The holidays with Kathleen Buckley

I spent my first six years in Alaska, where my father worked for the Alaska Railroad. One Christmas there stands out in my memory, a Christmas party put on by the railroad for its employees and their children. I suppose I must have been four or five, and it was magical. It was held in a large, dimly-lit hall, there seemed to be crowds of people, and there was a Santa Claus who gave each child a stocking with treats. The only comparison that occurs to me is one of the Hogwarts parties.

We all have our ideas of what makes the holidays special.  My father liked the idea of roasted chestnuts at Christmas, as he remembered them fondly from his boyhood in New York City. But when they were roasted in the oven, they never came out like the ones roasted in the street.  Once, after his death, I tried roasting them in the microwave. Do not try this unless you enjoy the pop-pop-pop of small arms fire. Also the exploded chestnuts have to be cleaned out of the inside of the microwave. And they still don’t taste like anything.

I was living in Seattle by then, and Christmas traditions were a little different, and I’m not talking solely about the frantic shopping in the malls and the Christmas-y red and green traffic lights glowing through the wet darkness.

There were two songs that defined a Pacific Northwest Christmas: Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer, which is a favorite of mine, and Christmas In The Northwest … which isn’t.

My stepmother and her mother used to cook lutefisk and meatballs for Christmas Eve, and everyone would admire the lutefisk, which lay in state upon the table, and then they’d eat the meatballs. The lutefisk tradition seems to be dying out, though I can recall seeing lutefisk for sale in a supermarket in Seattle.

My mother and I had a slightly different tradition. In mid-December one year, she was recovering from a bad case of the flu and her appetite had not come back. When she began to feel like eating again, my uncle brought her a pastrami sandwich from a nearby sandwich shop. It was the first thing she had enjoyed in a couple of weeks, and it was what she wanted for our Christmas Eve supper. And that was what we ate every Christmas Eve for some thirty-five years, almost to the end of her life, augmented by champagne and really good chocolates or rum balls.

Oh, and the picture of me in a high chair looking at our Christmas tree? I still have some of the ornaments. 

Thanks!

Kathleen Buckley

Author of Most Secret 

and An Unsuitable Duchess

Christmas Traditions

I love Christmas, it’s such a special, magical time of year. I love the carols, the decorations, and the sense of camaraderie and friendship – such a pity that doesn’t spread to everyone, everywhere, for the rest of the year! My husband and I have several Christmas traditions. I really enjoy putting up decorations, dressing the tree, and covering the rooms with tiny twinkling lights, ‘snow’ and little rustic woodland animals on the windowsills, with angels dotted around, a little nativity scene, and a snowy ‘miniature teddy bear grotto’, as well as putting coloured lights all along our fence, sparkling icicle lights around the roof, and illuminated models of reindeer, miniature blossom trees, and a little unicorn, all with fairy lights, in front of the house. However, I don’t like to start decorating too early. I reckon about ten days before Christmas is just about right – I’m really starting to get into the Christmas spirit and feeling festive by then!

About the middle of the month, we go shopping for a Christmas tree at the Christmas tree farm – I think there is nothing like a real Christmas tree! Our local Christmas tree farm grows trees especially for Christmas, and is environmentally friendly, taking old trees for recycling, after Christmas, and using two lovely Shire horses to bring the felled trees in. They have a Christmas shop, selling a huge variety of Christmas tree decorations and accessories, with a full sized Santa and sleigh, and realistic woodland animals dotted around, while outside is Santa’s workshop, where the elves can be seen working away making the toys for Christmas.

Another treat we like to give ourselves, is to the Christmas ‘light show’ at a local Stately Home. Last year the theme was animals. In the grounds were illuminated statues of horses, dogs, deer, exotic birds – and a gigantic blue and purple dragon. The gardens were all absolutely beautiful and magical, with the trees also decked out in coloured lights.

Inside house the theme was continued, with Christmas trees in all the the various rooms, and animals of all shapes and sizes, including a unicorn, many elephants and a nearly life-sized zebra pulling a card loaded with holly. The tables in each room were laid out for a banquet with little animals among the silverware, and tiny butterflies scattered everywhere. The children were told to count how many elephants there were altogether. I have to admit we lost count ourselves! This year the theme will be ‘Masquerades’ so I’m expecting lots of colourful masks and a carnival atmosphere. Can’t wait.

