People who come for dinner will often compliment Maria on the food, as if she shopped for it or cooked it. I understand that many women just assume men are useless and incompetent (or these days, much worse), and I sometimes laugh and sometimes sputter at this.

In my home, I do all of the shopping and most (not all) of the cooking.

Maria, who I adore, is very focused on her work, and her idea of meal preparation is usually coming in from her studio through the back door and bellowing “I’m hungry.” And when Maria is hungry she usually needs to eat quickly, or Maria gets grumpy. We don’t need that. When Sicilians get grumpy, it’s no good, even the dogs hide.

She is about as domestic as a wild boar.

This year, to my surprise, she is in a bit of Christmasy mood, she has had some epiphanies about the holiday, we actually had a dinner party the other night in honor of a friend who is moving up here from Long Island, and we had a wonderful time getting ready and preparing the veggie casserole.

We are also hosting an informal “drop-by” at the farm tomorrow for some friends we want to honor this Christmas. We are both liking Christmas this year, we are figuring out how to celebrate in a way that is comfortable for us, and with our new community.

It feels good.

Still, I was absolutely unprepared when Maria sat down at breakfast and whipped out her sketchbook, and instead of sketches or drawings, there were lists.

Lists, the first domestic entertainment list I have ever seen from my wife. She had not only been counting the people we have invited and scratching out those who can’t make it, she had actually prepared a shopping list so we can go to the market together and make some Hors d’oeuvre together.

And she was quite blase about it, as if she had ever done it before (not.)

I can’t imagine when she did this, it must have been in the middle of the night, or in between repairing the slate roof or re-building the porch.

Hors d’oeuvre!

We  have never served Hors d’oeuvre, thought of Hors d’ouevres, or had one in our house, unless you count wheat crackers with week-old cheese. My world had changed.

” I can’t wait to go out shopping with you,” she said, beaming happily. Another idea I have never heard come out of the mouth of Maria. She hates shopping, loathes spending money, has never asked to go shopping with me, or ever happily agreed to do it. Shopping with her is a rare and unhappy occurrence, it’s like shopping with an antsy and distracted teenager who is dying to call her boyfriend on her cellphone, or is eager to use the bathroom.

But not today. Today it was different, perhaps this Christmas spirit thing is more powerful than I have recognized.

So we set out this afternoon to celebrate our new appreciation of Christmas.

We hit a few thrift stories and loaded up sacks of clothing for the Mansion residents.  I am getting to be a whiz at Thrift Stores, tearing through the aisles and spotting nice clothes at bargain prices. I did well today.

We ran around all day. We went to the dump to bring out trash and thank the men and women who work there.

We stopped at Tractor Supply and got mash and feed and for the chickens and feed and alfalfa cookies for the donkeys and a giant bag of birdseed for the songbirds at our feeders. We got some toys for the dogs for Christmas.

Then we went to the supermarket. We are only having a small number of people drop by, but they are going to have a lot to eat.

It feels like the opening night reception for the opera at the Met here in our little farm house.

Cucumber sandwiches was on the list (we are fighting about this, but I think I am losing.) Guacamole and corn chips. Shrimp cocktail on lettuce. Eggnog. Olives. Lemon an lime. Lamb sausage in blankets (we got some croissant dough at the market) Crackers and gouda cheese, wine and grapes, prime cashews in a bowl, cookies and Godiva chocolates, fizzy water and hot chocolate.

I’m beginning to wonder how many people she has actually invited.

This is unprecedented in our domestic life, I can’t even picture what will happen. Speaking for myself, I’ve never had enough friends to invite to a holiday drop-by

Tonight, once she gets through remodeling the kitchen wall which she began doing after dinner  – I hear banging and shuffling as I write this, she is off on a tear –  we will be cooking the shrimp, cutting the sausage and cooking it and clearing off the dining room table.

We will also make sure all traces of dog vomit are cleaned up and odorized, and there is nothing too revolting behind the sofa cushions.

The surprising truth is we had a lot of fun doing our Christmas shopping thing today. We took our time.

Usually all I here is “are we done yet? Are we spending too much money? Let’s get out of here.” Today she was purring like a kitten, jollying up the fish guy, stuffing wine bottles in our cart, agonizing over the right lettuce head.

We came home with bags of Christmas stuff – but I keep starting at this woman wondering what she did with my wife, and when she will wake up and start shouting, “I have to finish my quilt! I have to finish my quilt! Who brought all of this stuff into the house? Who are these people coming over?”

Tomorrow, we get up early to find some fresh-baked bread for the cheese and other spreads, and also some Egg Nog from Stewart’s a local convenience store. Maria didn’t think the Egg Nog in the supermarket was acceptable for us. She has never even tasted Egg Nog, but she had a “feeling” about the market’s Egg Nog.

I think tomorrow may  be fun, and I am absorbing the shock.  I think our friends will b shocked. I don’t know if this is a seismic change, or some kind of seizure caused by too many hours at the sewing machine, or the onset of the dark days.

We are all capable of great change.

“This is all great,” I said, “but you do know you’re going to have to greet all of these people and talk to them, and not work on your art for at least one full day.” She looked at me strangely, and ran off to turn the oven on.

If she starts singing carols, or pulls a frilly apron out of a drawer with a bow in the back, I’m out the door.