Launching Christmas

So how's it going . . . all of you Santa's helpers out there?

Do you have lift-off on the Christmas preparations . . .

the cards

the presents

the concerts

the parties

the baking

the decorating

Or are you struggling to breathe in the de-oxygenated atmosphere?

My brain feels like it is in perpetual orbit

around Christmas Planet.

Only my lists keep me anchored

to the solid (but icy!) ground.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Yesterday was the shortest day of the year, and I spent the last two hours of dusky daylight walking through a steadily falling snow.  Okay Winter, all is forgiven:  it was absolutely magical.

Snow causes havoc in England, and all day long I've heard stories of people being stranded in their cars, but we (safe at home) couldn't help but revel in the stuff.  My husband, father and I walked deep into the forest -- and every scene was like a Christmas card come to life.  I kept fumbling to get my gloves off so that I could take pictures . . . although I missed my favorite scene of the day, when a couple and their glossy dog bounded out of the woods, arms laden with pine boughs.

My father and I sang every song we could think of with "snow" in the lyrics.  Over the ground lies a mantle of white . . .

Years ago, (Christmas 1999, to be precise), we also got a big snow right before Christmas.  I have a treasured memory of walking down a dark lane, slipping and sliding in the treacherous snow, to arrive at our friends' house.  They had a huge open fire, and we sat around it -- drinking mulled wine and eating mince pies.  It seemed to encompass most of the wonderful elements of Christmas:  the warmth contrasting with the cold, the sharp smell of pine, and the rich taste of brandied fruit.  And friends and family, of course.  And laughter.  And the feeling that time was suspended just a bit, just long enough to enjoy it all.

Chestnuts roasting on a open fire.  Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

Last night, in a piece of magical symmetry, these same friends came over for dinner.  (In the ensuing years, we moved to Texas for five years, and they've moved house, too; but by chance we have ended up in the same village once again.)  By dinner-time, the roads were impassable; we live at the bottom of the hill, and they live at the top.  They took a footpath that cuts through a farmer's fields, and arrived, bundled and booted and covered with snow.   We were waiting, with mulled wine and hot cider and candles lit all over the house.  Somehow, I think that I will remember the sight of them at the door -- all of us laughing -- forever.

Today is a quiet day between many days of seasonal socializing.  Everyone has retreated to his or her own corner, to read, or watch a film, or catch up with blogging!  I took another long snowy walk, this time by myself, and just enjoyed the silence of it all.

I couldn't decide if these boys were trying to build the biggest ball ever (in the deserted football field), or a base layer of a snowman. 

In the meadow we can build a snowman . . .

Last night, when I attempted to put my wired-up daughter to bed, I discovered that she was all tucked up under her blankets and quilts . . . and eating a rather large snowball!

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Still, still, still

One can hear the falling snow . . .

Enduring the season

The Barn on a cold day in December

For weeks now, the world has been unrelentingly gray.
November set a record for rainiest ever, (as if normal English rainful wasn't sufficient enough to depress me).  I feel like the cold fog has seeped into my bones and smothered everything light and lively.

So many of you write about how much you love winter -- including the pleasures of slowing down and hibernating a bit.  But I find that there are excessive seasonal demands -- except, perhaps, in the garden -- and I just don't have the energy to do it all.  I am surrounded by lists (to do, to make, to buy), but I'm feeling awfully listless.  Maybe I'm just suffering from S.A.D?

I like a lazy afternoon just as much as the next person, but I want it to feel soothing and restful -- and not just some horrible malaise.  I've been reading a lot . . . but more for escapism than for entertainment or enlightenment.  I've seen films, I've gone to parties, I've baked dozens of cookies and mailed a stack of cards, but there is something missing.  My brain feels dull.  I'm always tired, and I feel, a bit, that I'm just going through the motions this year.  Is it just me? 

So many children have been struck down by viruses and flu-type illnesses that they had to cancel the Christmas concert at my youngest daughter's school.  For the first time ever.  It's so sad for my parents, really. They are visiting from Texas, and they never get to go to the children's concerts and programs.  I was counting on the candlelight and the carols and the unchanging ceremony of it all.

Yesterday, we took advantage of the last child-free day and went to London.  I had this notion that visiting the Charles Dickens Museum might help the Christmas spirit along.  Also, the Dickens Museum is only a couple of blocks from Persephone -- one of my favorite bookstores.  Surely, the combination of the two would kindle my gone-latent enthusiasms?

48 Doughty Street

Charles Dickens wrote Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby here.

Somewhat miraculously, we were blessed by a few streaks of weak winter sunshine.  (Only an hour away, in West Berkshire, it was sleeting.)  Perhaps I would like winter if it were blue and white and crisp at the edges -- instead of gray, damp and muddy.  I suppose it is effective, though, for recreating the Victorian London atmosphere.

If you ever visit the museum in winter, make sure to dress warmly.  It was almost entirely unheated, which seemed a bit too authentic.  Anyway, I'm sure that the Dickens family made good use of the fireplaces which adorned every room.  In this century, they seem to be merely decorative.

