December 2007
It was the dinosaur emcee of the television hit "Claymation Christmas" that posed a deeply philosophical question: "What could be more Christmasy than a thick stack of syrup-drenched waffles?" I'll tell you what: holding a five-year old and three-year old son in each arm, cheeks pressed against the cold glass, watching good ol' Saint Nick sitting atop an Arlington County fire engine, waving at the crowds as he rode by on Little Falls Road. The truck itself was completely decked out with holiday lights, and a loudspeaker blared cheesy holiday tunes of Mannheim Steamroller quality. Henry was beside himself, dazzled with the scene, not knowing whether his deeper allegiance should be to the fire engine or to Santa Claus. Christian asked all the storybook questions about a hefty fellow fitting down a chimney, people who don't have chimneys, and how elves make Power Ranger toys.
To our way of thinking, other holidays just don't compare to Christmas. Thanksgiving (a distant second to Christmas) was a very nice time indeed, but there's just a lot less irony and guilt than the act of gorging oneself on turkey and all the fixings and calling this the giving of thanks. For the six out of the last seven Thanksgiving dinners as a couple - including this year's - Amy was successful at practicing what she preaches: that Thanksgiving is a holiday, and so why the heck would she want to be stuck in the kitchen cooking twice as much food as any other day of the year? She began some time before Thanksgiving Day, pointing out to various friends of ours that we are (1) not traveling out of town; (2) avid roasted poultry fans; (3) willing to bring a side dish and dessert to complement a turkey roasted in someone else's oven, potatoes whipped in someone else's bowl, and cranberries sauced on someone else's stove. Within hours she had a dinner invitation to the home of our good friends, the Wests. This arrangement was perfectly acceptable to me because, while I might miss the smell of a turkey cooking in my own home, Kylee West's pies are blue ribbon. Throw in Amy's apple pie, and I am in T-Day heaven.
It was very nice to see the Wests as well as our other friends, the Bakers. Each of our families has three children about the same ages; in total there were eight boys, aged seven and under, and one poor little girl, eleven months old! As you can guess, things were pretty crazy, but the children were easily outdone when the adults started into a rather heated discussion about international politics. Before the liberals at the table (having no defense based in logic) started tossing rosemary-garlic mashed potatoes at the conservatives, the one pacifist at the table brought out a glorious pumpkin pie with pralines atop, and suddenly the verbal debate ended. Perhaps pumpkin praline pie is the path to peace.
Since getting a Bosch mixer a few weeks ago, we've had a weekly stream of bread and other baked goods around the house. (I say it was a gift to Amy, but it was really an indirect gift to myself!) Amy has even declared Tuesday as baking day, now my favorite day of the week. There are few things as tasty as a turkey sandwich on real wheat bread made with a bit of molasses. Amy has also discovered a Chinese cookbook and separately a breakfast cookbook that have to-die-for recipes. Between home-baked bread, zeppelin pancakes and chicken chow mein, eating at our house has been quite good lately.
A few days after we put up our Christmas tree, we had our first snow storm in Virginia. The next morning, I took a half day off work to throw snowballs, make snow angels, and laugh while a stream of vehicles try to make it up the 2% grade outside our front yard, tires spinning intermittently throughout the morning with an eerie buzzing sound. I had more than one moment thinking how different this was to last year's Christmas in the Middle East . . . not because there was snow and cold air this year, but that it wasn't inside an indoor ski resort inside a mega-mall!
The kids have been extra cute lately, in an attempt to trick Santa into forgetting their less-than-stellar behavior for the last 11 months. In his own effort to "support our troops," Christian has been dressing up in Rambo-esque attire and running around the house saluting us and yelling, "Reporting for beauty, Sir." It is really as hilarious as it sounds. We haven't the heart to correct him inasmuch as this is providing us with hours of free entertainment. (This is akin to my parents' idea of child labor minus the dirt clods and heavy hand lines we had to move as toddlers.) Christian is also becoming quite the little optimist in our family. When Rich repeatedly threatened him with a lump of coal for Christmas, Christian asked him what it is. Rich - in an attempt to emphasize the distastefulness of receiving such a thing - explained that it is a dirty, round piece of garbage. Christian thought about it for a minute then responded, "Well, that's not so bad. Since it's round, I could always roll it around for awhile." Shoot for the stars, Christian, shoot for the stars.
Until next time, here's wishing you all a very merry Christmas and happy new year!