With the Christmas tree decked out in all its glory, lights twinkling everywhere, my collection of little teddies enjoying their snowy grotto, and fairy lights around the windows, complementing the little animals, candles and snow covered houses on the windowsills. I put on marzipan and frosting and decorate the Christmas cakes I’ve made for us and my sisters in my beloved native Wales. Then we’re off on our annual ‘Santa run’ to visit my family in Wales for a few days, and take them their gifts. This is something I look forward to all year.

Finally, just before Christmas, we visit the local garden centre, which is beautifully decorated with all things Christmassy. Last year they had a ‘Narnia’ theme. This is a picture of me looking as if I’ve just walked through the wardrobe, to be watched over by Jadis, the White Witch, looking very stern, if very beautiful. Good job Aslan is there to protect me!

Wishing all the Roses and staff who work so hard behind the scenes, a wonderful Christmas season and a fantastic and fulfilling New Year.

Hywela Lyn -  Romance That's 'Out Of This World'

Beloved Enemy - Shortlisted for RoNA (RNA) Awards 2017 

Runner up in the  RONE  Awards and Winner of 'Best Banter Contest' 2017

The Destiny Trilogy - (First two books now in audio) Available from 

The Wild Rose Press and Amazon  Book 3 'Beloved Enemy' soon to be available in Audio

https://www.bookgorilla.com/author/B002BMBXH4/hywela-lyn

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Website: http://www.hywelalyn.co.uk

Las Vegas Christmas by DeeDee Lane

Gelato!  One more reason to enjoy Christmas on the Las Vegas Strip

My husband was unexpectedly working in Las Vegas over the holidays, so we decided to take our Christmas on the road.  We left rainy Seattle, slid along snow covered roads in Oregon, and took our time meandering our way into Nevada.  After three days on the road, we landed at the Residence Inn in central Las Vegas about two hundred yards from my husband’s work site for the next month and 1500 (give or take) miles from our families in Wisconsin and Texas.

It was Christmas Eve.  We dressed in our finest road trip apparel, a fluffy skirt for me and jeans and a suit jacket for my husband, then set out for dinner and a show at the Wynn Casino and Resort. Le Reve, The Dream, a water extravaganza show was mind bogglingly filled with strong men, daring acrobatics, and women performing synchronized swimming in red high heels!  Far different from anything either of us had ever experienced on Christmas Eve. 

                The next morning we were both a bit lonely. So we lit a fake log in the hotel room fireplace, put on some John Denver Christmas carols and reminded ourselves we were lucky to be together, lucky to have this chance for work, and lucky we had families to call and wish a very Merry Christmas.  For our Christmas dinner we set out to a friend’s home, who hosted an “orphans” holiday dinner. There we enjoyed turkey, stuffing, German potato salad (my husband’s favorite) and our friend’s specialty – a German red cabbage dish that I will truly never forget it was so delish. 

                The conversation sparkled with topics ranging from recycling in Las Vegas to costume breakdowns in the Zumanity Cirque du Soleil show. Zumanity describes itself as a “highly eroticized, cabaret-style show that spotlights sensual imagery and stunning aerialists,” so that part of the conversation was not G rated but made for a lot of laughter at our table. We hugged our host and hostess goodbye and realized our Christmas in Vegas had family, counting our blessings, love, good food, and laughter.

                Happy Holidays wherever you are and in whatever way you celebrate.   

DeeDee Lane

A Holiday with Raymona Marie Anderson

A couple of Christmas seasons ago our niece came from Texas bearing my husband’s favorite candy––peanut brittle. We were grateful that she brought the purchased variety.

Cindy’s homemade peanut brittle is family legend––at least among we who witnessed her first, valiant attempt to make the treat decades ago. More about that later.

Back in the day, making Christmas Candy was an annual event. It began when I was a girl at home, and years later became a party with my sister-in-law, Norma Anderson and her daughters, Debbie and Cindy.

A winter afternoon, sunny but cold enough to nip one’s toes, transformed her kitchen or mine into a toasty haven. Sugary smells spiced with vanilla, gossip and laughter enriched the hours.

We had loaded in supplies: sugar, cream, butter, flour and spices (just wait for that one too) as well as white and dark syrup, pecans, walnuts, and yes, peanuts.

Essential tools—big black iron skillets and long handled spoons for beating the fudge.

My traditional fudge combines cocoa, sugar, and milk boiled in that skillet to the perfect stage (a drop in cold water could be manipulated into a soft ball). A teaspoon of vanilla, some cooling and then the work begins. The cooled mixture requires beating until it flows into the buttered pan in ripples that settle smooth to harden. The fudge melts in the mouth.

