Monthly Archives: December 2013

Snow Days

by

Driftwood Santa

The past few days, with our neighborhood shrouded in ice and the air temperatures legitimately cold and not just “cold for Texas,” have felt like snow days, even though we don’t have kids and work from home, and probably wouldn’t have done much outside the house this weekend, anyway.

The thing is though, a really good snow day exists outside time, as if the Universe is granting you a bubble of sparkly white magic for you to exist within for a few hours, and in those hours there are several things that must occur:

  • You must drink hot chocolate. Whipped cream, marshmallows and peppermint-stick stirrers are all options that may or may not be added, but the hot chocolate itself is crucial.
  • There must be a dog, preferably two or three, to cuddle with, play with, coax outside for an elimination break, and lure back in when he/she/they figure out that whuffling snow is super-fun, only to dry (their paws) wait, and repeat.
  • Board games are required. If you are not alone on your snow day, you must gather whomever is present and play a board game, possibly two. Lately, we’ve been playing Gloom and Hunting Party a lot, but any board game will do. Yesterday we played Ticket to Ride: Europe.
  • A good book is essential. Snow days are perfect for curling up with a good book (bonus points if you manage to do the cocoa drinking, book curling-up-with, and dog-cuddling all at once) and getting lost in someone else’s life for a while. Because I’m perverse, I often like to read “beach” books in the dead of winter, and books with a winter setting in the heat of summer. That said, last year when we had an ice storm, I re-read The Long Winter, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
  • Bad television reigns supreme. Yes, we have 450 or so channels, including every single premium movie channel known to technogeeks everywhere (although no Hallmark Channel, because Uverse.) Yes, we also have Netflix, Amazon Prime, and Hulu Plus. But those SyFy Channel equivalent of “B” movies, the ones that typically include either John Rhys Davies or Robert Englund, bad CGI, and young actors who can’t, you know, act? Those are the perfect movies for Snow Days. (So are old musicals. The Court Jester got me through many a blizzard when I was a kid.)
  • Comfort food is key. To feed ourselves and our friends-turned-temporary-refugees during this ice storm our choices included macaroni and cheese (from scratch), chicken and sweet potato soup, homemade cinnamon bread, and black bean chili with homemade cornbread. We also had a pot of hot cider going most of the time.

As an adult, having a snow day you get to actually enjoy is a rare thing. I don’t miss wading through chest-high snow to get to school, only to find a sign saying, “Buses can’t get through, no school today,” as happened once or twice when we lived in Georgetown (school was only a block and a half away), but I do miss the freedom that came once I’d waded back home, greeted my mother, and stripped off my coat and boots.

Often, she’d put me to work in her store, putting price tags on things, or tidying things, but just as often, she’d make me a mug of cocoa and send me upstairs to my room with a book or two, and I would spend the day with my poodle mix warming my toes.

As I write this, the ice that melted off our roof is re-freezing, and I am sitting on the bed with two of the four dogs who currently live in this house. (The other two are in their crates for the night.) Tomorrow will be chilly, but regularly scheduled work will resume.

We’ve had our weekend of snow days, and it’s been lovely.

Even better? Unlike school children, we don’t have to make them up at the end of the year.

Today’s Santa: Another Cracker Barrel purchase, I bought him three years ago because he reminds me of something that might have been carved from drift wood.

Holidailies 2013

Movie Musings

by

Biker Santa

My friend and fellow Holidailies participant, The Mighty Kymm, tagged me on Facebook with the challenge to list – without thinking about it – ten movies that have stayed with you.

I said I’d play, but that I’d make it my entry for tonight (late, as usual). So here’s my list, in no particular order:

