The Solstice is my preferred religious winter holiday. Christmas is about family and food, but Solstice is more about my beliefs. Solstice (for those who don't know) is the shortest day of the year and the longest night. For those of us who practice more... nature centered religions, this day is the celebration of the return of the light. The days start getting longer and it stays light later. It's pretty simple, really. And a lovely idea if you think about it. It's been cold and nasty and dark and with the 21st of December, all that turns around.
Now, I don't have any special traditions to go with Solstice like I do with Christmas, but my mom and dad and I have a glass of wine with our tasty dinner and drink a toast to the very beginning of spring. Blessed be.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
'Tis the Season... to EAT!
So, Christmas in my family is a big to-do. Not that we're hugely religious about it. No midnight mass, no nativity scene on the mantel (Or as I used to call them, to my mom's amusement, "Jesus Things.") Christmas Eve is the big night. We all gather and we each have our food that has to be there. Uncle Kelly makes Hum Bow (Asian dumplings), Grandmother (or GM) makes chicken livers wrapped in bacon (and may, or may not set them on fire in the oven), GM also makes champagne punch, I make hot artichoke dip, Brenda brings shrimp, Grandfather (or GF) makes those little cocktail wenies, Debbie brings fluff salad (which involves cottage cheese and probably Jello), and if you're lucky Auntie Vind makes egg nog. (No, you can't leave the rum out!)
We sit around my grandparent's living room and eat until we think we'll all pop. Jennie, my best friend, usually stops by. She'd rather come to our party than her own family's. We exchange our psycho presents. (Last year, I gave her a tank top that said "Heathen." And this was for CHRISTMAS. The year before, I gave her a shirt that said CORONER from the L.A. County Coroner's Office. They have a kick-ass gift shop on their website, by the way.) Sometimes, GM and Debbie can con Wendy, Amanda, and me into singing Still, Still, Still for everyone. It usually makes Amanda cry, though, so it doesn't happen every year.
Occasionally, someone sets something on fire. Now, my family has this amazing propensity for combustion. One year, GM almost set the chicken livers on fire and filled the kitchen with smoke. Another year, Kelly leaned over a candle on the coffee table and set the arm of his sweater on fire. He smacked at it and it went out. The only thing that let you know something untoward had happened, was a slight toasty smell about his persona. We aren't fazed at all by open flames. There was a summer when GF was grilling salmon on the BBQ and something caught fire. Before we knew it, there were two foot flames shooting out of the grill. Smoke was filling the house. Our friend Susan was asking if we should be calling the fire department and the rest of us are just watching and saying, "No, it'll be OK." There was a badminton set behind the BBQ that was sent to the gameroom in the sky that day. There were also some BIG panes of glass, waiting to go into the windows on the patio. The sound of them shattering was like cannon fire and there was glass EVERYWHERE! The salmon was a little charred, but very tasty.
But, back to Christmas. No presents are opened on Christmas Eve, although sometimes I'll get a new dress for the party. It used to be that the whole family would spend the night. And Christmas morning would be an orgy of present giving. And GF would burn all the wrapping paper in the fireplace. Now, we do the present giving in waves. As people show up, they get their loot. After the presents are done, we all sit around playing our new games, watching our new movies, and being sloths. My favorite Christmas Day was spent watching it snow and snow and snow, sitting inside by the fire, watching episode after episode of The West Wing. And eating leftovers, of course. Christmas morning, we always have breakfast casserole (egg, cheese, and sausage goodness). Mum buys pastries. And we having Morning Glories. That's what they are in Utah. Everywhere else, they're Mimosas. For Christmas dinner, GM makes ham and cheesy potatoes (aka funeral potatoes, because they're at EVERY Utah funeral).
It's amazing how set in our ways we are, since most of us aren't Christian. It's more about the food and people we love. I look forward to it every year. I'm counting the days. To quote the song, "Although, it's been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you."
Next week, we'll talk about the other end of the spectrum and Solstice...
We sit around my grandparent's living room and eat until we think we'll all pop. Jennie, my best friend, usually stops by. She'd rather come to our party than her own family's. We exchange our psycho presents. (Last year, I gave her a tank top that said "Heathen." And this was for CHRISTMAS. The year before, I gave her a shirt that said CORONER from the L.A. County Coroner's Office. They have a kick-ass gift shop on their website, by the way.) Sometimes, GM and Debbie can con Wendy, Amanda, and me into singing Still, Still, Still for everyone. It usually makes Amanda cry, though, so it doesn't happen every year.
