Countdown to Christmas Calendar Day 16

December 16, 2025 – 9 days to Christmas

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships during Life Transitions

Today’s Story: The Thirteen Desserts of Christmas

Lisa stood just inside the barn door at 5:45 AM on December the 2Oth, squinting into an impenetrable mist, literally and figuratively, trying to figure out how long she could make three bags of horse grain feed eight rescued horses, who’d already missed one meal this week. She has been struggling to make ends meet since October, when the vet bills from rescuing sweet and long-suffering Leila, a miserably neglected old mare, had consumed what little reserves she’d had.

Outside, frost coated everything—the paddocks, the bare oak trees, the rusted trailer she’d been meaning to fix for three years. Inside, eight horses munched hay she’d bought on credit from a neighbour, who was pretending not to notice she was two months behind with her payments: Leila, the abused mare whose vet bills had started this crisis, now slowly learning that humans could be kind, though she still flinched at sudden movements, Napoléon, an ancient gelding with arthritic knees and delusions of grandeur, who still tried to boss around horses half his age, Biscotte, a stocky pony with the temperament of a disgruntled tax inspector, Aramis, a thoroughbred with anxiety so profound he is afraid of butterflies, and that one specific corner of the paddock for reasons he refused to explain, Sixtine, a dappled grey mare who’d been found abandoned in a field, now the barn’s self-appointed psychotherapist, always positioning herself next to whichever horse seemed most distressed, Gaston, an enormous draft horse built like tank, rescued from a farm that had gone bankrupt, who would climb into your lap like a golden retriever if permitted, Fleur, a delicate chestnut who’d been neglected until her hooves had grown so long she could barely walk, and Pépé, the oldest resident at thirty-two, a retired riding school horse who’d earned his retirement but whose previous owners had planned to send him to slaughter because he was “no longer useful.” He spent his days napping in sunbeams…

Her phone buzzed. The bank, probably. Or the feed supplier. Or her landlord asking about her December rent.

It was neither. It was Beatrice: Emergency meeting. Your kitchen. 9 AM. Have the coffee ready. Actually, forget the coffee, you’re broke. We’ll bring coffee. And croissants. And chocolatines. And a plan.

Lisa stared at the message. Emergency meeting about what? Had they found out she was about to lose the rescue? That she’d been considering the unthinkable—calling other rescues to take her horses because she couldn’t afford to feed them through the winter?

At 9 AM exactly, seven women invaded her ancient kitchen, mounting a well-organised coup: Beatrice (her oldest friend, terrifyingly competent), Anne (who ran the Café Croissant boulangerie), Isabelle (a local teacher, who made excellent wine), Marie (a sheep farmer with three teenagers and zero patience for excuses), Claudette (a retired nurse who baked compulsively), Véronique (who owned Le Bistro Bleue in town), and Natalie (an accountant with an opinionated calculator).

Beatrice slapped a folder on Lisa’s table with the weight of someone presenting battle plans. “We’re saving your rescue.”

“Oh.”

“You need money. Lots of it. Winter feed, vet bills, fence repairs, and probably rent. Don’t argue, Marie saw your feed supplier at the market, he was complaining about unpaid invoices.” Beatrice opened the folder. “So. We’re doing a market. Le Marché de Noël des Treize Desserts. The Christmas Market of the Thirteen Desserts.”

Lisa blinked. “The what?”

“It’s a Provençal Christmas tradition,” Claudette explained, already unpacking des pain au raisin like she expected this to go on for a while. “Thirteen desserts served after midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Symbolic—the twelve apostles plus Jesus. We’re adapting it.”

“We’re making it Gascon,” Marie explained. “Because we’re in Gascogne, and Provence is in another country. Also, because I refuse to make pompe à huile, which sounds disgusting: it involves making a cake with olive oil, which just sounds so very wrong.”

