12/18/24

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Tis the season for deliveries.

This morning, in between clients, my Alexa informed me that there was a delivery at my door. She sounded exasperated, like she was getting tired of telling me these things. My doorbell had been going off a lot, and I have an entire collection now of photos of my front door, packages leaning against it.

I thanked her, because I am almost always polite, and trotted downstairs to get the package. As I did, another Amazon truck pulled up. I waited until he opened the door and then I called, “Are you here for me? Number 2?”

He nodded and held up one finger, telling me to wait just a second. I noticed that he was bundled to the max – heavy jacket, winter boots, earmuffs under his upraised hood. He also looked tired.

He went into the back of the truck and then came back out. He handed me a box. As he did, his little gadget that reads the codes slid out of his hand and hit the pavement.

I recognized then the slouch he moved into. Tired shoulders, tired body, tired, tired, tired. Too tired to be exasperated. His whole body said, “I’ve had it.”

He picked up the gadget and looked at it. “It shut off,” he said. “I’ll have to scan your package again. Hang on. It takes a while to turn on.” He pressed a button and stared at the gadget bleakly. Then he stepped back into the truck and sat on the seat.

I hadn’t put on a coat, since I thought I was just grabbing a package and running back upstairs. It was cold.

He kept staring at the gadget. From time to time, he heaved a sigh so deep, it was like his jacket inflated, then deflated.

I didn’t see a nametag on his jacket, so I said, “Sir?” When he looked back at me, I said, “Sir, would you like a cup of coffee?”

He lit up a little. “I would love one,” he said.

I glanced toward my door. “I made a flavored coffee this morning. It’s gingerbread. Are you okay with that?”

He lit up more. “I love gingerbread. My grandmother used to make gingerbread men.” He turned wistful. “I haven’t had one of those in years.”

“Do you want sugar? Creamer?” I hoped not. The only creamer I had was storebought Starbucks cinnamon dolce. I didn’t know how that would go with gingerbread.

“Just black please,” he said. He looked back at his gadget, but I noticed the start of a smile.

I turned to go inside, then remembered the box. “Should I bring this with me?”

“Oh…” he said. “I’ll take it. I still have to scan it.”

So I brought in the original package I came down for. Stopping in my classroom first, I pulled out a disposable cup from the back of a cupboard. It came with a lid, which I figured would be important in that truck. Then I took the cup, the lid, and the package upstairs to my kitchen, where I heated up some coffee. As I waited, I glanced at the top of my microwave.

Sitting there was a peppermint-striped gift bag that I’d received on Monday. My brother and sister-in-law came to Madison to see me while I made my presentation. Afterwards, my sister-in-law handed me the bag.

I looked inside and gasped. “Krumkake?!” I said.

She laughed.

My sister-in-law makes the world’s best krumkake. I was twelve years old when I discovered krumkake, as my family moved to Stoughton, an everything-Norwegian town outside of Madison. An amazingly light, sweet, wafery, tubular cookie, it quickly became my favorite.

Every Christmas, my sister-in-law made Christmas cookies to bring to the celebration at my parents’ home, then my mother’s apartment after my father passed away. My mother loved krumkake as much as I did, and in the early years, she would quickly pick out all the krumkake from the assortment and hide them, so that only she would get them. In later years, the amazing cookie showed up in its own container, and if I was lucky, I could talk my mother out of one.

My daughter, Katie, who loves to cook and bake, knows how much I love these little cookies, and one year, she asked for a traditional krumkake iron to make the cookie herself. I happily got her one. She made the cookies once…even burned, they taste good, by the way…and never made any more. The krumkake iron sat in my cupboards, just in case, doncha know, until Michael passed away.

When I cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards after his death, in what I know now was an attempt to try to bring my life back under control, I donated the iron. It just seemed like there was so much loss. It hadn’t been used in years, and Katie no longer lives in Wisconsin.

And now, there was this peppermint-striped bag.

And downstairs, there was a very tired man.

My mother may have hidden these cookies, but I would not.

I didn’t give them all away either. I pulled out two, put them in a little baggie, and then ran back downstairs.

The man was standing at the ready, my box in his hands. “Already scanned,” he said, and then traded with me, passing me the box while I passed him the coffee and the krumkake. He held up the baggie.

“Those are –” I started to explain.

“Krumkake!” he bellowed. “Ohmygod, my grandmother made these too! Thank you!”

I’d like to say he no longer looked tired, but he did. Still, he smiled, beamed, really, and his step was lighter as he got back into the truck.

“Thank you!” he called.

I waved my box. “Thank you for your service,” I said. “Have a great Christmas.”

“You too!” He drove off.

Sometimes it just takes so little to make someone’s day, and then to make yours too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(However, I’m not giving away any more krumkake. They’re MINE.)