The soft ball and the beating are the secret, the latter demanded stamina maintained with a steady supply of black coffee. Norma preferred cola. Her specialties required Herculean stamina.

She made Aunt Bill’s Brown Candy–I shudder at the memory of watching her go through that process– and a cookie called peppernuts. A treat that originated as pfeffernusse in Europe, the dough is rolled between the palms into a long rope and then cut into pellets for baking. The tiny cookies are eaten by the handful.

Norma cut her peppernuts into a dishpan, so I’m sure there were plenty to go around when her sisters and their families came for Christmas.

Her creamy, no chocolate fudge created by someone’s Aunt Bill, became a favorite I appreciated fully after watching her make it. She performed magic with her iron skillet, stirring granulated white sugar over low heat until it browned. Ingredients added then are lost in memory, but the procedure also included a lot of beating and produced candy the color of café-au-lait. A taste to die for.

Which brings me to Cindy’s legendary peanut brittle. She was probably around fifteen the year she declared herself ready to make it. Into the big iron skillet went the syrup, sugar, and I think butter? I never attempted peanut brittle, so can’t say for sure. Cindy boiled, and boiled, and boiled, and . . . stirred in peanuts, or rather tried to stir in peanuts. The spoon hung up in the candy.

Again, memory fails me. That happens to octogenarians. However, I will never forget that spoon standing upright in the layer of unbrittle peanut brittle cemented inside that black iron skillet. Still in some trash dump that way I suppose.

Cindy still thinks its funny too, which says a lot about her character.

For those who like homemade candy, but have little free time, here’s my current recipe.

No Iron-Skillet Fudge.

You need a big microwaveable bowl. Four quarts at least. Butter a 10 x 13 pan.

Into your bowl melt 3/4 cup margarine. Microwave about a minute on high to melt it. Add 2/3 cup unsweetened evaporated milk and 3 cups of white granulated sugar. Stir well and microwave for 2 minutes. Stir then microwave 3 ½ more minutes. Cooking is done. Scrape down the bowl, stir mixture and add 12 oz semi-sweet chocolate chips (be sure to check the bag for weight—you know how manufacturers skimp on contents nowadays). Stir until the chips melt. Add 7 oz. marshmallow crème. Add 1 cup chopped pecans. Blend until the white disappears. Pour into your buttered pan to harden. Cut into squares.

Raymona Anderson

www.raymonamarieanderson.wordpress.com

Happy Festivus from Kat de Falla

Happy Festivus from Kat de Falla
www.facebook.com/authorkatdefalla

Che Gelida Manina: a Story of Second Chances

M. S. Spencer© 2014

Che Gelida Manina: a Story of Second Chances

                                                By M. S. Spencer

"I don't want to stay here, Amelia."

"But Mother, you love Sarasota! You love the sun, the people, the beach. Why this sudden desire to move to Morocco?"

"It's always been a dream of mine." Grace knew her daughter wouldn't buy it, but didn't want to tell her how desperately she needed to get away from Florida. Since Jack died nine months before on Christmas Eve, she couldn't bear to go to the Gulf…or listen to his favorite opera, La Bohème…or even light candles at dinner.  Jack had been the most romantic man in the world and the love of her life. Now that he was gone, all desire for romance had gone with him. It was only because of her promise to him to stay through one last Christmas that she had remained.  I'll keep my promise, but I'll be out of here by Boxing Day.

"Well, it makes no sense." Amelia switched gears. "Just yesterday Brad was saying you should come up here to Portland—"

"Not on your life. I may be a doting grandmother but I don't think I could handle twin toddlers twenty-four-seven."

The woman at the other end of the phone sniffed. "Hmmph. Well, we don't want you alone on Christmas Eve, Mother. Brad would be happy to book a flight for you."

"You know I can't, dear."

"Oh, bother the promise. Dad would understand."

Grace thought of Jack's last whispered request. "No, he wouldn't."

"Okay, okay." Amelia paused. "Did you sign up for Friends.com yet?"

"No, and stop badgering me."

"All I ask is that you think about it. It's about time you got out of the house. The site's supposed to have a ninety-percent success rate in matching people."

"I doubt that. Gotta go, dear." Grace hung up and stared at the website on her computer screen. She hesitated, then clicked "Your Friends.com Profile." She wrote quickly and furiously, tossing her thoughts out before she lost her nerve.

   Recently widowed woman, 60, seeking companion for excursions—bird watching and sightseeing. Not interested in romance or personal confidences. No moonlit beach walkers please. No candlelight dinners. Love of opera a deal-breaker.