The desk of Charles Dickens

I've been telling myself that I've been too busy to write, but reading about Dickens' work habits made me acknowledge that the problem has more to do with a lack of motivation.  Dickens was amazingly disciplined and prolific.  He wrote novels, short stories and journalism . . . not to mention keeping a daily journal and being an enthusiastic correspondent.  He managed to churn out A Christms Carol in just a couple of weeks, motivated, in this case, by the financial urgencies of his wife's fifth pregnancy.

He rarely edited his work -- or even plotted it out, to any great extent.  In the museum, you can see the original manuscripts with jotted ideas and "key points" listed.  And yet, all of those characters lived and breathed on the page.  Even without Jim Carrey's help, is there anyone who doesn't understand what it means to be a Scrooge?

One of Dickens' many writing projects was a magazine called Household Words, which ran from 1850 to 1859.  In one of the 1850 editions, Dickens wrote a piece describing a decorated Christmas tree -- as popularized by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert two years before.  This tree, in the drawing room of the house, is decorated according to that description. 

Only your imagination, though, can provide the noise of raucous singing and laughter, the smell of mulled wine and pine, and the warmth of a crackling fire.

A 19th century illustration of the Christmas feast

There were so many illustrations of plum pudding . . . it made me feel bad that we won't be having one this Christmas.  For a truly authentic touch, boil yours up in dirty linen. 

Those Victorians who didn't possess ovens big enough for turkeys could collect a cooked Christmas dinner from the local bakery.  I assume, from the illustration, that they brought in their own plates?  It's not a bad idea; especially since I'm not at all sure that my oven is big enough to hold the turkey that I ordered.

We were practically light-headed when we reached Persephone Bookstore, and discovered -- to our great delight -- that we had lucked into an Open House.  (I did wonder at the crowds in this usually calm and quiet shop.)  There was mulled wine, and a plate of clementines, and the most delicious mince pies.  I asked where they got the pies, and one of the helpers steered us toward the best ones and shared that they were from Konditor & Cook.  I fancy myself as a mince pie connoisseur, or at least an enthusiast, and these were very, very good.  (Apparently they have been named Best Mince Pie in London by The Independent.)

Sipping mulled wine, and picking out a few new books -- you get a price break if you buy three -- really did do wonders for my mood.  I felt downright Christmassy, even.

I still can't wait for the dark days to lengthen again, though.

Still-Life at Persephone Bookstore

In cold, dark places . . . I dream of spring.  (k.d. lang)

It's Not (Quite) a Wrap

I’ve been lost down the rabbit hole of Christmas preparation these past few days . . . or should I say weeks. Yes, I know it’s not even December, but I belong to that set of crazed Christmas groupies who believe that the tree should go up the weekend after Thanksgiving. I’m not as organized as my friend who likes to get her shopping done in the January sales, (does that seem slightly not in the spirit of the thing?), but I do like to have my shopping done by the end of November . . . if at all possible. The less time I have to do a thing, the less pleasure I will take in it. (Christmas cards come to mind, for one example.) Sometimes, during this festive time of the year, a person does have to consciously work at the enjoyment part.


Do you love Christmas or loathe it?

The other week, as I was musing on simple pleasures, I happened to mention my delight in the steadily growing pile of wrapped presents . . . and it seemed to touch a nerve in certain people. Christmas should not feel like a competitive sport, but frankly, it can give a person the sense of being a pathetic straggler in an impossible race.

I openly confess to being a Christmas lover, but I have nothing but empathy for those who loathe it. What’s not to loathe, really? It’s expensive, stressful and emotionally loaded in all kinds of ways. It can also be the time-burning equivalent of a full-time job. The other day I was talking to a friend about various ideas and projects, and she kept repeating this refrain: It will have to wait until after Christmas. She would like to look for a part-time job, but in December she already has one.

I wonder how many people, particularly women, feel like they are the cruise directors on the Christmas Boat?   Here's hoping that we can bring that holiday in on time and on budget . . . and keep everyone (not least of all ourselves) happy.  At a certain point, does the pleasure in Christmas become mostly vicarious?

Happy Christmas . . .

Door 24

Image from the Bodleian Library Advent Calendar

I'm flying away tomorrow, but I hope that everyone finds what they want behind the last door of the Advent countdown.

xx, Bee

The Best-Laid Plans . . .

of mice and man often go awry!

Exhibit A: Bee is not a domestic goddess after all!

"Keeping it Real"

Last weekend, as I was cleaning the house for our pre-Christmas bash with the in-laws, I finally motivated to remove the dead poinsettia from my windowsill. A friend had given it to me on Halloween -- I'm sure that was its problem! It was probably cursed! -- and I had somehow managed to kill it. Even though I watered it faithfully, (do you think I watered it too much?), this sad old symbol of Christmas had a failure-to-thrive from the start. It dropped leaves; it shrivelled up; it looked sickly. Rather than removing this eyesore, it was as if I had made a pact to honor its passing by giving witness to each stage of decay. Go figure: Here I am, decorating the rest of my house like some mad Christmas fairy, but I've got a dead plant in the hub of the house. Finally, finally, I dealt with the situation and dumped it on the compost heap.

