Whenever a gift is used, even if months goes by between uses, makes the giver feel good. Like we scored a hit. That's the case with Maeve's telescope.
It was a Christmas present a few years ago. Looking at the moon through its lens is like practically being on the surface. All the craters and deserts are right there, big enough to touch.
After supper, she announced that she was going outside to look at the moon. A few minutes later she asked if I would like to see the moon. I followed her out and looked at the rough surface of the half moon. Maeve also had the binoculars around her neck to look at the moon while other people used the telescope.
When my turn came for the binoculars, the stars were my targets. Alas! My hands aren't steady enough to hold the binoculars still to view the stars very well. Until I noticed that Jupiter was rising in the east.
Bracing the binoculars against the brick wall, the moons of Jupiter were visible. No telescope necessary. It's the coolest thing to see the moons of Jupiter in the night sky. Maybe when it's a bit colder outside, Mr. Gaelic will join us with his warming devices -- a heavy fleece blanket, two fingers of single malt, and a Fonseca.
[Title taken from this.]
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
5.10.11
7.9.11
Finis
Cue the music. In the saga of my 30-Day Non-Facebook Prose-instead-of-Pictures Challenge, it's been quite a while since my last entry. A sage once told me, when blogging, never explain your absences and never apologize for not writing. In that vein, this is my cheating entry. Knocking out the last entries because, well, it's so confining having a meme to follow. What was supposed to spark creativity has turned into a chore. Read fast, I'm going for broke...
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at - Ballet
23.A picture of your favorite book - The Six Wives of Henry VIII
24.A picture of something you wish you could change - Christmas
25.A picture of your favorite day - Snow Day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you - Genealogy
27.A picture of yourself and a family member - Me and Mr. Gaelic (sort of - I just like this clip)
28.A picture of something you're afraid of - Snakes (sorry no pics - even pictures of snakes terrify me)
29.A picture that can always make you smile - Stories I read as a child
30.A picture of someone you miss - My parents
So, yeah, I cheated. And now, let's go on with the blogs.
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at - Ballet
23.A picture of your favorite book - The Six Wives of Henry VIII
24.A picture of something you wish you could change - Christmas
25.A picture of your favorite day - Snow Day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you - Genealogy
27.A picture of yourself and a family member - Me and Mr. Gaelic (sort of - I just like this clip)
28.A picture of something you're afraid of - Snakes (sorry no pics - even pictures of snakes terrify me)
29.A picture that can always make you smile - Stories I read as a child
30.A picture of someone you miss - My parents
So, yeah, I cheated. And now, let's go on with the blogs.
7.6.11
Aren't They Lovely?
What would you need to know about someone to switch places with them for a day? The great thing about the loss of privacy in the past 40 years is so much is known about so many people that there is not a single person I would want to switch places with today. In all of history is a different matter entirely.
The sixth day of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge delves into the question, but doesn't limit the answer to someone alive today. In case you missed any, the last three challenges were:
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Check
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - This is it
It's a good thing this is my Prose-Instead-of-Picture Challenge. There are two people I'd love to switch places with for a day. The problem is no picture exists of either of which I'm aware.
The first would be my 11th great-grandmother, Mary Horsemanden Byrd. She was only two years older than I am now when she died on November 9, 1699. To know how people lived back then, the mundane stuff, the boring! How exciting that would be! Yes, it's official. I am weird. I get excited over boring details like what she ate for breakfast or drank with supper or how she put her children to bed at night. Why her and not any of my other ancestors? With her, things are tangible. I've walked the banks of the river that she called home, put flowers on her grave, read her husband's diary. For someone 400 years gone, she has a real presence in my life.
The other person from history to switch places with? Her presence in my life has lingered as a question of who she was and what motivated a simple act of kindness. Her name is unknown to me. As is the town she lived in or when she was born or whether she had children. All that is known to me is that on December 24, 1944, she offered an American soldier supper and took him to church. From old memories, I feel certain she was married and might have had children. But those stories weren't recorded except as tales told at my childhood bedside. For one day (Christmas Eve of 1944) I would like to be that woman in the French countryside. The one who offered hospitality to my daddy.
[Title taken from this.]
The sixth day of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge delves into the question, but doesn't limit the answer to someone alive today. In case you missed any, the last three challenges were:
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Check
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - This is it
It's a good thing this is my Prose-Instead-of-Picture Challenge. There are two people I'd love to switch places with for a day. The problem is no picture exists of either of which I'm aware.
The first would be my 11th great-grandmother, Mary Horsemanden Byrd. She was only two years older than I am now when she died on November 9, 1699. To know how people lived back then, the mundane stuff, the boring! How exciting that would be! Yes, it's official. I am weird. I get excited over boring details like what she ate for breakfast or drank with supper or how she put her children to bed at night. Why her and not any of my other ancestors? With her, things are tangible. I've walked the banks of the river that she called home, put flowers on her grave, read her husband's diary. For someone 400 years gone, she has a real presence in my life.
The other person from history to switch places with? Her presence in my life has lingered as a question of who she was and what motivated a simple act of kindness. Her name is unknown to me. As is the town she lived in or when she was born or whether she had children. All that is known to me is that on December 24, 1944, she offered an American soldier supper and took him to church. From old memories, I feel certain she was married and might have had children. But those stories weren't recorded except as tales told at my childhood bedside. For one day (Christmas Eve of 1944) I would like to be that woman in the French countryside. The one who offered hospitality to my daddy.
