Christmas Gift

The farmhouse phone is ringing. We already know who's calling and what she'll say when we answer. It is always the same. My beloved Aunt Bessie has a special greeting on this day, "Christmas gift!!!" She is not absorbed with receiving, but rather with giving. As the years progress and I move time zones away, the tradition continues, despite the extravagant cost of long-distance calls at the time. Aunt Bessie's sweet Southern sounds transport me home instantly, despite the real distance between us. That dear voice lives in my memory and I never fail to think of her as holiday decorations proliferate.

Being a somewhat self-absorbed mom, the Christmas gift I want every year is to have our daughter in residence, even for a few days. I'm totally comfortable if she isn't here on Christmas day. Anytime is fine with me and her dad. Because Caitlin started a new job in August, we were doubtful that she'd see the desert in December. However, the lure of sunshine, friends, Mexican food, In 'n' Out, and piles of presents is difficult to resist. Lucky us.

The Christmas Eve arrival is delayed due to the JetBlue plane's mechanical problems. Caitlin's driving a rental car from Long Beach and is inspired to hasten the journey knowing that her favorite unturkey sandwich awaits in our frig. The parents wait impatiently and happily throw open the front door as her Mazda 3 hatchback pulls into the driveway. Let the celebrating commence.

With six days to squander, Caitlin vows to keep a flexible agenda. She'll see some people, explore a couple of new restaurants, seize every sun-filled moment, and laugh unchecked. Henry will tutor she and Bobby in the mystical worlds of muni bonds and mortgage re-financing. I'll gratefully accept numerous sessions of 'computer Rx' from the two Portlanders and enjoy the results of enhanced ease of use.

Caitlin and I delve into the cluttered closet in her old bedroom and soon are tossing childhood treasures. She enthusiastically unearths now vintage letters from favorite friends, elementary school yearbooks, once loved toys. The most special articles are carefully placed in a plastic box and will be transported to Oregon in February. During my own fall cleaning frenzy, I discovered a Foster family photo, taken in 1959. Its black and white crispness evokes pungent memories as I recall my red dress with velvet trim, my mother's pale lavender suit, and the men of the family in proper 'church clothes.' Somewhat tentatively, I ask Caitlin if she'd like to have this historical relic and am so gratified when she responds positively. It will have a place of honor on the mid-century buffet she and Bobby hope to acquire. A perfect match.



On Christmas Day our own family rituals are observed with presents containing enigmatic clues as to their contents and the whole process faithfully recorded on video and photo format. She's the dutiful daughter, enduring our quaint customs. It's the year of the owl, her favorite motif. Pajamas in turquoise sport a flock of plucky owls. Adorable owls peep from notepaper and one, quite decorous in grey, centers a new doormat. Small silver owls with beaded black eyes make perfect earrings. Perky birds cover a soft-sided lunch box, probably meant to be carried to elementary school. An electric toothbrush, sans owls, is much appreciated. The unwrapping is a bit hasty as a Santa visit is expected at the neighbor's house.



Henry, aka Santa, is festive in his red suit and snowy beard. This year he's decided to forgo his preferred footwear (tennies) and chooses his black dress shoes instead. The sisters next door always tease him about his shoes and say that's how they know it isn't really Santa after all. Caitlin thinks the dress shoes are a hilarious choice. We use the dolly to load presents which include a computer we've been storing for Gilly to give to Shawn.



Jointly we've agreed that the holiday meal will be enjoyed at Great Wall, a Chinese restaurant downtown. Reservations are set and we each look very presentable as we arrive on time. Unfortunately, our waiter either loses our order or gets involved in some other activity and we wait nearly an hour for the food. He is noticeably absent the entire time. When food finally appears, my entree is missing. Eventually there are three plates on the table and we're concentrating on our good fortune to be spending this special holiday together. No cookies necessary.



Days drift into nights as sales beckon and bargains are found; Rio Azul nudges Las Casuelas from its vaulted position as favorite local restaurant; totally unhealthy food is consumed at In 'n' Out;

an unturkey encore satisfies once again;



high school friends ring the doorbell;



a pecan chocolate pie proves not as sublime as the original recipe;
little girl sprites infuse the house with their boundless energy;



lying on lounges in the sun-drenched backyard brings perfect bliss;



the guys immerse themselves in a PlayStation car racing game;



and northwest-living young people succumb to the serenity of a hot tub on a cool December night.



