I glance around the kitchen, at the ingredients Jack neatly laid out on the counters, at the family in their matching red aprons that say “Christmas Cookie Crew” with their names hand sewn across the top. Judy Garland is singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“I have never done any of this before,” I admit.

The family all turns their heads to me in shock. “You’ve never made Christmas cookies before?” Meemaw asks.

Katherine, who is completely unfazed by the weed on the counter next to the chocolate chips, claps her hands together. “Well, isn’t this exciting!”

“You’re definitely going to want to be high, then,” Dylan drones. They raise the rolling paper to their mouth and lick the edge. When Dylan slides the joint between their lips, Andrew leans forward to light it without prompting. He cups a hand close to Dylan’s mouth until it catches, and I watch as Dylan stares up at Andrew through their lashes, taking a sharp inhale.

Andrew steps back. Dylan rubs the back of their neck before passing Andrew the joint.

The rest of the family appears to be oblivious to this sexually charged scene. Katherine is distracted by grabbing me an apron. She’s written my name in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape over what I imagine is the name Alan. Before I know it, I’m wearing an apron and the joint has made it around the entire kitchen to me. I stare at it between my fingers for a moment before deciding to lift it to my mouth. I can’t remember the last time someone offered me an honest-to-God joint. Undergrad, maybe?

My inhale is shallow, only letting a little smoke into my lungs before I exhale. Still, it’s been so long, I feel an immediate rush of blood to my head, followed by a slow decompression in my limbs, like I’m a piece of Ikea furniture and someone has taken a monkey wrench to all my screws and loosened them just a bit. The joint has made its way around the kitchen to everyone but Jack. I turn to face her.

For the first time in twenty-four hours, she sets her eyes on me as I stretch the joint in her direction. She holds up both hands. “No, thanks. Someone in this kitchen needs to have their wits about them. Okay, fam!” Jack declares at full volume. “Let’s get started. This year, we’re making cutout cookies, peanut butter fudge, and dasik.”

I must involuntarily make a face of confusion because Jack adds, “Dasik is a Korean pressed cookie. We used to make them for Lunar New Year as kids, but now we usually make them at Christmas. This year, we’re doing half with sesame seeds and half with green tea.”