“What are you doing? It’s almost ten. We need to be up by six to go to work.”

      In our three-room apartment, the new wife had laid out bowls, cutting boards, and utensils, end to end, across a high rectangular butcher block table. On either side of her stood our two barstools, set with baking pans and containers of raisins, cinnamon, flour, and more. The table doubled as a faux divider between the kitchen and the living room. The kitchen consisted of a wall just wide enough to squeeze in a minimum-requirement fridge, sink, and stove. Despite the cramped space, a small antique-style watering can sat on the sink ledge. It was one of her tchotchke decorations. When we married, we moved into my apartment. Before marriage, I had sports trophies on my bookshelves and posters of rock stars on the bedroom wall. Now, the bookcase featured bearded gnomes and blue-haired trolls while the walls had framed art renderings of nostalgic country gardens and vistas. My stuff was boxed on a closet shelf. Years later, they would live again in the man corner of our basement home.

     “Will this take long?” I asked.

     “Oh, a little while, I suppose. I do this all the time.”

     “You do this all the time?” I echoed. “You never mentioned anything about marathon cooking at all hours.”

     “It’s almost Christmas. It’s what I do.”

     We had met three years earlier, shortly after our college graduations, at the office where we worked. Now, a month into our marriage, I keep learning new things about her almost every day, for example, she really liked old Disney cartoons. Nothing wrong with that, but did we always have to go to the movies when they re-released the old ones? 

      “Can I help?”

      “No thanks.”

      The truth be told, for me, the baking supplies might as well have been surgical operating tools. When I met her family, I realized that I had joined a group of, in my view, four-star chefs. Her relatives didn’t ask who my favorite team or drink was; they assumed I had a specialty dish. Searching for a quick answer, I blurted out that it was frozen chicken pot pie and that I could defrost and heat two at the same time. It did not impress.

      The priest who married us had stated in his homily that, prior to taking vows, most couples have no idea what they know about each other. If they truly knew what was to come, they might consider running in opposite directions.

     I opened the fridge door and took out a wine bottle that now held my father-in-law’s secret recipe for eggnog. It looked like milk, but I knew it included whiskey, bourbon, and other spirits. I poured myself half a glass.    

     “Go easy,” she advised, as I downed it.

     “It’s so good.” I gave myself another half glass. “It tastes like chocolate milk.”

     “Well,” she said, opening up the bag of flour, “you’re done for the night. Sweet dreams.”

     At two a.m., I rolled over in bed. The new wife was not next to me. Sitting up, my head felt like a bowling ball, as if the bowler’s hand was swinging it back and forth. I saw the kitchen light on. I inhaled the aromas of shortbread and warm, melting chocolate. I plodded into the kitchen, which reminded me of my high school science lab.

     The sink was piled with dishes, and all four stove burners heated different sized pots. The oven blew heat into the room. The table was a riot of spilled ingredients spread underneath a blender, a hand mixer, and a chopper. Stirring a mix in a large steel bowl, she hummed “Silent Night.”

     “You’re still up?” I mumbled, affirming the obvious.

     “Yes. Still much more to do.”

    “We have to get up in a few hours!”

     “I’ll be fine. I’m used to this. And I have help.”

     “What do you mean you have help?”

    My eyes scanned the living room—slash—kitchen, as if expecting to see assistants racing around. Had her family of chefs shown up in the middle of the night to help? Of course not. And what would they do? Lay out materials on the sofa and combine elements in the bathroom sink and tub? And then—squinting my eyes, I saw—after all these years, I’m still not really sure—very small—people, I guess—maybe nine inches tall—walking between the appliances on the table.  All had oversized ears, and each wore a different colored jersey long enough to cover their bodies. Forming a chain, they lifted and passed a salt shaker to the center of the table. Next they carried a whisk and a sample-sized bottle of vanilla extract and gave it to the wife.

     “Thank you,” she said.

     One, holding toy scissors, wore a white shirt that stated, “Don’t step on me.” Another, in a red shirt, held poinsettias. The white shirt clipped each stem; the red one handed them to the new wife, who carefully arranged them in a green vase at one end of the table. In the middle of all this cooking, she somehow found time to decorate.

     “Are you elves?” I asked.

     “That’s offensive!” Dropping the scissors and using both hands, he grabbed a wooden spoon and bopped my forehead. “Elves don’t exist. We’re freelance worker associates!”

     The red-shirt one had climbed onto a cake mix box and tried to stretch up and kiss the new wife. She bent down and offered her cheek. 

     Being the jealous type, I asked, “You’re sure I can’t help?” I needed to keep an eye on these guys.

     “No, you’ll just be in the way. I’m in my happy place.”

     Acknowledging that I was in the wrong movie, I went back to bed and passed out.

     The alarm went off at six. The new wife was next to me. I shuffled into the kitchen. The sink and drainboard were empty. The stove sparkled. On the table were numerous trays of neatly stacked cookies, wrapped in cellophane and tied with red and green ribbons.

     The wife entered the room.

     “You had help,” I said.

     She smiled. “Come on, give me some credit.” 

     I opened the fridge, looked at the eggnog, and shook my head. I turned back to the wrapped treats and to the wife. We stood there, staring at each other.

     “No one assisted you? I swear I saw some very short people who looked like elves.”

     “Really? You saw elves?” She went to the sink and picked up the small watering can.

     “Well, they said they weren’t elves—something about freelancers—I don’t know what they were. But you’re being up through the night baking—I never knew this about you.”

     She filled the can with water. “And I never knew you believed in elves.” She poured the water into the vase with the poinsettias. “I guess we’re even.”

     Often, I think about the priest’s sermon and about what cannot be anticipated when one gets married. And, as the years pass, even though the new wife is no longer new, I continue to discover things about her that keep her new.