Turning the lights out. Checking to see the doors are locked. Kissing the cat's furry head, watching as he shifts in his sleep and sometimes (if I'm lucky) sighs.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, listening, for what I never know, but I always do. Stopping into the playroom to peek at the almost ten-year-old hermit crabs whose claws clack against the glass of their tank as they make their way about their business.

Feeling my way over stuffed animals, paperbacks, discarded clothing and hangers to the bookshelf at the edge of my daughter's bed. Blindly groping for the sharp corners, the desk chair, the air cleaner and anything else that could injure me as I make my way to the head of her bed and kiss her sleeping cheek.

Turning on the bathroom fan and the shower with two different hands at the same time. Tossing clothes in the hamper and shuffling around for what passes as pajamas depending on the season. Stepping into the steam and washing off the day, rubbing tea tree oil conditioner into my scalp, rinsing off bubbles and wrapping myself in a towel. Staring in the mirror as I wash my face with the special old-lady soap that's supposed to reverse the effects of one too many peeling sunburns in my youth. Brushing my teeth with the fancy electronic toothbrush that plugs in and works way better than the hundreds of dollars of battery-operated ones I used to have. Slipping on a tshirt, padding to the bed, tossing off extra pillows, setting the alarm.

Sliding between the covers and adjusting my pillow and concentrating on relaxing my neck muscles, my tongue, my forehead. Sometimes realizing the moment my body heat begins to warm the air pockets I intentionally make around my shoulders on cold nights. Listening to the tick of the clock.

Closing my eyes.

These are the things I do before I go to sleep at night.

Today's #BlogHerWritingLab prompt is:

Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Do you end your day the same way every day? What are your nighttime traditions?

Today's #BlogHerWritingLab prompt is: What food do you always reject on the holiday table? Why?

Well, remember how I said I loved the German cookie springerle? I really can't stand the German candied bread that can be used as currency in my family. Like currency, like I can trade it like cold, hard cash.

Stollen takes approximately seven years to make and is full of candied fruits and raisins. You make it into little loaves that my father hoards like bricks of gold. It can be eaten at any time of day, for breakfast, as a snack, with dinner, as dessert (like bacon).

And I can't stand it. Maybe it's the taste, maybe it's the texture of things being embedded in my bread (I don't like raisin toast, either), maybe it's rebellion against the idea that we must all love this crazy-ass holiday food.

I also won't eat mashed potatoes, any vegetable topped with marshmallows, cranberry sauce or gravy.

You?

Today's #BlogHerWritingLab prompt is: Finish this sentence with your favourite food: "The holidays are not complete without..."

My answer is: springerle. They are German cookies that have cool patterns and I never liked them until my mom made them a different way about ten years ago and suddenly they were fluffy instead of hard and I fell in endless love with them. I remember we had both the embossed rolling pin and the little wooden blocks. I have yet to make them myself because my mother is still making them for me, but she bought me my own rolling pin for when the day comes I have to fend for myself. Which I will, because even though I'm the one in the family who rarely eats the sweets but hoovers the Chex mix, springerle is important to me. Here's my rolling pin.

The #BlogHerWritingLab prompt today is: What dish transports you to a different place and time in your life?

A new restaurant in a small town is life-changing. When I was growing up, my small town was dominated by the local Pizza Hut in a way that hasn't been realized there before or since. All the cool kids in high school worked at Pizza Hut, and after football games we'd all head over to cram seven people into each side of the booths and try to make it out of the restaurant afterward with red plastic glasses smuggled under our sweaters for no good reason except our frontal lobes weren't fully formed.

Then, one day, a new pizza place opened on the square: Breadeaux Pizza. Whereas the Pizza Hut preferred pan crust contained a cup of oil, the Breadeaux crust was kind of tossed around with varying degrees of mastery by its high school employees, one of whom was my friend Jack. I remember going to visit Jack while he tossed around pizza dough and answered the red phone that hung by the door to the back. There was no seating in Breadeaux, so one could hang around relatively easily. It's kind of sad that in a small town hanging around your friends while they are getting paid and you are not is a popular pastime, but it did happen reciprocally when I worked the concession stand at the swimming pool, so I didn't mind too much.

The Breadeaux crust was based on the concept of French bread, so it was chewier and sort of sweet, which had a good balance with sausage. That pizza place went out of business years ago and I haven't had Breadeaux since high school, but I can still remember the taste pretty easily. It's the taste of high school Homecoming float building sessions with chicken wire, napkins and spray paint in someone's Morton building or barn; the taste of slumber parties and family get-togethers on Sunday nights.

Oh, and the Breadeaux employees had to wear French chef hats. That was also pretty rad.