Christmas Corner/Decorated Tree

Our daughter and her boyfriend came over the other evening for take-out Mexican food, and tree trimming. It warmed this mother's heart to hear her talking about the many ornaments and house decorations. "Oh, we always hang this in the hall." "These blocks always go on the stairs." Those eagle-eyed readers may see a television where there wasn't one before. Recently I rearranged the living room, and this seemed like just the spot for the tv. It had been in the kitchen for a year or so, but only two people could watch at a time, so we're using our kitchen comfy chairs strictly for reading, and we're coming into the living room to watch the dvds from Netflix.

On Tom's birthday our daughter's fella put the angel on the tree.

Korean slippers

A friend cut out the picture from our first Christmas card with both kids, and put it in a decorated half eggshell.

Who needs mistletoe?

DVD/Joan of Arcadia

What if God was one of us? asks the 1995 song sung by Joan Osborne . She goes on:

If God had a face, what would it look like?
And would you want to see
If seeing meant that you would have to believe
In things like heaven and in Jesus and the saints
And all the prophets and...

These are big questions. And unanswerable unless perhaps we do see the face or hear the voice, as Joan Girardi does in Joan of Arcadia. She is a teenager whose family has moved to Arcadia, Maryland where her father is the new chief of police. Her older brother's legs are paralyzed from a car accident, and her younger brother is a science genius. She's a girl with adjustments to make; to a new school and to a family changed forever by the accident. She doesn't shine in any particular area - she's an average girl in every way. Except one: she sees God, in the guise of many people; sometimes a boy of Joan's own age, sometimes a little girl, sometimes an older woman. They are walking amongst the people in Joan's world. They are students and repairmen and cupcake sellers. Sometimes we the viewers expect them, and other times we are as surprised as Joan.

However God appears, there is a message and a mission. Get a job, pass a test with an A, ask a troubled boy to a dance. She doesn't understand but she does her very best to do what is asked of her. As an episode goes on, we see the why. In one of the most riveting shows we've seen so far, there isn't a great outcome - rather what she accomplishes is the lesser of two evils. God explains what would have happened had Joan not acted as she did.

This is a deep show. It makes us think and talk about what we've seen. The writing is superb. The show is not unrelated episodes; something that happened a while back may not be solved until much later. People from past shows come back in others. The characters seem real to us. Joan's family really tries in the face of problems. We see that love and caring make a difference in the world even when bad things happen.

Tom and I love this show. We'd never heard of it, but a while ago I read about some song that was played on Joan of Arcadia. I wondered what it was, looked it up on Netflix, tried one disc, and off we went on a great television adventure. As with too many really good tv shows, it was canceled after two seasons, but we still have a ways to go, and this thought provoking program will stay with us for a long time.

Quote du jour/James M. Barrie

God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
James Matthew Barrie

And sometimes we don't need memory! This rose just arrived via that wonderful brown truck, from our cousin, Ginny. What a treat in these short days to have a rose plant in my house. I put it under the grow lights so it would think it was summertime.

Today's Christmas cd/Christmas with Weezer-

Christmas with Weezer
Weezer
2008

I have loved Weezer since my twelve-year-old daughter came home with their first album all those years ago. And now, they have a Christmas album! With the exception of We Wish You a Merry Christmas, each song is gasp! a religious one. In my childhood, all the popular singers did Christmas albums, and they included the songs we sang in church. That happens quite rarely now, unless it is a cd by Amy Grant or Celine Dion. I don't know why. After all, Christmas is Christmas. It has a meaning. I bought the cd at iTunes for five dollars; maybe the best money I spent this Christmastime! I couldn't be happier.

Christmas Corner/Wreath

Though not decorated like last year's wreath, I love the simple, natural beauty of this one. And honestly, that door is so colorful, it would be almost too much to have a beribboned one! Our daughter and her boyfriend got it for us. And you'll love the story. They were driving on a back road, and saw a display of homemade wreaths for $5 each, with a sign saying to leave payment in the mailbox.

Christmas Corner/Village

I'd like to be one of these people in the bustling little Christmas village

Folks are singing merrily in their sleigh

A kind storekeeper offers cookies to the young carolers - note the blurry little fellow holding a light so the others can read their songbooks

And right next door people are going to church

These boys are struggling with the yule log. What is the one looking at while he's working so hard?

Why, these skaters who are having a wonderful time!

