::: doing it all: how to enjoy a perfect christmas :::

Last night, my mother-in-law called. In the course of our conversation, she told me about some traveling she'd like to do that just isn't going to pan out this Christmas. She was disappointed, but she'd come to terms with it. My father-in-law had given his oft-repeated advice:

"You can't do it all."

"That's a lie," I told her. "You most certainly can do it all."

Of course, I was joking.

Kind of.

I don't like being told that I can't, and I usually choose not to believe it when people say it. As a matter of fact, it kinda spurs me on. I mean, what if Mother Teresa had believed those words? What if Stephen Hawking and Beethoven and Stevie Wonder had believed those words? Of COURSE you can do it all!

You can do it all and be it all and have it all!

Especially at Christmas time! Not only CAN you do it all, but you're EXPECTED to do it all! So take advantage of it! Put all that expectation to work for you and do EVERYTHING! Find the most complicated gingerbread pattern and invite all of the kindergartners in your neighborhood to make them from scratch! Promise to decorate the Christmas tree in the center of town all by yourself using only ornaments made by people from your community! Open a homeless shelter and soup kitchen instead of buying gifts for your loved ones! Or, better yet, spend July through December finding the perfect gift for everyone on your list, including all of your children's teachers, the neighbors, the mailman, the librarian, the Sunday School teachers and the dog! The gifts must be perfect--only very expensive or cleverly handmade will do--so yank out that credit card and spend, spend, SPEND (because even handmade costs lots of money if you want to do it right)! Attend multiple Christmas celebrations with all of the branches of your family, your co-workers, your neighbors and your church! Better yet, invite your entire family and a few lonely people to dinner in your home, research all of the most complicated recipes by your favorite food bloggers, create a killer tablescape complete with handmade place cards featuring your favorite photograph of each guest, and look like a knockout in the little black dress you avoided all of the Christmas fudge and ran five miles on the treadmill every day to get into! Cozy up your home with adorable Christmas vignettes in every corner featuring authentic old-world goose feather trees, crisply ironed linen stockings with hand-embroidered names, and vintage mercury ornaments piled in hand-blown vases! Better yet, create a theme for each room! The bedroom can be all muted blues and whites, the kids' room can have a "Candyland" theme, and your bathroom can be dripping with silvers and golds! And don't forget pictures! You must take lots and lots of pictures to capture all of this Christmas magic! Arrange for formal pictures with color-coordinated outfits in which everyone is happy as well as candid pictures of family members wide-eyed over their perfect gifts. This is the time of the year when expectations are high! People are counting on you! Christmas comes but once a year, so you only have a few chances in your lifetime to do it right!

WE CAN DO IT ALL!

Except...

I didn't make hard tack candy this year.

Years ago, during a Christmas when money was especially, um, missing and Bard, my eldest, was a child, she wanted to give her grandmother a very special gift. She knew that Grandma loved stained glass, and she had the idea of making her a jar of hard tack candy. I'd made a few batches along with hand-pulled molasses taffy, hand-wrapped caramels and the usual array of cut-out cookies. It sounded like the perfect gift, so we found a jar and went to work filling it. Oh, how it sparkled with color! She was excited to give that gift and it has turned into a Christmas tradition in the Thicket Dweller house.

Every December for many, many years, I have spent days--verily, weeks--mixing water, sugar and corn syrup, boiling it for what seems like hours, carefully testing the molten mixture with a candy thermometer, a glass of cold water, the sheet test--whatever I had available to me at the time--to get that perfect temperature before adding the little dram of oil and a few drops of food coloring. Over the years, I've learned some valuable lessons about this pass-fail project:

Lesson #1: Don't drip any of the molten liquid on your skin or it will leave a hole in your flesh that burns down to the bone;
Lesson # 2: Don't put cinnamon, clove, wintergreen, spearmint or peppermint oil in the molten lava until it has completely stopped bubbling, or the oil will immediately turn to a gas, coat all of your exposed skin, and hurt for days like the worst sunburn you've ever had as well as giving you an extra edge by turning your face a not-so-festive bright red;
Lesson #3: If you have four burners on your stove, use 'em. There's no rule that you have to make one batch at a time. Just space them out a few minutes apart and pay attention to the rate that each pot and burner cook (they're all different!) so you're not adding oils and coloring to all four pots at one time;
Lesson #4: Grape oil is from the devil. No matter what my multitude of tests said, once I added grape oil, the resulting candy would NOT be hard and will stick to all dental work. I gave up on grape oil;
Lesson #5: This stuff is SHARP! It can and will cut you to ribbons. Blood does not mix well with hard tack candy.

I've always loved the way the process filled the house with so many delicious aromas, the line of tiny oil bottles marching along the countertop waiting to be added to the molten lava, the satisfying "CRACK" of the cooled candy being shattered by the heavy end of a butter knife, the shake-shake-shake of the candy in a baggie of powdered sugar, the big jar filled to the brim with stained-glass candy. It's a beautiful thing. Yes, it's a lot of work, but it's a very, very beautiful thing.

And I've never really felt that it was Christmas unless I've made hard tack candy.

I mean, we can do Christmas caroling, or go sledding, or pile gifts under the tree, or tick off each day with the opening of yet another door on the Advent calendar. We can bring in the greens and haul in a live tree, hang the stockings with care and wear ugly Christmas sweaters, but it doesn't feel like Christmas unless I've shopped for all those flavors, burned my hand a time or two, covered the counter with foiled-lined cookie sheets, scented the whole house with root beer, watermelon, bubblegum, clove, anise and wintergreen (but NOT grape), and filled that gallon jar with cracked sparkling goodness.

Tell me, how crazy is that?

No, you don't have to tell me. I already know.

As much as I want to do it all, have it all and be it all, I also need to know my own limits.

Because Christmas will come even if I don't do any of those things. It will come if I live in a slum neighborhood in Philly or if I have Pancreatic Cancer or if my child dies or if I feel depressed or if my house burns down or if I lose my income or if my family comes down with ringworm or if my husband has pneumonia.

Christmas will come if I make gingerbread houses, or if I don't, if I find that perfect tree skirt I bought on sale last year after watching it all Christmas season, or if I remember that it got peed on by the dog, hung on the porch railing and forgotten until Spring.

Christmas will come if all of my children are home for the holidays, or if one is in a remote village in Western Africa avoiding poisonous snakes and making food out of trees.

Christmas will come if I find that one perfect present for each of my family members, and it will come if I have to buy everyone gift cards to Stuff-Mart, and it will come if I don't give anyone anything at all but a kiss and a heart-felt "I love you."

Christmas will come if I don't make hard tack candy. And it will come if I do.

Heck, yeah, it's fun to do some of that stuff. It's also a big pain to do some of that stuff. So I take my B-12, my Vitamins A and D and my Glucosamine and I do what I can, what I want to. And that might look different every year.

It has been looking a lot like Christmas every year for over 2000 years.

And the One who makes it look that way is not a God of guilt, but a God of hope and healing, love and forgiveness.

Maybe we can't do it all. Maybe we can. But maybe we can work on taking joy in what we can do, leaving the guilt out in the cold.

May you be blessed this Christmas season with pure peace and true joy.

