Christmas prep  basics: full happy-looking tree, white lights (no multi-colored or flashing ones allowed)  tasteful ornaments- ideally from some Nordic country-  named stockings from childhood – (where did I store them???), menu planning (actually, I leave that to my kids who say I don’t eat), menu buying (they leave that to me – owner of sacred credit card), music, candles, festive table settings and of course, the presents. You know the drill. Relaxing, right?

Add to that that my daughters are convinced that I hate Christmas. Blaming me still for a few past mistakes.  Post-divorce I  did have a few blink and it’s over efforts, like hiring someone to decorate our tree on the 24^th and remove it on the 26th, or planning our post-xmas holiday to Nicaragua, departing on the morning of Dec 25^th, or travelling to countries that don’t celebrate Xmas – Buddhist countries ideal.

But I want to make amends. This year, I vowed, we’re going to have a great Christmas at home in London.

In addition to the usual cast of characters – my three kids and me attending Xmas Eve dinner at their father’s, an excellent chef and chooser of red wine and caviar – there would be a slight plot twist: My new son-in-law Harry,  my long-time beau Stretch, and Hunter would all be making their Xmas Eve debut.

Who is Hunter?

My children’s surprise Christmas present to their father and the best tension breaker known to divorced families, that’s who. Works better than whiskey.  I know a puppy isn’t just for Christmas, they can be useful at funerals too.

Stretch and I were in charge of buying Julia’s mile long grocery list including such traditional ingredients as fish sauce,

red curry paste, kaffir lime leaves and coconut milk. Meanwhile, the rest of the group was en route to Wales and Hunter.

Stretch suggests we add a ham to our exotic list. I text Julia, who is heading home with puppy.

What about us getting a ham?

Ham? We never have ham, she shoots back.  You need to stick up for yourself. Be strong, no ham.

But I like ham. It’s  a lot more Christmassy than kaffir leaves.

I begin to doubt myself. Do I like ham? Or am I just being the acquiescent girlfriend? I think back to my childhood before I knew men existed – or kaffir leaves- and I distinctly remember liking my grandmother’s Xmas ham. We get the ham in honour of Grandma Fay.

During Christmas Eve dinner, Julia and Kate bicker over which is healthier – white or brown rice, mashed potatoes or yams.

I’m an advocate of all white carbs, says julia.  I don’t like the shaming they get.

So, would you agree that a cheeseburger is better for you than steamed cod, taunts Kate. Jellybeans versus kale salad?

To her credit, Julia stays silent, just glares at her beloved family.

Why is it that my kids revert back to their childhood selves when under one roof for an extended period of time (two days) of family togetherness? I am comforted by my friend Melanie and sister Diana’s family news- a window was smashed during the Vere Nicoll festivities. And my sister had a child threaten to fly home mid-turkey. Some traditions never die.

I ask Thomas to play some Christmas tunes, maybe some Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra. He opts for P Diddy. Kate gives me a look,

Can you please discipline your son?

so I  cheerily, always cheerily, ask pot stirrer Thomas to please, turn off the gangsta rap. He complies. Miracles do happen.

It’s not just that old tiresome behaviors reappear, but there’s no escape hatch. I take a shower and get dressed. While I am blow drying my hair, Julia comes in to use my makeup and borrow my jewellery.

You’re putting on the same clothes you were wearing before your shower?” she asks accusingly.

Yes, they are still clean, I answer defensively.

Please tell me you changed your underwear.

Yes, I answer after a brief pause.

I go to the living room. Kate looks at me:

Aren’t you going to dry your hair?

I thought I had.

I go to the kitchen. Strech is making a drink.

Where is the freezer? Do you have any ice cubes? Snacks?

One tradition I do adore is our post-Xmas ski trip. This is not because I love to ski. It is because my kids do. (Thomas is the exception that proves the rule) So while they do their thing, I do mine.

See you at dinner, I say after breakfast, waving goodbye to the downhill crew. Everyone disperses in a good mood.

I go for walks, cross country ski with  Florence and the Machine belting out “Dog Days Are Over” into my ears. Sip hot chocolate – alone – at a little mountain restaurant. Take photos of a pretty church,

snowflakes…

After the blissful ski holiday is over, I go visit my friend Lauren in Wimbledon. Her whole family loves to ski and just came back from Wengen, Switzerland

So how was the skiing? I ask her.

I am so over skiing, she says. I read a ton of books. A ton. And whenever I wanted to enjoy the mountains, I just looked out my bedroom window.

She shows me a photo of the Swiss Alps bordered by some blue and white check curtains. Lauren’s husband Dan walks by.

Dan, are you limping? I ask.

Oh, just a bit of sciatica, he mumbles as he leaves the room.

He was trying to keep up with the kids on the slopes, Lauren whispers. Just not up to it anymore.

January, 2020

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So when our family plus friends the Vere Nicolls voted unanimously (minus one vote) to go skiing this past Christmas, you would be right in assuming that I was channeling my inner Mother Theresa. Call me Saint Elena.

And if you have to sacrifice yourself for others, then why not do it at an Aman?  I highly recommend snow martyring at the Amangani in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Perched on a hill about twenty minutes outside of town, the Amangani has views galore,

a steaming après ski hot tub,

high quality masseurs and easy-to-work, soothing fireplaces in every room. Plus the staff are extremely helpful, friendly and patient.

I figured that St Elena would just spend the week enjoying the hotel, testing out the spa,

sipping cocoa and reading by the fire, while the others, poor fools, braved the elements.