I wonder what books this cute little couple just bought

Passing the Time

One of my many idiosyncrasies is that I rarely mind things that drive some people crazy. I like waiting in traffic because I almost always have an audio book or music I love in the car's cd player. I also don't mind standing in supermarket lines. This is my chance to read the latest gossip magazines on the rack. Closer to home (in the computer/blogging sense), I truly don't mind the word verification item that comes up when I leave a comment on several blogs. Because I read everything from signs to cereal boxes, these letters offer just another sort of reading. The ones on Typepad are the more pedestrian; 'just the facts' - though 63z7g9 looks a little like a British or Canadian postal code which makes me smile. But Blogger, oh, those cute little words are so artsy and fun. kitio - like the 1950s 'daddy-o.' clechem reminds me of pacem (peace) or a country somewhere. fereprec sounds like a cleanser for false teeth. excicell might be a new cell phone company. tornian could be a character out of Tolkien or Rowling. And damoll- well that's a hoodlum's woman, right?!

Spicy Egg Cups

This recipe comes from a Bed & Breakfast place we stayed at years ago. As with the cheesejacks, they are incredibly popular in this house. They're very easy to make in addition to being nutritious and delicious, which makes them an excellent choice for a quick snack any time of day. The nice thing is you can make as many or as few as you wish.

Spicy Egg Cups

Open an egg into a custard cup.
Add a little salsa.
Grate some cheese on top.
Sprinkle on a little parsley or basil, or both.
Pour a bit of olive oil over the whole thing.

Bake at 350º F. for 20 minutes or until set.

Before baking

After baking

Housework/Front Door update

A couple months ago, I showed you the "before" shots of the front door, and here is the "after!" Tom did all the painting himself, and we both are thrilled with the result. Every time our kids drop by, they tell us how much they like it. So, a great success!

Today's Picture/Blue Skies

Today's poem by Oliver Herford

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

Oliver Herford
(1863 - 1935)

Today's Pictures/Ice and Snow

Second photo is about two hours after the first. We've got quite a storm going on up here, though not as bad as in the rest of the state. We still have power.

Book Report/Little Heathens

Little Heathens: Hard Times and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Great Depression
by Mildred Armstrong Kalish
read by Ruth Ann Phimister
nonfiction, 2007
finished, 11/20/08

This book has been on the edge of my consciousness for a while now. I'd see it on the library shelf or on the internet, but I was put off by the title. Actually, I still am. As far as I can recollect, it was just used once or twice in the book. I believe it is a grandmother who used to call the kids by this epithet. I don't know. Maybe it's an old-fashioned way of saying, you little devils, which I don't like either. I'm always uncomfortable when a parent calls their children anything disparaging, particularly in the hearing of those children. Parents may think they are being cute, but names stay in a child's head, as this one must have in the author's.

Other than my own particular problem with the title, I loved everything about this book. I listened to a tremendous reading by Ruth Ann Phimister, who also narrates the Dearest Dorothy books. She is a young woman with the voice of an old one, much like Bailey White. It felt to me as if the author, who is in her eighties now, was telling me stories of her growing up years in Iowa during the Depression. And the stories she told! What I loved the most were the details of everyday life. She tells us about washdays, and cooking (with great recipes!), and haying. Her yearly life was split between living on the farm in the country with her mother during the warmer months, and living in town with her mother and her father's parents for the winter months so she could get to school. I recall my mother talking about living in town and working during part of the school year, probably for the same reason. Actually, I felt that other than locale, this story was much like the life my grammy and grampy lived on their farm, bringing up ten children, whose births spanned almost 25 years! Can you imagine? My aunt Susie, whom I've mentioned here a couple times, said no thank you to marriage and children. As the oldest girl, she had taken care of enough babies to last her a lifetime.

This split between mother and grandparents was more than geographical. Kalish' mother was quite a free spirit. There wasn't a particular order to their days; they ate when and where and what they wanted.

Mama almost never made an attempt to serve a balanced meal. If she had just taken bread from the oven around the middle of the day, our noon meal would consist of freshly made bread, homemade butter, whole plum jam, and a huge pitcher of milk. If, in the garden, she noticed that the sweet corn was ready, we had nothing but buttered sweet corn for supper.

Sounds perfect to me! And in fact, we eat much the same way ourselves.

Home with the grandparents was almost completely opposite. The grandfather, who got up first in the morning, decided what breakfast would be. If he wanted oatmeal, they'd all eat oatmeal. They all had to go to bed at the same time.

