This story started life as a Casserole Confidential email on December 24, 2025-written in that quiet, liminal space where the coffee's strong, the house is still, and the new year hasn't started asking for anything yet. I'm saving it here on the blog because some thoughts deserve a seat at the table longer than an inbox moment. Cozy. Honest. Slightly unhinged. Just the way we like it.
Hey y'all,
Merry Christmas Eve Day!
I am planning on taking tomorrow off, just to relax and probably veg-out on the couch. I'm not even making a big feast! So, I wanted to take today to wish y'all a Merry Christmas... and send along a little Picklefork story.
Santa Comes to Picklefork
Every town has a Santa story.
Picklefork's just happens to involve questionable decisions, cinnamon-heavy baked goods, and a woman named Velma Jean who believes feeding hungry people is a moral obligation.
Santa always saved Picklefork for last. To be honest, he always saved Velma Jean's house for the very last stop.
Not because she was the last one on the nice list. Lord, no. It would be surprising if she was there at all. But because she understood hospitality... and how to spike a drink.
He'd already powered through the polite houses. The almond-extract sugar cookies set out on matching plates. The perfectly frosted sugar cookies with reindeer sprinkles that taste like buttery perfection and PTA meetings. Respectable. Reliable. A little golden around the edges.
Then came the houses with ambition. The ones flexing their spice cabinets. The snickerdoodle cookies and the deeply aromatic cinnamon crackle cookies -warm, cozy, and trying very hard to impress. Santa nodded politely. Took notes. Kept moving.
Somewhere near midnight, just when his boots started pinching, the red suit was prickly (and making him sweat in the near-tropical heat), and the reindeer were questioning their life choices, Picklefork rolled in like a honky-tonk Christmas miracle.
Spritz cookies appeared first. You know the ones. Buttery little show-offs piped into shapes nobody can identify but everyone eats anyway. Santa grabbed two, mostly for morale.
And then. Velma Jean's house. Lit up like it was in competition with the Las Vegas Strip.
Last stop. Always.
No milk. No carrots. No performative cheer.
Velma Jean left out a mug of spiked Mexican hot chocolate so rich it could qualify as a felony, dusted with chipotle and stirred with a whisper of guijillo chile that said I know things. Next to it? A plate of chips and queso still warm, because Velma Jean respects timing.
Santa didn't even sit down. He wearily leaned up against the counter like a man who had seen too much. Drank the hot chocolate while the steam still rose in a column of fragrant, fudgy goodness. Ate the queso. Even ran his finger around the bowl to get the last few drops. Let out a sigh that rattled the tinsel.
Legend has it he loosened his belt. Legend has it he refilled the mug. Legend has it Mrs. Claus considers Velma Jean her only competition for the fat man's heart.
By the time Santa left Picklefork, the reindeer smelled faintly of cinnamon and regret, his handwriting was loopy, and the naughty list mysteriously lost several names.
Christmas magic. Southern edition.
If you're baking today, may your cookies be soft, your spice generous, and your hospitality just a little scandalous.
And if Santa shows up late? You're doing it right. Merry Christmas from me... and Picklefork, Texas
talk soon!
love ya!
Don't forget about the free January 2026 meal plan with clickable links - 2026 January meal plan.pdf
Need more time in Picklefork? The First Cold Day in Picklefork was a doozy!
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