[Title taken from this.]
17.4.11
Easy Like (Palm) Sunday Mornin'?
The subtitle of today's blog could be "Hey, Mom! There's goop on my forehead!"
Remember your history? Remember how the Puritans in Massachusetts forbade the celebration of Christmas? Growing up as a Southern Baptist in the South, the church didn't celebrate Christmas with a church service unless December 25th happened to fall on a Sunday. We also didn't celebrate Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, or Good Friday. They were considered too "Catholic". Never mind that as a current Episcopalian, the church celebrates those holy days but without the authority of the Bishop of Rome, or the Pope, depending on which side of the Reformation you sit.
Today, in case you missed it, is Palm Sunday. It's the day that the Church remembers Jesus' triumphant procession into Jerusalem. We carry palm fronds and crosses woven from palm leaves as a reminder that the people laid palm branches and cloaks on the road as Jesus rode into Jerusalem. It's very celebratory.
But then something gets in the way. You see, Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week which culminates in seven days on Easter. In between, Jesus will celebrate Passover with his disciples (Maundy Thursday), be arrested, tried, and executed (Good Friday). Finally to rise again in the promised Resurrection (Easter).
That's not what gets in the way, however. What gets in the way is that people don't or won't attend church this week on Thursday and Friday. In order to have the Easter story on Easter Sunday, somehow we have to get Jesus from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the trials of Good Friday. So the Palm Sunday service becomes dysfunctional in attempting to celebrate Jesus, institute the rite of communion, and crucify him all in one fell swoop of a service.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the 5:00 p.m. service this afternoon that I realized I really don't like the Palm Sunday liturgy. Especially since I plan to attend church on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. And this year at our parish, there's even a Holy Saturday service for the "forgotten" day of Easter.
A couple of things made up for the week's worth of liturgy packed into one service. The 5:00 p.m. service is much higher church than the other services at our parish. Incense carries our prayers heaven-ward while a sung liturgy hearkens back to the early Church. After communion, parishioners are invited into the side chapel for a laying on of hands for healing.
The 5:00 service was my first choice following the shattering of my finger back in January. Having a priest lay hands on my head and pray for healing and health brings me comfort and peace. Yet today, the priest did something that I don't remember from other healing services. He rubbed his thumb in the chrism and made the sign of the cross on my forehead before laying his hands on my head and praying for my continued healing.
Five weeks ago there were ashes in the exact same place and design reminding me that I am but dust and to dust I will return. Now the olive-and-balsam oil is anointing me with healing strength. The same questions from Ash Wednesday creep into my thoughts.
Do I wash it off or let it wear away on its own? It's an outward sign of an inward contemplation, although nowhere nearly as obvious as a big black smudge. I can see the shiny cross on my forehead in the mirror because I know what I'm looking for. Like the Turkish rug merchant showing a buyer the slightest imperfection, it's my disclaimer before God that I need His healing grace.
Remember your history? Remember how the Puritans in Massachusetts forbade the celebration of Christmas? Growing up as a Southern Baptist in the South, the church didn't celebrate Christmas with a church service unless December 25th happened to fall on a Sunday. We also didn't celebrate Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, or Good Friday. They were considered too "Catholic". Never mind that as a current Episcopalian, the church celebrates those holy days but without the authority of the Bishop of Rome, or the Pope, depending on which side of the Reformation you sit.
Today, in case you missed it, is Palm Sunday. It's the day that the Church remembers Jesus' triumphant procession into Jerusalem. We carry palm fronds and crosses woven from palm leaves as a reminder that the people laid palm branches and cloaks on the road as Jesus rode into Jerusalem. It's very celebratory.
But then something gets in the way. You see, Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week which culminates in seven days on Easter. In between, Jesus will celebrate Passover with his disciples (Maundy Thursday), be arrested, tried, and executed (Good Friday). Finally to rise again in the promised Resurrection (Easter).
That's not what gets in the way, however. What gets in the way is that people don't or won't attend church this week on Thursday and Friday. In order to have the Easter story on Easter Sunday, somehow we have to get Jesus from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the trials of Good Friday. So the Palm Sunday service becomes dysfunctional in attempting to celebrate Jesus, institute the rite of communion, and crucify him all in one fell swoop of a service.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the 5:00 p.m. service this afternoon that I realized I really don't like the Palm Sunday liturgy. Especially since I plan to attend church on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. And this year at our parish, there's even a Holy Saturday service for the "forgotten" day of Easter.
A couple of things made up for the week's worth of liturgy packed into one service. The 5:00 p.m. service is much higher church than the other services at our parish. Incense carries our prayers heaven-ward while a sung liturgy hearkens back to the early Church. After communion, parishioners are invited into the side chapel for a laying on of hands for healing.
The 5:00 service was my first choice following the shattering of my finger back in January. Having a priest lay hands on my head and pray for healing and health brings me comfort and peace. Yet today, the priest did something that I don't remember from other healing services. He rubbed his thumb in the chrism and made the sign of the cross on my forehead before laying his hands on my head and praying for my continued healing.
Five weeks ago there were ashes in the exact same place and design reminding me that I am but dust and to dust I will return. Now the olive-and-balsam oil is anointing me with healing strength. The same questions from Ash Wednesday creep into my thoughts.
