The English Geek

Have a Cookie. Please. Or I Will.

Today's mental to-do list looked like this:

• Put away all Halloween decorations
• Get out Thanksgiving decorations

Instead, I did this (listed in no meaningful order):

• Four minute discussion with boys about turning their own socks right side out, complete with demonstration
• Laundry, laundry, and more laundry. (There is, alas, still more laundry to be done.)
• Started making thank-you notes
• Putzed around in the general creative frustration I am currently experiencing. I'm not really sure why, but it is hard for me to work on scrapbook stuff when Kendell is at home. This is a problem because A: he's going to be home for many more weeks and B: I am trying to work on a new Big Picture class.
• Tried to make my sewing machine cooperate for just one more witch. I want to finish this witch quilt so next year I can, you know, actually use it during October. My sewing goals are always larger than the time I allot for them.
• Took 47 pictures of Kaleb spinning on the swing.
• Costco, bank, craft store, Target, gas station, post office, another bank, grocery store.
• Made children do their jobs.
• Ran for the first time since my race...almost three weeks ago. Discovered endurance, strength, and lung capacity have diminished to that of an 89-year-old couch potato.
• Read Becky's blog about my dad and cried. Wished I could have gone with her yesterday (had to work) but am alternately glad I wasn't there, so she didn't have to share her moment.
• Tried to start reading my SDBBE novel three times. Afraid.
• Went to Haley's school to bring her some cough drops and ended up being finagled into taking her to Sonic for a slushy to bring back to class. (She has a cough but NO FEVER or any other symptoms and no: it's not the swine flu.) I still haven't decided if this makes me the dumbest mom ever, or the coolest. Admittedly, she was only gone for 12 minutes, and it was during Flextime anyway, but...I don't know.
• Coughed. A lot. (Again: just a cough. No fever, sore throat, runny nose, sneezing, puking, or oinking.)
• Read the newspaper and cried over the Fort Hood thing.
• Breakfast: Refereed the argument over who got the last Eggos. Poured cereal for the Eggo-less children. Made toast with butter for Kendell. Protein shake with raspberries for me. 
• Lunch: tuna fish, with pickle. I explained to Kendell that the reason I forgot the cheddar cheese on his tuna fish sandwich (with pickle...borrowed from my neighbor) is because tuna + cheddar is unnatural. He pointed out that so is apple pie + cheddar. Touche.
• Plus: the pulse-taking and pill-giving and post-sneeze-comforting and awkward sideways-getting-out-of-bed helping and other stuff that goes along with the heart-surgery-recuperation thing. Which has, admittedly and blessedly, been far easier than the hip replacement surgery he had last year. (I really, really, really hope he doesn't have another surgery next year.)  
• And other boring stuff.

My point? I didn't accomplish the two things I really, really wanted to accomplish today. But those other things I did are good too, right? And part of the laundry was the Halloween towels, which had to be washed before they were stored away 'till next year, anyway. And then, while I was making oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies just now with Haley, I looked over at my pretty spot, and my favorite-ever Halloween decoration which I finally actually put together this year after talking about it for the two Halloweens before this one, and I thought even though it's six days past Halloween, I am going to blog about that decoration before I put it away. Here is my Halloween tree, which I love beyond reason:

Have I ever told you that I love, love, love Mary Englebreit's designs? When I saw this hot chocolate three years ago, I bought it just for the tin. The hot chocolate, which was orange flavored, was sort of grody, so I threw it away and kept the tin. Immediately I had my creative vision: spikey black twigs holding up little Halloween cuteness. I didn't find just the right ornaments until last year, and I didn't manage to put it together until this year. The twigs came right off my maple tree. I filled the tin with rocks and black beans (after putting it all together once using just florist foam and everything promptly fell over). And then, every time I walked into my kitchen this October, I fell in love all over again.

It's been a good long while since I have been enamoured of a decorative object.

I think maybe I love it because it is the rare piece that turned out just as cute in real life as it was in my head. And because it's one-of-a-kind. And because I got to use spray paint. (Which, by the way, you are ID'd for at the time of purchase! The last time I was ID'd...well, it didn't go as well as buying spray paint did, twenty-ish years later.)