I continue my ditzy behavior by mistakenly mixing Swedish glog with iced tea. (Well, both liquids are the same color.) Caitlin thoughtfully attaches a note to the probably undrinkable combination.



Dad and daughter play a highly competitive game of Bananagram. He wins. She is not pleased and admonishes him sternly.



When Bobby arrives on the 27th, our household is complete. Watching he and Caitlin interact is exhilarating. Bobby tolerates the clue strewn present process and delights in his gifts.




The happy couple investigates the menu at Pinocchio's and pronounce it worthy, just not quite as good as similar places in Portland. Cactusberry's frozen yogurt is a repeat treat. On the last day here, there's time to finally eat at Tyler's. It gets raves and will be on the agenda for the next desert visit.

It simply can't be Friday already. I want to lock them in the bedroom and throw away their boarding passes. However, I act bravely and busy myself removing pine branches from the mantle and various locations around the house. I know Caitlin and Bobby must go home. There's a party waiting, friends who miss them terribly, jobs to restart, kitties to love.



We've been gifted.

Seven Times Two

They're startlingly alike and yet so very different. Blondes with azure eyes, one's locks are straight; the other's curly. Fiercely intertwined but also absolutely independent with individual strengths, they're an awesome twosome.



Born just three days before Christmas, they impatiently wait nearly the whole calendar year for 'their' day. Finally it's nearly here and time for a birthday party. Friends of all ages gather on Saturday to celebrate.

Hanna and Jessy are amazingly social little girls. They're comfortable with peers as well as people born two generations prior to their own. With an ample amount of whimsy, they enliven any setting with their energetic presence. Can it be that they get cuter each year?

On the night before the party, with friend Linnea joining the fun, the girls submit their fingers for multiple layers of nail polish. Deep holiday red is the perfect choice. Flowers are painted on several nails and adorned with tiny beads. Where are those little ones we met five years ago? We're now watching young ladies evolve ever so quickly.



Parents Shawn and Gilly have planned an activity laden afternoon. A raffle promises prizes to lucky winners. Presents proliferate as more and more people arrive. With an unusually cool day, sporadic rain, and temperatures well below normal, outside events are curtailed. Small clumps of kids drift from the house to the party room at the rear of the yard. Adults stroll leisurely, sipping wine or soda. Girls vastly outnumber boys but the genders meld and mingle nicely.




Musical chairs morphs into 'musical cushions' played inside the party room. A young male party-goer serves as DJ. Laughter surrounds the room while each child scrambles quickly around the circle. Finally there is one cushion and one girl remaining.



Sunshine returns at the right moment. Eduardo rigs up a rope and climbs atop the roof. He pull the rope back and forth as each small guest whacks at the pinatas. (It's an easier game without blindfolds.)



With a ladybug demolished, the children move on to destroy the monkey.



Candy covers the patio and is quickly scooped into individual plastic bags for consuming later. (A terrific use of left-over Halloween treats.)



Throughout the afternoon, Storey, an extremely amiable server, dispenses delicious hors d'oeuvres. These miniature delicacies are the creation of Mike, an accomplished caterer who happens to live a few houses down the street. Tiny pastries stuffed with brie and apricot chutney, topped with almonds vie with perfect burger sliders and minute mac and cheese encased in phyllo dough. An endless variety of kid-friendly food emerges from the kitchen. It's very difficult not to sample each new treat.

Games dwindle and the birthday cake beckons. It's a two-layer masterful creation with a Hello Kitty theme, created by a colleague of Shawn's. Candles are lit, the traditional song sung, and cake devoured down to the crumbs.



Guests with full tummies crowd the couches for a flurry of present-opening as dual gifts are admired and thanks dispensed. It's difficult to discern the favorites. Each choice seems perfect for the smiling sisters.



Without intruding at all, Henry has videoed the panorama of events. From the early moments of make-up application and face-painting to the popular 'Pass the Present' game, he's captured the afternoon forever.



I've taken nearly a hundred photos. As very involved neighbors we often act as recorders for special events. We're honored to provide such service.

