We were up til six last night, except that it’s not last night any more, it’s the night before last, and now today has become tomorrow, and I’m posting my Saturday entry in the wee hours of Sunday morning, and, and, and, …let me try this again.

Friday night, I was flitting from cleaning project to cleaning project, and getting too distracted by decorating projects, while Fuzzy bounced between work and helping me. This was in preparation for my parents arrival. We finally turned out the light around six am.

Saturday, which in my universe it still is, because I haven’t yet been to bed, we were up by ten, and did more cleaning – heavy cleaning – like, rug doctor type cleaning – and small decorating bits – and grocery shopping, and by the time we finally stopped it was eight at night, and we hadn’t eaten all day.

My parents plane was half an hour late, but that wasn’t a problem, even though we left early for the airport, because DFW is all funky on Saturday nights – it becomes Road Construction Central – and you have to head north to go south, and make other confusing navigational maneuvers.

Finally, though, we collected my parents, and their luggage, and made it home. They seem to like the house. They seem to be comfortable. They seem to be exhausted, and I KNOW we are both exhausted, which is why this entry is entitled *Yawn* – I’m really not coherent enough for anything better.

My mother is arriving tomorrow night, to spend Christmas week with Fuzzy and me, and I’ve resolved that this year, I will not be twelve from the moment she enters my front door, to the moment she leaves.

I will not react like a small child when she criticizes my housekeeping skills, my taste in decor (or books), the television shows I watch, or the foods I keep in my refrigerator and pantry.

I will not snark at her when she pokes her nose into those aspects of my life where she is least welcome, and asks when we’re planning to have children, or why we spent thousands of dollars replacing the living room carpet with wood, instead of a few hundred on bookshelves for the library, where books are still in boxes.

I will not take it personally when she makes derisive comments about the traffic, the quality of service at the local restaurants, the overtly religious culture, or the weather, because none of those things are under my control, and she is not, after all, criticizing ME, in those instances.

I will remember that she travelled 2500 miles in a flying tin can, in December, to leave her warm beachfront house and spend Christmas with her only daughter, in yet another new home, in yet another new town, nowhere near the beach, where it is cold enough that her feet will have to be wrapped in socks and shoes. I will further remember that she left her dog behind, with strangers, two days after the poor thing had teeth pulled.

I will remember all the times when I was growing up, that she worked extra hours so that I could have dance lessons, a bike, a dog, piano lessons, music camp, Shakespeare camp, and college tuition, even if it meant that she didn’t get home until after seven at night on Christmas Eve, or had to work on my birthday.

I will remember the countless hours she spent making clothes for me, and my dolls, the cookies she always made on time for school parties I forgot to tell her about (despite being a single mother who worked full time), and the amazing homemade Halloween costumes I had, every year, until I turned eighteen.

I will remember that after Fuzzy and I eloped, even though she was bitterly disappointed, she welcomed him into our family unwaveringly, and made an effort to get to know him, and that she later threw us a reception and feast.

I will remember that any time I’ve ever needed money, she’s come through with a loan.

I will remember that her criticism, though often unwelcome, and sometimes badly expressed, comes from a place of love and concern, and that now, just as always, she wants me to be happy and healthy and safe and loved.

I will counter-act my urge to be snarky and sarcastic by brewing tea, and singing songs, and bringing up happy memories.

Or at least, I will try.

But if nothing else, this year, I will NOT be twelve.
Not even for a moment.

1. What is a fond holiday tradition from your childhood?

As a child, I always had an advent calendar, and sometimes an advent candle, as well. I loved this manner of counting down the days. I still have a calendar, even now.

2. If you could start a new holiday tradition, what would it be?

A literary Christmas gathering, where everyone brings, and reads aloud, their favorite Christmas story, while toasting near a fire, and sipping mulled wine or spiced cider.

3. What is your favorite Christmas song and who sings it?

This changes, but right this moment John Denver singing Silent Night comes to mind.

4. Is there a certain event, food, television program, etc. that makes your Christmastime complete?

Christmas isn’t Christmas without pfefferneusse. And brie. (Not together, but, you know…both foods.) Oh, and The Nutcracker is also an essential part of the holiday season.