At any rate. As a thank you to whomever is still reading this very odd and unfocused post, I'm going to share my super-secret chocolate-chip-oatmeal cookie recipe. Actually it's not very secret. But it is very good. One of the secrets: just a touch of cinnamon. Usually I'm all about adding extra spices to recipes, but this one? It's just a little bit, and a little bit is perfect. Subtly perfect, without overwhelming anything. It is, after all, an oatmeal cookie, not a spice cookie. What you must have to bake anything with oats in it: old-fashioned oats. The quick-cook kind are just....ehhhhh. Flavorless. So:

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies, with Apologies to Whatever Spot Your Weight Tends to Gather (mine is everywhere except the chestal region, of course, but hey: I'm lucky like that)

1 cup butter (shortening is an option here, of course, but I think I'd rather smoke a cigarette than consume shortening anymore...I need to blog about my trans-fat obsession)
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup white flour
2 cups oatmeal*
2 cups chocolate chips

*if you, too, have a home that's bossed around by Pickies, you can put the oatmeal in the blender and process it until it's oatmeal flour.

Cream butter and sugars; add eggs one at a time and beat thoroughly between each. Add vanilla. Combine salt, soda, cinnamon, flours, and oatmeal, then add to creamed ingredients. Stir in chocolate chips. Bake at 375° for 10-ish minutes.
mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Maybe tomorrow I'll get it all put away. Have you put away yours yet?

 

Spooky...in Unexpected Ways

Halloween this year was downright strange. Kendell was hanging out in bed, recuperating from open heart surgery. That in itself set off a chain reaction:

We're trying to keep him germ free (can you imagine having a cough when you've just had your sternum cut open?)

so

I had to hand out the Halloween candy to the trick-or-treaters

so

my kids didn't have parents to take them trick-or-treating

so

the surrogate parents started stepping up.

Haley went with Jade (granted, she wouldn't have gone with me anyway),

Jake went with his friend Reilly,

Nathan went with his friend Jacob,

and Kaleb went with his friend Lucas.

How strange is that? Each of my kids, begging for candy from the neighbors, with a different friend. I'm not sure I even remember for certain which Halloween was the last one when the four of us all went trick-or-treating together. Quite possibly it was 2005. I hate it when watershed moments pass me by and I don't even notice. So I sat in the front room, waiting for trick-or-treaters and thinking about how this Halloween is probably the new normal. Of course it is. They're all only going to get older, and want to do more things with friends instead of their mom. My brain understands that it's normal.

My heart? Not so much.

Another strange thing: I didn't get a group photo of everyone in their costume together. I always have a group photo! This year, though, Jake left earlier than everyone else, so I just got him by himself. (Note the costume: prison convict, which I found by sheer luck, on clearance, at Joann. Two days before Halloween. It was way too big for him, but he'd not had any strong "I want to be this for Halloween" ideas, so we went with easy rather than fabulous, as in years past.)

Later, I did manage to get Haley, Nathan, and Kaleb together for a snapshot, too.

Haley was a fairy, courtesy of Jade's grandma, who made her fairy skirt for her. (Haley and Jade were twin fairies, although I didn't get a photo of them together, either. Dang.) Nathan reluctantly wore the werewolf costume, which almost doesn't look like anything without the mask, which he hated and wouldn't wear. Kaleb wore the knight costume, which he has worn almost without pause for the past two weeks, so it's all bedraggled and worn out.

Yeah: not the year for fabulous costumes.

Kaleb was the first kid to come home. He didn't want to keep going, even though his friend wasn't finished, so they dropped him off on their way out of our cul-de-sac. He was happy to get into his 'jammies, sort through his candy, and then help me pass out the loot to the trick-or-treaters. He'd stand by the window until he spotted a new group of kids, and then he'd say "Mom! There's a new bunch of customers coming!" He'd wait very impatiently (running around in circles, mostly, stopping occasionally to hug me) for the "customers" to knock on the door, and then he'd put one piece of candy into everyone's bag. Plus, he'd comment: "wow, guy, that is a cool clown face ya've got there!" and once he said "you sure are big for a trick or treater guy!" which made me laugh.

They slowly trickled in, the rest of my kids: Haley and Jade first, and since Haley is trying to achieve her goal of going an entire YEAR without candy (she started in February and is still going strong!), she let me sort through hers to pick out my favorites (Almond Joys, Reese's, Hereshy's bars, and banana Laffy Taffys) before she gave the rest to Jade. Jake came next, and handed over the few items with peanuts he hadn't managed to trade with his friends (he's allergic to peanuts). Finally Nathan, who was nearly glowing after eating dinner and trick-or-treating and watching a movie with his friend's family (thanks so much, Jamie!).