(Photo of kids from Christmas 2005)

::: stream of consciousness whilst listening to beatles rock band :::

Nine batches of white trash down, who knows how many more to go.
Almost all of my Christmas shopping is done.
I'm broke.
We put the tree up today.
It was the first year my family cut it down without me.
I was having a pouting party.
People were being mean to each other, and then they turned on me.
They chose and cut the tree.
I cried in the car alone.
Sometimes Christmas traditions suck
and leave everyone grumpy and depressed.
Houdin called from Africa today.
I miss him.
I woke up the other night worried about him
and the gigantic poisonous snakes in the village
and the inadequate shoes he packed.
I want to send him steel hip waders.
He wouldn't wear them.
I hope he's taking his malaria pills.
He only had four minutes to talk
and we got cut off.
His girlfriend was here. She got to talk to him.
I feel badly that I didn't let everyone say a word or two.
We tried speakerphone, but it was to echoey and no one could hear anything.
He was telling me about how he's learning all about African cuisine,
and how you can make just about anything there into food.
Made this mother-heart kinda worried,
made me think of Christopher McCandless.
I hate to sound selfish, God, but would You mind keeping an eye
on that boy of mine?
And, while you're at it, God, can you work on the heart
of that other boy of mine?
You know the one. Full of hormones and anger and independence,
but still goofy and hyper,
with his mother's talent for losing track of time.
This, his first year of school after having homeschooled all of his life,
has been a rough one.
He gets picked on.
Mostly by girls.
So, naturally, when he comes home, it's time to reverse the roles.
He picks on his little sisters.
Their patience is wearing thin.
Bard is home from college for a few weeks.
She had her nose pierced.
It looks cute, yes, but I can't help remembering
her tiny, perfect, unblemished nose,
that little baby I held to my breast.
Now she walks around the world without me,
making decisions about her life, her future, her body.
I'm peripheral.
That's a little hard to take.
But there are still young ones in the house,
and they still think I'm the center of the universe.
That can be such an ego trip.
It can also be exhausting.
So I need some patience
and some kindness
and an extra helping of forgiveness,
both to hand out
and to cash in on.
The Christmas trees are up.
It's feeling quite festive around here.
I'll post pictures soon.
For now, I think my consciousness has been streamed out.
May God bless this Christmas
and may you be reminded of how very much
you are loved.

::: this year's christmas find :::

Each year, I try to satisfy my desire for a bedazzled holiday home by adding a bit more to my Christmas decor, usually by shopping the clearance sales after the holiday or by scouring the shelves of My Favorite Thrift Store for the colors and themes I want. This year, the find was about ten bags of vintage wooden ornaments at the Thrift Store, each baggie containing about a dozen ornaments and costing .50 per bag. I remember ornaments like these from when I was a kid dreaming in the Winter Wonderland at Polsky's Department Store downtown or talking to Archie the Snowman at Chapel Hill Mall, so they've gotta be at least 35 years old. These little nostalgia-inducing lovelies found a home dangling from a white tree in the girls' room to induce nostalgia in yet another generation of girlies.

::: come on, baby, light my tree :::

It's not really something I want to do, but I've begun anyway. If it were up to me, I'd probably have twinkling lights dotting my home all-year-round. But I'm not sure I like the connotations that come to mind when I think about Christmas lights on my house in July, so I've begun the process of de-holidazing my home.

After a trip to the local Stuff*Mart for a heap of plastic boxes (how much money do they make selling these things, doyathink?), it was time to start disassembling the decorations I'd assembled just a couple of weeks ago. Well, okay, maybe it was a couple of months ago. But it sure doesn't seem like it's been long since Monet was bugging me about going out to cut down our tree, which was finally put up and decorated on Christmas eve. I actually think we got the last tree they sold, as we were on the lot as the place was shutting down the day before Christmas eve.

And today, while Monet was disposing of said tree, now brittle and prickly with lack of life, he stuffed it into the burn barrel, lit it aflame, and then watched in panic as it tumbled out of the barrel and rolled, constantly combusting, toward the big red barn just west, and downhill, from the burn barrel. Flames, he says, were as high as the first floor of the treehouse, which is twenty feet off the ground, and he panicked as he envisioned the barn erupting into flames. He made haste toward the house, not quite knowing what to say, and stammered, "Can someone help me with this?" gesturing toward the flaming tree in the barnyard. Bo, not knowing what Monet could possibly need help with, looked at him with mild confusion/frustration/condescension, and then noticed the twenty-foot flaming mass of snapping, popping holiday spirit through the kitchen window. General panic ensued.

It's a very good thing that Christmas trees are quickly consumed by fire. It was all over in a matter of minutes and the barn was largely unharmed, thanks partly to Houdin, who grabbed flaming, smoldering pine branches with his bare hands. He says he has blisters to prove it. I wasn't here when the whole thing took place; I was out buying large plastic boxes to stash away our Christmas joy, so I have to take his word for it.

After all of the fun and fire had died down, Monet came up with this little piece of wisdom. "You know, when these things happen, no one thinks to stop and take a picture of it, because if they're taking a picture, they're not putting out the fire."

Yeah.

Kinda makes a girl appreciate her vintage-seventies fake, white tree with its retro-rotating base. Less chance of it catching the barn on fire.

Hope your post-holiday happenings are flame-free.

A good thought for this season...

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. If you bite and ravage each other, watch out—in no time at all you will be annihilating each other, and where will your precious freedom be then?

My counsel is this: Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit. Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness. For there is a root of sinful self-interest in us that is at odds with a free spirit, just as the free spirit is incompatible with selfishness. These two ways of life are antithetical, so that you cannot live at times one way and at times another way according to how you feel on any given day. Why don't you choose to be led by the Spirit and so escape the erratic compulsions of a law-dominated existence?

It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on.

But what happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity.

Galations 5, The Message

The day is new and fresh. Now what will I do with it? I have my plans, of course, as I normally do when I wake to the sun peaking over the hill. I have a lovely view of it from my bedroom window; on most days, I'm happy to greet it, especially lately as I've made the decision to minimize my stress by staying home more, making a commitment to say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not able to do that." I don't say no to everything, but I have cut way, way back on the things that I do as an individual and the things we do as a family outside of our home. Gone are the days of rushing around looking for choir uniforms, or making hour-long drives to this or that organization, or spending days at a time preparing classes for other homeschooled children who choose not to do their assignments anyway. My focus needs to be on my family, on my health, and on the things that I know I can dedicate my time to fully without stressing everyone out.

So, my days are less stressful now. I know that who I am is not wrapped up in my performances. I can have meaningful relationships with people without "proving myself" through committees and organizations and meetings and clubs and societies. And now, if you ask me to do something and I say, "yes," you can know that I mean it fully.

Which leaves many of my days open and flexible. I like that.

Today, for example, is Saturday. Last year, I would have woken on any given December Saturday with a feeling of dread. What long car ride or unpleasant commitment do I have to greet today? Moreover, regardless of how well I do my task today, someone will not be pleased and I will feel that I've failed. What a depressing way to greet the day! How many things I put on the back burner, like teaching my children basic household tasks, or writing an essay, or making meals at home so that I could "be there" for this or that organization, job or club.