5. Does it traditionally snow where you live at Christmastime? If not, do you wish that it did?

As far as I know, it doesn’t snow here, except on rare occaisions. And in my fantasy world it snows everywhere from the moment people get to where they need to be on Christmas Eve, to the moment they have to leave that place after Christmas, just enough to make the world look pristine, and make the lights reflect and twinkle.

I’ve answered questions like this before, recently, but I felt the need for a warm-up writing exercise today.

My muse of the moment, Clay, let me do some textual whining about not knowing what to write about, and then sent me to StoryCorps. It’s an oral history project based in New York, that involves people going to their story booths, and capturing personal stories, life stories. (The site also offers story kits for rent, but it’s not terribly cost effective.)

I don’t live anywhere near Manhattan, but I’m intrigued by the concept, and I’ve had a love of oral history as long as I can remember. I think it started with my grandmother talking about how much she loved the Red Cross, and about how she was in Panama with my grandfather during one of the world wars, and had to be sent home (with other military wives) on a commandeered cruise ship travelling a zig-zag course to avoid German submarines. As a child, I thought she was making it up, because the details would change from time to time, but the general structure never did.

I remember her talking about the blackout curtains in the housing in Panama, and how she used to keep the closet light on, when she was alone, waiting for my grandfather, and was terrified by someone walking by and telling her (through the window) “Turn out the light,” because a single beam in an otherwise darkened enclave can be seen miles out to sea.

After my grandmother died, I found the menu card from that zig zag trip – some kind of beef, and “jacket” potatoes, and it clicked that this wasn’t just some tale she made up to amuse small children, it had really happened.

My mother, ever the maverick, chose to flee her Italian Catholic upbringing, after I was born, and as a result, most of the cousins and aunts and uncles and various other loose relations are mere names to me – if they’re even that – and the stories my mother heard, I’ve never dreamed of. I’ve always felt kind of gypped about that. There’s a part of me deep inside that really wants a big family and late night conversations in the kitchen, stoked by strong coffee and canolli, or Stella D’oro anisette cookies. There’s a part of me that feels like my identity is lacking because I don’t know the family stories, and don’t have anyone to ask.

Two nights ago, while re-arranging the remnants of my grandmother’s knitting bags (re-discovered when we packed to move from California to Texas), I came across a folded scrap of paper, labelled “Xmas Struffle.” (At least, I think that’s what it says – my grandmother’s handwriting was cryptic at best.) Inside, it was titled “Pop Natale’s Recipe (also good for basic macaroni)” and there was a fairly basic pasta dough recipe scrawled there.

I googled for the term “struffle” – and you know something is obscure if Google comes up with nothing – and am left with a mystery. Was this a funky attempt at spelling an Italian word, by my grandmother whose language was ripped from her when her father insisted that his children speak only English and be American? Is it a family nickname for a beloved treat? Or did she hate the recipe because it reminded her of long hours in the family restaurant, which she despised being tied to?

I want to be a child again, and sit on the old brown and floral couch, the cushions covered with a soft cotton sheet, because it’s more comfortable that way, in the dim den, with my grandfather snoring in his ugly yellow recliner, and I want to plead, “Tell me a story.”

But there’s no one left to ask.

As someone who isn’t particularly religious, I’m always sort of torn when it comes to the concept of angels, and at this time of year, when there are images of angels pretty much everywhere I look, it leads me to ponder both the concept and the image.

I guess it’s the child in me that likes the concept, the watered-down concept. I mean, a posse of higher beings whose whole job is to guard and guide is kind of cool, no matter what ultimate power you pray to, or whether you pray to one at all. The less kindly concept – angels as harbingers of bad news, death, wrath – I reject out of hand. In my universe, if there are angels, they are pure and good, and totally non-judgemental.

Then there are the images. Yes, I have angel ornaments on my tree, though I don’t have either a star or an angel as the topper. What I actually have is a sort of Merlinesque-looking Santa Claus figure, which replaced the moon we had at the top when we first got married (because we both worked nights at the time). We still have that ornament, but we have a bigger tree, now, so we had to get a bigger topper. But I digress.

As I was saying, I do have angel ornaments on my tree, but I don’t attribute any deep meaning to them. They’re part of the trappings of my mostly secular celebration of Christmas, and they’re kind of pretty, but, you know, I don’t think of them as being ANGELS, just, angels.