Sadly, my hopes of an indoor ski vacation were not to be. Every morning my friend Melanie, who must have been in the SAS in a past life, insisted that we go cross-country skiing on lengthier and lengthier treks.

Melanie is a cold weather person. She is also very strong – mentally and physically. She does not scare easily. So signs like this:

or Instagrams like this:

or mysterious paw prints like this:

don’t phase her. Even the faintly tinged pink paw prints we saw didn’t scare her. (Sorry, I didn’t take any pics, I was on an adrenaline rush, focused solely on distancing myself from owner of paw prints.) Later when I asked Melanie if she’d seen the suspicious footmarks, she said nonchalantly,

Oh, I thought those belonged to a very big dog.

Dog had not occurred to me. Mountain lion, wolf, bear, moose, that’s what had occurred to me. Especially moose. Apparently, they are everywhere in Jackson.

So what does one do if one encounters  a moose? I conducted an informal survey (asked every single local I met), and here are some of the answers I got:

Run like hell

Running won’t help you. A moose can outrun anything.

Stay still

Make yourself look big

Play dead

Give ’em a wide berth

Climb the nearest tree

Well, no one’s died. This year.

These replies were not reassuring. Not one bit. I am not a wildlife lover. The closest I got to wildlife growing up was my turtle Myrtle. When Melanie and I would go cross country skiing, she was invariably way ahead of me in deserted snowy wilderness with a lot of easy-for-moose-to-hide-behind trees.

Stunning, isn’t it? she would shout over her shoulder.

Or after the pink paw print ordeal, which also included a freak storm, golf-ball sized hail stones and 50 mph winds, Melanie sighed,

Wasn’t that a spectacular day?

Yes, because it’s over, I thought.

Typical, I didn’t spot this backpack essential in the Amangani shop until the last day …

In the end, thanks to my friend’s forceful, confident character, (aka bossy) I decided that I do kind of like ski holidays – as long as there are absolutely no moose sightings – NOT ONE – and I get to pamper myself when I get back to the hotel, surviving and all.

January, 2018

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Why are you going? You don’t ski. You’ve never met the people you’ll be staying with. And you’re flying thousand of miles for the pleasure. Are you nuts, my therapist asked.

Obviously, I thought. That’s why I’m sitting on this sofa facing you. Haha. Jokes aside, I will admit that I was a bit anxious about spending a week in a ski resort when I had decided post multiple knee surgeries and divorce that skiing and helmut hair could be scratched off my list with indelible ink. Then my boyfriend invited me to Aspen, and ignoring my eldest daughter’s sage beauty advice to stick to urban holidays, I said yes. There must be other things to do in Aspen besides shredding the gnar. 

In fact, Aspen is loaded with “other things”. Top on the list is mountain restaurant  Cloud Nine where as much champagne is sprayed as consumed, skiers dance on tables and things get so heated that everyone cools down by removing their tops. The source of this good info was our gregarious host Rick. His adorable wife Zibby was equally as helpful although their strengths differ; Rick excels at apres-ski, night-life, the Best of Jimmy Fallon and value for dollar, Zibby everything else. So our bases were covered.

Day One I went to O2, a great yoga/pilates spot that offers conventional yoga classes which I loved,

and  unconventional classes which I boldly tested. Cirque de Soleil for the newbie, otherwise known as Aerial Yoga, is not as easy as it looks.  No, I am not one of the lovelies below.

O2  offers classes with names like “How to Practice during Your Lunar Cycle”, “Soul Quest”,  “Messages from the Other Side” (not the other side of the wall) which, had I more time and knowing me, I definitely would have tried.

But instead the friendly town of Aspen beckoned. March is sale time, and from Loro Piana and Dior down to Stash and Dragon’s Den, there are shops to satisfy every taste bud.

I like the one-off spots, such as Souchi, run by the charming Suzi Johnson below, who knits by night and sells by day.

Suzi used to have a knitting studio, two shops in Portland, Oregon, sell wholesale and to Net a Porter. Then she fell in love with Aspen and decided to scale back her business. (Suzi doesn’t ski either, by the way).

I love designing and making things. Now I don’t have to design a sweater that Nashville, San Francisco and New York all like.

She makes beautiful hats, tops and head scarves in a range of colors.

I could while away the whole day at my next stop – the cosy and well-stocked Explore Bookshop adjoined by the light-filled Pyramid Bistro, a nutritarian restaurant (yes, that’s a word) that is as delicious as it is healthy.

From books to art- the Aspen Art Museum designed by 2014 Pritzker Prize winner Shigeru Ban, his first museum in the States, is an eye-catching addition to the mountain town. Both current exhibitions by Liz Larner and Judith Scott are worth a visit. The guards could double as guides, they are so well-informed and helpful. Catch some rays on the sun-trap terrace  facing out onto the dramatic Aspen Mountains.

Another cultural highlight not to miss is Winter Words at the Aspen Institute. I listened to Pulitzer Prize-winning husband and wife authors Tony Horwitz and Geraldine Brooks. I was prepared to hate this over-achieving super-couple, but they were too funny, insightful, down-to-earth and normal.

I have to confess that I did end up donning skis. Turns out the only way to get to champagne-fueled Cloud Nine is on skis. Talk about motivation. I started out with cross-country which was heavenly, and then moved onto downhill – which I actually enjoyed.

 Cloud Nine, here I come! So much for not skiing in Aspen.

March, 2016

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