I'm thinking of the dead poinsettia as a sort of metaphor for Christmas.

Here are three possible readings:

• You can plan too far in advance.
• No matter how much you plan, something is going to get away from you and make you feel like a harassed basketcase.
• Most of it is going to end up in the trash anyway.

This year I was on top of the gift-buying, the gift-wrapping, the Christmas dinner, the house decorating and - unsurprisingly, the festive baking. Once again, it was the Christmas cards that let me down.

Every year, I start thinking about the cards in October. I start taking pictures of the girls in November. And yet! Somehow, I am always racing against the last mailing day . . . and usually losing.

Even though I was a bit behind schedule this year, I had a plan to pick up my finished cards on Monday morning and then -- no procrastinating! -- put in a full afternoon of hard handwritten labor. (Isn't there a saying about the gods laughing at the plan-makers in this life?) Unfortunately, by the time I got to the bottom of our lane, I could hear the tell-tale death rattle of a blown tire. Never mind the tire -- the afternoon was blown, too. By the time I had purchased two exorbitantly expensive Michelin tires, (thank goodness Sigmund's already bought my pressies), and been chewed out by a garage owner for driving on bare tread and a prayer, there was just enough time to get home and start dinner. The cards could wait for another day . . . and somehow they did.

Despite my best efforts to get on top of Christmas this year -- so I could actually enjoy all of the little rites, and not feel them to be a hideously stressful burden -- I ended up doing my Christmas cards in a less than desirable state-of-mind. In a fit of Christmas multi-tasking, I was writing out addresses as I got my hair cut. I was writing cheery messages as I got a pedicure. I was sticking on address labels as I tried to eat soup. Yes, even though I am due to catch a plane early tomorrow morning, I was sliding into the post office at a quarter to five today. The postmistress could only sigh at my Santa sack of letters -- to be posted all over the world. And once again, my wishes for a happy new year are going to be read after that new year has already dawned.

But that's a minor thing, really. What's much, much worse is that my husband is not going to be able to get away from work this Christmas. Our trip to the Bahamas -- the one that my mother has been planning for a year -- is going to be sans Sigmund. Poor Sigmund! Should I leave his lone stocking?

It's not much comfort, but at least the chickens will have company. The four of them (Minstrel, too) will have to scratch out a Christmas together.

Mince Pies . . . and other English things which have grown on me

Chutney

I would have never dreamed of making chutney

when I lived in Texas.

There is just something so British Empire

and WI about it.

I made these for teacher and friend gifts

this year - along with tins of M & S biscuits.

It seemed like an appropriate gift

for an economic crisis.

It feels thrifty.

It lasts a long time,

as does the vinegary smell

which hangs about the kitchen

after you simmer all of the ingredients

together for hours.

Snowballs

Mix one part Advocaat with one part lemonade/Sprite

and lots of ice. Stir.

A cross between eggnog

and an ice cream soda.

Perfect for teenagers, mother-in-laws,

and people who order Pina Coladas.

I first learned of this quintessential

70s drink while watching

The Royle Family

many years ago.

That reference alone revealed what

a cheesy, retro drink it is.

I love it, though.

Bovril beef broth

In a recent interview,
Julie Walters said
that a cup of hot Bovril after swimming
was a favourite childhood memory.
It is very cosy and warming,
and my children are hooked on it, too.

Brussels Sprouts

The essential vegetable
for a Christmas roast dinner.
I didn’t always like
its slightly sour taste,
but with lashings of pancetta,
parsley and Marsala wine
(thanks to Nigella Lawson’s advice)
I can happily eat it.

Mulled wine

Sweet and warming,
so delicious!
This year’s recipe
included the savoury touches
of a clove of garlic
and a bay leaf.
You steep the spices in apple juice
and then add an equal part
of red wine.
To be taken, as holiday tonic,
with mince pies of course!

Mince pies

I can remember very clearly
the first time I loved a mince pie.
It was the week before Christmas
In 1999.
We had walked down a dark, snowy lane
to a friend’s cottage,
where we ate mince pies and drank mulled wine
in front of a roaring fire.

They really are better home-made.
Last year I canned many jars
of mincemeat, and then gave them away
so cavalierly.
I used my last jar this weekend,
only to discover that the
recipe (from a newspaper, I think)
has been lost!

Nigella’s recipe for pastry
is perfect.

Oh, Sugar! A virtual candy exchange

Dedication: For dearest friend Lucy, of Box Elder, on her birthday.

Lucy was one of my first blogging friends, and the first person who “found me” rather than the other way around. (I left a comment on Jan’s Writing Journal – oh lucky day! - and Lucy followed it to Bee Drunken.) Lucy is the person who I would like to be when I grow up; unfortunately, though, Lucy is only a few years older than I am . . . and I just don’t think you can get that much seasoning in three or four years. She is a talented writer (prose and poetry), teacher, photographer and artist, and she knows all sorts of things about birds and plants – not to mention her practical knowledge about hedgerow fruits and pointing. I am always educated, charmed or emotionally moved by her postings . . . and usually all three at once.