Do I wash it off or let it wear away on its own? It's an outward sign of an inward contemplation, although nowhere nearly as obvious as a big black smudge. I can see the shiny cross on my forehead in the mirror because I know what I'm looking for. Like the Turkish rug merchant showing a buyer the slightest imperfection, it's my disclaimer before God that I need His healing grace.
27.12.10
The Ghost of Christmas Regifting
That does it! I refuse to celebrate Christmas ever again. Either that or I’m going to become a hermit.
The week after Christmas is the annual neighborhood “Regifting Party”. Basically a White Elephant party. A way to trade in (and up?) that chartreuse sweater from Great Aunt Erma.
Before I put my foot down a few years ago, the Regifting Party was fun because of all the extended-family gifts. Back then, the extended family of siblings-in-law, cousins, nieces, and nephews would exchange presents. The problem is that the exchanging of gifts was done out of obligation rather than desire. When people that you’re not close to give you gifts, they don’t always work out. Because how would our relations, who are scattered all over the country, know enough about us to buy something that really meant something to us? We rarely hear from them.
Now they get Christmas cards only. But the kids’ only surviving grandparent still sends a check in early December for me (usually) to buy something for the girls from her since she doesn’t “know what they need” as she says. I don’t mind doing it. But I imagine when she reads her thank you notes from the girls that she’s as surprised as they are to what she gave them.
This year after all the presents were opened and we sat around the living room amid hills of wrapping paper, one of the girls commented that the gifts this year really came from the heart. My gifts from Santa, Finola, and Deirdre all made me cry. (Which is why I won’t celebrate Christmas again. They’re getting too good at making me cry.)
This year, no one asked for anything. No one wrote out lists of Christmas wishes. Each of us in the family had to think about what made the others what we are. Our likes, our needs, our wants.
And they all hit the bull’s eye.
Which means that we have absolutely nothing to take to the Regifting Party. Anybody got any soap-on-a-rope?
The week after Christmas is the annual neighborhood “Regifting Party”. Basically a White Elephant party. A way to trade in (and up?) that chartreuse sweater from Great Aunt Erma.
Before I put my foot down a few years ago, the Regifting Party was fun because of all the extended-family gifts. Back then, the extended family of siblings-in-law, cousins, nieces, and nephews would exchange presents. The problem is that the exchanging of gifts was done out of obligation rather than desire. When people that you’re not close to give you gifts, they don’t always work out. Because how would our relations, who are scattered all over the country, know enough about us to buy something that really meant something to us? We rarely hear from them.
Now they get Christmas cards only. But the kids’ only surviving grandparent still sends a check in early December for me (usually) to buy something for the girls from her since she doesn’t “know what they need” as she says. I don’t mind doing it. But I imagine when she reads her thank you notes from the girls that she’s as surprised as they are to what she gave them.
This year after all the presents were opened and we sat around the living room amid hills of wrapping paper, one of the girls commented that the gifts this year really came from the heart. My gifts from Santa, Finola, and Deirdre all made me cry. (Which is why I won’t celebrate Christmas again. They’re getting too good at making me cry.)
This year, no one asked for anything. No one wrote out lists of Christmas wishes. Each of us in the family had to think about what made the others what we are. Our likes, our needs, our wants.
And they all hit the bull’s eye.
Which means that we have absolutely nothing to take to the Regifting Party. Anybody got any soap-on-a-rope?
25.12.10
An Artistic Christmas
Merry Christmas! Turn on your speakers, go to full screen, and click here for the story of Christmas.
21.12.10
Merry (Postmodern) Christmas
In getting ready for the coming Christmas season, I stumbled upon this. It may not be quite what the doctor ordered.
19.12.10
Menu Plan: December 20 - December 26
This will be a busy week in the Gaelic household. Finola returns from college late Tuesday night. There is a party at a neighbor's house on Christmas Eve afternoon from 3:00 to 5:00 for kids and adults. Deirdre and Maeve are acolyting at the 11:00 p.m. Christmas Eve service. That means that Saturday is Christmas.
For as long as I can remember Christmas Eve supper was always spaghetti. Probably because my mama didn't want to have to spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen if she was going to be cooking a big meal the next day. That tradition is being instilled in my children. There were exceptions to the spaghetti rule. For a while we would alternate hosting Christmas Eve supper with friends. Our years to host, I would give a nod to the wife's Italian heritage and make a pasta with seven types of seafood. Still the pasta from my childhood, but the more traditional Italian Christmas Eve flavor. On our off years, my donation would be a homemade panettone.
Here are this week's menus:
For as long as I can remember Christmas Eve supper was always spaghetti. Probably because my mama didn't want to have to spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen if she was going to be cooking a big meal the next day. That tradition is being instilled in my children. There were exceptions to the spaghetti rule. For a while we would alternate hosting Christmas Eve supper with friends. Our years to host, I would give a nod to the wife's Italian heritage and make a pasta with seven types of seafood. Still the pasta from my childhood, but the more traditional Italian Christmas Eve flavor. On our off years, my donation would be a homemade panettone.