But today, I sit at home inhaling the aroma of my son's breakfast-making--pancakes and bacon-- and listening to the sounds of the dryer running, a blessing that has come about because I stopped saying "not now" to the nine-year-old daughter who kept begging me to teach her to do laundry. She has become a maniac, a laundry-doing machine; she sorts, washes, dries, folds, hangs, matches and puts away clothes better than I every have.

Last night, Bo and I were marveling over Sweetheart's gift as a laundress. When she came into the room, we decided to let her choose what the family would do for dinner that night. She didn't know, wasn't comfortable choosing. Couldn't we ask someone else? Couldn't we take a vote? We explained to her that we were giving her this choice because she had done such a fabulous job taking over the laundry chores. She didn't need a reward, she insisted. She likes doing laundry.

She likes doing laundry.

She likes it.

She. LIKES. it.

And so, doing laundry is its own reward. No other reward is needed.

She likes sorting the whites from the darks.

She likes starting the machine.

She likes putting in the laundry detergent and the fabric softener.

She likes the routine of putting the wash into the dryer.

She likes taking the warm clothes from the dryer, smelling their freshness, folding them and ushering them off to their proper locations.

She finds the reward in the enjoyment of the task.

This is the lesson I'm trying to learn. I will say yes to those things I've been gifted to do, those things that bring others joy, certainly, but that bring me joy because the doing of them is my reward. Of course I have to do some unpleasant tasks, but I'm learning to even enjoy those, and to reap my reward from the task itself, not from what others think of it.

This morning, I have a Saturday, and I have a to-do list that is dotted with reasonable expectations, planning ahead, and relishing the process.

And tomorrow will be new, and fresh, and I will not dread it.

What Is It with Us and Winter? A Tragedy Averted

For some reason, winter is always a problem for us. Terrible things seem to happen during winter. One year, I was very overdue with The Baby and my dad ruptured several discs in his back. We were living in a small cabin with no indoor bathtub or toilet and there was ice everywhere. For my dad to get back and forth to Ol' Rosy (the outhouse) was impossible, so he had to use a bedpan, which spilled on several occasions. I, and my very pregnant belly, spent a lot of time close to the floor that winter cleaning nasty messes.

Then one year our whole family got sick. Pneumonia, bronchitis, sinusitis, laryngitis--you name it, we had it. Bo was sicker than he'd ever been, unable to sleep and in terrible pain. On Christmas eve, I'd still not put up decorations, wrapped gifts, or anything. We were in the middle of building a house and everything just seemed hopeless.

Two years ago, we had a horrible ice storm and were without power for a week over the Christmas holiday.

Because we live on a hill, getting into the driveway once the winter weather hits is quite a challenge. The first winter we lived here, we were driving home from visiting friends up north and arrived home very late, to the tune of 2 a.m. When we reached our road, it was clear that we wouldn't be taking that route with our big van, so we tried an alternate route. That route was completely drifted over, a fact we didn't discover until we'd unsuccessfully attempted to navigate it and ended up back-end first in a snow drift. With a two-week old baby, four kids and a young guest in the car, we tried to figure out what to do. It was a two-mile walk in the drifting snow, by now it was 3 a.m, and we couldn't run the engine for fear of the tailpipe being blocked by the drift. We'd die of carbon monoxide poisoning. My husband had his cell phone and called my dad to rescue us. He got the Jeep stuck in a snowdrift and staggered through the storm a 1/2 mile to be stranded with us. We finally called a neighbor who brought his truck and shuttled us to our drive, where we trudged uphill and then steeply downhill to our littel cabin in the woods.

This year, we've had very mild weather. Until today. It was great for sledding and snowboarding, but when we arrived home from church, we were unable to get our van up the drive. That was tolerable this morning; there was nothing to carry. But this evening, we had fourteen gallon-jars filled with raw milk, a sleeping toddler, three bags of groceies and a few sundries to haul.

We decided to get out and push.

The three older kids and I got behind the van and pushed as hard as we could. At first, we didn't seem to make any headway, but then we moved it a couple of feet. The frightening thing was that everytime we seemed to get the thing moved, one of us would lose footing and the van would start sliding backwards. I thought for sure I was going to end up on the ground with the van sliding over me.

But we made it up the hill and into the parking area. There, we realized that our Jeep was parked on the wrong side of the garage, which would make it difficult to unload the van.

"Do you want to move the Jeep, or do you want me to?" asked Bo.

"Doesn't matter," I answered.

"I'll do it, then." And he hopped out of the car, leaving the van running.

Sweetheart asked if she could play in the snow. Her brothers had run down the hill after pushing the van instead of riding inside of it, and she thought it unfair that she'd not get to throw a few snowballs, too.

"It's dark," I protested. She lamented from the back seat.

The next thing I knew, fifteen-year-old Houdin was yelling Sweetheart's name. I looked over to see her lying on the ground behind the Jeep, the vehicle still moving slightly. It stopped, and Sweetheart scrambled to her feet, and then collapsed in frantic tears. My darling daughter had almost been backed over by her own father. He hadn't seen her. How could he have? She'd been bent to the ground to pack a snowball. I hadn't even realized she'd left the van.

While sixteen-year-old Bard was helping Sweetheart into the house and comforting her, Bo finished maneuvering vehicles and then began unloading the milk from the van. As I was putting away the mountains of hats, gloves and scarves, I hear a crash and a yell. I raced into the garage to see that one of the crates of milk had fallen out of the back of the van, shattering a glass bottle and breaking the lid off of a plastic one. Bo was beside himself with frustration.

At the same time all of this was going on, my dad was kneeling in the back of the van with his feet sticking out of the side, extracting The Baby from her carseat where she was groggily talking to him. I closed the front passenger door...on my dad's foot.

I'm not sure why these things happen in winter, but they seem to be very attracted to us. It made me think about how many things could go wrong during the day and how blessed we are that these things were potential tragedies, not real ones. At church tonight, someone announced that in a nearby city a car had slid off the bridge and crashed through the guardrail into the river. They still had located neither the car nor the passengers. How horrible those people must have felt. How terribly frightened they must have been as they realized what was happening to them, to see that river rushing toward them just before impact and to feel the icy water close in around them. My prayers immediately went up for them.

I don't know why God spared Sweetheart tonight. A foot or two further, and we might be in serious mourning right this moment. But we're all safe, as a family. We're warm and alive and blessed to be so.

I don't know, either, what it is about winter that brings these challenges, but if they come to you, too, during this time of year, please be safe and count your blessings.

Peace to you.

Yogurt!

I posted a short list of what I wanted for Christmas here, and my darling husband Bo read it. I'm happy to say that, out of the eleven things I listed, I'm a happy owner of four of them. One, the Asics shoes that were recommended to me by TrueVyne, were a gift to myself. I found a used pair on eBay for $24, including shipping, and the money went to a nature preserve in North Carolina. I've been very thankful for them. I think they're the first good pair of walking shoes I've ever had, and they really make a difference. Thanks, True!

The second gift I received was a membership to Feminists for Life of America. This was supposed to be a surprise, but Bo accidentally notified me a few days before Christmas. I'm looking forward to receiving the newsletters, which have always been interesting and challenging for me.

And the third gift from my list was candles. Two of my children gave me candles for Christmas and candle holders to go along with them.