I’ve been planning my virtual candy exchange for a while now – saving it until Friday with the hopes that busy Anne could join us – so when I read Lucy’s ghazal about sugar yesterday, the timing was just too delicious. Please do read Lucy’s poem . . . it adds some depth to my own tribute to sweet stuff.


Not long ago, Alyson and I were nattering in the comments and we realized that we both make toffee as part of our Christmas tradition. Of course, I immediately wanted to compare recipes. If someone says they have a good recipe of anything, I’m instantly desirous – one part curiosity, and one part greed. Who knows why, but domestic details intrigue me. I always like to know what other people are eating, and if they say it is good, then I want to eat it, too. So in that spirit of sharing and sugar-lust, I am calling for a virtual candy exchange! If you would like to participate, I will link you in.

Do Americans have more of a taste for sugar? Or are they just more industrious? When I was a child, the tins of homemade cookies and candies would line the sideboard. There would be toffee, peanut brittle, divinity, pecan tassies, sugar cookies, gingerbread, spritz butter cookies, and Oklahoma Brown candy – and that was just the standard assortment. We always tried new recipes, too. If you wanted something salty, there was Texas Trash (basically a nuttier, spicier version of Chex Mix), but Christmas was mostly about indulging your sweet tooth.

In England, you’ve got your holy trinity of dried fruit: Christmas pudding, cake and mince pies. I don’t recall ever being offered homemade candy. At best, (depending on how you look at it), a tin of Quality Street or Turkish Delight will get passed around. But let’s be frank: that “treat” will probably be reserved for family. I think that you have to grow up with these delicacies (in other words, never experience anything better) in order to really appreciate them.

Ironically, my family’s favorite Christmas candy is called English Toffee. Goodness knows why, as I have never tasted anything like it in England. But, then, Americans often get England wrong – erring on the side of thinking that everything about is postcard-esque. Anyway, the toffee may not be English in origin – but English people have been known to love it. Everyone else who tries it tends to love it, too.

English Toffee

Ingredients:

8 oz butter
8 oz brown sugar
4 oz finely chopped pecans
4 oz chocolate chips (or dark chocolate, finely chopped)

Method:

You will need a nonstick pan of some sort. My mom always used a pizza pan, while I use a heavy nonstick cookie sheet. Sprinkle about half of the nuts evenly over the pan’s surface.

Melt the butter and sugar in a medium-sized saucepan over medium heat. Stir continuously until the temperature reaches 295F/146C. You will need a candy thermometer for this bit – (and I like to have something to read as well) – as it will take awhile. Just like childbirth, time will seem to move really slowly and nothing will seem to be happening . . . but be careful and attentive at the end, because it will suddenly shoot up to the required temperature.

Quickly pour the mixture over the nuts. Be extra careful – you do NOT want to get burned. You can smooth it out with a plastic spatula or wooden spoon, but do that straight away as it hardens up quickly.

Let cool for a few minutes, and then sprinkle the chocolate evenly over the candy’s surface. The heat of the candy will melt the chocolate, and then you can spread it evenly. Finally, sprinkle the rest of the nuts over the chocolate.

When the candy is completely cool, you can break it into small pieces. It will cool on its own, but it you are in a hurry (and sometimes I am) you can speed it up by putting it in the refrigerator for a few minutes.

Store in an air-tight can . . . and don’t make it on a humid day!

The only tricky thing about this candy is that a few degrees of temperature can change the consistency/texture. If you get it right, the toffee will be crisp, but have a giving bite to it. If you don’t cook it long enough, or if it’s really humid, it will be chewy. If you cook it too long, it will be glassy. All of the versions are highly edible, though – we are just talking about degrees of perfection.

Americans have always had a culture of recipe-sharing: whether recipe cards (From the kitchen of . . .), church or Junior League cookbooks, newspaper columns, or just word of mouth. In fact, at the bottom of my recipe for toffee there is a little note from my mom – “from Kathy Daniel Kimes.” Probably 35 or so years ago my mom ate this toffee at a Christmas lunch at Kathy’s house. She asked for the recipe; we started making it every year; and now I’m spreading it around the blogosphere.

Please join me for a virtual Christmas candy exchange! You know never know when or where you will find that recipe that becomes your family’s traditional, must-have, favorite.

It would be nice to add a dedication, too . . . when Southerners say “give me some sugar,” they are actually talking about love and kisses – not candy.

Virtual Candy Exchange:

Gingerbread Truffles at Beyond Ramen

Toffee Testimonial at Just a Plane Ride Away

Lucy's Flapjacks at Box Elder

Buckeye Candy at The Caboose Chronicles

Candied Orange Peel at Nimble Pundit

Another long winter's nap

Minstrel and little daughter: Waiting for Santa to come?