The point of all this is that tonight, while we were at Cracker Barrell, of all places, I found an angel ornament that I actually love, and that I had to have. It’s made of wire and beads, and is extremely stylized, and I could argue convincingly that I bought it because it LOOKS cool, but that wouldn’t be true.

Well, not entirely.

I bought it because this going-to-church-thing that we’ve started doing is making me examine long-held opinions, and preconceived notions, and while some have not changed, some are expanding. I’m still not sure what I believe, except some very general things: I don’t think the Bible is literal, as much as symbolic, metaphoric. It has some amazing poetry, but it was still written by men, translated, re-interpreted, and changed by men and women. (I also tend to favor a broad interpretation of the Constitution, but that’s another entry.)

But anyway, this ornament spoke to me, and so I bought it. It wasn’t expensive, or terribly special. It was, in fact, some mass-market thing made in China, probably by over-worked, under-paid factory workers, and yeah, I know, buying things made in China is bad, but whether I buy the thing or not, it’s already been imported. It’s not like they’re going to send it back.

It’s sitting in a shopping bag, right now, wrapped in paper. On Sunday, when my parents are here, we’ll be putting the ornaments on the tree (it’s still standing in the entry, lit, but otherwise naked), and chances are I’ll forget I even bought it until the last minute, when I’m searching for ribbon or tape for something completely different. But then I’ll find it, and smile, because for some reason when it spoke to me, it used my grandmother’s voice.

She would have loved to see it.

Muse of the Moment: Ginger.

I’m now 75% finished with Christmas cards. I’ve run out of the 40 I originally bought, so all the people that are new on my list, or that are beyond number 40 on my list, are getting cards that I’ve stashed from other years.

It’s sort of interesting, seeing how my moods are reflected in different cards – last year was New Yorker covers and images from the book The Polar Express, one of my favorite Christmas books. The year before that was leaping reindeer surrounded by Christmas lights, and gold trees on texturized paper, and then, in years before those, there were the Edward Gorey cards (still my favorite, ever), the High-Tech Christmas cards, three different Mary Englebreitt images (I love her artwork – it’s so whimsical), and an image of a snow-covered Golden Gate Bridge.

I try to have at least one design every year that can be used for Hanukkah as well as Christmas, and I have two Kwanza and one Ramadan card that I buy for specific people. The vast majority of my cards push peace, because I figure it’s a universal enough wish that no one could be offended, and if they are, tough.

A family friend, HMF, has her family choose their favorite card from all they’ve received each year, and there’s a part of me that knows I’ve won this informal and completely prizeless competition for the past three years, and wants to do so again, but this year’s card – three candles, one with a tree, one with a menorah, and one with PEACE, isn’t really spectacular, it’s just the one that spoke to me when I confronted the vast array of boxes at Barnes and Noble a couple weeks before Thanksgiving.

I love writing out cards to people. I love writing snailmail too. There’s something really special about a tangible letter, in real ink, on real paper. Physical mail may not be immediate, and it’s likely the information inside is completely outdated by the time it arrives at its destination, but it’s still special. It’s an act of love, just as homemade presents are.

My once-pretty handwriting has fallen victim to the combination of disuse and carpal tunnel. It hurts to control a pen, and I’m ashamed of how bad my penmanship has become. But I’m writing in almost every card, anyway. Even if what I write is really really brief. Those who receive them can trouble themselves to decipher, or not, but I’m fairly certain they’ll get the gist.

I’ve been using card writing as a mini-meditation, in the afternoons. I bring a steaming mug of tea up to my desk, and let Napster radio play the “jingle jazz” station, and I write to the accompaniment of Harry Connick, Jr., Steve Tyrell, and Natalie Cole, as well as the standard carol crooners: Sinatra, Mathis, Bennett, Clooney. It’s retro-tunage at it’s finest, and I revel in it, and sing along as I write.

It’s not yet the new year, but I’m making a resolution to do more letter writing. I have three deep desk drawers full of stationery – it’s meant to be used, and seen, and writing shouldn’t be limited to Christmas cards.