Somewhere within all those comings and goings, I did have time to sit for a minute, all by myself, and just think. About how life moves on, despite hardships, regardless of whether you want it to or not. About how sweet those long-gone Halloweens were, when all my little ones went out together with me---Haley protecting Jake from peanuts (very helpfully putting Snickers and Reese's into her bucket), or Nathan toddling along between Haley and Jake, or the year Kaleb was a baby and we took him trick-or-treating in the stroller. How I usually have more energy and enthusiasm for cool costumes. How it's OK that things have changed, because it was still a pretty good holiday, despite everything.

Romantic Expectations

I've tried writing about romance and Valentine's Day five times now. Five different blog entries that I've started, but can't quite finish or post because I'm afraid of offending someone whose favorite holiday is Valentine's day. If that's you, you might just want to stop reading right now. Because I'm fairly certain I come across as the Valentine's Day Scrooge, only without any hope of ghostly holiday redemption. The Valentine's Day Grinch, only I don't think there'll be any little Who to come along and help me change my ways.

Bah! Humbug! Down with hearts and flowers! Curses upon romantic expectations!

Ah! there it is, exactly that which I don't like: romantic expectations. The idea put forth on Valentine's day by card makers and television shows, fine chocolatiers and florists, that only through chocolate, roses, lingerie, and candle-lit dinners can you show you love your wife. It is the caterwauling that goes among my very own gender as the middle of February approaches: give me chocolate! give me flowers! give me expensive jewelry!

It's the fact that I, too, used to caterwaul on Valentine's day. I used to have expectations. And then I gave them up, because there's also the fact that my husband is not a chocolates-and-flowers kind of guy. Maybe my V-day grinchiness is just a form of self preservation.

Because really, my anti-Valentine's-day persuasions have nothing to do with the childhood experience of the holiday. I have fond memories: converting a shoe box into a placefor other kids to put valentines in. We'd cut a rectangle out of the lid, cover the box with tin foil or white butcher paper and then decorate it with doilies and lace and paper hearts. (They don't do that at my kids' school anymore. Instead they decorate brown paper bags, which doesn't seem quite as fun. There was something satisfyingly artistic about those boxes that brown paper bags just don't hold.) Or pouring a few little candy hearts into the white paper envelope that came with valentines then. (When did the makers of valentines stop including the envelopes? This annoys me every single year.) Or, when I was in the fourth grade, I had an actual admirer. He was an exchange student from Australia and I was fascinated by his accent; I always listened to him when he spoke in class, and honestly: ever since, I've been a sucker for an accent. But when he gave me a sweet little love note and an enormous chocolate heart? I was so embarrassed. I can still remember blushing when he placed it on my desk---too large to slip into the rectangle on the top of my doily-covered box. An actual painful blush. I don't think I ever spoke to him again. I hid the entire thing under my bed and didn't want anyone to know because I was certain my sisters would laugh at me---and they did. Underneath my embarrassment, though, I had a little pleasant spark: hmmmm, someone liked me. In the politics of fourth-grade romance, it was acceptable to acknowledge our mutual discomfort by never speaking again. (I ate the chocolate heart though. And I still have the love note in a box somewhere. I wonder what happened to that Australian boy.)

But as an adult, I have all sorts of troubles with Valentine's day. This morning, when we woke up to a furious snow storm, Kendell offered to drive me to work. "It's Valentine's day anyway!" he said, when I protested. (There is something stifling to me in the idea of not having a car at my disposal, even though I wouldn't go anywhere except home for lunch.) "It would be romantic."

"But I hate Valentine's day," I reminded him. When he asked why, I might have caterwauled a little bit, a diatribe that made me late for work: because if you can't be romantic all the time, I don't want the fake romance of chocolate and red roses just because the calendar says so. It's like Melman says, on Madagascar II, to Gloria: "I would find a way, every day, to make you laugh." That's romantic. Hearts and flowers? What does that even mean? The only way I could like Valentine's day, I explained, is if he showed up with jewelry, real jewelry, every single Valentine's day. And then I would only like it because I wanted the jewelry, not because it came on Valentine's day. He gave me a strange look, a hug and a kiss. And a ride to work.

He's not a jewelry kind of guy either.