I went downstairs to make sure that the children had gone to bed, and this sweet scene had me running for my camera. That Minstrel: What an opportunist. Create a cozy nest and he will be there.

Tomorrow is little daughter's first day of Christmas vacation. Remember how wonderful that felt? Unlike me and big daughter, little is looking forward to a lie-in . . .

Do you need a good (gingerbread) man?

For Audrey

I've said it before: I am a person who loves to bake cookies.

There is something really satisfying to me about making home-baked treats, and my annual round of Christmas baking is pretty much double the pleasure.

However! Although there are many bakerinas who share this obsession, I realize that there at least an equal number of people who regard baking to be somewhere on the spectrum between torture and a complete waste of time. My good friend Audrey is such a person.

In a recent (and most humorous) post, Audrey vowed -- with only slightly gritted teeth -- that she was going to bake cookies with her children this Christmas. As I read it, I vowed that I would share my family's most excellent gingerbread man cookie recipe with her. It is easy, no-fail, delicious and spectacularly Christmassy. I have made these cookies every year for 30+ years, and frankly, could not contemplate Christmas without them. Yes, I was going to wax and whitter endlessly about gingerbread cookies -- throwing in a variety of related anecdotes -- but the post Not a Bree stopped me in my tracks.

For those of you who aren't au fait with American pop culture references, Bree is the uptight desperate housewife who is devoted to good housekeeping. Bree/Bee . . . it's all too close for comfort. (Come to think of it, my hair does look a bit like Betty Draper's . . .)

Although Audrey has kept mostly silent through a variety of posts devoted to fruitcakes and the like, my recent experiments in wreath-making finally broke her. She felt compelled, by her inner smirk, to pose the question as to whether these rites of domesticity were, post-Betty Friedan, just a little too retro. Are we somehow diminished, as modern women, if we do actually like to arrange flowers and bake cakes?

Ever since a defensive Hillary Clinton uttered those waspish, immortal words: "Well, I guess that I could have stayed home and baked cookies," cookie-baking has had a 50s housewife taint to it. A political career or cookie-baking? Like there's no middle ground.

But why do we feel that we have to choose? Admittedly, it's probably not possible to do it all . . . but can't we be lawyers who bake cookies and engineers who knit and business women who like a bit of decoupage? Well, I'm being a bit disingenuous here. When Julia Roberts knits, it is a cool form of down-to-earth self-expression; but when a stay-at-home mom knits there is tendency to think, "Hey, get a real job!" I've been a stay-at-home mom for more than two years now, and there isn't a week that goes by that I don't revisit that decision. Indeed, attending a flower-arranging class last spring prompted me to have a mini existential crisis.

Remember that über-feminist slogan: A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle?

As feminism has evolved, I think that most women (and men) have become more comfortable with the idea that inclusiveness -- rather than exclusiveness -- is the feminist objective. Buy it, bake it, pay someone else and fake it -- it's all good. Just as most women can be relaxed about the idea of men as life-enhancing, if not absolutely essential -- although, admittedly, I do have some good friends who have "switched teams" in middle age -- so can we, surely, embrace the domestic arts without losing all of our feminist cred.

Goodness knows I am no domestic goddess, but I do like to think of myself as a domestic sensualist. Since we all have to make meals and provide a warm living space anyway, doesn't it make sense to do the best we can with those rites? I am going to twist William Morris's famous words on homemaking: Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful and believe to be beautiful. Certainly we can all feed our children (or ourselves) by buying ready-meals and handing out the forks, but isn't there something much, much nicer and soul-satisfying about a homemade chicken pie with a puff pastry crust served at a beautifully set table?

No one NEEDS a gingerbread man at Christmas . . . I will concede that point. And yet, they taste good and smell good and look cute . . . and children love them, even if their efforts go a bit wonky. Perfection isn't the goal, you know . . . just participation.

Gingerbread Men (or Women)

Ingredients:
½ cup (4 oz) vegetable shortening (Crisco, Trex or similar)
2/3 cup (5 ¾ oz) sugar
2/3 cup (5 ¾ oz) molasses or treacle
1 egg
3 ½ cups (28 oz) flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cloves

Method:
Using a freestanding mixer (if you have one), cream together the shortening and sugar until fluffy. Then thoroughly blend in the molasses and egg. (Tip: measure your molasses in a glass measuring cup for liquids, and swirl the egg in it first so that the molasses doesn’t stick.)

Combine the flour, soda, salt and spices in a separate bowl. Sift into the molasses mixture. (You can actually skip the sifting part if you aren’t a domestic goddess.) Mix dough until smooth. (Dough should be stiff. If it is really, really sticky then add a bit more flour.)

Put the dough in Ziploc plastic bags and chill overnight.

Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface. (It should be about ¼ inch thick.) Cut out with floured cookie cutters of your choice, and then place on greased cookie sheets. (I always use a Silpat silicone baking mat, which eliminates the need for greasing.)

If you have access to red hot candies, it is fun to decorate the cookies with them before baking.

Bake at 350 F/175 C for approximately 10 minutes. Don’t overcook! If the cookies start browning too much or crisping at the edges, they are going to be on the “overdone” side.