Here are this week's menus:
- Monday
- Breakfast: grapefruit, toast
- Supper: butternut squash soup (leftover from last week), fresh baked bread
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: cereal
- Supper: chili with assorted toppings, rice
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: bagels, creme cheese
- Supper: potluck (to clean out the fridge)
- Thursday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Supper: potluck (to finish cleaning out fridge) or delivered pizza
- Friday
- Breakfast: cinnamon toast
- Supper: spaghetti
- Saturday
- Breakfast: waffles, sausage links
- Dinner: standing rib roast, red wine sauce, horseradish sauce, Yorkshire pudding, mashed root vegetables, Brussels sprouts, congealed salad, steamed pudding with hard sauce
- Sunday
- Breakfast: cream of wheat
- Supper: shepherd's pie (use leftover root vegetables as topping)
18.12.10
The (Holiday) Time Machine
When Mr. Gaelic and I bought our Christmas tree today, there was still snow on the branches from earlier this week. Yes, it's only seven days until Christmas. No, we weren't too busy to get one before now. It was on purpose. Waiting until Advent is over before we begin celebrating Christmas. Advent ends tomorrow.
Next year, we'll be buying our tree from a cut-it-yourself tree farm. The church where we usually buy our tree sold out yesterday. The garden center where we purchased this year's tree only had a handful left. The salesman at the garden center told us that they don't get fresh shipments during December; they get one shipment of trees just before Thanksgiving since people want to decorate after the turkey and leftovers are in the fridge.
If I had it to do over again, I would institute some changes in our house. Santa would visit on December 6th, the feast of Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra. He's the saint that "evolved" into Santa Claus. December 25th would be a religious celebration of the Nativity of Our Lord and not a celebration of commercialization. Adults would exchange gifts on New Year's Day as they did in Medieval and Renaissance times.
I already buck one trend. There is no Easter Bunny.
During Lent, which begins on Ash Wednesday, everyone in the family gives up something. During those 40 days, we put whatever we have given up in our Easter baskets. Whether it is Starbucks, chocolate, or scotch, when we are tempted to partake during Lent, we put it in the basket. For things like scotch or Starbucks, we put in either a new bottle of single malt or a gift card for lattes.
When Easter rolls around, we can break our fast of what was given up. But it's a more meaningful symbol of sacrifice if we can see it every day on the dining room table. After all, that's part of the meaning of Easter -- sacrifice (Good Friday) and resurrection (Easter).
How did I get on Easter? Oh, yeah, before we forsake Him on Good Friday we have to birth the Baby. Now, if only I could just turn back the clock a few years and have the kids' stockings filled two weeks after Thanksgiving by that almost-forgotten bishop . . .
Next year, we'll be buying our tree from a cut-it-yourself tree farm. The church where we usually buy our tree sold out yesterday. The garden center where we purchased this year's tree only had a handful left. The salesman at the garden center told us that they don't get fresh shipments during December; they get one shipment of trees just before Thanksgiving since people want to decorate after the turkey and leftovers are in the fridge.
If I had it to do over again, I would institute some changes in our house. Santa would visit on December 6th, the feast of Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra. He's the saint that "evolved" into Santa Claus. December 25th would be a religious celebration of the Nativity of Our Lord and not a celebration of commercialization. Adults would exchange gifts on New Year's Day as they did in Medieval and Renaissance times.
I already buck one trend. There is no Easter Bunny.
During Lent, which begins on Ash Wednesday, everyone in the family gives up something. During those 40 days, we put whatever we have given up in our Easter baskets. Whether it is Starbucks, chocolate, or scotch, when we are tempted to partake during Lent, we put it in the basket. For things like scotch or Starbucks, we put in either a new bottle of single malt or a gift card for lattes.
When Easter rolls around, we can break our fast of what was given up. But it's a more meaningful symbol of sacrifice if we can see it every day on the dining room table. After all, that's part of the meaning of Easter -- sacrifice (Good Friday) and resurrection (Easter).
How did I get on Easter? Oh, yeah, before we forsake Him on Good Friday we have to birth the Baby. Now, if only I could just turn back the clock a few years and have the kids' stockings filled two weeks after Thanksgiving by that almost-forgotten bishop . . .
13.12.10
Of This I Am Certain
ATTENTION: IF UNDER THE AGE OF 18, CLICK HERE.
Now that we've got the kids out of the way, let's talk about Santa Claus.
Do you remember when you were a child at Christmas? You couldn't wait for Christmas. Do you remember staying up to see Santa but always falling asleep? He never came when you were awake. Even when you weren't sure whether Santa was real or not, you still made a list for him.
During yesterday's sermon, the priest made a comment that I had never heard before. "The opposite of faith isn't doubt; it's certainty."
He wasn't talking about Santa Claus, of course.
Now that we've got the kids out of the way, let's talk about Santa Claus.
Do you remember when you were a child at Christmas? You couldn't wait for Christmas. Do you remember staying up to see Santa but always falling asleep? He never came when you were awake. Even when you weren't sure whether Santa was real or not, you still made a list for him.
During yesterday's sermon, the priest made a comment that I had never heard before. "The opposite of faith isn't doubt; it's certainty."
He wasn't talking about Santa Claus, of course.
11.12.10
256 Shades of Me
Contradictions in my life are a norm. Usually because society today tends to only see things in black and white, although there are many shades of grey. Take, for example, some of my liberal opinions.
But once people learn my conservative beliefs behind my leftist opinions, they get a clearer picture.
