Bring me some figgy pudding...

A couple of weeks ago I heard a radio announcer talking about a recent poll taken regarding holiday shopping.  The poll concluded that people were more likely to shop in stores that hung signs stating "Merry Christmas", as opposed to stores that wished their customers "Happy Holidays".  The radio announcers then went on to discuss how this took (or not) into account consumers who were not Christian, and concluded with how Kim Kardashian might be pregnant with the holiday spirit, regardless of her recent marital troubles. 

After hearing that incredibly enlightening diatribe on the radio, I started seeing a lot of posts on Facebook talking about the reason for the season, and how people should be ashamed of themselves for not wishing Merry Christmas to others.  This got me thinking, and when I get to thinking, usually  trouble, and sarcasm abound.  I couldn't help but wonder what the hell difference it makes to anyone what seasonal greeting people use with one another; isn't one just as good as the next?  Can't we all just get along with the idea that people are going out of their way to be considerate in offering any kind of greeting at all?  I also can't help but point out that the reason for the season is a celebration of life, love, and hope (which I may be mistaken in confusing with the reason why Jesus' story is so compelling to begin with), with Christmas and Hanukkah and winter solstice celebrations all thrown into the mix.  And, while I'm not anti-Christmas, or anti-Christian by any stretch of the imagination, isn't one of the tenets of Christianity that we shall not judge and everyone is included?   These troublesome thoughts combined with seasonal malaise and a severe case of motivational deficit disorder put me in a real foul mood.  Not the "I'm going to jump off the bridge in Bedford Falls until Clarence saves me' kind of mood, but there was no holly in my jolly.

In the midst of this emotional state, I started listening to the oldies station in the morning on my commute to work; truth told I was looking for a little auditory holiday cheer to get me into the spirit, and offer a little mental stability (I know, I know that's a tall order for a a twenty minute ride).  Complete aside, there are some really, really sucky Christmas songs out there.  The radio station is sponsoring a program where people in need can have their holiday wishes come true.  These wishes don't include laptops or a gaming system.  Their wishes include the most basic desires people might have for their family:  a decent meal and maybe a gift or two for their children.  Sadly, there are a lot of people out there who really are in need.   Amazingly though,  there are a large number of people out there who are willing to give over some of what they have in order to meet those needs; somehow the radio stations are willing to put these groups of people together and get it done. I must say that while my heart broke a little which each of these stories, it lifted my spirits considerably to get a glimpse of people taking care of one another.

Fast forward a couple of days, and I found myself at Kohls on the hunt for a red sweater for my toddler that didn't include teddy bears wearing ski caps and scarves.  Not being able to find the sweater, I found myself in the incredibly small toy section of Kohls.  In this section, I ran into a little old lady shuffling around, muttering to herself and fingering many of the toys.  After a few moments, she asked me if kids still like Matchbox cars.  I told her I thought they did and she confessed that she was there to buy some presents for Toys for Tots.  She wasn't on the hunt for a perfect toy for her grandchildren, but rather to buy toys for kids she'd never even met.  Emotional state:  fair to middling.

Most recently, I've learned of a friend of a friend who is in the process of going through an international adoption.   I find myself amazed by the courage and hope that it takes for someone to go through this process: lengthy and costly and no doubt heart-wrenching for all participants.  In the end though, this unites people across oceans in order to create families and provide love and care where there was none before.  Through tears and wishes of smooth sailing for this new family, my holiday spirit returned.

I know it's corny to point out that there are miracles happening daily, minute by minute all around us.  I am grateful to be given the opportunity to the see the light in the dark, and in these instances, I feel proud to count myself among the humans.  I didn't know I was looking for it, but finding evidence of hope and love just may cause me to wish you a Happy Samhain.


This weeks tip: With people coming over your house, you may feel the need to spruce up a little (Christmas tree pun intended).  In order to remove scratches from your wood tables - mine are caused by small children who have taken a fancy to using forks as instruments on the dining table - you can use coffee.  Yep, a little instant coffee dampened with hot water into a paste and rubbed on the surface until the scratch matches the surrounding surface will set you up quite nicely. 