I always double the recipe. These freeze beautifully, and will last quite a while unfrozen, too – if you keep them in a tin or sealed bag.

The beauty of this recipe is that the dough can be rolled out numerous times, (and can absorb quite a lot of flour), while still remaining edible. In my humble opinion, this makes gingerbread preferable to a sugar cookie recipe if you are baking with children.

Good luck, Audrey!

Blogger Book Boost

Blogger Book Boost

Yesterday I had to be bodily dragged from one of my favorite little independent bookstores, the Red Lion Bookshop in Burford. Although we were already leaving the store with a hefty bag of goodies, I spied a new Anne Fadiman on one of those irresistible tables near the door. Every book-truffling nerve in my body went on alert. I gave Sigmund the begging puppy dog eyes, but he responded with a firm NO and frogmarched me out the door. It is a truth well acknowledged by my family: I am a book lover (addict). I have a bit of a habit, and sometimes it gets out of control.

I don't buy expensive shoes or handbags, but I do buy lots and lots of books. Although I may show restraint and frugality in some areas, if I go into a bookstore then it is a certainty that I will be leaving with something. Or several somethings.

It is not unsurprising, then, that I regard Christmas as a particularly good opportunity to give and to get . . . books. We always have lots of tell-tale blocky packages under the tree. Even though my children are both avid readers, there is a particular facial expression which could be described as, "This is a book, right?"

Last week, I gave this lovely book of nonsense rhyme to a little boy that I tutor. He is an enthusiastic listener, but a reluctant reader of books. He handled the package a bit, and then said: "This is a book, right?"

Then he asked me if I could get him a toy instead. Sigh.

Unlike most toys, though, books will be enjoyed over and over again. They don't break, and they don't need batteries.

Unlike my little friend, I am always happy to be given a book. Since I am pretty sure that Sigmund hasn't started his Christmas shopping yet, I have taken the time to make up a little list.

A Book that I really, really want: Unaccustomed Earth, Jhumpa Lahiri

Big Important Books of the Year:

• The Northern Clemency, Philip Hensher
• A Mercy, Toni Morrison
• 2666: A Novel, Roberto Bolaño

Foodie Books:

• A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes, David Tanis
• In Defense of Food, Michael Pollan

A Book that Sigmund would like to borrow: The Rest is Noise, Max Ross

A Book that my Father would like to borrow: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, David Wroblewski

A Book for Christmas Travellers: Dear American Airlines, Jonathan Miles

A Memoir that interests me: Somewhere Towards the End, Diana Athill

A Book for the Teachers amongst us: Ms. Hempel Chronicles, Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum

A Book for those who need some alone-time: The Other, David Guterson

Books (I've already ordered) from fellow Bloggers:

• I So Don't Do Mysteries, Barrie Summy
• Jane in Winter, Elizabeth Wix

The Entire Contents of the Bookstore: I would also be happy to have absolutely ANYTHING from the Persephone catalog. Many thanks to Elizabeth for telling me about this treasure-trove.

Presents from Persephone!

Sarah, from the Sarah Laurence blog, had the great idea of doing a Blogger Book Boost this year. In her own boost for books, she noted that the publishing industry is suffering at the moment and that the "little people" (new authors and independent bookstores) are finding it particularly difficult.

I LOVE independent bookstores . . . and I really put my money where my mouth is, too. Here is a short list of favorites that I have visited (and in some cases, revisited) this year:

River Oaks Bookstore, Houston, Texas

Books for Cooks, London

Persephone Books, London

Daunt Books, London

Red Lion Bookshop, Burford, England

The White Horse Bookshop, Marlborough, England

The Country Bookseller, Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

Although I do use Amazon for convenience and BookPeople for their cheap prices, there is nothing that replaces a good browse -- and a discovery! -- in a unique bookstore.

Just a Plane Ride Away posted her book list yesterday, and I'm now wild to read A Writer's Paris -- just to name one title. Sigmund only has 12 more shopping days, because we are flying away on December 19th and I'm going to need some good beach books.

Any ideas?

Welcome, Christmas . . .

A wreath made by my very own hands

I always welcome Christmas with a glad heart, but I know that the season is greeted with weariness, guilt, cynicism, worry, disenchantment and plain old bah-humbuggery in certain quarters.

Last Saturday night, we were at a dinner party where the hostess was holding forth on why she just couldn't get excited about the season's traditional rites: "I don't believe in either Jesus or Santa Claus, so why should I bother?" At the time I just laughed, but on the dark drive home I did ponder her mental predicament. If you lack the dedication to Christianity and commercialism both, is there still a point to Christmas? Yes, I would argue; yes.

Most of the December ritual is pagan in origin, anyway. The tree, the candles, the presents, the feast: it's all an attempt to cheer ourselves during the darkest days of the year. And if you live in England, or any other northern clime, you will know exactly what I mean. Now that it gets dark at 4:30 pm, the girls and I can't wait to get home, turn on the Christmas lights and drink hot chocolate. My little girl came home with frozen hair the other night -- from a swimming gala! -- and when she was tucked up on the sofa with a bowl of hot buttery popcorn, pink footy pajamas and red blanket happily clashing, her entire body seemed to ooze comfort and contentment.