The book should be kept in some library's archives as a detailed description of how things were done in those days: how to cook on a woodstove, home remedies, harvesting nuts.

The author is cheery and her story is uplifting and fun, even with all the troubles of those days. Kids were a real part of the family work. They contributed and knew they were important to the running of the farm. I think this is something that all children want - to know they are important and necessary in the life of a family. There are lessons galore in the book, but they aren't expressed in a didactic or preachy manner. Mildred just tells her story, and we listen as children at her feet, learning without being aware we are doing so. This is such an important book for all ages. Those who lived through these days will enjoy reminiscing and those who can't imagine such a life will learn how it was lived. I loved it, and bought three copies as gifts. One was for Tom's birthday because he was so interested when I kept telling him things. I know he'll love it, too.

Christmas Corner - Old Toys

We put these toys out each Christmastime. The blocks and clown are from Tom's childhood. The swing belonged to our children, and someone gave us the music box. It plays the song, Toyland. Even as a child, when I "dwelled within it," the words made me cry.


Toyland, Toyland,
Little girl and boy land
While you dwell within it
You are ever happy then.

Childhood's Joy land,
Mystic, merry Toyland,
Once you pass its borders
You can never return again.

Babes in Toyland
Book and lyrics by Glen MacDonough,
Music by Victor Herbert, 1903.

Q and A session - cookies and G. Taber

Here is my first question and answer session. These are the ones I've had in my head for a while. If you have asked a question, and I haven't answered, please let me know, and I will do so.

1. In October (!), arcadian advocate asked:

can you please post what you reckon to be the best choc chip cookie recipe ever

Well, those sour cream choc chip ones are certainly one of the top favorites, though I did say about Alton Brown's: "they just may be the very best I've ever tasted." If you want oats in them the choc chip oat cookies are "outstanding," and if you like toffee bits, then you might want to try these. So, I am really no help at all in terms of a definitive answer! In fact, I have a recipe I haven't yet posted on whose card I wrote: " the best I've ever tasted- use exclusively for choc chip cookies." I'll make these soon, and let you know if they measure up to those words I wrote years ago.

2. I can't find the post where I was asked the following questions, but I know that Mary has waited a long time for the answers. First, she wanted to know where the Gladys Taber quote at the top of my sidebar comes from. It is from a book called Stillmeadow and Sugarbridge, 1953. I read it shortly before beginning my blog in November, 2006, and those words seemed so fitting. Second, she wondered about Gladys' books in general. Here is a website that lists each book and the date it was published. I have read a few, but by no means all. I own only one, having borrowed wonderful old copies from the library over the years. The time has really come to buy some for myself. Many of them are monthly writings, and I like to read them in that way.

Writing back

I can't thank you enough for taking the time to answer my comments question. You were each so eloquent and exact in your replies that you really helped me to come to a solution. Most everyone thinks that I should respond to comments on the actual blog entry. I think what I'll do is moderate comments a couple times a day, and at the same time offer replies. In the past, the problem has come when I've published comments, and then gone on to do something else after reading them. What I will really try hard to do now is write my comments as soon as I publish yours. So please do come back if you have asked a question or perhaps want to continue a conversation. I really do love this idea!

In addition, I may once in a while do a comments q & a post. It is a good way to answer questions that I didn't get to on the actual blog entry, or that I feel may be of interest to others. There are a few past questions that I haven't answered, and this seems like a good way to do so.

Again, thank you very much for your thoughtful, helpful comments.

Muffin Monday/Cranberry Orange Muffins

I just bought a new muffin pan, and thought I'd try this recipe I found online a few years ago.

Cranberry Orange Muffins

3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup melted butter
1 egg
1 tablespoon grated orange peel

2 cups flour
1/3 cup sugar
1 Tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup chopped cranberries

Heat oven to 400 degrees F.
Grease bottoms only of 12 muffin cups or line with paper baking cups.
Beat milk, butter, eggs, and orange peel.
Stir in flour, sugar, baking powder and salt, all at once, just until flour is moistened (batter will be lumpy).
Fold in cranberries.
Divide batter between muffin cups.
Sprinkle with sugar if desired.
Bake until golden brown, 18 to 20 minutes.
Immediately remove from pan.

Sorry no pics. My daughter is using the camera. Oh my, these are good! Cranberry and orange go together just perfectly - the sour and the sweet balancing one another. They took a very short time to make, and now I'm eating them warm with some nice cold milk.