You May be Jésus to Your Mama, but you're Jesus to me

It probably could have been easily predicted that I was destined for trouble when my parents colluded to lie to a Catholic priest in order to have me baptized.  Christening under false pretenses is, no doubt, a venial sin at the very least.  Because my parents had not been married in the Catholic Church, and because my grandfather called my mother, and then subsequently me, a heathen, they decided they better christen me. This was not such an easy matter for them.  When I was six months old they finally were able to get me baptized at St. Stanislaus, the only church in the borough of Queens who was willing to christen the child born of two people who were not even considered married in the eyes of the Church.  And while they could have chosen to depart completely from Catholicism (and I truly believe my father would have been all over that), my parents chose to raise my brother and I as Catholics because, truth told, what else did they know?

Because I went to public school, my parents sent me to catechism classes beginning in the first grade.  Clearly, one needs an early start to get properly indoctrinated.  Once a week, me and all the other Catholic kids left our own school right after lunch in order to attend the nearest Catholic school for lessons, while all the kids who regularly attended the parochial schools had a half day every Wednesday and could be seen at the pizza place and park while we sat in their abandoned classrooms.  This weekly schedule of half days lasted all the way through fifth grade and beginning in the sixth grade we attended catechism classes on Monday nights after dinner.  This particular situation worked out well for me for two reasons: one - I didn't have to witness all the parochial school kids having fun while we sat in class all afternoon, and two - my cousin Joann and I could sneak cigarettes on the walk from her house to the Catholic school under a cloak of darkness. 

In all those years I learned all the things I was supposed to learn in order to become a fully functioning member of the Catholic Church.  I memorized prayers, beatitudes and commandments.  I made sacraments, attended masses, received ashes, and figured out when to kneel/sit/stand without the aid of clicking dog training tools.  I also learned the importance of confession, and the joy that accompanies having unloaded all your misdeeds on a weekly basis and starting all over again.  Ah, sweet absolution.  Although much information had been passed along to me, nothing that I learned could have quite prepared me  for the nuggets of wisdom that my own children would pass on to me from their Catholic preschool experiences.

My son's first Christmas season in Catholic school found him eagerly anticipating the upcoming holiday.  School days included all sorts of seasonal art projects and countdowns to gift exchanging (and possibly Advent?).  My son returned home from school on one of these December days to inform us that there was a new guy in his class.  My husband and I heard somewhere that good parents listen and ask questions of their children,  and so after our son telling us for a few days about this new guy, my husband broke down and asked all about him.  Enthusiastically, our son told his father that the new guy was a baby.  A baby?  Yes, a baby who had a birthday coming up. The baby's name was Jesus and his birthday happened to be on Christmas.  Pretty cool, huh?

Deciphering pre-school talk is a pretty daunting task, and if you've never been around a four year old, think of an overly talkative, occasionally annoying, drunk friend.  When we entered the Easter season, our son was again fairly keyed up.  He talked endlessly of guys sleeping behind rocks and rabbits bringing eggs.  It was at this time that we were told that our son had solved the mystery of why we celebrate Easter.  As it turns out, this guy Jesus (not recognized by him as the same baby who had been in his class in December) had some friends who nailed him to a tree.  Then they put him a cave and let him out after a few days.  When he came out, there was a party with colored eggs, ham and chocolate.  Pretty cool, huh?

Our daughter now attends the same school as her older brother did.  This past Christmas season she returned home from school one day wearing a Dora birthday party hat.  When asked where she got the hat, she informed us that their was a birthday party at school that day.  Whose birthday was it?, we asked her.   Jesus.  As it turns out, Jesus enjoys a Dora themed birthday party as much as the next guy.  Pretty cool, huh?  I'm looking forward to her Easter revelations.

My son now attends the local public school and his sister will follow his lead.  The indoctrination process in our home ends at the age of five.  I highly recommend not correcting the half truths and misunderstandings that come out of the mouths of babes.  If nothing else, they will have an interesting worldview and you will be provided with a lot of laughter.

This weeks tip:  You need not buy egg dyeing kits in order to do your Easter up right this year.  You can use produce that you probably have around your home in order to dye your hardboiled treats, such as: red cabbage juice (for blue), boiled yellow delicious apple peels (for greenish yellow) and red wine for violet.