I know that winter has its charms, but I'm just not naturally inclined to wintriness. I blame my Texas roots for a tendency towards SADness and an overeagerness for spring. When I read that the Scandinavians decorated evergreen trees at the winter solstice as a sort of promise and reminder that spring would come again, it made perfect sense to me. In fact, I like to think that this is why I insist on putting up my Christmas tree the minute the Thanksgiving left-overs are finished.

One of the ongoing and built-in pleasures of life is the cyclical nature of the seasons and their accompanying festivals. I always marvel how the same old traditions need only the passage of time to regain their freshness. Although I may be tired of green and gold and red by January, those colors look just right at the beginning of December. For me, Christmas is a time to reconnect with beloved rituals, but always adding an elaborative twist -- the old and the new twined together.

This year, for a bit of something new, I tried making my own wreath for the first time. Like many things in life, once the process was demystified I realized that it wasn't nearly as difficult as I had thought it would be. Although I made my wreath at the lovely Treetops, anyone with access to a circular green oasis (look for it in a garden centre or a florist's shop) and some greenery could give it a whirl. Our floral guru even assured us that you can just make it up with bits and pieces from the garden! And yes, if you are fortunate enough to have fir and pine, eucalyptus, myrtle, mimosa and skimmia, plus some knobbly things and pine cones and waxed crimson pears, your wreath can look just like the one hanging on my front door!

Wreath-making did put me in touch with my inner Scandinavian, though. We worked in a cold room, to keep the flowers from drooping, and the smell of the pine and other fresh green things was completely intoxicating. There was also something deliciously relaxing about cutting off bits of greenery and placing them (artfully, one hopes) in the giving green foam. In fact, I think that a person should make one wreath for every day spent shopping in a crowded city center! Holiday emotional offsetting, I like to think of it.

I know that some people aren't in the least tradition-bound, but the only Christmas tree for me is one that is strewn with memories. I listen politely when friends tell me of their Christmas themes -- "pearl," or "lime and green" -- but in my heart, color-coordinated trees are just all wrong. A hodge-podge of ornaments is what I like, set off by the simplest white lights. When I was a little girl, my mother started the tradition of buying us a special ornament every year, and as we grew so did our tree. When my brother and I established our own homes, my mother gave us a "starter box" each of our childhood ornaments. (She told me once that it was one of the hardest things she ever did!) One day, I suppose that I will do the same for my own children.

Just as children love looking at pictures of themselves, so do they enjoy revisiting the memories of Christmas (and vacations) past. My children dig through the tissue paper and alternately coo and squeal as each old favorite is rediscovered. Those boxes of ornaments are the best, most comprehensive, scrapbook I keep.

Willow wrote so charmingly this week of Christmas carols: all of those musical associations and family jokes which are recycled every year. For some reason, it seemed that Johnny Mathis's Merry Christmas album was always playing during my family's tree-decorating sessions. I only have to hear Johnny launch into his exuberant versions of "Winter Wonderland" or "Sleigh Ride" to be filled with childish excitement.

As will sometimes happen in family life, this year's designated tree-trimming day was on the emotionally fraught side of the spectrum. Everyone felt tired and strained, the weather was horrid, there was teenage drama over a broken cell phone, and Sigmund felt buried by his workload. Although we had "promised" to decorate the tree that day, I was concerned that the experience would be ruined by bad tempers. Yet, add the music . . . bring down the boxes . . . and the Christmas magic filled the room.

When we finished decorating the tree, we turned off all the lights and snuggled up on the couch to admire our efforts. The tiny white lights were like candle flames in the darkness. We ate pumpkin pie -- the last from my hoard of Libby's cans. Food, warmth and light: we may define those ingredients slightly differently, but that's what Christmas is all about.

There's a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy

When we pass around the coffee and the pumpkin pie

It'll nearly be like a pictureprint from Currier and Ives

These wonderful things are the things we'll remember all through our lives

(Sleigh Ride lyrics)

New ornaments for Christmas 2008

Danish felt/cloth ornaments

from the BMS Christmas Fayre, Nov. 2008

An Oxford don
found in Oxford, Nov. 2008


Kitsch Flamingo in "biker" gear, drinking a margarita
from a gift store in Chrystal Beach, Texas in April, 2008
(battered, but not broken by Hurricane Ike)




We can't keep naughty Minstrel out of the Christmas tree!
He is keeping a beady green eye on a Russian icon that my parents
brought back from St. Petersburg a few years ago
and a traditional painted egg that Sigmund
and I bought in Prague in 2001

Chronophage (time-eater)

Has anyone else noticed that there isn't quite as much "time" in December as there is in, say, January? Why is it that I have as much free time as anyone, and probably more than most, but I always seem to be busy?