I guess it all comes down to what your definition of "romance" really is. A few weeks ago, I found myself at Hallmark, looking for Valentine's day cards (yes, yes, I see the irony) to send to a few friends, and there was this guy there, reading card after card after card. He finally turned to me and asked "would you rather get a card that's perfect on the outside but wrong on the inside, or sort of lame on the outside and perfect on the inside? Which is more romantic?" Ummm, really? Do I even need to answer that question? How about a blank card, and you write what you feel? Or maybe you could just get the heck out of Hallmark. There's a jewelry store a couple of doors down. That's what I mean by romantic expectations---the idea that a card from Hallmark might serve to say the unsayable. A bouquet of pastel hyacinths or yellow daffodils on a random Saturday in May? That's closer to my concept of romance than what's supposed to happen on Valentine's Day. Listening to me? Just listening? Even better. Honestly, the longer I'm married, I don't even know what "romance" means. Is it a synonym for love? The things you do to show someone you love them? The butterflies-in-your-belly feeling that love, in its first rush, engenders and that romance novels seek to recreate? Is it what you see in movies? (My own favorite romantic movie moment is the "In Your Eyes" bit of Say Anything.) Look up "romance" and "romantic" in the dictionary and you'll discover words like "tale," "narrative," "imaginary" or, my personal favorite, " something (as an extravagant story or account) that lacks basis in fact."

We all want to be loved. We all hope that the people who say they love us really do. Valentine's day wants to be about reassuring us that love is fact. That our most primal need has been met. But it tries to accomplish that with illusion. With a formula. Red roses + heart-shaped box of chocolates = I really love you. It takes what is mysterious and undefinable, the very nature of who we are as people, and turns it into a riddle. "A mystery is not to be confused with a riddle," the poet Paul Sohar says. "A riddle is only a riddle until it's solved and then it's used up, ready to be thrown away. But mystery calls for awe rather than solution; it cannot be solved, it has to be absorbed, accepted and---most important of all---evoked." Maybe that's why I keep writing about romance, and failing: because love is, at its heart, the greatest mystery. It's hard to put into words how --- and, more importantly, why --- our popular culture's insistence on the importance of Valentine's day continues to irritate me.

And, honestly, maybe it doesn't really have anything to do with pop culture at all. Maybe it just has to do with me. Maybe, in a strange and twisted spirit of magnanimity, I am transferring my annoyance at my husband for not being a chocolate-and-flowers (and especially a jewelry) sort of guy onto Valentine's day itself. Or maybe I'm really annoyed at myself for wanting, in some deep, dumb way, for him to give me what pop culture says he should. After all, a fluency in the traditional Valentine's trappings doesn't prove anything other than a fluency in society. It doesn't prove that he loves me. Giving me a ride to work on a cold and snowy morning gets a little bit closer.

My fingers are hovering over my mouse, ready to click on "post." I'm still not sure I managed to avoid sounding grinchy or scroogy or just downright whiny. At the very least, I know this: I still don't like it, but Valentine's day is almost over for another year, so I can get over being grumpy about it. A couple of friends sent or brought me Valentines, which helps me feel less irritated. I didn't have to clear my car of snow before going home from work today. I know my husband loves me.

And I still wish I had a new and pretty little bit of jewelry.

It's so annoying.

The Inevitability of Argument: Finally, A Christmas Post

Kaleb has started noticing when I am crying. On Christmas morning, when he noticed I had a few tears coming down, he said "Momma, why are you sad? You have presents! Be happy!" I hugged him while I told him that not all tears mean someone is sad, and that I was crying because I was happy. He listened to me, hugged me again, and nodded his head. "OK," he said, "but I am not crying."

The truth is, I nearly almost cry on Christmas.

The other truth: quite often, they’re not happy tears. They’re the kind you cry in the shower or somewhere else you’re alone for a few minutes, the kind that spill over argument and frustration and shame. Because another truth of my life is that Kendell and I nearly always have an argument sometime during Christmas. The fights arise out of exhaustion, I think, and anxiety over spending money, and tension over family issues. One of us will say something we don’t really mean, the other will snap, and voila! The best holiday tradition ever.

Try as I might, the Holiday Argument Tradition seems unavoidable. This year, I didn’t really even try. I just hoped we’d get it over with early, maybe even on Christmas eve like we have some years, because when it happens on Christmas day, it tends to taint everything. Even after apologies and making up, I carry a hardness in me, a sort of withdrawing that lingers; I know others can feel it, too. Maybe it was the lack of trying, maybe the pessimistic acceptance of the inevitability of argument, or maybe it was just a really good year, but this Christmas: not a single argument. Not even any underlying tension.

