Christmas Past Part One

Christmas is over. A week ago we, all seven of us, were driving to Hershey PA in the big silver rental minivan, Ray at the wheel and braving the rain, Dennis riding shotgun, Devon and I in the second row Captain's chairs(although we did very little captaining, a little first mating, mostly nannying), the three kids bringing up the rear, Rachael asking for "a mint," Ariel passed out from a viral illness, Trevor supervising everyone. On and on, through Frederick, MD, the Pennsylvania countryside, the temperature rising with every mile we traveled north. We had decided to go because the "really bad" rain wasn't supposed to start until 4, and staying home on a rainy day in a townhouse with a slightly sick baby and two children antsy for Santa to come did not appeal to any of us. Besides, Ray had volunteered to drive. After an amazingly short time, time spent eating Grandpa's stock of Wintogreen life savers and Grandma's leftover white cheddar popcorn ("ew, that popcorn STINKS"), and listening to "Enter the Haggis," we arrived at Hershey Park. We were surprised at the number of tourists who had braved the weather two days before Christmas to tour Chocolate land. Like us. First stop was lunch at the food court, then we were off on the bus tour of the town. The bus was designed as an old fashioned trolley and decorated with garland and other seasonal stuff. A peppy tour guide dressed in nineteenth century caroler's garb gave us the low down on the Hershey family and how chocolate came to be King in the PA heartland. Then we all sang carols, led by a recurring player who showed up at the bus door as a factory worker, Mr. Hershey's mom, and even as the Jolly Old Elf himself! Rachael, who was glommed onto her Grandma, refused the offer of REAL jingle bells to play, but was happy to take the tree ornament, kazoo and free candy. The adults had some difficulty remembering the intracacies of kazoo playing (which end to you blow into? you don't blow, you HUM. oh. Ray was good at this :)

Back at the park, we next went into the 3-D movie about, yes, CHOCOLATE, and it was FUN. And even a bit SCARY, with spiders and webs and things thumping over your feet. Rachael and Trevor looked through the glasses only sporadically, but no one cried, a first for us. Then we were out the theatre door and into BUY CANDY land, which we did. I bought green tea kisses which are either delicious or gross, the jury is still out on that one. The bittersweet chocolate with cinnamon is also an acquired taste. The kids loved the peppermint kisses that their mom bought. And the jolly ranchers in little acrylic houses with scoops their Gma bought. Then on to the ride through the factory, with "boats" like Disney World, and singing cows. Rachael, still stuck to me, loved that ride the best, and wanted to go again. Grandpa, who NEVER buys anything, bought the picture snapped at the end of the ride without any prodding . It was a GOOD day.(Actually, it was his idea to rent the minivan, too, but I think he wanted it mainly for the comfort of his dog.)We tried to tour the actual park, outdoors, after Ray bought us all hot coffees and lovely blue ponchos for the rain, but the rules had changed and now they wanted to charge us forty dollars to walk around in the rain. So we politely declined , Ray fetched the Christmasmobile, and after a quick meal at Bob Evans and several false alarms regarding Ari's tummy, Ray gallantly took the wheel again and got us all home safely through the monsoon.

Bring Us a Figgy Pudding

During our Christmas luncheon at work last Thursday, we played Christmas trivia, answering a lot of questions about Clark Griswold, cousin Eddie, Ralphie and his chance of reaching adulthood with two functioning eyes, what the lamb does while the little drummer boy bangs away, and what goes into a Christmas pudding, choices a, b, c, and d. Nobody in this North Carolina office had a clue what a Christmas pudding is. Ask the Canadian, they all said , she will know. Actually, I did know, but before I had a chance to answer, Dr H., our medical director, piped up saying, aw, she's a French Canadian, she won't know. I was struck so speechless by this pronouncement that by the time I was able to protest, the answer had been produced by process of elimination and the emcee explaining that currants were like raisins. French Canadian????My Scotch ancestors would roll over in their graves. Why on earth did this man who knows me only slightly say I was gasp..French? Then I thought I knew. I had made Caesar salad for one of our many holiday meals, loaded with garlic, and had said within his hearing that I came from a long line of garlic eaters. Of course !!!! Everyone knows that the British Canadians eat only bland British pap, pizzas with pineapple, and Tim Horton Donuts. I must be French! I eat escargot! I have eaten escargot in the Chateau Laurier in Ottawa. Lord, I never knew how much that 1/8th French blood my father claimed due to a great great who took a tumble with the French maid and spawned the poor branch of my dad's family ...little did I know how much influence that little bit of DNA had on my behavior. And yes, I do spout French words now and then, not words picked up from my french immersed childhood in Ontario, but from my fifth grade teacher in Jacksonville Florida who had spent the previous summer in France and wanted to keep the language alive in her mind. And years of high school and college French. Sheesh, I am NOT French. I am Scotch Irish. And YES I know what is in Christmas pudding. And option B was ALSO the answer. It DOES contain beef and flour (NO, that's Yorkshire pudding, the emcee scoffed. ) My protestation that it has both flour and beef suet fell on deaf ears, ears that had moved on to "Who REALLY lost all that money in "It's a Wonderful Life" Uncle Billy I whispered, didnt want to answer ALL the questions first.
Then I was driving home yesterday, listening to NPR as usual, and the subject of All Things Considered was....FIGGY PUDDING. What IS that asked the fearless reporter. Plum pudding the expert cook replied. They also call it Christmas pudding in some places(yeah, like MY house in North Carolina I said) The expert cook gave a great recipe that was loaded with rum and brandy and steamed for two hours in a Bundt pan in a pot of water. I was so impressed, I may try it one year...but as I tried to explain to the nonbelievers at work, it comes in a CAN. No, not a can, they all said. Pudding can not come in a can! But yes it does, every year, with a Crosse and Blackwell label on it, our figgy pudding, heated in the oven, drowned in whatever liquor we have that will ignite, and served with a hot carmelized sauce or whipped cream, yum, bring me a figgy pudding and BRING IT RIGHT NOW!!