Do you have a preference?

I'm wondering about comments. I want to ask those of you who read my letters, and leave frequent or occasional comments, a couple questions. I am very, very interested in your answers.

As far as I can figure, there are three ways to deal with comments. If you ask a question, or make a comment which I'd like to respond to:

One. Do you like to go back to the particular blog entry comment section to read an answer or response?

Two. Would you prefer I come over to your blog, and answer or respond? (Of course this won't work with those who don't keep a blog)

Three. Would you like to see a weekly question and answer (q & a) entry on my blog which answers or responds to the previous week's comments?

Thanks a million for your input.

Book Report/Ten Little Indians

Ten Little Indians
by Agatha Christie
unabridged audio read by Norman Barrs
mystery, 1939
finished, 12/7/08

In a Grey's Anatomy episode, Cristina says that Meredith is "dark and twisty inside." Well, those are the perfect words to describe each and every one of the characters in Ten Little Indians by Agatha Christie. This book is a psychological study of the evil that lies within some human beings. To quote John Lennon, these characters are "crippled inside," and as wicked as any Robert B. Parker or Dennis Lehane has created.

A mysterious fellow named Mr. Owen invites eight people (the two servants make ten) to an island off the Devon coast which he owns, Indian Island. They do not know him, or each other, but they accept his invitation for their own personal reasons. At dinner the first night, Rogers the butler, puts on a record that his boss has ordered him to play for the guests. They are startled to hear the words, "you are charged with the following indictments," followed by a list of deaths the guests, including the butler and his wife, are said to have caused. Very soon afterward, a man who ran over two people as he sped along in his car, and received just a fine, dies after swallowing his drink. That same evening, Rogers' wife also dies. And so it begins. People who have gotten away with murder are slowly killed off in spectacularly original ways, following an old children's rhyme.

Ten little Indian boys went out to dine,
One choked his little self, and then there were nine.
Nine little Indian boys stayed up very late,
One overslept himself, and then there were eight.

It continues until the ending line,

And then there were none.

This is actually an alternate title of the book. There isn't a racial slur on Indians per se in the book, other than the name of the island and the rhyme. The title has changed over the years (one was really bad!), and I think And Then There Were None is more accurate and more frightening. A warning: there are a few serious racial epithets used in the book. It was written in 1939, when they were used much more openly and about all sorts of people and nationalities. I'm not one who believes it is our responsibility in the present day to change words in old books. As much as I wince, and even feel outraged, that's the way they were written.

To go on, this book is so chilling. There isn't a pleasant person or situation to delight in. There is no comic relief. There is just one grisly death after another. Because the people are unknown to one another, no one can vouch for anyone else's good character. After all, they have all heard the recording. They know the dark details of each other's lives. This is the ultimate locked-room mystery, with an island substituted for a room. There is no escape. The island is wide open without hiding places. The house is modern, without the nooks and crannies of an old house. There is no one else on the island, so one of them must be the killer. Uneasy alliances are formed and broken quickly. There are some interior monologues, which reveal what some of the people are thinking about their pasts and the present situation, but they certainly don't give us any great clues into what is going on. I was completely baffled. I would think to myself, ah, that one is the killer, when all of a sudden that person was found dead. Not only is the rhyme followed to the word, but also there are ten little china Indians on the table, and each time a person is killed, one of them disappears.

This is an excellent mystery thriller, and the conclusion was most satisfying, though, indeed, "dark and twisty."

Cheesejacks

This comes from a cookbook Tom and I got years and years ago at a London healthfood store called Cranks. The original recipe calls for melted butter, but I substitute olive oil, and it apparently tastes fine. When our son came up today for Tom's birthday, this was the one thing he wanted me to make. Sadly, I couldn't get any photos because he ate them all up.

Cheesejacks

1 1/4 cups rolled oats
1-1 1/2 cups cheddar cheese
1 egg
1/4 cup olive oil

Beat egg, and then beat in olive oil. Stir in oats and cheese. Put in greased 8x8 pan and bake in preheated 350º F. oven about 40 minutes.

I can't tell you what a huge, huge hit these are with our kids. Tom rarely gets to taste them.

Tattoos

When I wrote about my mother, I mentioned that she was an advocate for long-haired hippies. It was one of her finest traits, that she never judged people by how they looked or what they wore or what they did for work. In the late 1960s, there was a lot of criticism from older people toward young men with long hair. When someone would say something to her about the subject, she always defended it, and always said, look at Tom; he has long hair and he's a wonderful person.