I don't believe we can legislate or force our religious views and morality onto others. We tried that once. It didn't work. (See the 18th and 21st Amendments to the Constitution.) As much as we may dislike being a melting pot of religions and races and beliefs, having a majority Christian population (for now) should not give us license to inflict our beliefs on minority populations (who might become majority populations in the future and want to inflict their beliefs on us).
According to a paraphrase of Winston Churchill, I am Russia. I am a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. However, with that quote, now everyone will be seeing red and calling me a Pinko Socialist Commie rather than seeing all of my shades of grey.
- I believe there should be no Ten Commandments on courthouse squares or behind judges' benches and there should be no Bible to swear on before a jury.
- The Church should not be authorized by the State to perform legally binding marriage rites.
- Stores should not decorate for Christmas.
But once people learn my conservative beliefs behind my leftist opinions, they get a clearer picture.
- I am a Christian. At some point there may be a Hindu or Muslim or Wiccan judge who wants to post some of their religious writings behind the bench. I don't want to see that in a courtroom or on the courthouse square. I don't want to have to swear on some Wiccan book before a jury. To prevent that from happening, no one should be allowed to have anything.
- Too many churches are already performing same-sex ceremonies. In wanting to welcome all of God's children, these churches are ignoring the Biblical purpose of marriage. There should be two marriage ceremonies, the legal one performed by the State and the religious one performed by the Church. Those who want only the legally binding contract of a marriage certificate would see a probate judge or his representative. Those who want to live in the Biblically-sanctioned institution of marriage would also have a marriage rite in the Church.
- Christmas is religious holy day, not a time to make money for stores. As a Christian, I don't celebrate Hanukkah or Passover (although I have been invited to Seders and Shabbat dinners). Seeing non-Christians, or worse former Christians who now claim to be atheists, decorating a tree and going carolling doesn't celebrate Jesus's birth. Why not only sell Christmas trees at churches on Sundays (or Saturday evenings if there's a service then) to parishioners? You want to celebrate Christmas? Go to church!
I don't believe we can legislate or force our religious views and morality onto others. We tried that once. It didn't work. (See the 18th and 21st Amendments to the Constitution.) As much as we may dislike being a melting pot of religions and races and beliefs, having a majority Christian population (for now) should not give us license to inflict our beliefs on minority populations (who might become majority populations in the future and want to inflict their beliefs on us).
According to a paraphrase of Winston Churchill, I am Russia. I am a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. However, with that quote, now everyone will be seeing red and calling me a Pinko Socialist Commie rather than seeing all of my shades of grey.
4.12.10
The Rusty Gael
For someone who gave up drinking months ago, having one little drink is a lot. I'm a bit rusty at holding my liquor. Last night was a scotch tasting event in conjunction with the Christmas parade, which is today.
At the event, distributors bring in several of their single malts. Dewar's and Johnnie Walker were there as well, but moving on to the real scotch . . . There was Aberfeldy, Balvenie, Glenmorangie, Macallan, Laphroaig, Craggenmore, Dalmore, Dalwhinnie, Glenfiddich, Talisker, Glenlivit, Highland Park, and a few more that I can't remember. The tastes are served in thimble-sized plastic cups. So not really enough to make a full drink.
It's also used as a meet-and-greet by the local politicians. The mayor, various city council members, school board members, muckity mucks, they were all on hand. The food was, well, what's the word I'm looking for . . . forgettable. Unfortunately in past years the heavy hors d'oeuvres were enough for a light supper.
My usual ritual is to compare the less peaty ones as I work my way around the room. Why I continue to this I do not know. My favorites include everything from Glenkinchie to Dalwhinnie to Oban to Balvenie. Never ever put a dram of Laphroaig or Ardbeg under my nose.
After I determine my favorite of the evening, with two thimble fulls in hand, I make a beeline back to the Dewar's table that I purposefully skip. In my opinion, blended scotch isn't scotch but a travesty. At the Dewar's table, my request is simple -- two thimbles of Drambuie. All four thimble are swirled together in a larger cup (that they have for water and sodas). Four or five cubes of ice. Perfection.
That's it. I'm done for. Take me home, James.
At the event, distributors bring in several of their single malts. Dewar's and Johnnie Walker were there as well, but moving on to the real scotch . . . There was Aberfeldy, Balvenie, Glenmorangie, Macallan, Laphroaig, Craggenmore, Dalmore, Dalwhinnie, Glenfiddich, Talisker, Glenlivit, Highland Park, and a few more that I can't remember. The tastes are served in thimble-sized plastic cups. So not really enough to make a full drink.
It's also used as a meet-and-greet by the local politicians. The mayor, various city council members, school board members, muckity mucks, they were all on hand. The food was, well, what's the word I'm looking for . . . forgettable. Unfortunately in past years the heavy hors d'oeuvres were enough for a light supper.
My usual ritual is to compare the less peaty ones as I work my way around the room. Why I continue to this I do not know. My favorites include everything from Glenkinchie to Dalwhinnie to Oban to Balvenie. Never ever put a dram of Laphroaig or Ardbeg under my nose.
After I determine my favorite of the evening, with two thimble fulls in hand, I make a beeline back to the Dewar's table that I purposefully skip. In my opinion, blended scotch isn't scotch but a travesty. At the Dewar's table, my request is simple -- two thimbles of Drambuie. All four thimble are swirled together in a larger cup (that they have for water and sodas). Four or five cubes of ice. Perfection.