the Mantle

the Tree

The Tree with the Story

We put our Christmas tree up today. The tree has a story. This is serendipitous for a blogger who does not have a story. When facing writer's block, it is good to encounter a chatty tree farmer with a sentimental streak. We were plowing through the forests of the Piedmont Triad Farmer's Market with hope in our hearts and Starbucks in our stomachs when amidst the most spectacular of North Carolina's fir trees, any one of which would have qualified for the White House or at least the lobby of Krispy Kreme, we found Our Tree. It was tall and skinny, my only requirement, and it was missing most of the branches on its backside, which is usually my sister's requirement, as she has spent her adult life seeking the perfect Charlie Brown tree. Me , however, well, I have spent my adult Christmases producing themed color -coordinated awe-
inspiring trees that florists would envy. Seriously. I have had flocked blue and silver trees, gold and white trees decked out in beads, bows and ribbons, and red and white trees dripping with pearls and poinsettias. Until last year. Last year my sister was visiting two weeks before the big day, and I told her I wanted a real tree, just a little one, but a real one for the corner of the living room. Oh yeah, I had the huge artificial tree in the den, bloated with 21st century spectacle, but I wanted one like we had in our childhood in the fifties. The tree with the mellow glow of red, green, gold and blue lights. The tree with no theme but Christmas, the tree with the glass balls, clip on birds, one old plastic Santa that rattled when shaken, like it was filled with rice. The tree that was covered with brittle silver foil icicles that sometimes broke into pieces when hung. The tree that filled me with wonder. I wanted just a pale recollection of that ideal tree, just a shade of the original. So off we went to the farmer's market and found a spindly little tree. We bought "retro" lights in Target, and glass balls in the drug store. We forgot the tree stand and had to run out again in the frigid December night to Home Depot. But in the end we had our old fashioned tree radiating a warm glow in the living room. Our mother had died suddenly a few days earlier. Somehow this little tree brought back the joy of our childhood, before the years of sadness and illness that preceded my mother's death. She LOVED Christmas. She always had. It had never mattered to her that we had little money or lived in a poor little house. She always invited any and all available to share our meal and our home. There was always food and company at Christmas.
So back to this year. I told Dennis I did not want to put up the fancy fake tree. If we had a tree at all, since we are going away for the holiday, I wanted a skinny "real" tree for the corner of the living room. So there we were, poking through the 90 dollar models , and there were hundreds of them, when I spied a skinny, misshapen, embarassed looking fir, like a girl in her underwear at the prom. That One, I cried. What IS Wrong With it??? But it was still tall, and had a good side, and I did not want to pay the expected 50 dollars for a Charlie Brown tree. So we were walking away. Let me tell you about that tree, said a young man approaching. That there is a natural tree, he said. Oh yes, it IS natural , I said, thinking that this must be the latest trend and that the price would be equally trendy. What to you mean, natural, asked Dennis. Well, sir, it ain't been trimmed up to the Christmas tree shape. As a matter of fact, a big ole tree fell on it last summer and sheared all the branches off the one side there. It was sposed to go in the pile for cutting up and making wreaths, but somehow it got baled with the good trees and here it is. I would like to see it go to a good home.
So how much? I asked, expecting to walk away. I really wasn't sure we needed a tree, going away for Christmas. 15 dollars, maam. 15 dollars?????Oh I want that tree. Can we get that tree? Course we can, honey, its got a good story, so we have to get it, said Dennis.
Now it is standing in the living room, radiating a mellow, multiolored glow, the bare backsided tree with the "good story." Ain't Christmas grand??