Back in the October half-term, which was either a while ago or merely the blink of an eye, I visited Cambridge. Thanks to a combination of fortunate circumstances, I was given a private tour of the College of Corpus Christi. Although I saw many treasures that day, including the rare and ancient manuscipts housed in the Parker Library, it is the image of the Chronophage which sticks in my mind.

The Chronophage is a massive golden time-piece -- a clock of sorts, but one unlike any other. It attempts to represent the true nature of time. A menacing grasshopper sits atop a large disc and relentlessly eats up the seconds. In a motion both smooth and jerky, the grasshopper seems to claw itself, round and round, the circle. (I know it is one of the paradoxes of the blogosphere that we waste endless hours on it, whilst simultaneously trying to spare ourselves the minutes, but it is truly worth taking the time to follow this link and observe the clock for yourself.)

The Chronophage is mechanical and philosophical. It doesn't aim merely to track the seconds, minutes and hours, or act as a warning for the loitering students of Cambridge. What really fascinates is its attempt to capture the "relative" nature of time. Tiny blue lights flash, and then freeze. Time slows, and then speeds up.

The timepiece is completely accurate only every five minutes. The rest of the time, the pendulum pauses then corrects itself as if by magic. The blue lights play optical illusions on the eye, whirring around the disc one second, then appearing to freeze the next. The effect is hypnotic. (Time Online, 19.9.2008)

A couple of weeks ago, as we were hurtling down the dark forested road between school and home, my youngest daughter said: "This moment will never, ever, come again." I have no idea what musings prompted this reflection -- as my youngest daughter is often given to deep thoughts -- but I couldn't help but think "well, yes -- but no." On one hand, she is right -- of course -- and so often lately I have wished to cling tightly to these precious moments of her ten-year-oldness before they vanish forever into the maw of adolescence. But on the other hand, I am so aware of the repetitious quality of my middle-aged life. There are still hundreds, maybe even thousands, of school runs to go before my life reaches the next fork in the road. It won't be the same moment, but it will feel it.

The Saturday night before last, the youngest daughter and I were wrapping the Christmas spoils from a day's shopping in Oxford while watching Einstein and Eddington. Although we were distracted by wrapping paper, tags and bows, I did manage to learn a few things. (There was a marvellous visual metaphor -- involving a tablecloth, a loaf of bread and an apple -- which really helped explain Einstein's theory of relativity.) Towards the end, David Tennant as Cambridge scientist Arthur Eddington, notes that time is experienced differently by everyone -- yes, that word "relativity" again. It must be so, because my youngest daughter groaned to think of Christmas being so far away . . . while I groaned to think of it closing in on us so quickly.

I can't help but noticing how differently my children and I experience winter Sundays. They find them slow and deadly boring, while I race from the preparation of one meal to the next, trying to cram in as many chores as possible and rarely finding the time to even look at email. My progress through space is impeded by apples and breadrolls, while theirs resembles the wide, smooth cushions of our sofa.

One of the truest clichés about time is that the older you get, the faster the days and years go round and round . . . and yet the past from long ago can seem more present than the past of yesterday.

We have been making plans for my mother-in-law's 80th birthday, which takes place later this month, and I keep thinking about a picture that she recently showed me. My mother-in-law and her older sister are dressed up as miniature poacher and bookie for the Fancy Dress Class at a Championship Dog Show. (Their parents "showed" whippets.) A photograph was taken and featured in The Daily Mirror of May 12, 1933. Everything about this historical scrap interests me. Here's one choice detail: Inside the jacket of the poacher's costume, and fastened to the waistcoat, is the dead body of a real rabbit. Such authenticity! Can you imagine the five-year-old of today wagging around a dead rabbit? Also, how typical of the English sense of humour to dress up small children as such disreputable sorts! The fact that it takes place during the Depression adds another resonant layer of meaning. (On the other side of the picture is a caption describing the burning of 20,000 books at Berlin University at the behest of Dr. Goebbels. History that is just lying in wait for the five-year-old that is my Londoner mother-in-law.)

But this is the thing: I look at that picture and see a historical document, but my mother-in-law looks at it and feels the itch (still so real!) of the thick wool of her poacher suit of clothes. Although my daughter's "moment in time" does get swallowed, isn't it funny how certain moments play over and over in our memories . . . while other moments, and so many more of them, are lost forever? As we decorated the tree on Sunday, I couldn't help but notice this same phenomenon. I can remember the story behind ornaments from my childhood, or the ones that I acquired early in my marriage, but my mind is full of gaps when it comes to recent years. I can still remember lying under the tree, only five years old myself, and gazing at my favorite ornament -- a sweet-faced angel. The real experience, lost in time, has become reified through the repetition of memory. My children know the story as well as I do now, and ask me to trot it out -- if I don't automatically do so. Time moves on . . . but how we cling to it!

(I meant to write about the Chronophage ages ago, but I just couldn't find the time!)

Addendum: Elizabeth made a comment about How we are in history and not in it too, and it immediately made me think about the wonderful memoir and poem that Dick wrote recently. Please take a bit of time to read Stille Nacht.