Auld Lang Syne

The lyrics of this popular New Year's song were originally written by Robert Burns as a poem and set to music.  It is popular in English speaking countries and has been around since the 1700s (or so claims my trusty, hard to disprove friend Wikipedia) .  Translated loosely, it means 'long, long ago,' and is often sung at the stroke of midnight when the new year begins.  Tradition.
Many folks have traditions of their own that carry them through the holiday season.  Things that they've always done and no one knows quite why, other than, 'that's what we've always done.'  I heard someone speak at an educator's conference about a year ago regarding doing things the way they've always been done seemingly without rhyme or reason.  He had researched why the railroad tracks in this country had the spacing between them that they did.  Apparently it was due to the spacing on the wagons of pioneers, which he then traced back to Europe and the spacing on the wagons there and so forth.  What it came down to is that the spacing on Roman chariots were measured to fit the width of two horses pulling chariots to and fro in attempts to conquer the world.  So much history coming down to horses' asses.
My parents holiday traditions often caused me to scratch my head as a child, and I now cannot help but wonder if they had their beginnings with some drunken horse's ass losing a bet.  Whatever the auspicious beginnings, there were certain things that were absolutely necessary for merriment and celebration in our household.  Christmastime found my family with a coffee table full of hard candy, handily contained in a cylindrical cardboard container, and ribbon candy, which was wrapped in a fancier box than most jewelry ever purchased by my father.  Both of these items were purchased at the Woolworth store near our house and my father would not have allowed the holiday season to commence without these treats sitting next to a bowl of mixed nuts (in the shell) and his feet (which were always on the coffee table).  No mind was paid to the fact that these candies are nearly guaranteed to lack desirability in both flavor and texture (read: don't chew); both the candies and nuts were only eaten when severe hunger and desperation for the holiday meal overcame whomever happened to be in the living room.  It always seemed to me that the actual reason for having the nuts and candy on the table were that they gave my father a handy way to fill our stockings at the end of a Christmas Eve spent indulging in Budweiser.  Our stockings were always filled to the brim with this shitty candy, walnuts in the shell and oranges (which were thankfully kept safely away in the kitchen).  While I appreciate a good orange, and walnuts are okay in my book, they lose a certain something when stuffed in a fuzzy stocking alongside unwrapped, medicine- like candy.
The New Year brought about some other interesting traditions in our household.  Fish and pork were required eating at our house and one, even a child, cannot help but wonder what masochist came up with this combination.  As soon as the new day began, my father insisted we eat fish for good luck.  Not just any fish, either. Herring.  If you're not familiar, I suggest you don't become.  Herring comes in small jars (obviously even the purveyors of herring realize this is not something eaten in large amounts) and is found in the deli section of the local grocery store.  It is either in a vinegary sauce or in a vinegary cream sauce.  My father would buy both.  Somehow, he felt that the cream sauced fish was a more palatable offering to his gagging children.  When we got older and downright refused to eat this 'tradition,' my father settled for us eating an onion out of the jar.  Which is reasonable, considering how much children love onions, particularly ones soaked in vinegar and cream with a slight fishy taste.
After consumption of our middle of the night fish, we kids were sent off to bed to dream of the pork dinner that awaited us the next day.  I enjoy a pork roast dinner, but the trauma of the herring often trumped looking forward to any meal in the near future.  While I just threw up in my mouth a little thinking about it, I can't help but wish my father was here this New Year's eve to force feed my own children a little vinegary, creamy filth (I mean fish).
This weeks tip:  My mother was with us on the great hard candy and herring 'traditions' - she thought they sucked too.  She does keep up the having fish to start off the New Year tradition by eating smoked whitefish salad.  This is not unlike a tuna salad, but much tastier.  Whatever the nonsensical thing your family does to celebrate the holiday, suck it up and soak it in (or adjust it to include smoked whitefish), because, amazingly, you will miss it when it's gone.  Happy New Year, and may old friends not be forgotten :)

Thanks be to ye, oh Jesus sandal

My mother had the terribly annoying habit of wanting to ready the house before company arrived.  You know, dusting, cleaning the floors, scrubbing the toilet and a general round of top notch straightening.  A few days before one particular Thanksgiving, she decided to re-do the entire kitchen.  This involved removing wall paper from the wall, sanding, painting ceilings and walls; tasks that a normal person might not undertake two days before expecting a house full of guests.  Amazingly, she accomplished all of this in time for our holiday company, minus returning the fan blades to the ceiling fan above the kitchen table.  This is where me, my brother and, most importantly, my father came in.

