Fast forward to about five years ago, when I stood in line for nearly two hours to meet Hillary Clinton. I had Ge Ge with me, who was only five weeks old at the time. During that two hours a lot of thoughts went through my head, from how I’d manage to feed Ge Ge if he got hungry and how long I’d really be able to stand with a 13-pound baby strapped to my chest. I thought I’d be this cool young mother, my baby serene while I swayed calmly side to side. Instead, as soon as Hillary walked into the room, I lost it. She only had time to take one photo with all of the kids at the meet and greet. They let the hubby grab the baby, and I was so worried that I’d missed my only shot in life at having my photo taken with a Clinton. Then Huma Abedin, her trusty right-hand assistant, must have seen my crumpled face, because she gestured towards me. “Mom can join, too!” she said as she came toward me.

I darted to the front of the room without a second thought and snapped the above photo. Cheeks and Clinton. Just in case you don’t have a sense of how exactly I managed to snap this photo, this is how uncool it looked from the rest of the world’s perspective at the time that it happened:

See what I mean? I’m totally a mess when it comes to meeting famous people. So you can imagine what I must have been like this past Saturday. Oh, the squealing. Oh, the giggling and the gasping and the clapping.

I didn’t get to meet the President or the First Lady when I was at the White House.  It said so clearly on the reservation confirmation that we received weeks ago. We also were told to dress warmly, to eat a snack and to stay hydrated. Touring the holiday decorations at the White House, I’ve learned, is serious business. We had to wait in line, then get ushered through in waves through security before we actually even made it inside. The tour, which is only open to White House staff members and their guests, isn’t guided or timed, but you definitely feel a need to keep moving. It’s glittery and sparkly and everything you’d imagine a White House to look like at Christmas.

Since Saturday, I’ve been thinking a lot about the holidays and how we make them special. This year, we’re not traveling until after Christmas day, and both the hubby and I have added a few little things year after year. There’s always a baking component. I bake cookies with the kids and we set a few out for Santa. I usually try to make something I’ve never made before, like I did with these mini chocolate raspberry pavlovas a few weeks ago. Have you ever had a pavlova?  I’d never even heard of them before I lived in Malaysia. It’s basically a cooked meringue with layers of whipped cream and fruit. The first time I had one was at an English friend’s house. She’d made a gorgeous white pavlova as big as my head, and between layers of crunchy meringue, she’d heaped freshly-cut mangoes. It was a glorious, show-stopping dessert.

For me, I didn’t trust myself to be very successful with pavlova on my first go-round, but I found this Nigella Lawson version that I loved right away because she uses the word “squidginess” to describe how you can tell the pavlova is done. Ahh, the British and their adorably descriptive adjectives. For us Americans, I took that to mean that there had to be a certain amount of give to the pavlova, so that if you sunk your fork into it, there’d be a crackly top that gave way to some oozy, gooey goodness inside.

And that’s exactly what happened with these mini chocolate raspberry pavlovas I made. They’re “mini” in that each one is only about 4-5 inches in diameter, and the pavlovas I’ve typically seen are grander affairs, covering an entire serving platter. I found the smaller size perfect for sharing with one other person (hi, honey! smooches!) and let me store the pavlovas disassembled in a Tupperware until ready for eating.

Plus, there’s something so fancy about serving a pavlova. It’s a different kind of dessert for the holidays, and one that people don’t see very often. What do you think? Will you try it for the holidays?

I mean, the whipped cream and raspberries alone are reason enough. And if it isn’t, it’s okay. You can squeal along with me to this:

Ready? SQUEEEE!!!!

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