My muse of the day, an Open Diary friend I’ll refer to as “X,” suggested that I write an entry about egg nog, so I’ve spent the last half hour (which is about all the research a blog entry should require), reading recipes on the net. I’m now extremely thirsty, and mentally tallying the ingredients in my kitchen, wondering if I have any decent rum, but that’s really not the point.

The cheery red and green quart-cartons in the dairy section may be the most familiar version of egg nog, but it’s really been around forever, and most cultures have some version of this drink, which is really a heavily laced liquid custard. It’s also loosely related to syllabub, which is a milk punch mentioned in a lot of Victorian novels, but which, according to the oldest recipes I found online, did not originally include eggs.

Unlike the egg cream, which is a fountain drink made by shooting seltzer into heavy cream mixed with flavored syrup, real egg nog has eggs in it. In fact, regional variations aside, the basic recipe is pretty simple: egg yolks, sugar, milk, and the alcohol of your choice, with seasonings to taste. Americans tend to use brandy,and season with nutmeg, but I’ve developed a passion for the Mexican version, called Rompope, which uses rum and cinnamon. My philosophy is, “Anything that has rum and cinnamon in it can’t be all bad.” Not surprisingly, when I make hot chocolate on winter evenings, I tend to lace it with rum and cinnamon as well, but that’s another entry.

In my reading, I learned that the Puerto Rican egg-nog variant includes coconut milk, which is probably really tasty, but, I’m a purist, and so I offer this recipe, for Rompope, and urge everyone to try it. It’s much better than the stuff in the dairy section, which generally doesn’t have real milk or real nutmeg, let alone real eggs, or real rum.

* * *

Rompope is strong, sweet and meant to be sipped, so small glasses are in order. Refrigerated, it will keep indefinitely.
1 quart whole milk
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 cup finely ground almonds or almond meal (optional, see Note)
12 egg yolks
2 cups light rum, or brandy
Combine the milk, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon stick (and ground almonds, if you are using them) in a large saucepan. Over medium heat, bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring constantly, for 15 minutes. Remove from heat, and cool to room temperature.
Beat the egg yolks until thick and lemony. Remove the cinnamon stick from the milk mixture, and gradually whisk the egg yolks into the milk mixture. Return to low heat and, stirring constantly, cook until mixture coats a spoon. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely.

Add the rum or brandy to the mixture, stir well. Transfer to a container and and cover tightly. Refrigerate for 1 or 2 days before serving. Makes 1-1/2 quarts.

Note: While not strictly traditional, many Mexican cooks believe ground almonds improve the texture and lend a delicate flavor to Rompope. I’ve had it both with and without the almonds. It’s great either way.

Below, there’s a more traditional version, offered in Spanish, untranslated. (Who said blogging wasn’t educational.)
Continue reading →

If you stand under a streetlight on a cold light, and look up into falling snow, the falling flakes look like stars, shooting past you in a personal warp field. We’re told from childhood that no two of them are exactly alike, but how many of us ever stop to check?

I never did. But I’ve had meaningful experiences with snowflakes even so. I remember cutting lacy shapes out of doilies or white paper, making paper chains out of them, or covering them with silver glitter.

I remember walking my childhood dog, a poodle mix named Taffy, through the packed powder in Georgetown, CO, and then flagrantly disobeying my mother’s rules (and common sense), by taking her down to the frigid waters of Clear Creek, down behind the post office, where the bank was climbable, and the sandbars that were islands in the summer became mini-glaciers in the winter, and my friends and I would spend hours pretending to be arctic explorers, with Taffy playing alternate parts of either a sled dog, or a polar bear. After wards, we’d trudge home (because trudging is really the only way you walk through snow), and I’d de-mat her paws, and we’d cuddle by the fire, while I drank cocoa with tiny marshmallows.

I remember walking to school through snow that came nearly to my waist, and walking back home the same afternoon, on muddy grass, because the snow had already melted -such is the norm in parts of Colorado.

I remember sticking out my tongue to taste the first snowfall, and grumbling because it snowed on Halloween, and my costume was obliterated by the required winter coat.

I remember the first snow of November falling on the day of my grandfather’s funeral, and how my hands and chin grew numb as I stared at nothing, and held onto the flag that the honor guard had presented to my grandmother. Somewhere, I still have that flag.

I remember driving with Fuzzy over snow-drifted mountain passes, and then, later in the same trip, getting iced in at Kearney, Nebraska, on the way to South Dakota, when I moved out there to be with him.