I've tried very hard to live up to this legacy of acceptance. Much of it comes naturally to me, but it still took some getting used to when my eighteen year old daughter got her first tattoo. I think as parents it isn't easy to see our baby's beautiful skin with a permanent dye. In this generation of young people, it isn't hair styles but piercings and tattoos. And even some of us who had long hair forty years ago, have a hard time with tattoos because they are permanent. Hair can be cut or changed, but tattoos can't be removed so easily. In the past, tattoos were pretty much a military thing - if you saw a guy with one, you could be pretty sure he had been in the service. Or a biker, of course.

It is difficult for some people to understand the desire to endure pain for a permanent design on one's body. All of the young people I know don't seem to mind it so much. They feel it is worth it for the result, a work of meaningful art. I sort of see them as bumper stickers for the skin. They express something about the person. If I could bear needles, I'd have a small international vegetarian symbol. The joke in my family is that if I'm under general anesthesia, they should haul the tattoo artist into the operating room. :<) Each one of my children's tattoos has special significance for him or her. My daughter's first one was her Korean name.


You should have seen all the legwork I did on the computer to be sure it was just right! Her second one has a connection to her work as a massage therapist. Her other two are more just for the beautiful designs. She made the decision to not have any on her arms or legs so that they would not show in a working environment.

My son's first tattoo was in honor of a deeply loved family friend who died at twenty-eight years old. His second one was a Korean flag. Then he got two stars, one on each arm, which have a special meaning for him. He wasn't as concerned about having them on his arms. He just wears a long-sleeved shirt if he doesn't want them showing. As is quite common with second children, we tend to not get as upset about things. We did pretty well with all of his, as we did with hers once we got used to the idea. But then, he made the decision to tattoo his entire arm. That was a bit hard, even for me. :<) He has had his childhood tattooed on his arm. Honestly, it is just amazing. I almost cried when I saw the red wagon. And the tire swing on the maple tree out front. It isn't all filled in yet, but he has an outline of the state and even a couple dog bones to remember our dog, Lucy who loved being under that particular tree. Whew! How can a mother not love it? How can I not feel proud and warmed that my little boy, who is not little at all anymore, remembers his childhood so lovingly? That he feels it was so wonderful he wanted a permanent remembrance of it on the outside of his body, as well as in his mind and heart?




So, there you have it. My mom's legacy coming through. She'd be proud of me, I know. And she'd be proud of both these grandchildren she never knew.

Waiting for ornaments

Waiting for ornaments!

Today's Christmas cd/A Cape Breton Christmas

A Cape Breton Christmas
Ashley MacIsaac and friends
1993

Oh, what a beautiful album this is! It was re-mastered and re-released last year and I bought it immediately from iTunes. I'm a big Ashley fan. This cd features many traditional Christmas carols, along with Christmas jigs and reels. Utter bliss on a dark December day.

Book Report/The Partly Cloudy Patriot

The Partly Cloudy Patriot
by Sarah Vowell
unabridged audio, read by the author and various others
nonfiction, 2002
finished, 12/4/08

It has happened again! I listened to all five cds of The Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell during the hours I should have been sleeping. I suspect I'm not unlike a lot of previously shy people, often only children, who find friends in books; some fictional, and a great many nonfictional, i.e. real. Some of those real ones are very sadly dead. Yet people such as Theodore Roosevelt, John Adams, Virginia Woolf, P.G. Wodehouse still are my friends. Their books, or books about them sustain me, buoy me, show me I am not alone in my (probably) geeky passions. Recently I found a new, living bookish friend in Nora Ephron. December third into the fourth introduced me to another new writer I had somehow missed. I came to Sarah Vowell's book as a complete stranger, and I finished feeling she was another literary friend. I nodded in understanding, I laughed, I chuckled, and I reveled in the way she put words together. I kept thinking, what a writer, what a good, good writer.

