I'm not feeling it this year. I'm disenchanted. I'm disillusioned. I'm disengaged.
Oh, I'm going through the motions. Making my lists, checking them twice, but the usual yuletide joy is missing.
I'm dashing through Target and clicking through Amazon in a mad race to Get It All Done. And when my mastercard is sufficiently over-heated, I wonder if I am buying gifts or running errands? And as I click click click through the online checkouts, I wonder if the convenience of the internet has made this all too easy...and completely impersonal.
The holiday cards that arrive in my mailbox are labeled, stamped and pre-printed. On many, there is no sign of the sender anywhere, and as I open some of them, I can't help but feel that I have become just another field in someones mail merge document.
I miss the thoughtfulness of the season. I miss watching my mom sit for hours, days, writing out her Christmas cards, you know, like, with an actual pen. I miss the home made gingerbread houses, a process that usually ended in tears because the frosting was never strong enough to hold up the heavy, doughy walls. I miss spending Christmas Eve driving halfway across the state to over 7 different stores searching for the coveted salad shooter for my dad. I miss stringing popcorn and cranberries for the tree, and awful hand made flannel nightgowns from my grandmother.
I miss the mindfulness.
The whole event, because that's what it has become, seems like one big To Do List. We rush through our action items and shout, "Done!" when we've reached the end. If a gift doesn't come with thought, if it's merely an obligation, an item on a long list, is it truly gift?
I will change my tune, I'm sure, on Christmas morning when I see the magical wonderment in my boys' eyes as they discover what Santa has left them. That, of course, is what makes all the pre-Christmas madness worthwhile. I know that.
Next year, though, I will propose that we make at least one gift for one another. If nothing else, the challenge of creating an offering for someone will force us to go 'off-list'. And maybe we will become active gift givers rather than passive credit-card-swiping gift givers.
But until then, I leave you with my (until now) top secret and most frequently requested Rum Ball recipe. I've been making these every year since 1998, and they never fail to bring a little jolly-ness to the season.
Cheers and see you next year!
Chocolate Rum Balls
1 Cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 Cup sugar
3 Tablespoons light corn syrup
½-1 Cup rum (and maybe an extra shot or two for yourself…it is the holiday season, after all)
1 ½ Cups finely crushed nilla wafers (if you don’t have a food processor to crush them, put them in a big ziplock bag and go at them with a rolling pin)
1 Cup finely chopped walnuts
Melt chocolate over stove top until smooth.
Whisk in ½ cup of the sugar, corn syrup and then rum.
Set aside.
Mix nilla wafers and walnuts in a bowl to blend.
Add chocolate mixture to nilla wafer/walnut mixture and stir to blend well.
Check the consistency…if it’s too liquidy, add more crushed nilla wafers…if it’s too solid, add more Rum (you may use this opportunity to partake in another shot if you wish)
Refrigerate the dough for an hour or so, or until you remember you left cookie dough in the fridge.
For each rum ball, roll about a tablespoon chocolate mixture into a 1 inch ball.
Roll into sugar.
Cover and refrigerate at least overnight or up to 5 days.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Lobster Stew, I Love You So
I'm over at The New England Mama's today cooking up some lobster stew for Christmas...come on over!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Redemption
One shot.
That’s all it took.
She opened the door and instantly recognized the eyes. It had been over 30 years, but the eyes were unmistakable.
The memories dizzied her: echoes in a vacant street; foot steps nearing; a struggle that tested her strength.
She hadn't intended to do harm, but under the right circumstances, she learned, anything could happen.
“You found me,” she said to him. “How did you do it?”
“It was only a matter of time, my darling,” he whispered.
“Come in,” she said, reaching into the dark corner behind her.
One shot.
And she was free.
-----------------------------------------------------------
This post is in response to Slouchy, who challenged can a story be told in 100 words? Not an easy task. Check out the 100 words of Slouchy. She nailed it.
And then take on the challenge yourself.
That’s all it took.
She opened the door and instantly recognized the eyes. It had been over 30 years, but the eyes were unmistakable.
The memories dizzied her: echoes in a vacant street; foot steps nearing; a struggle that tested her strength.
She hadn't intended to do harm, but under the right circumstances, she learned, anything could happen.