“Thirteen stalls,” Beatrice continued, ignoring the theological dessert diatribe. “Each of us will sell one or two specific desserts. December 23rd—two days before Christmas—in the town square. We donate all profits to the rescue. Our target is to make enough to get you through to March, by which point you’ll have figured out sustainable funding, or we’ll arrange another intervention.”

“You can’t just—I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. It was our idea.” Sophie poured coffee with the efficiency of someone who’d raised triplets. “It’s already decided. Natalie did a budget. Show her the budget, Natalie.”

Natalie produced spreadsheets. Actual spreadsheets, with columns and projections and a terrifying amount of detail. “Thirteen stalls, average fifty units per stall at three to five euros each, accounting for ingredient costs and pessimistic sales estimates, projected revenue twelve hundred to eighteen hundred euros. Enough for three months of feed, basic vet care, and fence repairs. Best case scenario: we make two thousand euros plus, and you can fix that trailer.”

“How did you—when did you—” Lisa’s voice cracked. “I can’t accept this.”

“Too late. We’ve already started baking.” Claudette pulled out a list. “I’m doing croustade—apple pastry, very Gascon, my grandmother’s recipe. Marie’s making pastis—not the drink, the dessert, the anise-flavoured cake. Isabelle’s doing tourtière—prune tart because this is Armagnac country and prunes have to feature.”

“I’m making gâteau à la broche,” Véronique added. “The pyramid cake that takes six hours to create and possibly requires a structural engineering degree. I’ve already started practising. My kitchen looks like a construction site.”

“I’m doing crème brûlée,” Sophie said. “Because I’m simple and I can make it in large quantities without losing my mind, unlike Véronique, who’s clearly having a breakdown involving cake architecture.”

The list continued: petit flans pâtissiers, cannelés, oreillettes (fried pastries dusted with sugar), merveilles (similar but different, the cause of an argument about regional variation), tourons (nougat-like confections), chocolate truffles rolled in white chocolate flakes, crème caramels, and mini Tarte Tatin made with vintage local apples.

“That’s twelve,” Lisa said, counting.

“Thirteen is you,” Beatrice said. “You’re making something. You’re participating in your own rescue. What can you make?”

“I rescue horses. I’m not terribly good at baking—”

“Everyone can bake something. What did your grandmother bake?”

Lisa thought about her grandmother—long dead, but present in memory. “Millas. Cornmeal cake. She made it every Christmas.”

“Perfect. You’re making millas. Natalie will buy your ingredients. You’ll have the thirteenth stall.” Beatrice stood, decision made. “Five days. We bake, we sell, we save your horses. Questions?”

Lisa had approximately eight thousand questions. What emerged was: “Why?”

The seven women looked at each other. Marie spoke first. “Because you took in Leila when no one else would. Because you spend every centime on horses that other people abandoned. Because you’re killing yourself trying to run it alone.”

“Because we’re friends,” Sophie added. “And friends don’t let friends lose their life’s work because winter is expensive and horses need to eat constantly to stay warm. Or whatever.”

They left like they’d arrived—quickly, efficiently, leaving behind coffee cups and spreadsheets and the particular chaos of people who’d made a decision and wouldn’t be disuaded from it.

Lisa sat alone in her kitchen, staring at Natalie’s budget projections, put her head on her arms and sobbed her heart out, letting go for the first time in three months.

December 23rd arrived cold and bright. Eauze town square had been transformed: thirteen wooden tables arranged in a circle around the central fountain, each draped with lights and pine garlands, each with a hand-painted sign explaining its dessert and the tradition behind it.

Marie’s pastis filled the air with anise. Véronique’s gâteau à la broche doddered like a golden tower of Pisa. Claudette’s croustade smelled like caramelised apples and Armagnac. Lisa’s own stall—modest but popular—offered fifty small squares of millas, dusted with sugar.

People came. Not just Eauze locals but people from surrounding villages, drawn by word-of-mouth and the particular French enthusiasm for both desserts and community drama. They bought crème brûlées, oreillettes and truffles, asking questions about the traditions, about the rescue, about whether the abused mare had recovered (she had, mostly).