I love it that she loves history. I love thinking of her teen self immersed in the dark German cinema, and how in her twenties she learned to have fun. When she talks of being at National Parks among older people, and reading the same sort of book as a middle-aged man on a plane, I feel like she's talking about me. I've always, always been an old soul. Tom says quite frequently that I was an unusual child, but you know how it is - your reality is the reality in those years. I figured everybody was like me. I'm perfectly happy keeping myself to myself (that great English phrase). I like reading and thinking. I don't mind being alone, and actually prefer it. When Sarah Vowell writes, "I am two parts loner and one part joiner," she pretty much sums me up. I need periods of restful quiet as one needs air. I remember a girl in college who simply could not be alone. I never understood her. I feel like I'm most myself, my real self, when no one is around. Anyhow, I digress. What I am trying to say is that I just loved this woman. She is so smart, so truly funny, so warm. She expressed many, many thoughts that I walk around with in my head. And she also taught me a great deal: about the several Presidential libraries she visited (and her advice to President Clinton about his); about the Civil War and President Lincoln; about several areas of the country; about old maps (who knew that at one time California was an island on a map?!). I tend to be much more of a literature and history enthusiast than a present-day politics buff. I get by on as little information as possible. The last Secretary of State I was really sure of was Dean Rusk. Sarah Vowell follows politics and really knows what's going on. I learned a lot from her in this book.

I've bought two copies of The Partly Cloudy Patriot for Christmas presents. I'm on a cd list for her newest about John Winthrop and the Pilgrims, The Wordy Shipmates; and I've bought Assassination Vacation for myself. I just found out she is the voice of Violet in the only animated film I love, The Incredibles from a you tube video where she just sits and talks to us from her home. I won't put the whole thing on the blog because it is about ten minutes long, but you may find it here.

O Tannenbaum!

Christmas Corner/Christmas Creatures

Our dear friends made these little creatures for us over many years when all our kids were little. They sit on the same window each year, greeting us as we enter our study.

Tom used to play an accordian, so I suppose these two are he and I!

Today's Christmas cd/Christmas Present

Boney James
Christmas Present
2007

This sweet and jazzy cd is just the ticket for a busy December day. It is quiet and soothing, offering the lovely songs of the season from Vince Guaraldi's Skating to Joseph Mohr-Franz Gruber's, Silent Night. You may learn more about the artist on his website.

Book Report/Dead Man's Mirror

Dead Man's Mirror
by Agatha Christie
unabridged audio read by Hugh Fraser
mystery, 1937
finished, 12/3/08

Though originally part of a short story collection, Dead Man's Mirror stands on its own perfectly well, as a brief (only two cds) but quite complete little mystery. As with all the Agatha Christie books I've read so far, there is a great deal of psychological analysis. Mr. Gervase Chevenix-Gore, a man who has 'egomania' writes a note to Hercule telling him he believes there is a fraud going on but he doesn't want to notify the police. He wants Hercule to come to his home as soon as he gets a telegram. At first Poirot doesn't want to be at the beck and call of this man but finds himself intrigued all the same, and when the telegram arrives, Hercule is off on the train. He arrives at the house to the surprised gazes of everyone present. No one is expecting him. There is quite a crowd waiting for dinner to begin. We learn that the man of the house hasn't shown up for dinner yet. In a normal household, it wouldn't be a big deal, but this fellow is a stickler for being on time for this meal. He hasn't been late in twenty years. If a guest ever does come late, he is never invited again. Thus, the company begins to wonder. It is said that he was last seen in his study. The door is locked, and must be broken down. They find the man, dead from an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound. And so begins what is known as a 'locked room' mystery. There is no way anyone could have gotten in or out, so the man must have killed himself. Why would a man who was so full of life, and full of himself, commit suicide? This is the big question. But if he didn't, how on earth could anyone else have done it? Hercule Poirot joins forces with the local policeman, and together they interview each person in the house, and by using his 'little grey cells' he again solves a most mysterious mystery.

This was yet another excellent mystery, perfectly read by Hugh Fraser, who, as I have noted before, plays Hastings in the televised versions. I've really been in Christie heaven these past months, listening to the stories, and also watching the excellent television productions. I'm thrilled there are still so many ahead for me to read.

Christmas corners/stuffed animals

The little penguin family spent last December on a book shelf, but they really prefer the stairs.

I adore this little bear's coat, and wish I had one for myself.

Cookie Tuesday/Orange Cookies

Orange Cookies

2/3 cup softened butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs

2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 cup orange juice

Mix together dry ingredients, and set aside.
Cream together butter, sugar, and eggs.

Add dry mixture and orange juice alternately to butter mixture.
Mix well.

Bake on greased sheets, 10-12 minutes, at 350º F.
Makes five dozen cookies.

Cool a bit on the sheet, and then remove to cooling rack. When completely cool frost with orange frosting.