And that was why our Christmas this year was nearly perfect. Of course, the presents were really good. The best moment was when Nathan opened his big gift. (At our house, Santa brings several smaller gifts, like a movie and new books and a things they need like undies or jeans, and then one "big" gift, opened very last, the thing that each kid has really and truly been hoping for. Sometimes the big gift is something small-ish, like the year Haley got the fancy earrings she’d been hoping for, but it’s always wrapped the most extravagantly.) Nathan kept eyeing the curiously-bulging, enormous gift bag tucked nearly behind the tree; he kept saying "I hope that’s what I think it is," but I don’t think he was certain. Turned out it was his turn to open last when we got to the big presents (am I good at orchestrating the drama or what?), so all eyes were on him. When he pulled his long-longed for guitar out of the bag, his gorgeous real guitar, he was thrilled. And I was crying. I’m not sure anything, even the childhood thrill of getting exactly what you are hoping for, matches the thrill of seeing the magic happen for your child.

The spirit of our Christmas, even with those great presents, was what really made it so good. It was peaceful, quiet, and happy. Everything seemed to go smoothly and just right: my cinnamon rolls were tender and sweet, the new brand of bacon I tried was delicious, and the wassail the best I’ve ever made. It snowed—it snowed! I can’t think of many Christmases when snow was falling. Plus I got totally spoiled: Kendell got me the perfume I’ve been wanting for months (Sensuous) and each of the Bigs gave me something they’d made themselves. When I opened the apron and oven mitts that Haley made me in her sewing class, I started crying yet again—she was very tricky wit that gift, as she had me help her pick out the fabric and then, when I kept asking her what grade she got on her apron, she’d tell me some story: her teacher hadn’t graded it yet, or she forgot to pick it up after school. It never entered my mind that she was sewing it for me.

When I talked to Becky later in the day, I told her I felt like I was holding my breath, just waiting for something bad to happen, because it had all gone so well. But nothing went wrong. The day continued on, smooth and happy. I honestly can’t remember ever feeling the lack of tension on any Christmas day that I felt this year. It left my jaded little heart full of something that’s hard for me to find: hope. Great presents, great food, good laughter and conversation and, even, snow: what really felt like a gift to me was feeling like I still have the ability to be hopeful, the capacity for a soft heart. If it’s possible on Christmas day (which, with all its expectation and loaded emotion, seems a powder keg of argumentative possibility) it’s got to be possible on average days of the year, too.

New Year's Eve Recipes

Start with two kids, age 11 (+ one day!) and 13; mix, stir, and shake them up with a coating of strep throat until fever, headache, and swallowing agony have made them miserable. Toss in the first dose of antibiotics. Add one 9-year-old disappointed over a cancelled ski trip and a 3-year-old who didn’t get a nap today as well as desperately needing to get back to a normal schedule. Blend in one frazzled mom whose own throat is also suspiciously achy and a dad who was hoping to enjoy his day off. Bake in a slightly-messy house until D.O.N.E.

Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right?

Nah. What sort of mother would I be if I couldn’t deal with sick Bigs, disappointed Nathan, and grumpy Kaleb with all sorts of aplomb? Well, and a nap. Lots of deep, calming breaths. An unexpected call from a good friend. New Year’s Eve sparklers out on the front porch, everyone bundled up in coats. Our favorite pomegranate 7-Up and, of course: some really good food. (Recipes if you scroll down a bit. Real recipes, I mean, not silly ones like my first paragraph.)

Our New Year’s Eve turned out just fine. Hope yours did, too.

Cheese Ball

2 8-ounce cream cheese bricks
1 jar Kraft roka blue cheese
1 jar Kraft Old English cheddar cheese
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
2 T dried onion
1 T dried parsley
3/4 cup chopped pecans, almonds, or walnuts

Using a hand mixer, blend cheeses together, then add spices. Taste and add extra as desired. (NOTE: I never measure the dried onion in any recipe. I just grab a palm-ful out of the #10 can of dried onions in my pantry and toss them in.) Divide between two bowls with round bottoms (I use Tupperware bowls for this part), smoothing the top out, then chill until firm. Carefully remove from bowls, maintaining the curved part as much as possible. Sprinkle with nuts. (Another NOTE: This makes a LOT of cheese ball; you can freeze the second half for another day.) Serve with crackers.