From the bathroom, where I was busy praying to the porcelain god (after having spent most of the previous night celebrating Thanksgiving Eve), I heard my mother beckoning.  I emerged, bleary-eyed and attempting to reacquaint my tongue with inside of my mouth (it seemed to weigh fifty pounds and to be in need of a good shave) to find my mother motioning to the kitchen table and the fan blades lying atop it.  As I understood, I was to climb on table and replace the blades.  Shakily, I crawled on the table and pressed my sweaty cheeks upon it before attempting a vertical stance.  Once I steadied myself, I placed one blade in its slot and tightened the screws.  The weight of the blade caused the entire fan to move slowly in a circular fashion (as fans are known to do); you can imagine that this is not exactly the situation someone with a fifty pound tongue and a vise around their brain wants to find themselves in.  Moving faster than someone in my condition should be able, I jumped from the table top, ran into the bathroom and remained there for unaccountable amounts of time.  It's at this point that my brother made his appearance and my mother asked him to resume the job I'd started.  While he was too young to drink excessive amounts of anything but Mountain Dew, my brother soon found himself also overcome by the dizziness and nausea of the slow moving fan blade.  Two down.

Completely disgusted, my mother continued preparing our Thanksgiving feast all the while cursing and muttering about the utter uselessness of her children.  It is here that my father made his appearance, pretending that he had come to see what the fuss was all about when we all know he had come into the kitchen searching for beer and snacks.  She quickly brought him up to speed on the situation, at which point he offered to hop up on the table himself and get the whole damned thing done.  It should be mentioned here that my father was not a small man - neither in stature or weight.  My mother scoffed at the idea and continued her cooking.  Mere moments passed and I swear I heard the low whine of protest from the hardware that held together the solid wood kitchen table followed by what I imagined to be the sound of a sonic boom.  The next sound was that of a wounded animal; low moaning and whimpering. One never imagines the day will come when they will find their father lying amidst the rubble of the kitchen table while his Birkenstocks sit neatly by bearing witness (as any good Jesus sandal would); but this is exactly what I found when I entered the kitchen, my hangover pushed aside out of curiosity.  My mother was standing by, spoon in hand, with a look of equal parts fascination and irritation.  "I told you you couldn't get up there" she said as she turned back to the stovetop.

We managed to get my father into the living room and clean up his feet which were cut up and bleeding.  After the moaning subsided, we laughed our asses off.  We wondered aloud what would possess such an intelligent man, of his size, to attempt to stand on the kitchen table.  In fact, tears were streaming down our faces as we watched him hobble into the kitchen to fix the table before company arrived.  Yep, my mother insisted that the table be fixed, as soon as his feet were tightly bandaged and could hold him up.  He assessed the damage and decided that the only thing that saved him were his Jesus sandals. After some considerable time, and the utilization of power tools, all was well by the time our guests arrived - if well means that there are screws sticking about an inch out of the top of your kitchen table while one lone fan blade remains in constant slow motion (not unlike the Eternal Flame).

We had obtained some semblance of normalcy as a family unit and promised my father we would not mention his earlier lapse in judgement, his ensuing injuries, nor his wonder at the saving properties of his sandals(we managed to keep these promises until Christmas).  Shortly after our company had arrived, my mother went to check on the bird and side dishes only to find that the oven had quit working at some point, and that dinner was no where near done.  Another person might have considered the day completely ruined and gone back to bed at this point, but not my mother.  She promptly put the turkey into the microwave and refreshed the drinks and snacks for everyone.  It is here she proves that she is unflappable: one fan blade spinning around in a mocking fashion, a kitchen table a little worse for the wear, children who have proved useless and an underdone bird will not put a damper on her day.  We ate dinner somewhere before bedtime and chuckled to ourselves on this day of thanks.  It is interesting to note that I don't believe that those blades were ever returned to the fan as no one was ever brave enough to attempt replacing them again.

This weeks tip:
My mother's kitchen savvy saved her meal that day.  The use of the microwave oven was genius on my mother's part and the turkey emerged from it fully cooked and quite tasty.  Whenever my mother has had to buy a new microwave in subsequent years, she has made sure that they were big enough to accommodate a turkey, because as she says "You never know".  In order to fully cook a turkey in the microwave, it is highly recommended that you place the bird breast side down for juiciness purposes.  The turkey can be cooked at full power for six minutes per pound.  A twenty to twenty-five pound turkey should be at approximately 180 degrees (farenheit) internal temperature when fully cooked; this can be measured with a meat thermometer, but make sure not to touch bone when you put thermometer in as it will give you an inaccurate reading.