Occasionally, someone sets something on fire. Now, my family has this amazing propensity for combustion. One year, GM almost set the chicken livers on fire and filled the kitchen with smoke. Another year, Kelly leaned over a candle on the coffee table and set the arm of his sweater on fire. He smacked at it and it went out. The only thing that let you know something untoward had happened, was a slight toasty smell about his persona. We aren't fazed at all by open flames. There was a summer when GF was grilling salmon on the BBQ and something caught fire. Before we knew it, there were two foot flames shooting out of the grill. Smoke was filling the house. Our friend Susan was asking if we should be calling the fire department and the rest of us are just watching and saying, "No, it'll be OK." There was a badminton set behind the BBQ that was sent to the gameroom in the sky that day. There were also some BIG panes of glass, waiting to go into the windows on the patio. The sound of them shattering was like cannon fire and there was glass EVERYWHERE! The salmon was a little charred, but very tasty.
But, back to Christmas. No presents are opened on Christmas Eve, although sometimes I'll get a new dress for the party. It used to be that the whole family would spend the night. And Christmas morning would be an orgy of present giving. And GF would burn all the wrapping paper in the fireplace. Now, we do the present giving in waves. As people show up, they get their loot. After the presents are done, we all sit around playing our new games, watching our new movies, and being sloths. My favorite Christmas Day was spent watching it snow and snow and snow, sitting inside by the fire, watching episode after episode of The West Wing. And eating leftovers, of course. Christmas morning, we always have breakfast casserole (egg, cheese, and sausage goodness). Mum buys pastries. And we having Morning Glories. That's what they are in Utah. Everywhere else, they're Mimosas. For Christmas dinner, GM makes ham and cheesy potatoes (aka funeral potatoes, because they're at EVERY Utah funeral).
It's amazing how set in our ways we are, since most of us aren't Christian. It's more about the food and people we love. I look forward to it every year. I'm counting the days. To quote the song, "Although, it's been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you."
Next week, we'll talk about the other end of the spectrum and Solstice...
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Strange and Splendid
A number of people have asked me if it's true that my mom organized a coronation for our cats. Yes, she did. A few years ago. It involved pound cake and a can of whipped cream. Each cat got a piece of cake with cream on top. They all licked off the cream and ignored the cake. That was when we named them. There was Her Royal Highness Titania, Queen of the Fairies; Sir Piwakkit Percival Softcat; Lord Michael of Yore and Anon; and Lady Gwendolyn of Light and Music. Now, this wasn't just my mom's doing. Oh, no. My dad and I played our parts as well.
But, my mom is a fascinating woman. At the moment, she's getting ready for one of her infamous teas. She has one about four times a year. Since, I would be put to death for revealing any details about the upcoming festivities, I'll flashback to one of the previous teas to give you an idea of how enthusiastic -- that is to say, crazy -- she is.
The last one I attended was based on a children's book called "When the Sky is Like Lace" by Elinor Lander Horwitz. It's old, but if you can find it, it's definitely worth a read. It's about how on "bimulous" nights, the sky looks like lace and everything is a "strange and splendid plum purple."
Part of the book is about how everyone gives gifts on bimulous nights. Red marbles, kites, anything chartreuse, honey, home-made marshmallow fudge, and coconuts. Well, mum took one of these items to each woman with her invitation. And when the time came, during the party, we all whipped out our presents and exchanged with each other. (I had to talk her into the coconuts, but they were a huge hit! And I really did home-make the marshmallow fudge. Who says I can't be sucked in?)
Another one of the gifts you can give on bimulous nights is three fireflies in a jar. Mum was looking on the internet just for a picture of a firefly, but found instead a RECIPE for a cocktail called a "Firefly." (Check out the Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails at www.lupec.org for a fun time. Motto: "Dismantling the patriarchy one drink at a time.") Most people would have served them in highball glasses and have been done with it. Mum, however, got those little canning jars, PAINTED fireflies on them, and THEN served the drink in them! (Don't run them through the dishwasher! Wash them by hand!)