At a little past four, a white stretch limo arrives. The kids have been expecting it all afternoon and they're anxious to see inside. There's little hesitation as the group moves en masse to the rear door of the intriguing vehicle. For most, if not all, this is a first-time experience. Gilly is the only adult along for the ride, except, of course, the driver.


As the enchanted car disappears up the street, we leave for home.



How lucky we are to have seven times two next door.
Happy Birthday Hanna and Jessy!

What Winter Looks Like

Sir Richard left the cockpit to greet the press and assembled politicians, immediately commenting on the unseasonable weather. Inaugurating Virgin America service from Palm Springs to New York via San Francisco, Branson expected the desert to be resplendent in bright sunshine ten days before Christmas.

With tourism responsible for much of the local economy and warm winters enticing those escaping less hospitable temperatures, the sun is our mighty magnet. At least one resident feels so strongly that his license plate proudly proclaims GR8 SUN. Not, however, for the last few days.

Clouds and rain recently invaded the valley and caused a scramble for hidden umbrellas and warm hoodies. The weather pattern also brought beauty as I witnessed these scenes.



Soon a partial peek at the sky.....



We're getting sun-soaked for Christmas.

A Challah in the House

Mention mince meat pie and most people wince. I do not. My upbringing included a substantial amount of this traditional treat. It may be a Southern thing. I always found the combination of raisins and spices very palatable. Therefore, one can conclude that I'd be a fruitcake aficionado as well. It is true. The much maligned fruitcake is actually very tasty. How can a combination of fruit and nuts provoke such agitated responses from potential eaters?

My family always, always served fruitcakes at Christmas though my mother did not generally make them herself. She'd buy a big one at the grocery store or some obliging family member would ship one to our house. I vividly recall the pleated red paper in which the fruitcake was encased. Though I've lost the brand name of our favorite variety, I can summon the richness of a thick slice without any difficulty.

Having spent the last thirty-five years with someone whose heritage is thoroughly New York, mincemeat pie and fruitcake have been mostly absent from our table. I recall that at least once I bought all the various dried fruit needed to assemble a fruitcake. I believe I followed through and baked the cake. I've erased any memory of what happened next. With my Southern mother living with us, most likely at least two slices were eaten. The rest of the cake was trashed, I am sure. I never attempted to sway my family towards mincemeat pie.

It is an established fact in this family that I am a subsistence cook. I can keep people alive, generally healthy. I have no specialties unless you consider a turkey sandwich on whole wheat with honey mustard something unique. No, I don't think so. I've recounted my many culinary catastrophes in previous blogs and can mainly laugh about them now that enough time has passed.

Holiday traditions at our house include a breakfast with an inviolate menu. This food is served just once a year at Christmas time. I have a dark brown pottery bowl that is removed from a top shelf in the kitchen for this singular purpose. So it has been for the last 30+ years.

Carefully kept is the practice of enjoying French toast once presents have been opened and admired on Christmas morning. In anticipation, a large challah from the bakery is tucked in our freezer.


Real maple syrup resides on a pantry shelf. An ample supply of "fakin bacon" is ready for tasting.


In years past, when the people living in the house numbered five, I'd cook a whole turkey, amply stuffed. The bird was dusted with paprika, just like Mother prepared it at our farmhouse in Mississippi. This spice addition made no sense, but some traditions just 'are.' For a long time, I served the ubiquitous green been casserole. Four people ate it in dainty portions. My all-things-green adverse husband politely declined. (He was probably the clever one.) Ocean Spray cranberry sauce filled my Granny's pickle dish, just as it had in my childhood. I never even considered making my own sauce. Desserts often included an Apple Crumb Pie, Henry's favorite.

Through the years, the number of residents at the house has shrunk. Our daughter is a devoted vegetarian. No longer does a whole turkey roast in our oven. A few years ago, I found a fabulous recipe for Cranberry Sauce (Thank you Southern Living.) and now make it in large quantities to share with neighbors. The green bean casserole has been abandoned for a much healthier (and better tasting) Green Bean Salad. It, too, is requested by friends and neighbors and often the recipe is multiplied to accommodate those additional tables. My gravy boats are gathering dust.

I very much enjoy setting the Christmas table with red and green linens. Polishing the silver, washing the crystal, these are tasks laced with love. Each chair around our 1980-era dining room evokes a memory of some loved one who has sat at that particular place over the years. Their faces and individual cadences continue to enliven the room even in their absence.