  1. A Fish Called Wanda: It was a rainy night in San Francisco. I was eighteen, I was in school at USF, and we saw it at Opera Plaza, then went ghost hunting at the Lone Mountain campus. For weeks before and after, we referred to it as “A Fish Called Wanda Weekend.”
  2. Life Without Zoe: Another film I originally saw in San Francisco. It’s actually part of an anthology, New York Stories, but that segment is my favorite. Who wouldn’t want to live in a boutique hotel, have a famous flautist for a father, and go to schools with sheiks’ sons?
  3. Frankenstein: The original black and white film with Boris Karloff was my first horror movie – I was six or seven – and I remember having to sleep with my closet light on for weeks afterward. Ultimately,I became a really big horror movie fan.
  4. Shadow of the Vampire: John Malkovich and Willem Dafoe in a movie about the making of a vampire movie, starring a real vampire. Best line: “Don’t eat the writers.”
  5. The Lover: There was a lot of controversy when this film first came out, because it involves the affair between a 15-year-old girl and a 20-something man (though both lie about their ages). Jane March, who played the girl, had barely turned eighteen when filming began. It’s a quirky, arty film, but even though it’s really explicit, it’s also really well written, and beautifully shot.
  6. Midnight in Paris: I know it was everyone’s favorite thing of the summer when it came out a couple years ago, but it was everyone’s favorite for a reason. While it did not make me run off to Paris, it did remind me why I love to write.
  7. Marley & Me: Yes, it’s silly. Yes, the ending in sad. But I work in rescue, loved the book, and was still learning how to communicate with my first big dog, Max, when it came out.
  8. We Bought a Zoo: I didn’t read the book until after we’d taken my parents to see this for Christmas, which is good, because the film changes a lot. It also leaves the core of the story alone. My stepfather kept complaining about it – I think he was confusing it with some Zoo comedy – but by the end we were all teary. Btw, the book is amazing, and you should read it.
  9. Empire Records: This isn’t the world’s greatest film, but it always makes me happy. Also, it’s fun seeing the cast (Liv Tyler, Renee Zellweger, Ethan Embry) looking like babies (well, high school students).
  10. Little Women: The 1995 version is my favorite because it touched a little on transcendentalism, and I liked the casting, but I know a lot of other people hated it. But this is my list, and it’s one of the films I re-watch at least once a year. So, yeah.

Today’s Santa: An ornament that amused me, once upon a time.

DFW on Ice

by

Butterfly

I’m posting at nearly-midnight again, but this time it’s because last nights sleet and freezing rain turned into this morning’s widespread power outages.

Our power glitched for a minute or so around one AM, but our friends who live less than a mile away have been without power, and, subsequently, without heat, since four this morning.

As today’s high temperature was around 29 degrees, we invited them to come here. And so they are tucked upstairs in one of the spare rooms, with their younger son and dog. Their older son chose to wrap himself in all the blankets and stay home with the cats.

And so we had an old fashioned snow day, listening to music, each working on a project, drinking hot cider.

I wish I had the energy to write something more interesting, but I’m exhausted, and cold (must go turn heat up.)

Happy Birthday, Maximus

by

Max, age five

Oh, my dearest doggy, you are FIVE years old today. That’s middle-aged for a breed like yours, a breed we think is pointer/boxer, but could be most anything, really.

How well I remember that windy day in February, 2009 when we met your then-tiny little self. You were ten weeks old, and I kept telling Fuzzy we didn’t want a puppy, but he thought your black and white fur looked like your sister Cleo’s, and we knew Zorro didn’t have much more time with us.

I remember how Fuzzy snapped your picture through the bars of your crate at PetCo, and said, “Come see this puppy,” and I remember how the first time I picked you up you gnawed on my neck until you finally fell asleep in my arms.

I remember when you were so small you slept in a cat bed, and so tiny you couldn’t climb the stairs. You used to pick up Cleo’s leash and make her follow you around the house. You weren’t quite certain of what to do with Zorro, but he left us a week after you came. I think he waited to be sure you were right for us.

We didn’t always get along, my Maxi-taxi. You were my first big dog, and I had to learn a whole new language with you. It wasn’t until you were three months old that I knew we’d be alright. You’d escaped from your crate, and even though Fuzzy’s side of the bed was closer, you came right to me, and put your cold wet nose in my hand. I knew, then, that you were MY dog, just like Zorro and Cleo had been. Perry had joined us by then, but he’s never as obvious about who his people are as you always have been.

In the first year of your life, you ate rocks and razor blades, water bottles, entire pairs of Keds, and more paper towels than I care to count. Once, I even found you chewing on the side of the house! I was convinced something you’d swallowed would lacerate your esophagus or perforate your intestine, but except for allergies, you’re remarkably healthy.

And now you’re five years old, and the quiet gentleman of the house, except when you do your post-dinner show, roo-ing and galloping up and down the hall.