The last gift from my list is probably my favorite, though the shoes are pretty close. On Christmas Day, PeacefulLady came for a visit, bringing with her a quart of homemade yogurt which was absolutely scrumptious. As we were discussing home-yogurt making, Bo confessed that he had also ordered the yogurt maker that I'd asked for which makes a quart of yogurt at a time. It came a few days later, and I've made four batches of yogurt since, thanks to PeacefulLady's yummy recipe, which I now impart to you. PL makes it in gallon batches, so I am including both the version I make, which makes one quart, and her version, which makes a gallon.

Quart Version:

1 quart of milk (I use whole raw cow's milk)
3 oz evaporated milk (which, I think, is a little less than 1/2 cup)
1/4-1/3 cup sweetener (I used 1/4 honey in one and 1/2 cup honey in one, and neither were super sweet. Today I used 1/3 cup sugar)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup yogurt which has live active cultures. PL says it doesn't matter if it's plain or vanilla. I've used both with the same results. Once you make your first batch, you can use yogurt from your own batches to keep it going until the cultures weaken, then you have to buy more.
(PL adds gelatin to hers, but I couldn't figure out the right ratio, so I left it out. Because we use whole jersey milk, it thickened just fine without the gelatin.)

Partially fill a sink with cold water and get all of your ingredients ready and measured. It goes quickly, so you want to be ready. Temperatures are very important for good yogurt.

For raw milk, heat the milk to 180 degrees F. I was hesitant to do this because I wanted the good health properties of the raw milk, but my first batch didn't come out so well. When I called PL, she said that heating it creates a creamier yogurt. I tried it, heating it to about 186, and she was right. Very creamy.

Turn of the heat.

Add the evaporated milk, sweetener and vanilla. Stir well.

Place your pan in the cold water and stir. Your goal is to quickly cool the milk to between 110 and 115 degrees. This happens more quickly than you'd think.

When the milk has cooled, add the yogurt using a very clean whisk. Bad bacteria can take over and make your yogurt clumpy and yucky. Very thoroughly mix in the yogurt.

Pour the mix into a quart jar or yogurt maker.

This is the tricky part, and this is why I asked for the yogurt maker. The yogurt must incubate for between 4 and 10 hours at around 100 degrees. Too hot, and you'll cook the yogurt. Too cool and it won't incubate properly. Some people fill a cooler with hot water, place their jars or containers in it and leave it alone until it sets.

Don't touch it. Don't open it. Wait for about four hours, then very carefully check it. If it seems thickened and creamy, you can taste it to see if it's tart enough. If it is, put it in the fridge until it's cool, then you're done!

Add fruit and stuff after it's done.

One Gallon version (makes five quarts):

One gallon of milk
2 T gelatin
1/2 cup cold water
12 oz can evaporated milk
1 1/4 cup sugar or 1 cup honey
2 t vanilla
1 cup yogurt with active cultures

Follow instructions above, except that you should dissolve the gelatin in the water before you start, if you plan to use it. Add the gelatin when you add the milk, sweetener and vanilla. Follow the rest of the directions, pouring your mixture into five quart jars or containers (doesn't matter if it's glass or plastic, just as long as their really, really clean).

90-120 degrees makes yogurt, so keep your temp within the range. I think around 90-95 is optimal.

Enjoy!

::: the attack of sweet tooth :::

Every year for Christmas, all of the kind people in our whole neighborhood distribute plates of home-baked goodies to each other. Because the majority of my neighbors are Amish, we have some absolutely amazing baked goods on Christmas day and before, and plenty of them.

Beginning a few days before Christmas, they come. They walk up the driveway in their plain clothes, men in black hats or stocking-caps worn way up high on their heads, women in their white bonnets, strings dangling over their shoulders, and they bear plates full of home-baked pies, sugar cookies, thumbprints, Buckeyes, chocolate chip, snack mixes, pretzel clusters, chocolate-dipped Oreos...the list goes on. They bring them early so that folks can serve them on Christmas day.

Though my intentions are always good, I tend to bring up the rear. We pretty consistently deliver our gifts on Christmas Eve or, more often, the days following Christmas. For me, I guess, that extends the season a bit, gives folks something they can savor after all of the other stuff has run out. Sounds like a good marketing strategy, doesn't it? It's not all that intentional. It's actually justification for my being too busy to get it all done. What am I usually busy doing?

Why, baking, of course.

The explanation of where all that baking goes is simple. I have a dishonest, unrelentless sweets addict in my house who will devour anything that is not totally and completely hidden, locked-up or removed from the premises, and, furthermore, will stop at practically nothing find and consume the sweets.

My father, who lives with us, is notorious for eating sweets in large quanitities. The kids tell the story of how they locked their holiday candy into a little locker. He literally ran over it with the car to get it open. They go to great lengths to secure their goodies, but he always finds them somehow, and gets all angry and self-defensive when he's discovered. The kids have actually created a comic strip series where he is the bad guy, Sweet Tooth, and they are doing their best to prevent him from doing his dastardly deeds. When I bake cookies or make candies, buy cookies or candies, they must be completely secured, or they will, definitely, be gone. Ice cream doesn't stand a chance. Since I don't have a freezer with a lock, I must buy ice cream in massive quantities if we expect to have any. Last year, there was a sale on Breyers--$2 a half-gallon--and I bought about twelve half-gallons. Before I knew it, he had eaten over half of it. He'll consume a half-gallon in one night during a series of midnight snacks. It doesn't matter how I threaten or beg. It doesn't matter if I guilt or coerce. It doesn't matter if his blood pressure is up or his cholesterol is high. He'll just take a new medication to fix it. And, since he rides a bicycle ever day for 20-30 miles, his body doesn't look any worse for the wear (though, at a little over 60, all of his teeth literally rotted and fell out and he had to have very expensive dentures made last year). He has a sick addiction. And what's worse, if the goodies are forbidden, that's even better. If I buy him a sack of candy just for himself, he will hardly touch it. He'll give it all away to the children. But if the children get an Easter basket full of goodies, he'll have them gone before you can say Peter Rabbit.

This year, I made dozens and dozens of cookies, several kinds of shortbreads, hand-dipped Buckeyes, and a batch of vanilla caramels that had to be boiled to the right temperature, cooled for several hours, cuts into bite-sized pieces, and wrapped in little hand-cut squares of wax paper. These last little treats were placed in a grocery bag and hidden deep in the confines of my closet. All of the other goodies were consumed almost as quickly as I could make them. If they weren't hidden well enough, they would become part of a midnight snack, which I would not realize had occured until it was time to break them out to make the gift plates. This is a struggle every year, for every holiday, and during every baking session.

One evening, two of my former co-workers from the cheesehouse came by and brought us dinner. It was such a lovely thought and such a delicious dinner, and I was so glad to have them here, that I decided to show my appreciation by breaking out the caramels and giving them each a few. Goodbyes were said. Hugs were given. Greetings of the season were tossed over shoulders as they headed out the door. And I, in the busyness of it all, forgot to confine the caramels.

When it was time to make the goody plates, the entire bag-- several pounds of hand-wrapped caramels--were completely gone.

You would think I would learn. Because this, my friends, is not the first time this has happened.