I think I glimpse a small, dark-haired Caitlin who barely peeps over the table when she asks for more turkey. Mother sits quietly, probably reminiscing about the absence of Daddy and Brother, and eventually engages with the family surrounding her. One special Christmas, niece Diane and nephew Keith share the holiday with us. Can that really be twenty years ago?

While we still lived at our old house, and on Caitlin's very first Christmas, she was surrounded by her three surviving grandparents. Photos and videos from that day capture three generations opening presents and enjoying the holiday meal. Nine-month old Caitlin is mostly oblivious, completely fascinated by the wrapping paper and boxes which contained a plethora of gifts. Her elder brother patiently demonstrates each toy and tries to distract Caitlin from her paper obsession.

With only a threesome assembling for Christmas 2011, we'll not be sitting at our table. Instead, we'll dine at the Great Wall, a Chinese restaurant in downtown. Owned by the parents of Maureen, President of Caitlin's high school graduating class, the venue is a very comfortable place for celebrating. We may be inaugurating a new tradition that is free from preparation, presentation, and ultimately, removal of the Christmas meal. Not one of us is troubled by this decision, rather, we are each elated. Doubtless new stories will emerge from this culinary deviation.

It's been decided that we'll 'dress' for dinner. A new festive red frock for Caitlin. Muted grey for me. Henry will be dashing in navy. We'll linger over soup and special entrees, sharing stories of our family's past. It will be the very best Christmas dinner ever.

Sunshine and Santas

Softly the voice enwraps the listener and almost immediately it's possible to detect a distant dialect. She's a Texas native, though long removed westward. Traces of initial language tinge her words and phrases, adding extra charm to her delightful personality. She's part of the past, specifically Henry's history. They met ever so long ago when each was merely twenty-something, busily ensconced in graduate school at Arizona State. (I joined their friendship circle in 1977.)



It's easy to imagine that the two students became instant friends. Her innate inquisitiveness blends harmoniously with his tenacious intellect, while allowing ample room for gamboling along the way. For a period of time, when his life changed dramatically, she became his tenant. They stored many moments from those months and have quickly recalled particular incidents whenever they've been together in the years hence.

She is Connie, a treasured friend, whose life's journey includes heady days as part of Microsoft's gifted team during it's near infancy. With superb writing acumen, her skills matched the rhythm of a burgeoning business as it grew to portentous proportions.

We're excited to welcome Connie for a fleeting December visit. The agenda includes Shrimp Tacos at Fisherman's Market, several meals at our table, and sharing stories of our respective lives during the 22 months since we were last together.

Financial discussions are lively as Connie and Henry ponder an unsteady world and the prudent choices critical to avoiding monetary mayhem.



Music soothes while the duo sways to songs from earlier decades during an impromptu concert featuring Henry on keyboard and Connie handling vocals. They sound really great to me, the audience of one.



As a resident of the often chilly Northwest, our desert winter weather is a beacon for Connie. She's astounded by the array of roses, freshly plucked from our garden. One morning, she chooses what she declares is a perfect orange from the fruit-laden trees near the pool. Nothing but the rind remains after breakfast. Several times I find her gazing at Mt. San Jacinto with wonder. It is an awesome sight no matter the season.

On Tuesday, Connie graciously agrees to help me decorate the house for the Christmas holidays. With superb design aptitude and an 'eye' for details, Connie's vision soon resonates throughout the rooms. In truth, I am merely the one who fetches and hands her various items. Several closets are raided, special treasures located, boxes piled on the dining room table. I smile when angels, reindeer, snowmen, and Santas are unwrapped, each one a reminder of holidays past.


Non-Christmasy decorations are quickly sequestered in closets. Seasonal specialties occupy newly vacant spaces. Interesting, and often unusual, groupings greatly enhance the overall holiday theme. Connie is gleeful, clearly enjoying herself immensely. I'm exhuberant too, admiring the remarkable results.



Branches, procured from the nearby high school's Christmas tree lot, emit a strong evergreen fragrance and are a worthy substitute for the tree we no longer trim. Scattered across the mantle and onto tables, the greenery provides a becoming backdrop for each holiday display.



The stockings are hung, awaiting their fill. Just seventeen days until Christmas.




Thank you, dear Connie. You are a lifetime gift.