“You found me,” she said to him. “How did you do it?”
“It was only a matter of time, my darling,” he whispered.
“Come in,” she said, reaching into the dark corner behind her.
One shot.
And she was free.
-----------------------------------------------------------
This post is in response to Slouchy, who challenged can a story be told in 100 words? Not an easy task. Check out the 100 words of Slouchy. She nailed it.
And then take on the challenge yourself.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Moments Of Truth
It is 5:34 pm on a Tuesday. The kitchen scowls at me. Lunch dishes are stacked in the sink. The dishwasher needs to be run (and, subsequently, emptied). Credit card offers, the phone bill, and a J.Crew catalog clutter the kitchen table.
My head throbs slightly.
The Second Grader drags himself onto a kitchen chair and opens his homework folder. He lets out a small, whiny grunt, which verbalizes into, "do I haaaave to?".
The house feels cold. An hour less of daylight hurts.
Reluctantly, I crank up the heat to a moderate 68, okay 69, degrees.
The Four Year Old flashes by me as he rushes to the bathroom yelling "gottago!gottago!gottago!".
I glance at the perpetually slow wall clock and think, Dinner?
Oh, crap.
Dinner.
It creeps up on me every night.
Meatballs are plucked from the freezer and dumped into a pot on the stove. Water is put on to boil. Pasta? Bread? Yes and, thankfully, yes. Tomato sauce is a vegetable today.
"Doooone!" The Four Year Old shouts from the bathroom.
He still needs (wants?) help wiping.
I walk into the bathroom and find him standing, half naked, on a wobbly step stool. Before I can get to him, he slips and lands, bum first, onto the floor.
Hugs, tears, recovery.
The meatballs boil and sauce splatters onto the stove. And my shirt.
"Moooom, I neeed help. I don't get this. I'm too tired. What's for DINNER?" The Second Grader yells, pencil in hand, but homework not yet begun (other than his name at the top of the math worksheet).
The phone rings.
I sprint upstairs to check caller ID, since the new cordless phone downstairs works only when it feels like it. Which is not often.
1-800 service. I don't pick up.
Back in the kitchen, the heart of the house?, I sit next to The Second Grader at the table and attempt to decipher tonight's word problems.
Then, a shattery, clinkety kind of spill echoing from the next room that can only be the sound of 1,000 small Lego pieces being dumped onto the floor.
The Husband's car squeaks into the garage.
[we should check those breaks]
The Second Grader drops his pencil. The Four Year Old abandons his Lego ships.
They assume their hiding positions, one in the kitchen doorway, the other behind the couch.
The door opens and, as The Husband comes into view, they jump out bellowing "ATTACK!!!!!!!!!!!!". They cling to his legs and try to bring him down. Their ambush is a success today, due, in part, to The Husband stumbling on the stray shoes that are strewn across the floor.
A few more minutes and we'll be sitting at the kitchen table eating spaghetti and meatballs. There will be a spilled cup of milk. A dropped fork. Bread crumbs on the linoleum.
Maybe a cookie. Maybe not. Then fleece pj's. Tooth brushes. Soap?
There will be books, two cups of water with four ice cubes each, and, finally, cozy beds.
These are not buffed and polished Norman-Rockwell kind of moments. There is no crackling fire in the parlor or basted turkey in the dining room.
There is chaos and noise. There are dusty rooms and hungry kids.
There is imperfection.
These are the stripped down, authentic moments of the day.
They are real. And they are mine.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Inspired by Real Simple, my magazine of choice during the 45 minutes of The Second Grader's karate class, which ran a 'Most Meaningful Moments Of My Day' piece. Twelve writers, twelve meaningful moments.
My head throbs slightly.
The Second Grader drags himself onto a kitchen chair and opens his homework folder. He lets out a small, whiny grunt, which verbalizes into, "do I haaaave to?".
The house feels cold. An hour less of daylight hurts.
Reluctantly, I crank up the heat to a moderate 68, okay 69, degrees.
The Four Year Old flashes by me as he rushes to the bathroom yelling "gottago!gottago!gottago!".
I glance at the perpetually slow wall clock and think, Dinner?
Oh, crap.
Dinner.
It creeps up on me every night.