Several years ago, during the Christmas of 2000, the kids and I made a half-dozen batches of caramels and hand-pulled molasses taffy. We wrapped them each in their little wax paper blankies. Our plan was to make up plates for all of our friends and neighbors (we lived in the city at the time) and go caroling. I never would have dreamed that all of those candies, probably ten to twelve pounds in all, would have disappeared. Yet when I went to take them from the cupboard, they were all gone. Every last one of them. When I asked the sweets thief about them, he confessed (which came as more of an announcement than a confession)to taking them with him to work and distributing them to his co-workers.

He gave our caramels away to people I don't even know. Without asking. All that work and time and hope was gone.

When I reminded him of this after his last caramel-scarfing episode, he didn't remember that at all. Or, more accurately, he pretended not to remember.

Because that's his other maddening trait. He pretends he didn't do it. He pretends to forget he did it. Or, with a terribly annoying smirk on his face, he blames it on The Baby (or whichever child happens to be the baby at the time). Or the dog. Or a burglar. Or the potbellied pig.

I don't know why this gets under my skin so much, but it does. It absolutely infuriates me. I feel my heart begin to race, and I feel my temper flare, and I feel I have no control, and I lose it. I say the most angry things to my dad. I guess, mostly, because I know how much work it took to make those things, or how, when I or the kids get candy as a gift, we savor it, keep it for when we really want it, and he doesn't. It doesn't mean anything to him. The time doesn't mean anything. The effort and care doesn't mean anything. It's just sugar. And there's never enough. He just scarfs it down with no apology and no compassion. Just lame jokes and a stupid smirk.

So, with all of the pre-holiday cookies being devoured as quickly as I could bake them, and all of the caramels and Buckeyes stolen by the despicable candy thief, I arose early on the day after Christmas and baked. And baked. And baked. And baked. And I stood watch over every cookie and every piece of toffee and every little peanut butter cup-- feeling guilty for being a greedy, selfish, ungrateful daughter (his indignant comments certainly never help)-- until the goodies were safely arranged on plates, sealed into baggies and shuttled to our car. Then Bo and I delivered each treat to the kind, thoughtful neighbors who had delivered their treats to us a week before. Only then was I able to relax.

Well, except for the nagging guilt that is mine as the daughter of a manipulator.

Today, I will bake several batches of Tasha Tudor cutout cookies, and I will place them on a big, important-looking plate. I will not stand guard. I will not offer them (because he won't touch them if I do).

I will just leave them sitting unattended and say nothing.

It's my feeble offering to the guilt gods.

Early Morning Sunrises

Winter gives us the most beautiful sunrises here on the hilltop. It's shortly after 7 here, and I had to push back my computer cabinet door to see outside the window. I wish I had a digital camera sho I could show you. From the third floor of our house, I have a view of the treetops, the misty valley, the rolling hills, and little dots of light that glow from miles away. The dark jagged outline of distant trees contrasts with the grey-orange glow of the rising sun, the colors fading from that grey to a bit more orange, then to a most amazing orange that relects off of the contrails which are zig-zagging and expanding and filling the sky with interesting geometric shapes. And there's pink in there, too, and bits of gold. And they all dissolve into the graduating blues of the waking sky. When there's snow on the ground, which there currently isn't (yesterday felt like SPRING here!), everything glows with pinkness, somewhat like my banner above, but much more amazing than a photograph can capture.

I was reflecting on my year this morning, thanks to some prodding from Donna over at Quiet Life and I felt like an real pessimist when she asked me to sum up my year in three words. My words? Very Financially Challenging.

Well, I'm sorry. But it has been.

I really wanted to be all happy-happy and find the fabulous things about my year that would show what a grateful and gracious person I am, but I couldn't. It has definitely been a very financially challenging year. Even now, the mortage is late, the taxes are way late, Bard's choir payments are way, way late, and the Christmas spirit is gone, so all of this is very real to me.

That's not to say that I'm NOT grateful for anything. Oh, yes indeedy, I am grateful. Sitting here watching this sunrise reminds me why the financial part is so difficult for me. I really love this house, this community, this hilltop. I feel at home here like I've never felt before. I don't want to lose it. The sunrise, and my view of it, is why all of the financial stuff even matters.

For that reason, our Christmas was a simple one. Yes, we did spend more money than we would during other seasons (except, maybe, the home-improvement season), but it was still very meager compared to others we know who bought large, high-dollar items for their families and purchased for everyone in their extended family (like we used to do, before we had five kids and a house). The majority of what we gave came from the thrift store. Hours of scanning the shelves for the right gift. Three huge bags of blocks for $1 a bag. Beanie Babies with tags for .25 each. Hand-embroidered pillowcases for .35 each. Pink Converse tennies for .75. Yet what did the kids say they liked the most? The new Playmobil toys and the new DVD. The high-ticket items. It's not their fault. They were among my favorite gifts, too. I guess the other things, like the big cotton quilt ($8), and the stacks of books (.25-.50 each), and the sweaters ($1 each) are just as loved, because they're using them every day. Houdin looks so nice in the mossy green sweater I bought him, and he snuggles under his quilt every night. Bard now has a fully-functioning computer in her room, one that works better than mine, thanks to my mother-in-law who scored some that were on their way out of the office. For free. Sweetheart carries that vintage leather purse around the house with everything from oranges to markers tucked inside. And Monet is loving the computer program that was installed on our computer. Those are fabulous gifts. Even though the kids don't list them as favorites, they are. They're quiet favorites. The kind of favorites a person just kind of takes for granted.

So maybe I should change what three words I use to describe my 2006. Maybe I should change it to Early Morning Sunrises. Those beautiful things that you take for granted every day, that keep you alive and warm and awake and moving, that you just know are going to always be there, like a fuzzy sweater or a cozy quilt, but they quietly take the back burner to the Bigger Looking, Noisier, In-Your-Face Things like taxes and mortgages and choir payments.

I see a little orange sphere climbing up above that jagged horizon now and little dashes of contrails lit up white, like a barely-visible thread of spider silk hanging from tree branch to tree branch. What an amazing orange that is. So bright and reliable, washing my whole bedroom in its pinkish-orange glow.

Early Morning Sunrises.

Christmas Morning

I don't know what woke me on Christmas morning, but my eyes popped wide open and I was alert. The only light was from the twinkling of the Christmas tree. All around me lay sleeping children, in chairs, on bean bags on the floor, at my feet. This is our Christmas Eve tradition: Everyone opens two gifts--their Christmas pajamas and a container of Pringles; everyone models their pajamas; everyone eats two or three Pringles, or the whole can; everyone drags their bedding to the room where the Christmas tree glows and we sleep there, beneath the tree. In years past, Bo and I have been awake until 3 a.m. wrapping gifts, but this year, Bo did all of the wrapping, which made me very, very pleased. I'm perfectly content to cook, and I can even force myself to clean, but I absolutely abhor wrapping packages.

So, this Christmas, we were finished with all Christmas preparations. Bo and Houdin both opted out of the sleeping-under-the-tree tradition, but The Baby took it quite seriously, moving all of the gifts that the children had so dutifully transported from my room to the skirt beneath the boughs of the tree, so that she could snuggle directly beneath it. That didn't last long, and soon she was curled up beside Sweetheart and I was reading from an anthology of Christmas stories. By 9 p.m., we were all asleep. Some slept soundly; some slept fitfully, but all slept until Christmas morning.

