It is my job to put up the Christmas tree lights while Emma makes the oatmeal. “Thirty minutes,” she said, “that’ should give you enough time, right?”

“No problem,” I said. We only had about a dozen lights, and the tree was only about eighteen inches tall. Some of the lights were burnt out, and I didn’t have any spares, but I did the best I could with the arranging, and then I went to the kitchen to see how Emma’s oatmeal was coming along. She was stirring the pot.

“The lights are done,” I announced.

“Good job,” she said. “The oatmeal should be ready in about ten minutes, give or take.”

“Need me to do anything?” I asked.

“I’ve set out the spoons and berries and syrup and nuts, and I’ve poured us each a little glass of orange juice, so we should be all set.”

“Want me to help stir?”

“No. There’s a special technique to it. See I use this flexible rubber spatula and I sort of jitter it as I stir. That way we don’t get burnt oatmeal or a scorched pot.”