Meatballs are plucked from the freezer and dumped into a pot on the stove. Water is put on to boil. Pasta? Bread? Yes and, thankfully, yes. Tomato sauce is a vegetable today.
"Doooone!" The Four Year Old shouts from the bathroom.
He still needs (wants?) help wiping.
I walk into the bathroom and find him standing, half naked, on a wobbly step stool. Before I can get to him, he slips and lands, bum first, onto the floor.
Hugs, tears, recovery.
The meatballs boil and sauce splatters onto the stove. And my shirt.
"Moooom, I neeed help. I don't get this. I'm too tired. What's for DINNER?" The Second Grader yells, pencil in hand, but homework not yet begun (other than his name at the top of the math worksheet).
The phone rings.
I sprint upstairs to check caller ID, since the new cordless phone downstairs works only when it feels like it. Which is not often.
1-800 service. I don't pick up.
Back in the kitchen, the heart of the house?, I sit next to The Second Grader at the table and attempt to decipher tonight's word problems.
Then, a shattery, clinkety kind of spill echoing from the next room that can only be the sound of 1,000 small Lego pieces being dumped onto the floor.
The Husband's car squeaks into the garage.
[we should check those breaks]
The Second Grader drops his pencil. The Four Year Old abandons his Lego ships.
They assume their hiding positions, one in the kitchen doorway, the other behind the couch.
The door opens and, as The Husband comes into view, they jump out bellowing "ATTACK!!!!!!!!!!!!". They cling to his legs and try to bring him down. Their ambush is a success today, due, in part, to The Husband stumbling on the stray shoes that are strewn across the floor.
A few more minutes and we'll be sitting at the kitchen table eating spaghetti and meatballs. There will be a spilled cup of milk. A dropped fork. Bread crumbs on the linoleum.
Maybe a cookie. Maybe not. Then fleece pj's. Tooth brushes. Soap?
There will be books, two cups of water with four ice cubes each, and, finally, cozy beds.
These are not buffed and polished Norman-Rockwell kind of moments. There is no crackling fire in the parlor or basted turkey in the dining room.
There is chaos and noise. There are dusty rooms and hungry kids.
There is imperfection.
These are the stripped down, authentic moments of the day.
They are real. And they are mine.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Inspired by Real Simple, my magazine of choice during the 45 minutes of The Second Grader's karate class, which ran a 'Most Meaningful Moments Of My Day' piece. Twelve writers, twelve meaningful moments.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
He Claims He " Ran Out Of Room"
The Second Grader came home with the obligatory 'What I'm Thankful For' paper last week.
Gerbils? CHECK
Little Brother? CHECK
House? CHECK
Dad? CHECK
Person who gave him life? *crickets*
Gerbils? CHECK
Little Brother? CHECK
House? CHECK
Dad? CHECK
Person who gave him life? *crickets*
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Day After Tofurkey Day Dinner
Have I mentioned that I have turned into a pseudo vegetarian? Technically, I can't call myself a real veggie because I eat fish. And lots of it. But for the past 17 months I have not consumed any land animals. And for a quitter like me, that is a pretty big deal.
Of course, just because I have changed my meat-eating ways, does not mean the rest of the family has followed suit.
The boys here in Boy Town like their meat.
Their love of all things pork has created another challenge to the already tiresome evening ritual called Dinner.
Many nights I find that I am preparing two meals: one for THEM and one for ME.
Some nights I find that it's easier to prepare ONE meal and not tell them what their eating.
And on rare nights when I am hosting the night-after-Thanksgiving dinner for 16 in-laws, I find that it's just good fun to mess with their heads.
Enter exhibit A:
My Own Tofu Lasagna (served the day after Thanksgiving to the unsuspecting extended family)
Step 1. Make sure you are alone in the kitchen. Your guests will think that you are working hard, but, in truth, this is a convenient excuse to avoid socializing with your in-laws.
Step 2. Pour yourself a drink. I prefer vodka tonics at this time of day, but mix up whatever feels right for you.
Step 3. Boil/cook lasagna noodles according to package directions. If desired, the steam from the boiling water acts as a nice spa-like facial.