There I lay, with my eyes wide open. I peered toward the east, but there was not even a hint of a sunrise. Not even a faint glow. My bladder announced that it was time to rise, so I did, first visiting the powder room and then turning on the light in the kitchen. I squinted at the clock. Three in the morning. Shuffling back to the couch, I told my body and brain that they had no business being awake and they were to get back to sleep immediately. Like over-anxious children, they just couldn't do it. I remembered the advice my mother-in-law had once given me about how hormones affect sleep, and how, as she grew older, she would awake at odd hours--be completely and totally awake--and though she tried for a while to force herself back to bed, she finally decided to take advantage of the alertness and use the energy. She found that they were some of the most productive times she had.

I figured that there were things that needed doing before the rest of the family awoke, so I took my mother-in-law's advice and headed back to the kitchen.

Quiche for Christmas morning. That was the plan this year. In years past, we've done Monkey Bread, but it's not as nutritious or filling, so I planned to make my favorite quiche recipe instead, along with some fresh pineapple and orange juice. The pate brise was already in the fridge, so the first step was to brown the bacon, and then deeply saute the onions until they were golden brown. With the bacon sizzling on the stove, I was sure that the aroma would snake its way into someone's dreams and rouse them from sleep.

Sure enough, I heard stirring, heard the squeak of the powder room door, and, before long, there was Monet standing beside me, wrapping his arms around my body and saying, "Merry Christmas" and "Can I help you?"

Let me say that if I produce one real chef, one true culinary-school graduate, I will be satisfied. Out of all of my children so far, Monet and Houdin are the ones most likely to pursue this path. They watch Good Eats on DVD fairly regularly, a gift from Impromptu-Mom that has been one of the most valuable gifts we've ever received.

I welcomed eleven-year-old Monet into my kitchen and invited him to join me in the quiche-making experience. His current favorite pie, he says, is quiche, leaving apple pie and chicken pot pie in the dust. That's really saying something.

I taught him to roll out the pate brise, had him experience the perfection that is golden-brown onions--from the cutting and food-processing (which left him quite teary, but he bore it and plodded on) to the final moments of the forty-minute sauteing process, let him process the Gruyere--an expense that was not spared (there is no quiche cheese like Gruyere), and let him assemble one quiche on his own (though I grated the nutmeg). He was tortured with the smell of the baking quiche, his hunger having already kicked in at 4 a.m., but I encouraged him to eat a banana or some other yummy thing while he waited.

Before long, sixteen-year-old Bard stumbled into the room. Most days, Bard, who is a bohemian like her father, is just snuggling into her bed at this hour. I pray that she gets a night job, truly I do. She poked her head into the kitchen long enough to see what we were doing, realize the unGodly hour in which we were doing it, and crawl back under her covers.

The quiches were beautiful. I explained to Monet how they must be baked until they are just-set in the center, so he was able to remove them from the oven at just the right time, the crust golden and flaky, the eggs still damp and glossy.

It was still too early for the masses to arise, so Monet worked on his Flash cartoons, I cleaned out a few of my cupboards, did a couple of loads of dishes, and then, just in time for children to show their sleepy little faces, I remembered...the stockings hadn't been filled!

A mad rush ensued, the stockings were hung by the, um, er...window casings with care, and that's when, one by one, every member of the family, down to the very last sleepy-headed bohemian, made their appearance in the kitchen, some bouncing, some murmuring, some embracing me and each other with Christmas greetings.

Christmas day had truly begun.

Recovering

Today is a day of recovery. And extended holiday.

I absolutely crashed after the Christmas festivities. We all gathered around the basement television to watch Hitchiker's Guide and I fell soundly, though uncomfortably, asleep on the hard carpeted floor. When I awoke, the movie was almost over, and I shuffled off to bed. I didn't think I'd go back to sleep; it was still early. But I did sleep, and slept soundly until this morning. I think I had too much Christmas.

Today I did a few errands in the morning, then I came home and started some kitchen cleanup and baking. I decided to make some more shortbread, but this time using cornstarch for part of the flour. I haven't baked the dough yet, so I can't tell you how it worked. I'll let you know later.

I also added chocolate chips to one batch of the shortbread, and I made a batch of Millionaire Shortbread, which is cooling as I type. We ate leftover roast beef and turkey carcass soup for lunch and I made a batch of Grandma Jane's potato salad to keep us going through the week. Bo's off work tomorrow and Thursday, and tonight the children and I are going to a bargain movie to see Santa Claus III. I hope I'm not terribly disappointed. :-/

I have the after-Christmas-bad-attitude-blahs today. I just don't feel settled, and my body has had about enough standing, cooking, washing dishes, cleaning, and standing. Enough!

More about Christmas happenings when I return. For now, it's off to the theater.

The Christmas Interviews: Part IV: The Houdin Files

Mama: Are you having a good Christmas?
Houdin: What?
Mama: Are you having a good Christmas?
H: Yep
Mama: What's your favorite gift this year?
H: What?
Mama: What's your favorite gift this year?
H: Uh...Air Soft BB Gun.
M: What was the worst part about Christmas?
H: Um...couldn't get to sleep Christmas Eve. I tried to drink grape juice and eat Buckeyes, and it didn't taste too good, because one was sweet and one was sour. It was kinda gross, actually.
M: What's the best gift you gave?
H: I can't tell you. Because I haven't given it yet. Because it got lost by a certain person. She was wrapping presents and she lost one.
M: Was there anything you really, really, really wanted but you didn't get?
H: Um...not really. I didn't really want much. That one Heroscape set with a bunch of heroes that has a dragon it it.
M: That's the one I wanted to get you, but Dad said you wouldn't want that one.
H: Aw, man! Can I trade and you can pretend that's what you got me?
M: Was there anything you didn't ask for that you're really glad you got?
H: Um, an Air Soft BB gun.
M: Was there anything you got that you don't like?
H: No. I really liked everything I got.
M: Do you remember any of the gifts you got last year?
H: Um, Playmobil, Heroscape, uh...a shoulder bag, some books, and I think that was pretty much it.
M: What can you do this year that you couldn't do last Christmas?
H: Shoot people with Air Soft BB guns.
M: What do you hope to be able to do by next Christmas that you can't do this year?
H: Um, be able to make, get together a bunch of people for an Air Soft, uh, Heroscape party. It'd be fun. It would be like a two-day thing, so if I have a Heroscape/Air Soft party, people can come for both. as it is now, we've got about $250 of Heroscape stuff. maybe $300. In our group. And everyone said they wanted to have a Heroscape pot so we can have community Heroscape figures.
M: What does Christmas mean to you?
H: Um, I guess, it's just a time where everybody can relax and uh, it's sad though, because a lot of people during Christmas season don't relax and that's what makes the Christmas season depressing sometimes.
M: So, are you gonna do the shopping and and make meals next year?
H: I can make some meals, but I won't be able to drive to do the shopping. I'd like to.
M: If you did, do you think you could relax?
H: christmas day, yeah. I think I'd relax better knowing I worked the day before. I'd make it last.
M: What's your favorite part of Christmas;
H: Right after everyone opens their presents and everyone's using their presents or playing with them or whatever, and going over to your friend's house and showing them what you got and everyone's happy. No one's mad at each other. Who wants to get mad at anybody when you just got a bunch of free stuff?