Another thing about bimulous nights when the sky is like lace, is that the grass smells like gooseberry jam and if you walk on it barefoot, it feels like the inside of a very old violin case. So, one of the party favors was a jar of gooseberry jam. (Did you guess?) And to find out if there's going to be a bimulous night, you look at the man in the moon through a clean white handkerchief and if he winks his left eye, then you know it's time. We all got a handkerchief as well. The food to eat on bimulous nights is spaghetti with pineapple sauce. I have to say, we did skip that part.
Her other quirks seem to escape me at the moment, but I'm sick. I'm sure I'll have other blogs about my beloved Possum, so for now, I'll end with my favorite bit from the book...
"The snails sulk under the cinnamon bush until the moon is high. Then they line up two by two and march down to the grove to watch the trees dance. Because, on bimulous nights when the sky is like lace, the trees eucalyptus back and forth, forth and back, swishing and swaying, swaying and swishing - in the fern deep grove at the midnight end of the garden."
But, my mom is a fascinating woman. At the moment, she's getting ready for one of her infamous teas. She has one about four times a year. Since, I would be put to death for revealing any details about the upcoming festivities, I'll flashback to one of the previous teas to give you an idea of how enthusiastic -- that is to say, crazy -- she is.
The last one I attended was based on a children's book called "When the Sky is Like Lace" by Elinor Lander Horwitz. It's old, but if you can find it, it's definitely worth a read. It's about how on "bimulous" nights, the sky looks like lace and everything is a "strange and splendid plum purple."
Part of the book is about how everyone gives gifts on bimulous nights. Red marbles, kites, anything chartreuse, honey, home-made marshmallow fudge, and coconuts. Well, mum took one of these items to each woman with her invitation. And when the time came, during the party, we all whipped out our presents and exchanged with each other. (I had to talk her into the coconuts, but they were a huge hit! And I really did home-make the marshmallow fudge. Who says I can't be sucked in?)
Another one of the gifts you can give on bimulous nights is three fireflies in a jar. Mum was looking on the internet just for a picture of a firefly, but found instead a RECIPE for a cocktail called a "Firefly." (Check out the Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails at www.lupec.org for a fun time. Motto: "Dismantling the patriarchy one drink at a time.") Most people would have served them in highball glasses and have been done with it. Mum, however, got those little canning jars, PAINTED fireflies on them, and THEN served the drink in them! (Don't run them through the dishwasher! Wash them by hand!)
Another thing about bimulous nights when the sky is like lace, is that the grass smells like gooseberry jam and if you walk on it barefoot, it feels like the inside of a very old violin case. So, one of the party favors was a jar of gooseberry jam. (Did you guess?) And to find out if there's going to be a bimulous night, you look at the man in the moon through a clean white handkerchief and if he winks his left eye, then you know it's time. We all got a handkerchief as well. The food to eat on bimulous nights is spaghetti with pineapple sauce. I have to say, we did skip that part.
Her other quirks seem to escape me at the moment, but I'm sick. I'm sure I'll have other blogs about my beloved Possum, so for now, I'll end with my favorite bit from the book...
"The snails sulk under the cinnamon bush until the moon is high. Then they line up two by two and march down to the grove to watch the trees dance. Because, on bimulous nights when the sky is like lace, the trees eucalyptus back and forth, forth and back, swishing and swaying, swaying and swishing - in the fern deep grove at the midnight end of the garden."
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Feed me, Bitch! I'm FAT!
It starts each nig
ht at 5:15, or so. The meowing. The staring. The trying to trip you every time you stand up. It's almost dinner time for Quincy. Quincy is the cat. My roommate, Robyn's cat. He's large. No, you don't understand. When I say large, I mean Jabba the Hutt LARGE! When she took him to the vet recently, he weighed over 24 pounds! He's no pixie. And his attitude is that of a disgruntled postal worker that hasn't had a day off in 15 years. Despite the fact, that the most strenuous thing Quincy does in his life is jumping on and off the bed.
One of my hobbies is tormenting Q. It takes very little effort on my part and Robyn and I find it to be highly amusing. Just touching him in the wrong spot or moving when he's on your lap will set off the growling. Robyn always says that he doesn't like to be touched in his "bathing suit area." We figure it's one of those 1910's, one-piece, knee-to-neck numbers, cause he'll get pissed pretty much anywhere you touch him. The top of his head is really the only safe spot. (But, it has to be his idea.)