Dill Dip

1 cup sour cream
1 cup mayonnaise
2 T dried onion
2 T dried parsley
2 tsp dried dill
2 tsp Bon Appetit

Mix all ingredients together until smooth. Taste and adjust seasonings as necessary. Serve with vegetables and potato chips for dipping.

New Year’s Eve Cookies

1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla
2 ½ cups oats
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
3 1.9 ounce Rolos, chilled and chopped
8 ounces white chocolate chips
1 ½ cups lightly-salted cashews, chopped

Cream butter and sugars till pale. Add eggs and vanilla one at a time. In a blender or food processor, process oats until finely ground. Combine with flour, powder, soda, and salt; add to butter mix, beating well. Stir in chopped candy, chocolate, and cashews. Shape dough into 1 ½" balls; bake at 375 on parchment-covered pans for 10 minutes. (NOTE: The parchment paper isn’t a necessity; it just makes it easier to get the cookies off the sheet, since the caramel from the Rolos tends to melt a little bit, and then get all crusty and buttery-sweet and delicious but also harder to get off the pan. Unless you, as the cookie baker, decide to just pick off all the crusty, butter-sweet delicious bits to eat all by yourself. Not that I would ever do that.)

Post- Blah

Our Christmas day was quite nearly perfect. I even had a few minutes to myself when I nearly sat down to write about it all. I wish I'd written instead of cleaning the kitchen, because now I have lost my perspective. Now that it's all over, I'm looking back and thinking about how I should have done it, instead of focusing on how really wonderful it was. Seeing what I did wrong. Not to mention just generally hating that it's all over.

I'm wallowing, as Kendell would say: I don't want to write, or read, or finish my quilts. I haven't even downloaded my photos or called Becky for a post-holiday debriefing. I definitely don't want to clean my messy house. Mostly I'd just like to go back to bed for a day or two. Instead, I've not done much of anything other than keep myself out of the covers.

So here I am, quite possibly the last blogger to not blog about Christmas. Whining instead. At least if I'm scarce, you all know why.

Flocked

During my childhood Christmases, we always had a flocked tree in our upstairs living room. This was the "pretty tree," with elegant gold ornaments (after, of course, my wanton destruction of the beaded globes), flowing gold ribbon, and white lights on white cording. (Strangely enough, one of my most vivid holiday memories is my mom's frustration over trying to find white lights on white cording.) Many nights, I'd lie with my head near the base of the pretty tree, looking up through the branches' mingled green-and-white. I'd touch the flocking carefully, nearly always resisting the urge to crumble the stiff stuff under my fingertips. It sounds like the perfect setting for those innocent-yet-deep thoughts children in novels seem to indulge in. More often than not, though, what I was wondering was about the purpose of the flocking. Another vivid memory is asking my sister Michelle to explain exactly why we had that white stuff on our tree. She looked at me incredulously and then explained that it looked like snow. I'd never really seen, yet, a tree with snow on it that looked like the flocking; the trees in our yard were still small, and they all were deciduous, anyway. It was pretty, and it was familiar, the way the living room was supposed to look. The flocking seemed merely ornamental to me, something else that brought Christmas into our home, but I still liked the downstairs tree---the "cute tree" which was never flocked---much better.

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, it started snowing. I sat by the window for a few minutes, just watching it fall, big, fat pieces, nearly snowball-sized already. Even in just that first hour, it come down furiously. When I finally got to work (it took me forever, because I’d forgotten just how slowly traffic moves in a snow storm), I found myself remembering, so abruptly, my mother’s flocked Christmas trees. Our library has a glassed-in hallway that connects the two wings, elevated over the small garden courtyard between them. When you walk across the bridge, it’s a little bit like walking among the crowns of trees, and it was those trees that made me remember exactly how the pretty tree looked, how it felt. Because the way the snow had piled on them, in perfectly clumps and bumps, looked just like flocking. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen snowy trees look so flocked; maybe it requires the heavy, wet snow we got today (nine inches of it in my backyard!), or maybe I’ve just never paid attention. But I stood on the bridge, looking at the trees and remembering the pretty tree, and there it was: my Christmas spirit.