The Loot List:

A hat that says, "What would Jesus do" and it looks like the Mt. Dew logo
A handgun BB gun
Two Heroscape Expansion sets
Candy
snake tatoos
camo duct tape
Air Soft goggles
An ice shaver, which I used last night and it worked really well. I took the ice out of the freezer and shaved it, and made some really, really concentrated Gator Ade and then I put it in the icy and mixed it all up, and it was really good.
Monty Python pjs. It's got the Black Knight with his arms and legs chopped off and it says, "It's just a flesh wound"
Pringles
Chocolate orange
Sweater
An Air Force field jacket--it's green.

The Christmas Interviews: Part III: The Bard Files

Mama: Are you having a good Christmas?
Bard: Yeah.
Mama: What's your favorite gift this year?
B: Pirates of the Carribean II.
M: What was the worst part about Christmas?
B: Not being able to fall asleep the night before.
M: What's the best gift you gave?
B: The ducks. Large resin duck figurines to Mom.
M: Was there anything you really, really, really wanted but you didn't get?
B: There wasn't anything I really, really, really wanted. I kinda wanted that hat with the earphones in it, but I didn't really, really, really want it. And the stuff I did want, I got, so...
M: Was there anything you didn't ask for that you're really glad you got?
B: Uh, yeah. I didn't really ask for anything. I think the only thing I asked for was the Pirates DVD and a t-shirt (says "I love pirates"), so...
M: Was there anything you got that you don't like?
B: Nope.
M: Do you remember any of the gifts you got last year?
B: I think last year, I got the Reliant K CD and I got some jewelry, and Playmobil stuff. It's hard to remember what you got, cuz you know stuff you have that you like, but it's hard to remember exactly what it was you got. Oh! I got, um...all those Richard Haliburton books. I got a lot of books last year. I think I got Hitchhiker's Guide last year.
M: What can you do this year that you couldn't do last Christmas?
B: I don't think anything. I can debate. I guess.
M: What do you hope to be able to do by next Christmas that you can't do this year?
B: Beat my speech nemesis.
M: What does Christmas mean to you?
B: Well, Christmas means the day Jesus was born. So, I mean, it doesn't really...I mean, it MEANS stuff, but it's not like, "Oh, I have to find the meaning of Christmas," because you already know what it is, if you're a Christian.
M: What's your favorite part of Christmas;
B: Probably just relaxing and everyone hanging out after we open presents.

The Loot List:

Pirates of the Carribean II
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the movie
Baby Check Up
Some books
Some Playmobil stuff
Two little Chinese figurines
A desk and computer
Pajamas
My "pirates" shirt
A Dr. Seuss shirt
Beanie Babies

The Christmas Interviews: Part II: The Sweetheart Files

Mama: Are you having a good Christmas?
Sweetheart: Yes. This might be my favorite Christmas.
Mama: What's your favorite gift this year?
S: Probably the Playmobil set with the unicorns. Maybe the leather purse, or the glass things in it.
M: What was the worst part about Christmas?
S: That I didn't get Build-a-Bear clothes.
M: What's the best gift you gave?
S: Probably Sticky Notes to Houdin or the Hot Wheel car I gave to Monet.
M: Was there anything you really, really, really wanted but you didn't get?
S: No.
M: Was there anything you didn't ask for that you're really glad you got?
S: I didn't ask for anything.
M: Was there anything you got that you don't like?
S: No.
M: Do you remember any of the gifts you got last year?
s: All I remember was when Dad had to drive an Amish person and it took really, really long and we had to wait for him forever and when he got home, we started ripping presents open. Oh! And Bard gave me a purple glass doll to put on my Christmas tree.
M: What can you do this year that you couldn't do last Christmas?
S: Play piano.
M: What do you hope to be able to do by next Christmas that you can't do this year?
S: Play guitar or harp.
M: What does Christmas mean to you?
S: Giving, taking, love and hope.
What is your favorite thing about Christmas?
Her: That you get presents and you get cookies, and you get to spend time with your family. And the wonderful meal you have.

The Loot List:

Glass dolls (ornaments. --Ed)
A ballerina
Gum from my Secret St. Nick
Playmobil unicorn set
Polly Pocket
Chocolate orange and candy
Early pajamas
A leather purse
Clothes
A velvety poster that you color
A thing that goes over my bed (a canopy. --Ed)
A pretty quilt with little girls on it.
Pillowcases that were embroidered with kitty cats and butterflies.
Books
Pink Converse tennis shoes
Coloring books
Markers
A little book of fairies that you color like stained glass windows
Pringles
A wonderful dinner

The Christmas Interviews: Part I: The Monet Files

Mama: Are you having a good Christmas?
Monet: Yeah. Really great. We didn't get as much presents, but I still like the presents that I got.
Mama: What's your favorite gift this year?
Him: The Playmobil pirate ship. It only has three guys on it, so it's not a very big crew, but I got more pirates from different sets, so I've got a bigger crew now.
M: What was the worst part about Christmas?
Him: I don't really know. The worst part...that Houdin didn't get very many presents, but he got an Air Soft gun.
M: What's the best gift you gave?
Him: I think...the coolest gift or the best gift?
M: Doesn't matter.
Him: During Christmas?
M: Any Christmas gift.
Him: I think the Hot Wheel car I got for Houdin. I really liked that.
M: Was there anything you really, really, really wanted but you didn't get?
Him: That BIG, HUUUGE red Playmobil castle. It's the Lion's Castle. That's what, like, team they are. The lions. But that's a huge, biggest one. And it's really cool because it has a trap door.
M: Was there anything you didn't ask for that you're really glad you got?
Him: Yeah. A pirate ship. THE pirate ship. The End, the last Series of Unfortunate Events book.
M: Was there anything you got that you don't like?
Him: Not really. I really liked all of them, but the one I didn't like as much would probably be...I don't know. I liked all of them.
M: Do you remember any of the gifts you got last year?
Him: We got a castle...Playmobil. And I think I got a pocketknife and a CD player, which I have a pocketknife, the same one I lost that I thought I'd never see again, I got it back this year.
M: What can you do this year that you couldn't do last Christmas?
Him: I can do Flash cartoons. I even have a logo!
M: What do you hope to be able to do by next Christmas that you can't do this year?
Him: Drive.
M: That's not gonna happen.
Him: Draw really good.
M: What does Christmas mean to you?
Him: Well, it means to me joy and happiness, and you get a lot of presents, but that's not all. Snowing. But it didn't snow this year. Well, it did, but not very much. Not enough to sled on. It means that we get to celebrate the birth of Jesus, and that's the happiest time of the year. That when my birthday comes, everything will be green.
M: What does that have to do with Christmas?
Him: There are no leaves on the trees, but when my birthday comes, there will be leaves on the trees. On my birthday, leaves. On Christmas, no leaves. It really doesn't make any sense.
M: What's your favorite thing about Christmas?
Him: Presents and snowing and good decorating. Caroling, and drinking hot chocolate.