By 3 PM, half the desserts were gone. By 5 PM, the rest was disappearing fast. Lisa’s millas sold out completely, people coming back for seconds, saying it reminded them of their own grandmothers.

Natalie appeared at 6 PM with her calculator and an expression of stunned satisfaction. “Final count: two thousand three hundred euros.”

Lisa couldn’t speak.

“You can fix the trailer,” Natalie continued. “And buy that expensive joint supplement for Pépé. And pay your feed supplier. And make rent through February. After that—” She shrugged. “After that, we’ll figure something else out. That’s what friends do.”

The seven women gathered around the fountain, drinking vin chaud that Véronique had made in an enormous pot, watching the town’s glorious Christmas lights reflect in the fountain’s water.

“Thank you,” Lisa said, inadequately and sincerely. “For all of this. For saving—” Her voice broke. “For saving us.”

“De rien,” Beatrice said, the standard French response meaning both “it’s nothing” and “you’re welcome.” “Next year, we’re doing it again. We make it an annual tradition. Le Marché des Treize Desserts d’Eauze. We’ll get you through every winter.”

“Every winter,” the others echoed.

They stood in the gathering dark, eight women who’d baked thirteen desserts and saved a horse rescue through sheer determination. Lisa realised that community wasn’t just about proximity—it was about showing up with spreadsheets and the stubborn refusal to let someone suffer alone.

Her horses ate well that night, and winter seemed slightly less long and less dark, and Lisa went to sleep thinking about the women who wouldn’t allow her to give up.

Thirteen desserts. Thirteen reasons to keep going.

The Make Friends and Maintain Friendships Masterplan

Friendships often grow in unexpected ways when we create space for them. Life transitions may feel isolating, but they also provide opportunities to connect with people who resonate with the new chapters we’re stepping into.

Take a moment to think about the kinds of friendships you’d like to cultivate. Maybe you’re seeking someone who shares your interests, someone who offers a fresh perspective, or simply someone who listens without judgment. These connections don’t happen overnight, but being open to them is the first step.

When your life’s work is failing financially, let your friends help—actually help, not just emotionally support but practically organise, budget, and execute a solution. Accept the intervention. Participate in your own rescue. Make the thirteenth dessert. Worst case scenario: Your friends organise a market that doesn’t raise enough money, and you still have to make hard decisions about the future. Best case scenario: Seven women show up at your kitchen with spreadsheets and a plan to save your horse rescue by creating a Christmas dessert market based on a Provençal tradition adapted for Gascogne, and you discover that community isn’t about suffering nobly alone—it’s about friends who refuse to let you fail, who organise everything while you’re too proud or too broke to ask for help, and who raise enough money to get you through winter while creating a tradition that ensures they’ll show up every year because that’s what friends do. You learn that accepting help isn’t weakness—it’s participation in the network of care that makes survival possible, and that sometimes the difference between losing everything and keeping your life’s work is just having friends stubborn enough to invade your kitchen with croissants and battle plans and the absolute refusal to take no for an answer.

What qualities do you value in a friend? How can you attract those qualities into your life through your own actions?

Subscribe to my Newsletter

I’m still collecting subscriptions to my news letter with these post, so if you haven’t subscribed already and would you like to find out what type of friend you are, how well you know your friends or if you and a new friend really are compatible, subscribe my filling in your email address in the box below and I’ll send you a set of light-hearted quizzes, quotes and questions to help you do just that. Just fill in the form below and you’ll get immediate access to them all. You can unsubscribe from this list effortlessly and at any time. Included:

–How well do you know your Friends? Quiz
– What is Your Friendship Style? and Are your Friendship Styles compatible? Quiz
– 20 of the Most Inspiring Friends and Friendship Quotes and
– 20 lighthearted Questions you can ask to get to know a new Friend

Discover how to build meaningful, lasting friendships and create a support system that truly has your back—delivered straight to your inbox!

#christmascountdown #friends #friendsforever #friendsforlife #friendship