At least, I had it for a little while. In between getting stuck in the snow trying to leave work (luckily Kendell was on his way home, because he came and pushed me out), and fighting crowds at the mall, it’s sort of faded. But now the house is quite again, and I’m going to start wrapping, and I’m remembering another little moment I had, last night while making dinner. I had just gotten off the phone with my mom, and when I told Kaleb that she was stopping by for a few minutes, he ran around the kitchen cheering "yay! Yay! Yay!" because he was so excited to see her, and I suddenly—with that same abrupt shift in mood—found myself remembering my grandma, remembered our Christmas eve dinners at her house and the way it felt to be bubbling over with anticipation, and I felt it for a second: Christmas spirit.

Maybe, for us grown ups, feeling the Christmas spirit has something to do with memories. Maybe it’s as much about taking the time to remember how it felt to be a child at Christmas—the anticipation, the tingly excitement, the coming of snow and coldness wrapped up in expectation—as much as it is about making Christmas for our children. Maybe it is about taking that tingle of expectation and transforming it into a sense of hope. In a way, it seems like hope is the basis of Christmas spirit. Hope, certainly, that the magic will happen and you’ll find what you really want under the tree. That childlike, pure, and easy hope, only transformed into something more grown up—the hope that is inherent to believing in Christ. Often, hope is hard for me to accomplish. Maybe that’s why the Christmas spirit is just so good, because when I am feeling it, it is easier to be hopeful. I think I need to do more remembering, to try to unwind my psyche a bit and discover in myself the hopeful and tingly child I used to be. Now that I’ve had a little taste, I want more of the Christmas spirit, and even though my list is still feeling more than a little bit overwhelming, I’m still going to find a few quiet moments to just sit and remember, feeding myself little bits of hope until I grow fat with it. The same contentment as in this poem:

Snow

~Anne Sexton

Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know
if it's bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.

Trying to Just Keep Breathing

It took me a good long while to find my Christmas spirit this year. Actually, I don't think I've ever found it. Instead I am just plowing along, doing things because they're the things I do at this time of year. I've not really found my sparkle yet. Who knows what's wrong with me? BUT. I am happy to report that this morning's entire-family photography session (not me taking the photos, but me inthe photos, along with one newborn, four under-threes, several gorgeous nieces and altogether handsome nephews, my sisters and their husbands, my children who are equally gorgeous/handsome of course, and my parents), which was seriously and literally giving me nightmares (I think I have family-photo post-traumatic stress disorder from another photo shoot a few years ago which I never even blogged about, it was that stressful), went off without a hitch or anyone getting there late. Which is a miracle for my family. I mean, as much as I love them, none of us are really known for our punctuality. I am totally on the TOP of that list, but even I managed to be on time this morning.

One ton of stress-related anxiety has been lifted from my shoulders.

But still, I need to:

• make the fudge and the caramel
• figure out our Christmas eve and Christmas morn meals
• Grocery shop
• Finish the present shopping
• WRAP ALMOST EVERYTHING. sigh. It's my own fault for waiting to dang long to get started.
• Figure out stocking stuffers. Boys stockings are hard to stuff. Suggestions are welcome.
• Find some "boy soap" for Nathan. Jake is covered (Ax! like a real teenager! even though he's not even 11! maybe it will be his favorite thing?), but I'd like to find some for Nathan. That's not Ax. They've both told me they want to stop using baby soap. OK then. Again...suggestions. PLEASE.
• Snip the rag quilts. More on that later.
• Finish up my other sewing project, the 12 Days of Christmas. SOMEONE tell me there's shiny gold thread you can machine quilt with without breaking??? GAH!
• Get out the rest of the decorations. I realized the other day that my sewing machine is in the spot where my cute little village should go. Deep breath as I head back into the storage room.
• Organize the storage room.
• Finish editing photos.
• Make the tags for the neighbor gifts.
• Deliver the neighbor gifts.
• Write down the recipes for the dinner I brought to my behind-my-house neighbor.
• Photograph the icicles hanging from the house lights. (Did I mention it SNOWED. Finally?! Didn't make me feel any more Christmas-y, but still: SNOW!)
• Find my Christmas spirit. I know I put it somewhere...

Hope yourlist is getting more manageable!

Funny, Yummy, Peekie

Funny.

Last night, Kaleb was doing something around the Christmas tree while I was working on a few projects. He was happy and not hurting anything so I let him play. Then, last night when I turned off the lights on the tree, I noticed this branch, which was right next to where he was playing:

Think he likes the nutcrackers? He'd gathered every single one he could reach and put them all on the same branch.