Frosting

2 cups confectioners sugar
3 Tablespoons butter
orange juice to make spreadable

Mix until very smooth, and frost cookies.

These are delicious beyond words! I've been making them for nine years, and they can't be beat!

You, too, may own a Frosty

Last year I did a little posting on my old plastic Frosty from childhood.
I see that the Vermont Country Store is now offering a new, updated version.
The eagle-eyed reader will notice a few differences. As I commented on my own post last year, it wouldn't do to for the kiddies to see Frosty smoking!

Today's Christmas cd/These Are Special Times

Celine Dion
These Are Special Times
1998

I am a huge fan of Celine Dion, and I'll bet you'd never guess that in the car, all alone, I sing just like her!

This is a wonderful, wonderful Christmas album. It is an eclectic mix of religious and secular, solemn and fun; each one full of the special joy of this season. Just the other day, David Foster was on Canadian radio talking about the song he co-wrote with Carol Bayer Sager called The Prayer. He said it has the very interesting distinction of being sung at both funerals and weddings. On this cd, Celine sings it with the great Andrea Bocelli and it makes me cry every time.

I pray you'll be our eyes, and watch us where we go
And help us to be wise in times when we don't know
Let this be our prayer, when we lose our way
Lead us to the place, guide us with your grace
To a place where we'll be safe

Here's one of my favorites called Another Year Has Gone By.

Today's picture/Waiting

This corner of the living room is just waiting for the Christmas tree. I think we'll get it on Wednesday.

December 1947 - W.H. Auden

Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-1973)

My coldest memory is of the Christmas week of 1928 in Berlin. I had spent my month's allowance, and the friends from whom I might have borrowed were out of town, so that I could not afford to leave the house, and passed the days with my feet up on the very inadequate tiled stove, reading War and Peace for the first time, cold, hungry, and very happy. My hottest memory is of the first fortnight of August 1944, in New York City. I had money, friends, an electric fan, a shower, a refrigerator. I lay in a stupor wishing I were dead.

My feelings have been oriented by the compass as far back as I can remember. For reasons which will be, perhaps, more obvious to psychologists than to me, North and South are the foci of two sharply contrasted clusters of images and emotions. For example, as I reflect at this moment, I get the following associations: North--cold, wind, precipices, glaciers, caves, heroic conquest of dangerous obstacles, whales, hot meat and vegetables, concentration and production, privacy. South--heat, light, drought, calm, agricultural plains, trees, rotarian crowds, the life of ignoble ease, spiders, fruits and desserts, the waste of time, publicity. West and East are relatively neutral.

In this pattern, I think I detect two formative factors, Puritanism and Introversion. If, like me, you have been brought up to believe that man cannot, if he is to live rightly, surrender to his nature, but must, on the contrary, struggle with it; if again your temperament, like mine, is of the kind that prefers your own company or the company of one other to the company of several; if, when you go for a walk, you prefer the countryside to be uninhabited, except for yourself and your companion; if you are passionately convinced that a house should be a womb with small rooms, small windows, and thick walls, not a marketplace or a railroad station, then you are probably, like me, a cold weather man.

In hot weather what is bound to happen? Life will only be bearable if you relax, and your Puritan conscience will torment you. The lushness of summer vegetation will seem a dangerous temptation. You will have no peace, no retreat. Inside, windows and doors must be left open and you must lie in bed defenseless under a mere sheet. If you venture outside, the streets and the beaches are crowded with noises and heaps of people, and it will not be long before you find yourself wishing to heaven it were wintertime, when you could be sitting in front of the fire reading or having a really interesting, intimate talk.

Literature has not been fair to cold weather. In the past this was understandable enough: it was harder to keep warm in cold weather than cool in hot, and consequently the poets celebrated the coming of spring and summer, but let me hope that winter will find poets to sing its praises. Mr. T.S. Eliot made a promising beginning when he broke with tradition and called April the cruelest month.

I do not function properly until I can put the thick lining into my topcoat; faith and charity vanish abruptly in some dreadful explosion of heat around the end of March. When I buy my morning paper, after a brief glance at the obituary page, I turn to a close study of the weather report, the immediate importance of which transcends any domestic or foreign situation.

Should circumstances ever drive me, like Ovid, into exile, I shall retire, if I am allowed, to a little fishing town in Iceland at the bottom of a grim fjord where the sun is not seen for five months in the year. There, not I hope alone, I shall eat fish, play the phonograph, and die in the greatest contentment.