Step 4. Saute a few cloves of garlic, chopped onions, mushrooms, green pepper, and/or any other vegetable you think looks good or can be easily concealed in a mound of lasagna noodles.
Step 5. Add thawed frozen spinach and enough tomato sauce so that the veggies can simmer in sauce for about 10 minutes. If you are feeling really ambitious, and need extra time away from your family, you can actually MAKE YOUR OWN SAUCE, which I highly recommend. It's worth the extra effort.
Step 6. While veggies simmer, check your highball glass. Is it empty? Go ahead, pour yourself another. You've still got to get through dinner AND dessert with 8 meat-eating adults and 8 picky children.
Step 7. In a mixing bowl, combine a whole package of TOFU (ssshhhhhh, don't tell anyone) with an egg (or two) and a cup (or two) of freshly shredded mozzarella.
Step 8. Begin lasagna assembly. Layer noodles, tofu mixture, veggies, sauce, and a little more mozzarella because there's no such thing as too much cheese unless you're lactose intolerant.
Step 9. Finish lasagna assembly with a layer of noodles, sauce, shredded moz and FRESHLY GRATED parmesan. For God's sake, DO NOT use the grocery store parm that comes in a jar.
Step 10. Bake at 350 for about 45 minutes until bubbly.
Step 11. I recommend remaining in the kitchen while lasagna is baking. Your guests will think that you are VERY BUSY and WON'T BOTHER YOU. Clang pots and pans around, run the water, whatever it takes.
By the time dinner rolls around, you should bedrunk calm enough to be able to sit down at your dining room table to enjoy your meatless meal with your carnivorous family.
It's up to you as to whether you want to tell them they just ate a pound of tofu.
Of course, just because I have changed my meat-eating ways, does not mean the rest of the family has followed suit.
The boys here in Boy Town like their meat.
Their love of all things pork has created another challenge to the already tiresome evening ritual called Dinner.
Many nights I find that I am preparing two meals: one for THEM and one for ME.
Some nights I find that it's easier to prepare ONE meal and not tell them what their eating.
And on rare nights when I am hosting the night-after-Thanksgiving dinner for 16 in-laws, I find that it's just good fun to mess with their heads.
Enter exhibit A:
My Own Tofu Lasagna (served the day after Thanksgiving to the unsuspecting extended family)
Step 1. Make sure you are alone in the kitchen. Your guests will think that you are working hard, but, in truth, this is a convenient excuse to avoid socializing with your in-laws.
Step 2. Pour yourself a drink. I prefer vodka tonics at this time of day, but mix up whatever feels right for you.
Step 3. Boil/cook lasagna noodles according to package directions. If desired, the steam from the boiling water acts as a nice spa-like facial.
Step 4. Saute a few cloves of garlic, chopped onions, mushrooms, green pepper, and/or any other vegetable you think looks good or can be easily concealed in a mound of lasagna noodles.
Step 5. Add thawed frozen spinach and enough tomato sauce so that the veggies can simmer in sauce for about 10 minutes. If you are feeling really ambitious, and need extra time away from your family, you can actually MAKE YOUR OWN SAUCE, which I highly recommend. It's worth the extra effort.
Step 6. While veggies simmer, check your highball glass. Is it empty? Go ahead, pour yourself another. You've still got to get through dinner AND dessert with 8 meat-eating adults and 8 picky children.
Step 7. In a mixing bowl, combine a whole package of TOFU (ssshhhhhh, don't tell anyone) with an egg (or two) and a cup (or two) of freshly shredded mozzarella.
Step 8. Begin lasagna assembly. Layer noodles, tofu mixture, veggies, sauce, and a little more mozzarella because there's no such thing as too much cheese unless you're lactose intolerant.
Step 9. Finish lasagna assembly with a layer of noodles, sauce, shredded moz and FRESHLY GRATED parmesan. For God's sake, DO NOT use the grocery store parm that comes in a jar.
Step 10. Bake at 350 for about 45 minutes until bubbly.
Step 11. I recommend remaining in the kitchen while lasagna is baking. Your guests will think that you are VERY BUSY and WON'T BOTHER YOU. Clang pots and pans around, run the water, whatever it takes.
By the time dinner rolls around, you should be
It's up to you as to whether you want to tell them they just ate a pound of tofu.
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