That's it. I'm done for. Take me home, James.
30.11.10
How the Grinch Saved Christmas
My daddy told tales from his childhood of putting up the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. In the old Cary Grant-Loretta Young version of "The Bishop's Wife", they decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. Donna Reed and kids are decorating the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve when Jimmy Stewart comes in with trouble from the bank examiner. According to Anglican church tradition, Christmas decorations don't go up until after all four Sundays in Advent have been celebrated.
This year we're following suit.
It seems that the Christmas creep gets earlier and earlier every year. Stores were decorated this year even before Hallowe'en. The week before Thanksgiving there were at least two houses in our neighborhood in full Christmas-light regalia. Some of my high school friends asked on Facebook whether the day before Thanksgiving was too early to put up the tree. And some of my close friends put theirs up on Black Friday.
Through the years, I've begun feeling that people seem to be hanging onto Christmas a bit too much. They try to milk every last drop of party time out of December and leave up the lights on their houses until St. Valentine's Day. I'm reminded of the Chip and Dale cartoon where they wished for Christmas to happen every day. After a while it got old.
To appreciate the specialness of the season, it must be fleeting. To appreciate the happiness of Christmas, we must remember Good Friday. For to really understand and have a gauge for happiness one must understand grief and sadness.
[This is where my mind races off in tangents about non-Christians, especially those raised in the church who never darken the church door, adorning their living rooms with evergreen trees and giving presents to each other on December 25th. But that's another rant, er, I mean, blog.]
So in these days of Advent, there is going out a decree from Mrs. Gaelic that all the Gaelic household shall observe Advent during Advent and Christmas during Christmas. There will be no pop-guns, bikes, roller skates, or drums, no checkerboards, trikes, popcorn, or plums. No presents, no ribbon, no wrappings. No tags, no tinsel, no trimming, no trappings. Not one little speck of the holiday season. Not 'til the calendar says it's time for the Christmas season.
[Yeah, yeah, I know I'm mixing my allusions here.]
While everyone else in the world (so it seems) is decorating their trees, and mantles, and banisters, and front doors, we'll be lighting purple and pink candles. And while everyone else in the world (so it seems from past years) will be flooding the stores for 75% off Christmas merchandise, we'll be just getting started with our celebration.
I may sound like the Grinch with my stern decree. But for twelve short days, my family will know that Christmas is here for only the briefest of moments before being swept away into the gift-giving season of Epiphany.
This year we're following suit.
It seems that the Christmas creep gets earlier and earlier every year. Stores were decorated this year even before Hallowe'en. The week before Thanksgiving there were at least two houses in our neighborhood in full Christmas-light regalia. Some of my high school friends asked on Facebook whether the day before Thanksgiving was too early to put up the tree. And some of my close friends put theirs up on Black Friday.
Through the years, I've begun feeling that people seem to be hanging onto Christmas a bit too much. They try to milk every last drop of party time out of December and leave up the lights on their houses until St. Valentine's Day. I'm reminded of the Chip and Dale cartoon where they wished for Christmas to happen every day. After a while it got old.
To appreciate the specialness of the season, it must be fleeting. To appreciate the happiness of Christmas, we must remember Good Friday. For to really understand and have a gauge for happiness one must understand grief and sadness.
[This is where my mind races off in tangents about non-Christians, especially those raised in the church who never darken the church door, adorning their living rooms with evergreen trees and giving presents to each other on December 25th. But that's another rant, er, I mean, blog.]
So in these days of Advent, there is going out a decree from Mrs. Gaelic that all the Gaelic household shall observe Advent during Advent and Christmas during Christmas. There will be no pop-guns, bikes, roller skates, or drums, no checkerboards, trikes, popcorn, or plums. No presents, no ribbon, no wrappings. No tags, no tinsel, no trimming, no trappings. Not one little speck of the holiday season. Not 'til the calendar says it's time for the Christmas season.
[Yeah, yeah, I know I'm mixing my allusions here.]
While everyone else in the world (so it seems) is decorating their trees, and mantles, and banisters, and front doors, we'll be lighting purple and pink candles. And while everyone else in the world (so it seems from past years) will be flooding the stores for 75% off Christmas merchandise, we'll be just getting started with our celebration.
I may sound like the Grinch with my stern decree. But for twelve short days, my family will know that Christmas is here for only the briefest of moments before being swept away into the gift-giving season of Epiphany.
28.11.10
Menu Plan: November 29 - December 4
There was much in the media this past week about Thanksgiving and how the Pilgrims and Indians didn't overeat and then go shopping. Apparently, during those times people were a bit more conservative with their stores of food, wanting to make the harvest last through the cold winter months. So it's apropos that today is the first day of Advent. A time to scale back in preparation for the Christmas season.
The first week after Thanksgiving is also a time to finish off the turkey. When you order one from the meat co-op you order a weight range. This year's turkey was on the upper end of the range. Lots and lots of leftovers.
The first week after Thanksgiving is also a time to finish off the turkey. When you order one from the meat co-op you order a weight range. This year's turkey was on the upper end of the range. Lots and lots of leftovers.