The Loot List:

A couple packets of Runtz
A lot of chocolate, which I didn't eat and I gave to The Baby
A pirate ship
A bunch of sweaters and a coat
Pajama pants that say "Anger Management School Dropout"
A chocolate orange
Some school books (I think)
Hot wheels car
Series of Unfortunate Events book
Polymer clay
I got an early present--Flash
A drawing model
A good Zig pen
A bunch of ball-point pens
My pocketknife back
A pirate sticker book

I'd like to post this as my banner...

...but, for some reason, Blogger has changed the way they store photos and I can't get them to show up in my templates when I insert the link now. So, pretend it's at the top of the page, and have a very, very blessed Holiday season.

It's Almost CHRISTMAS!

Today was a Good Day.

Well, it wasn't completely good, but what kind of day is ever completely good? It didn't start out so great, with an argument between my oldest children and me, but it improved from there, so that's something to be thankful for.

Bo and I used the day to wrap up our Christmas shopping. We only shopped for our children this year, as our overall Christmas budget is less than a week's worth of groceries, and most of their gifts came from the thrift store, which is, in my opinion, a way mobie cool way to go. I can't tell you what they got yet (they read the blog, doncha know), but I can tell you that Bo wrapped presents All. Evening. Long. He wrapped until he ran out of tape and has used almost an entire 200 s.f. roll of peppermint-stick-print paper. The little white tree in my room is completely surrounded by gifts, and I even managed to get a couple of small things for Bo.

While on our shopping trip, we had lunch out followed by coffee at this cute little Hungarian pastry shop in the Bigger City; the shop reminded me of the shop in Chocolat, which made me both inspired and slightly jealous. One of my dreams is to open a shop in our little town much like the one in Chocolat. First, I have to become as sexy as Juliette Binoche's character. I'm sure I'll be a success if I achieve that goal.

At Tulipan, the pastry shop, we each filled coffee cups and ogled over the goodies behind the glass. I indulged in some rum balls, linzer cookies, kifli and decorated spice cookies for the kids, who were dutifully cleaning the house while we shopped.

I was so inspired by the pastry shop that I was eager to do some baking when I got home. The house was so clean (thanks, Bard and Houdin!) that all I had to do was go around lighting candles and everything was cozy. With Bard's help, I made two batches of shortbread, one batch of pecan shortbread and one batch of tarts. A lot of the cookies will go to church with us for tomorrow morning's Christmas Eve service and meal. The rest will go to neighbors and be our dessert for Christmas dinner.

I decided to have our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve this year, so after the cookies were baked, I got the turkey ready for brining. We raised our own turkeys this year, which was a good experience, and we grilled one for Thanksgiving, which was mediocre. I'm hoping that this turkey, a smaller one, will be tastier. I plan to use my electric roaster on this one. Next year, I want to raise a Christmas Goose and maybe our own pigs for ham.

I'm also making two roasts, three kinds of potatoes, an apple-pear pie with a pate brise crust, a Toll House pie, savory stuffing, pickle wraps, cranberry sauce with homemade whipped cream, some assorted veggies, and maybe some rolls, if I get to it in time. Christmas morning, I'll make two quiches and we'll have leftovers, which will probably include Turkey Carcass Soup.

Last night, we joined about twenty-five others and went caroling around the neighborhood of some friends', giving them batches of cookies. My contribution was shortbread cookies and buckeye candies. To see the faces of those we carolled was so rewarding. One elderly woman told us that she had never been carolled before!

While Bo and I were gone today, three of our neighbors sent plates of goodies--cookies and candies and snack mixes. Earlier this week, my dear friend Penny sent Petits Fours to the children, a tradition she has kept up with every year since we've lived here.

My feet are aching, my knees have all but given out, I've almost finished decorating, I filled out but didn't mail my Christmas cards, and I'm coming dangerously close to getting tired of shortbread and Christmas carols, but, finally, I feel like it's Christmas.

I hope you do, too, friend.

Happy Holidays to you and yours, and may you feel peace and joy this Christmas season!

Shortbread Cookies

Every time I make these simple yet fabulous cookies, I wonder why I bother with any other kind. I made a batch today as a gift for Bo's boss's family, acorn-shaped, and I dipped the acorn caps in a mixture of bittersweet chocolate, corn syrup and butter.

The keys are to be gentle with the dough, refrigerating it well before rolling and cutting, making sure to roll them thick (1/4 inch is good), refrigerating again, and baking them just long enough to harden them and slightly brown the edges.

I got this recipe from joyofbaking.com, which gives these tips:

Always use good-quality butter, NEVER margarine;

You can make them more flavorful by adding about 1/2 cup of chocolate chips or cut up semisweet chocolate, 1 tablespoon of instant espresso powder for a coffee taste, 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon, or 1 tablespoon of finely chopped orange or lemon zest.

The texture of shortbread can also be changed by replacing 1/4 cup of the flour with rice flour to give them a slightly crunchy texture.

For a more delicate tasting shortbread with a melt-in-your-mouth texture, replace 1/2 cup of the flour with cornstarch.

Sprinkle the baked cookies with granulated white sugar or dip the ends of the shortbread in melted chocolate.

Shortbreads:

2 cups (280 grams) all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon (2 grams) salt

1 cup (2 sticks) (226 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature

1/2 cup (60 grams) powdered (confectioners or icing) sugar

1 teaspoon (4 grams) pure vanilla extract

In a separate bowl whisk the flour with the salt. Set aside.

In the bowl of your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer), cream the butter until smooth (about 1 minute). Add the sugar and beat until smooth (about 2 minutes). Beat in the vanilla extract. Gently stir in the flour mixture just until incorporated. latten the dough into a disk shape, wrap in plastic wrap, and chill the dough for at least an hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (177 degrees C) with the rack in the middle of the oven. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

On a lightly floured surface roll out the dough to 1/4 inch (.5 cm) thick. Cut into rounds or whatever shapes you wish using lightly floured cookie cutter. Place the cookies on the prepared baking sheet and place in the refrigerator for about 15 minutes. This will firm up the dough so the cookies will maintain their shape when baked. Bake for 8 - 10 minutes, or until cookies are lightly brown. Cool on rack.

Shortbread with keep in an airtight container for about a week or frozen for several months.

Makes about 20 shortbread cookies.

White Trash Recipe

Here's a holiday recipe that's easy to make and looks nice in zip-type baggies; makes a great gift and a quick take-to-the-party treat. I just finished three batches--making them, not eating them. Sheesh!

White Trash

3 cups of Rice Chex
3 cups of Corn Chex
3 cups of Cheerios
(I suppose you could use any neutral-type cereals you want. I used just Chex for this batch)
1 cup of salted peanuts
1 1/2 cup of broken pretzel pieces
1 pound of M&Ms and/or Reese's Pieces (to make a total of one pound)
1 1/2 pounds white confectioner's coating

Mix all of the dry stuff together.
Melt the coating in a double-boiler or very, very carefully on low on a stovetop, stirring constantly until coating is melted and smooth.
When it's completely melted, stir it gently but thoroughly into the dry ingredients until everything is completely covered.
Spread the whole thing on wax paper and cool.
Break into chunks and store in baggies.

YUM!

This has absolutely no calories if you eat it while standing.

Enjoy.