I love that you wake up half an hour before you really need to go outside, just so you can come into the bed with me and snuggle while Fuzzy showers. I love your raspy-tongued kisses, and the way you can eviscerate a squeaky toy in five minutes, then carry the empty fleece carcass around for months.

I love that every night when I go to bed to read, you come and curl up with me. I love that you’re patient with your adopted brother Tedasaurus Rex, even though he had the nerve to grow taller than you, and that you make the foster brothers and sisters who rotate through your life feel like part of the pack.

I love the way you, my 80-pound darling, can manage to get lost in our postage stamp of a back yard, and I love that you still think an empty paper towel roll is the best toy ever.

I love the way you’ll chase a ball til it stops, then turn around and give me that look that means, “If you’d wanted it back you should have adopted a retriever,” and I love that even though you’re a gentle giant of a dog, you have a basso profundo bark that makes me feel safe when I’m alone.

I love that you’re as happy to sit on the deck and just WATCH the birds and squirrels as you are to chase them, and I love that the last thing I hear at night is your deep, restful, doggy breathing.

So, happy fifth birthday, my Max.

You can’t really be called a Monster Pup any more, but in my heart you’ll always be my puppy.

Peeling the Eggplant

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Lollypop Santa

We’ve all heard the story (possibly apocryphal, but it’s a good story so, who cares?) about the woman who was making a roast. Her daughter, watching her, asked, “Mom, why are you cutting the ends off the roast?”

The mother replied that she was doing so because it was the way she learned from her mother, but didn’t know why it made the roast better.
Together, they went to the other room to ask Grandma why the ends were cut off the roast, and the old woman replied that she’d HAD to do it that way, because it was the only way the roast would fit in the pan.

Similarly, those of us who grew up with grandmothers and mothers who peeled eggplant before using it, also peel eggplant. But the thing is, you don’t actually have to peel eggplant for most dishes. Sure, it feels rubbery when it’s raw, but it cooks down fairly well.

Holiday traditions are sort of the same way. Some of them, like the roast, or the eggplant, we do because we always have. I grew up with a butterfly at the top of the Christmas tree, and the first year I had my very own tree, I felt guilty for putting something OTHER than a butterfly up there. Then my husband and I found a lovely quarter-moon ornament and that was our topper in the first years of our marriage.

More recently, as our (fake, plastic, pre-lit) trees have become taller and taller, we’ve had to adjust the topper again. Currently, it’s an angel I bought at Cracker Barrel, but I picked her because she’s got this delicious smirk, as if she knows some great secret.

Sometimes, though, traditions have to be completely new. Since moving to Texas nine years ago (yes, that feels like forever to me, too) we’ve planned Christmas Eve to be our night. Sure, we might go to a Christmas Eve service (or two – because I love midnight mass, so even when we were at UUCOC, we’d still go), but otherwise, we keep the evening low-key.

Christmas Day, however, is all about inviting friends and “chosen family” over for brunch. Everyone gets at least one present to open, and we celebrate with laughter and good food.

I’m sure as we age, we’ll come up with some newer traditions even than those, but whether we spend Christmas with just ourselves, or with other people, whether we peel the eggplant, or not, the entire season will be full of fun and friends and fabulous food.

Today’s Santa: The very young child of a friend dubbed him Lollypop Santa, and the name stuck. He’s from Cracker Barrel. Seriously, sometimes they have great decor.

Holidailies 2013

This is Your Brain on Ice

by

Red Santa

I lived in Colorado for seven years (on and off) and I never learned to ski, but I did learn to ice skate, and ever since my booted-and-bladed feet first touched ice, I’ve been in love with the sport.

These past few Sundays have found me sitting on the bed folding laundry and watching figure skating competitions. I’m not sure who I’m rooting for, which means I don’t much care who wins, but I enjoy the skill and artistry, even so.

My own skates sit, idle and dusty, at the top of the hall closet, their blades covered in purple and turquoise guards bought eons ago from a rookie player from the San Jose Sharks who was doing his time in the pro shop.

My first skating memories, however, have nothing to do with rinks and music, and everything to do with funky metallic ‘thermal’ socks that made my feet itch and sweat, and snow-packed rolled-up cuffs of jeans, and water ripples frozen into the surface of the ice.

We skated outside, and stayed out til the ice and snow had frozen our laces to the point where my best friends Siobhan, Larissa, and I would seriously contemplate walking home on our skate-guards or attempting to skate down the road, frozen three feet thick with old snow and dirty ice.