- Monday
- Breakfast: cereal (Mr. Gaelic leaves for a business trip)
- Supper: creamed spinach, corn pudding, pinto beans
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Supper: turkey pot pie
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: cinnamon toast
- Supper: turkey barley soup
- Thursday
- Breakfast: cream of wheat
- Supper: baked mac and cheese, broccoli, honeyed pumpkin
- Friday
- Breakfast: soft-boiled eggs, toast
- Supper: pizza for girls, Mr. Gaelic and I are headed to a scotch tasting with heavy hors d'oeuvres
- Saturday
- Breakfast: waffles, bacon
- Supper: tuna casserole, salad
- Sunday
- Breakfast: sausage gravy, homemade biscuits
- Dinner: hot turkey salad, potatoes, green beans
14.11.10
Menu Plan: November 15 - November 21
If you've ever been to Five Guys Burgers & Fries, you know that they serve roasted peanuts from a box while you wait for your order. I treated the kids to lunch recently at our local Five Guys. We got a serving of peanuts to shell at the table. After finishing our hamburgers, there were still some peanuts on our table. Just scoop them into the bag with the leftover fries.
They're fun to snack on. But it gave me a hankering for boiled peanuts. Those slimy, squishy, good-when-hot-but-yuck-when-not snacks. Most often they're found at roadside stands in the American rural South. They are definitely an acquired taste.
Yes, it's an established fact that I'm weird. Just deal with it. In other foodie news, here's this week's menu plan.
Please don't send me boiled peanuts for Christmas. They're best eaten hot and fresh. Just like Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts. But that's another blog entirely.
They're fun to snack on. But it gave me a hankering for boiled peanuts. Those slimy, squishy, good-when-hot-but-yuck-when-not snacks. Most often they're found at roadside stands in the American rural South. They are definitely an acquired taste.
Yes, it's an established fact that I'm weird. Just deal with it. In other foodie news, here's this week's menu plan.
- Monday
- Breakfast: banana bread
- Supper: take-out/delivery (afternoon teacher conferences + evening ballet class = no time to cook [slow cooker on the blink])
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: cereal
- Supper: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots (save some potatoes for Friday)
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Supper: baked eggs, salad, homemade bread
- Thursday
- Breakfast: blueberry muffins
- Supper: baked mac and cheese, creamed spinach, beets in orange sauce
- Friday
- Breakfast: soft-boiled eggs, toast
- Supper: butternut squash soup, homemade potato bread (use left-over potatoes)
- Saturday
- Breakfast: pancakes, sausage
- Supper: pizza for girls, Mr. Gaelic and I are headed to a party for our friends' daughter who is in graduate school in London and will be home for the holidays
- Sunday
- Breakfast: bacon, eggs, grits, toast
- Dinner: potluck (need to clean out the fridge and freezer in anticipation of Thanksgiving)
Please don't send me boiled peanuts for Christmas. They're best eaten hot and fresh. Just like Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts. But that's another blog entirely.
31.10.10
Menu Plan: November 1 - November 7
Hopefully everyone has enough candy that they won't run out tonight for Trick-or-Treating. It seems like there are hundreds of kids stopping by our house on Halloween.
Several years ago our neighborhood tried to move Halloween to Saturday because it fell on a Sunday night and therefore a school night. All the crunchy-granola earth mothers in the neighborhood claimed that the kids would be out late and wouldn't be productive the next day at school. Oddly enough, it recently came to my attention that my small southern hometown has Halloween on Saturday night if the 31st falls on a Sunday because Sundays are church nights. Yet again, here I am in the middle, neither in the Jesus freak camp nor the crunchy-granola earth mother camp.
Believe it or not, there are some of us who attend church regularly, eat and grow organic food, and send our kids out in costumes soliciting the neighbors for HFCS-GMO-and-sugar-laden handouts even when Halloween falls on a Sunday. Once they return with pillowcases full of candy, what to do with that ADHD-inducing booty?
Maybe I can find a way to use it in desserts.
Several years ago our neighborhood tried to move Halloween to Saturday because it fell on a Sunday night and therefore a school night. All the crunchy-granola earth mothers in the neighborhood claimed that the kids would be out late and wouldn't be productive the next day at school. Oddly enough, it recently came to my attention that my small southern hometown has Halloween on Saturday night if the 31st falls on a Sunday because Sundays are church nights. Yet again, here I am in the middle, neither in the Jesus freak camp nor the crunchy-granola earth mother camp.
Believe it or not, there are some of us who attend church regularly, eat and grow organic food, and send our kids out in costumes soliciting the neighbors for HFCS-GMO-and-sugar-laden handouts even when Halloween falls on a Sunday. Once they return with pillowcases full of candy, what to do with that ADHD-inducing booty?
Maybe I can find a way to use it in desserts.
- Monday
- Breakfast: banana-nut muffins
- Supper: corn pudding, creamed spinach, roasted pumpkin (it's MFM after all)
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: cereal (as usual since Mr. Gaelic has early morning meetings every Tuesday)
- Supper: chili, rice, and toppings of cheese, onions, jalapeños, sour cream
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: sautéed apple slices, cinnamon bread
- Supper: scalloped ham-and-potatoes, green beans, glazed carrots
- Thursday
- Breakfast: bagels, cream cheese
- Supper: veggie and alphabet-shaped pasta soup, homemade bread
- Friday
- Breakfast: soft-boiled eggs, toast
- Supper: shrimp étouffée, rice, salad
- Saturday
- Breakfast: bacon, eggs, grits, toast
- Supper: pizza for girls, Mr. Gaelic and I are headed to a Murder Mystery party and are to take a dessert (this might be where the extra Halloween candy gets used if a good recipe can be found)
- Sunday
- Breakfast: pancakes, sausage
- Dinner: chicken and dumplin's, kale, stewed tomatoes
5.10.10
Mental Post-It Note
Note to self: If one of your hometown friends is a politician in the minority party and is arrested on trumped up charges, do not under any circumstances comment on his Facebook status, picture, or link. The updates from subsequent comments will flood your email inbox faster than the winner at the Daytona 500 and with more mail than Santa Claus gets in any given December.