Yummy.

I only bake these around Christmas because I'm certain they've got like a gajillion calories, so they're just a once-in-awhile treat. But they are DELICIOUS!

Double Chocolate Cookies

1 1/2 cups bittersweet chocolate chips

1 cup butter, softened

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 tsp vanilla

2 eggs

2 1/2 cups flour

1 1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

white chocolate chips

milk chocolate chips

Melt the bittersweet chocolate chips over low heat until smooth. (You can use semisweet instead, but the bittersweet gives them more flavor.) Beat the butter and sugar until pale; add vanilla and melted chocolate. Beat eggs in one at a time, until light and fluffy. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt. Add a total combination of 3  1/2 cups white and milk chocolate chips. (I don't really measure this part.) Bake at 350 for 10-11 minutes. *The original recipe also calls for 1 cup pecan halves, very coarsely chopped, but if I put nuts in mine, no one but me would eat them. And that would be a problem.

(I used the Christmas-colored white chocolate chips today!)

Peekie

I have been working like an insane woman on something totally pointless. Actually, several totally pointless things. I'm not sure why I am doing this, as I have 100 million other things I SHOULD be doing. BUT.  The background in that picture of the cookies is a sneak peek of one of the pointless things. I should finish the other pointless thing tonight (or my family will murder me in my sleep) and then I will blog about Pointless Things and Why I Make Myself Crazy. (Because I know you were all sitting around wondering "Hey, what's making Amy crazy these days?)

Family Stories: a Challenge

All families have stories...the ones that get told over and over again. They're about little incidents, usually, that become unforgettable. One of my family's stories that gets brought up nearly every single Christmas is the one about Amy Destroying the Ornaments. It's so entrenched in our family lore that Becky blogged about it, too. My mom had made some gorgeous ornaments for her tree. She started with white,silk-covered sytrofoam balls. She found long, decorative pins with pearlescent tips shaped like teardrops. She strung a pattern of blue, white, and (I think) silver beads along the pins, and then stuck them into the balls in concentric circles and other designs. There was also ribbon involved.

They really were gorgeous. Baroque, even. I remember the crusted-with-jewels effect those balls created. I remember holding them in my hand and carefully spinning a bead or two. I remember hanging them on the flocked white Christmas tree. (One year, Mom even flocked her own tree.)

What I don't remember is taking the ornaments apart.

But that's how the story goes. My friend Amy (her middle name was also the same as mine, which meant, I think, that we were going to either be best friends or the sincerest form of enemies, but luckily it was the former) and I loved to play downstairs in the storage room. Especially in the summer, when it was so hot, we'd vanish to the basement where we'd dig around in storage boxes, looking for stuff to use while we played with our dolls. One summer day, apparently, we discovered the box of Christmas ornaments. And we took them apart: pulled out the pins and scattered the beads.

Honestly, try as I might, I cannot remember doing this. Maybe guilt has blocked my memory. Every time the story comes up, I try to cast the blame around: I don't remember doing it because I didn't really do it. Some other sister did and blamed me for it. But that doesn't ever fly, as Mom remembers coming upon me and Amy, red-handed. Well, hands-buried-in-blue-beads.

I wish I remember doing that. I wish I knew what I was thinking. But more than anything, I wish I had a photo or two of those ornaments before I destroyed them all. I've noticed this year, more than ever, just how much the ornaments and decorations help create the feel of Christmas. I got my tree up late this year, and it didn't feel like Christmas at all until I did finally get it up. As I pulled out all the familiar objects, though, the Christmas feeling started filling me up. And I have this idea that if I could see those blue bead ornaments again, I could feel, again, how it felt to be a child on Christmas.

But decorations get broken or lost or just worn out. So, here's the challenge part: this year, take some photos of your ornaments and decorations. You could even write about them: where you got them, why you love them. (That might be a comforting project for January, a way to carry a little bit of the Christmas spirit into the new-year blahs.) Ask your kids which ornaments are their favorites, and write down why. Those decorations might just seem like an assumed part of your life, and not a big deal, but I think that with time's perspective, they will become more important.

Now, if someone could just point me toward some vintage, circa early-1970's, blue glass beads, maybe I could recreate a few of those ornaments I destroyed. It's never too late to atone, right?