and hearty servings will be dished out. We may pull out Cards Against Humanity or our personal favourite, A Question of Scruples, and laugh with you about the dreadful questions and mash-ups of scenarios. We may pull out a bottle of spiced mead, but if you don't or can't drink, that's perfectly okay. Alex will probably try plying you with one of our many teas, instead. 

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As the evening draws to an end, we'll offer our couch if it's too late for you to go home on your own. Usually, rides home are no issue, but we still smart with the loss of our vehicle and try to compensate where we can. If you say yes, we will make sure there are pillows and blankets for you to nestle beneath. If not, we'll both envelop you in more hugs, thanking you for coming and making our Christmas that much better. Alex will walk you out, waiting until you're all set before following you up the stairs. At the door, they'll thank you for coming once again, and ask that you message them when you get home because we worry for your safety. Then, after goodbyes have been said, Alex will close the door, but the light will always, always stay on.