14.9.10
We Wish You a Meaningful Christmas
Today’s blog is in video format. And a reminder. There are 102 days until Christmas. Remember, Christmas is a fixed holiday. It doesn’t move around the calendar like Easter.
Here’s one of the things I wanted to share. And here’s the other.
How does one offer best wishes for Advent? My solution? Have a Meaningful Advent!
Here’s one of the things I wanted to share. And here’s the other.
How does one offer best wishes for Advent? My solution? Have a Meaningful Advent!
28.7.10
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
Psst. Wanna know a secret? Come closer and I’ll tell you. [Looks both ways and leans in close to the monitor.] Christmas is on December 25th this year. And Valentine’s Day will be on the 14th of February next year. And your taxes will be due on April 15th.
A neighbor posted a photo online of her cat on top of the tax forms she was filling out. She LOL’d that they were late again this year filing the taxes. Why do people drag out the agony for so long?
Unlike Easter, Shrove Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, which are always on a Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday respectively but move all over the calendar based on the date of the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox (can’t you just imagine the ecclesiastical debate over that one?), the other holidays always fall on the same day. Every year.
So, guys. Let this be your first warning. You have 149 days until Christmas. Don’t let me catch you in the stores on December 24th with only one person marked off your list!
As for birthdays and anniversaries, you’re on your own.
A neighbor posted a photo online of her cat on top of the tax forms she was filling out. She LOL’d that they were late again this year filing the taxes. Why do people drag out the agony for so long?
Unlike Easter, Shrove Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, which are always on a Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday respectively but move all over the calendar based on the date of the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox (can’t you just imagine the ecclesiastical debate over that one?), the other holidays always fall on the same day. Every year.
So, guys. Let this be your first warning. You have 149 days until Christmas. Don’t let me catch you in the stores on December 24th with only one person marked off your list!
As for birthdays and anniversaries, you’re on your own.
27.12.08
The Christmas Miracle
It’s a good thing we didn’t have company come for Christmas dinner this year. I ruined the meal.
It all began when I over-trimmed the fat from the beef rib roast. Fat is good for some things, like keeping the meat moist while it cooks. Oops.
Then there was the salad. I was born in the wrong era. I’m really a 1950s housewife living in a millennial world. Every holiday meal in our house comes with a congealed salad of some kind. The kids usually get to pick the flavor. This year, with my head elsewhere, I forgot to buy the ingredients for a congealed salad.
That’s when you stand in front of the cupboard and just stare are the cans as if with enough mental telepathy they would transform into exactly what you needed for your favorite salad. No go. So I improvised. The congealed salad turned out okay, but nothing to write home about. The flavors were too subtle to stand up to mashed rutabaga, turnips and potatoes; Brussel sprouts with balsamic vinegar, onions and garlic; and roast beef with a horseradish sauce.
But the pièce de résistance was my steamed pudding. How many years have I been making steamed pudding for Christmas dessert? And what happens this year? I burnt it. Not just a little too brown around the edge. Nope, I had to do it regally. The entire bottom, which is actually the top when it’s inverted on a plate, was black. And hard. We’re talking charcoal hard. And the sides too. I’ll bet I cut off more than half of my pudding. The whiskey sauce couldn’t cut through the ashy flavor. Neither could the port.
But my kids were angels. They all remarked at how good it was. And they all finished their pieces. Miracles do happen. Especially at Christmas.
It all began when I over-trimmed the fat from the beef rib roast. Fat is good for some things, like keeping the meat moist while it cooks. Oops.
Then there was the salad. I was born in the wrong era. I’m really a 1950s housewife living in a millennial world. Every holiday meal in our house comes with a congealed salad of some kind. The kids usually get to pick the flavor. This year, with my head elsewhere, I forgot to buy the ingredients for a congealed salad.
That’s when you stand in front of the cupboard and just stare are the cans as if with enough mental telepathy they would transform into exactly what you needed for your favorite salad. No go. So I improvised. The congealed salad turned out okay, but nothing to write home about. The flavors were too subtle to stand up to mashed rutabaga, turnips and potatoes; Brussel sprouts with balsamic vinegar, onions and garlic; and roast beef with a horseradish sauce.
But the pièce de résistance was my steamed pudding. How many years have I been making steamed pudding for Christmas dessert? And what happens this year? I burnt it. Not just a little too brown around the edge. Nope, I had to do it regally. The entire bottom, which is actually the top when it’s inverted on a plate, was black. And hard. We’re talking charcoal hard. And the sides too. I’ll bet I cut off more than half of my pudding. The whiskey sauce couldn’t cut through the ashy flavor. Neither could the port.
But my kids were angels. They all remarked at how good it was. And they all finished their pieces. Miracles do happen. Especially at Christmas.
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