That was in Georgetown, when I was seven, and The Town would turn the baseball diamond into an outdoor skating rink for the kids, so we wouldn’t take it into our heads to go all the way out to the reservoir. (Don’t tell my mother, but sometimes we DID go all the way out there on our bikes, but never to skate.)

So we would turn circles and try basic spins, and hope that our short and sassy Dorothy Hamill-esque haircuts looked as cute on us as they did on her.

I’m pretty sure they didn’t.

I’m not sure why ice skating is on my mind tonight, but it might have to do with the recent re-discovery of this ancient picture of me:

Skating in Evergreen

I don’t really remember the day, but the notes on the back, in my mother’s handwriting: January 1st 1977, Evergreen Lake, CO. Elevation 8,500 feet. Temperature 6 degrees. “If you take my picture I’ll scream.”

Today’s Santa: On my fireplace mantel, every year, stand a collection of Victorian-esque Santa Claus dolls. This one is one of the oldest, the red one.

(Hey look, doing Holidailies just before midnight…again.)

Bread

by

Gardener Santa

So here I am, once again writing my Holidalies post at 11:50 pm. This is NOT the habit I wanted, this year.

But this time I have a good excuse: I was at a meeting at church, part of the core group of people planning a new evening service to begin in February.

One of the things we talked about was how we wanted to handle communion, and the suggestion was made that actually breaking a loaf of bread, passing it and the wine from hand to hand, ministering to each other, might be a really lovely way to make that ritual more intimate.

It got me thinking, on the way home, about the other times I’ve shared bread with people. My friend Marcia is an amazing baker, and I have fond memories of a marathon session making hot cross buns in my kitchen several years ago.

My aunt Patricia is a baker as well, and it is her cornbread recipe that I follow, and have been following, for more than twenty years.

And then there’s my grandfather. He was a career Army officer, retired and worked in the civil service, retired from that and played gentleman farmer in his New Jersey back yard. He grew grapes and strawberries, composted everything, and baked the most amazing loaves.

I remember his thick fingers pushing through the warm, sticky dough as he kneaded it. I remember the crock of sourdough starter that had a special spot on the back of the dishwasher. I remember the way he would lovingly grease each pan and then dust it with cornmeal, and I remember the steaming bread, fresh from the oven, slathered with butter.

My own baking is aided by modern tools – a bread machine, a stand mixer – and, to be honest, I generally prefer to make batter breads, like the cinnamon swirl bread I baked yesterday, or the prune-laced soda bread I made for a friend on Friday.

We break bread literally and figuratively whenever we share our tables with our friends and families. Isn’t it only right that we should bake it, as well?

Today’s Santa: Gardener Santa is actually a candle I found at Big Lots (no, really) several years ago. He reminds me of my grandfather, though Grandpop didn’t have a full beard, ever, and he’ll never be lit.

Smells Like Anticipation

by

SeaSide Santa

Well, Hello, December!

It’s the first day of Holidailies and here I am typing as fast as I can so I can get this posted before midnight, and thus not fail on the first day, which would be really inauspicious.

It’s warm here today. Warm and muggy, and not Christmassy (Or Hanukkahy) at all, though the sky teased us with storm clouds that didn’t deliver. I don’t mind the warmth – it’s cool enough to not need a/c but warm enough to also not need heat – rare for Texas at any time of year.

But I miss that smell, that magical SMELL that comes when the night is crisp and cool, and the stars are particularly sparkly.

It’s the combined scent of chimney smoke and fallen leaves, damp earth and leftover turkey. It’s the fragrance of nutmeg and peppermint and crinkly tissue paper.

And when it’s this warm, this balmy, you just can’t smell it.

So I go through the motions. I take the plastic, pre-lit tree out, and let it rest in the house (because even plastic trees need to rest before you bedeck them with ornaments), and I open today’s door on the Advent calendar, which reveals, ironically, the image a star shimmering in the night sky, and I wait.

Because I know that soon enough the temperature will drop, and the skies will deepen, and that wonderful seasonal aroma, the one that smells like love and innocence and magic and anticipation, will ooze its way back into my perception.

And all will be right with the world.

Today’s Santa: I gave this to my mother four years ago. Purchased in Ocean Grove, NJ, October 2009.