I remember my first winter in South Dakota, newly married, isolated from my family, and surrounded by endless mounds of snow. I remember re-learning how to walk on ice, and goggling at block heaters in cars. I remember everyone teasing me, by saying, “Yeah, it’s cold. But it’s dry cold.

I remember traffic stopping in San Jose, a few years ago, when snow fell for all of ten minutes, a few days before Christmas.

I remember driving through the streets of Minneapolis, over Thanksgiving, 2003, as we led our friends to a favorite breakfast spot, and nearly spinning on snow-slick streets.

I remember driving from Sioux Falls to Minneapolis at the end of the same trip, and watching the snow turn into stars as the sky darkened from bright blue to deep grey, and then night-black.

All these memories are related to the simplest of things. Little flecks of ice that half of us complain about and the other half wish for.

Snowflakes.

This entry inspired by my LJ friend K.

When I was a little girl, my favorite part of the holiday season wasn’t the presents or decorating our own tree, or even the time off school, it was getting bundled up and going for an evening drive with my mother, to look at lights.

Some years, we lived in towns where neighborhoods sponsored specific streets, where all the neighbors decorated to the nines, and there was a nominal fee, to help pay for carollers or cocoa, at the end.

Other years, we lived in quieter places, but we’d still find great holiday lights to oooh and aaah over. Willow Glen and The Rosegarden district, in San Jose, are two of my favorite such neighborhoods, because the houses are all unique, and as they’re upscale neighborhoods, the residents have the cash to dazzle passers-by.

Here in Texas, I don’t know the cool neighborhoods, but I’m finding that the one I live in has an amazing amoung of community spirit. So tonight, because we’re both tired, and needed a break from preparing for the impending arrival of my parents, we went driving up and down the streets of our neighborhood, and looking at lights.

White is the popular color around here. We used it, ourselves, in the net lights on our hedges, and the wraps on the trees, and the arched window of our dining room (our tree, however, is strung with colored lights), and it’s still my favorite for defining the eaves of a house, or twisting into trees, but we also saw some amazing multicolored displays, tons of those wire motorized reindeer, lots of spiral Christmas trees, and a few trains. I love the trains. I want a train.

The magical houses, though, were the ones that were a little unconventional. One such house had their trees decked in alternating strands of blue and green, giving the appearance of an under-sea fantasy. Another had strands of white stars, about the size of my hand, hanging from their trees. They seemed softer than regular twinkle lights, and as they swung in the breeze, they shimmered beautifully.

We’re not quite mid-way through December, not even close to Christmas, really, but I’m already finding that I can move past the hype, call up my inner seven-year-old, and get lost in the magic.

I can’t wait to drive my parents from the airport to my new home, detouring through the local park and nearby streets, to see the lights, and let them feel the magic, too.

As I was lying in bed last night, with the window open just a couple of inches, I heard the wind outside, rustling the trees, and felt the faintest movement of cool air on my face, and I smiled into the darkness of my room, and felt at peace.

When I woke this morning, the chill of night had been replaced by a wintry sort of sunshine, but the trees were still rustling, though with more force than they had. If you close your eyes, the leaves sound like the ocean, sometimes. Or maybe it’s the ocean that sounds like trees. Aren’t all things just a matter of perception?

I spent a good twenty minutes sitting on a cushioned lounge chair sipping tea, this morning. The tea was mint, the sun was just warm enough to be soothing, and I noted that even here, farther south than I have ever lived, in warmer temperatures than I am accustomed to, the light is paler, cooler, and yet, somehow softer, because it is December.

The girl-dog came to ask for attention, jumping onto the small space of cushion between my feet, sitting for a moment, then licking my hand and wandering off to explore the great dog mysteries that are hidden beneath the ivy that grows against the back fence.

The boy-dog came next, and in the sun I realized how grey he is really starting to be, a small breed, prematurely old because of his wonky brain chemistry (he is epileptic). He sat on my lap, and let me scratch behind his ears, run my finger between his eyes and down his muzzle, rub his belly. Then he padded off to stretch on the sun-warmed boards of the deck, and bask, the way only chihuahuas and cats know how.

As mornings go, it was pretty close to perfect.