Dinner time is very important to Quincy. From his woeful meows, you'd think we never feed him. He's absolutely certain he's wasting away and will die at any moment. We won't feed him until seven, but he starts asking nice and early. He thinks we'll cave if he annoys us enough. And sometimes, we do.
Living with Q was just peachy until we got our newest addition. Brid needed a home. Brid is a ladylike, normal-sized cat who's the softest creature ever to grace the planet Earth. And Quincy hates her. I have to say, the feeling is mutual. To Q, she is Nermal. The adorable, annoying interloper who has invaded his space and stolen part of his affection. To B, Quincy is the gigantoid, mutant behemoth that lurks in the kitchen doorway so she can't get to her food. They growl, they hiss, and -- worst of all -- they pee.
"My apartment!"
"No, MY apartment!"
"Bite me!"
"Watch me!"
What a mess it was! With a little tweaking and a lot of swearing, we seem to have, at least, lessened the damned peeing. (It was when someone peed in my laundry basket on my dirty clothes that I came closest to the bag-in-the-river method. I'm not naming names, but I know it wasn't me and I'm pretty sure Robyn only pees on her own laundry.) They've come to a reluctant armed truce. They still growl and hiss and, occasionally, Quincy will have a lapse of sanity and thwack Brid on the ass. But then, he runs like hell.
B gets the apartment during the day and Q gets the nights. So, she sleeps next to my pillow and goes digging for the Ark of the Covenant in the cat box five minutes before my alarm's going to go off at the butt crack of dawn. I love cats. I really do. But, they're weird, weird little animals. Much like myself, actually. Maybe that's why I understand them so well.
ht at 5:15, or so. The meowing. The staring. The trying to trip you every time you stand up. It's almost dinner time for Quincy. Quincy is the cat. My roommate, Robyn's cat. He's large. No, you don't understand. When I say large, I mean Jabba the Hutt LARGE! When she took him to the vet recently, he weighed over 24 pounds! He's no pixie. And his attitude is that of a disgruntled postal worker that hasn't had a day off in 15 years. Despite the fact, that the most strenuous thing Quincy does in his life is jumping on and off the bed.One of my hobbies is tormenting Q. It takes very little effort on my part and Robyn and I find it to be highly amusing. Just touching him in the wrong spot or moving when he's on your lap will set off the growling. Robyn always says that he doesn't like to be touched in his "bathing suit area." We figure it's one of those 1910's, one-piece, knee-to-neck numbers, cause he'll get pissed pretty much anywhere you touch him. The top of his head is really the only safe spot. (But, it has to be his idea.)
Dinner time is very important to Quincy. From his woeful meows, you'd think we never feed him. He's absolutely certain he's wasting away and will die at any moment. We won't feed him until seven, but he starts asking nice and early. He thinks we'll cave if he annoys us enough. And sometimes, we do.
Living with Q was just peachy until we got our newest addition. Brid needed a home. Brid is a ladylike, normal-sized cat who's the softest creature ever to grace the planet Earth. And Quincy hates her. I have to say, the feeling is mutual. To Q, she is Nermal. The adorable, annoying interloper who has invaded his space and stolen part of his affection. To B, Quincy is the gigantoid, mutant behemoth that lurks in the kitchen doorway so she can't get to her food. They growl, they hiss, and -- worst of all -- they pee.
"My apartment!"
"No, MY apartment!"
"Bite me!"
"Watch me!"
What a mess it was! With a little tweaking and a lot of swearing, we seem to have, at least, lessened the damned peeing. (It was when someone peed in my laundry basket on my dirty clothes that I came closest to the bag-in-the-river method. I'm not naming names, but I know it wasn't me and I'm pretty sure Robyn only pees on her own laundry.) They've come to a reluctant armed truce. They still growl and hiss and, occasionally, Quincy will have a lapse of sanity and thwack Brid on the ass. But then, he runs like hell.
B gets the apartment during the day and Q gets the nights. So, she sleeps next to my pillow and goes digging for the Ark of the Covenant in the cat box five minutes before my alarm's going to go off at the butt crack of dawn. I love cats. I really do. But, they're weird, weird little animals. Much like myself, actually. Maybe that's why I understand them so well.
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