She typed in her credit card number and clicked 'Submit,' then returned to her profile and reread it.  "Oh dear, that sounds awfully negative…"

Her finger hovered over the 'Delete Post' button when a message popped up. "Edward Harper has emailed you." She opened it.

Widower, 62, happy to oblige. Coffee today?

Next to the message was a man's photograph. She studied it, trying to plumb its secrets—a broad face, the planes of the cheeks flat and tanned. Little crinkles of skin at each temple hinted at a quiet sense of humor. His bright hazel eyes under a thatch of brown hair smiled at her, as if willing her to say hello.  She pressed 'Reply' and typed in, "Yes."

An hour later she sat in a booth in the Gray Dolphin Café, wondering if she'd recognize him. A tall man came through the automatic doors and strode resolutely toward her. "Are you Grace?"

I can deny it. I can get up and walk out right now. The eyes held her. Cheerful, calm, intelligent. "Yes. Won't you join me?"

He slid onto the seat and ordered coffee for the two of them. Grace, used to dealing with the world on her own, found it refreshing. He had a way of making her feel comfortable and pampered at the same time. Two hours later they parted at the café door.

She didn't hear from him that day, or the next, or the next. Exactly one week later, an email popped up. "Coffee today?"

Fingers scampering quickly over the keys, she typed, "Yes."

They met at the café, but Edward drew her outside. "How about a walk through Robinson Preserve? I brought binoculars. And coffee."

"Sure."

Two hours later he left her at the café entrance. She almost asked if he'd like to see her again, but didn't.

Precisely a week later, he called. "Coffee?"

This time she was ready. "Would you care to go to Spanish Point with me? It's an historic site."

"Certainly—I was going to suggest something similar. I'll pick you up at the café."

And so it went for two months. The two of them met every Wednesday and toured local sights like Marie Selby Gardens, Ringling's Cà d'Zan, and Ybor City. Edward proved a perfect escort—knowledgeable, funny, interested in everything. Grace's life came to revolve around the weekly dates. She'd find herself thinking about him every day, wondering more and more often how he felt about her. After all, he never asked her personal questions. If she inquired about his past, he would demur. "We are but fellow travelers. That was the deal, wasn't it?"

Whenever his reticence grated on her, she would reread her Friends.com profile.  You asked for this, Grace. In fact, you insisted upon it. Then she would pour herself a drink and watch another re-run of Love Boat.

As the weeks passed, Grace sank deeper and deeper into a funk. Edward was careful to keep his distance—the occasional touch on the hand or squeeze of the elbow meant only that he wanted to draw her attention to something. She began to covet the delicate brush of his fingers across her skin. Sometimes she would even bump into him, pretending to be absorbed in a painting or view.

She had said goodbye to him one Wednesday, facing the emptiness of the week ahead. Sitting in her car, it suddenly struck her as unfair. Is this all he can give? One afternoon a week for the rest of my life? She checked her face in the rear view mirror. Wrinkles spiraled through the once blooming cheeks. Her hair had begun the gradual but depressing transformation to pure white, and her once cobalt blue eyes had faded to the cerulean of a misty morning sky. She started the engine. "I've got to do something."

But as the days dragged by, she did nothing. Time and again she would click on Edward's address, only to hesitate.  I'm not ready.

That Sunday Amelia called.  "I hope you'll reconsider and come for Christmas, Mother."

Christmas. Christ. In her preoccupation with Edward, she had lost track of the date. In three weeks her vow to Jack would be discharged. What difference would it make if I left a few days early? Unexpectedly, Edward's smiling face flashed before her. Yearning vied with terror, threatening to rip her heart apart.  I'm not ready. I need to get out of here. She finally managed, "Perhaps I will."

"Wonderful! Come a week early—that way we'll have plenty of time to catch up."

"All right."

As her departure approached, Grace put off informing Edward. I know him. He'll nod silently. He won't even ask if I need a ride to the airport. She stifled the stab of pain.

The day before she was to leave, she finally confessed. His eyes, for once, did not smile, but he said nothing. She waved him off at the café and went home to finish packing. As she locked the suitcase, cold reality sluiced like ice water down her back. I guess this is it. She looked around the cozy bungalow Edward had never entered. And yet he seemed so much a part of it, of her life now. The longing she'd felt for him—longing that she refused to acknowledge—exploded into desire. I want him. I want to hold him. And I want to talk—really talk—pour out all my thoughts and my childhood dreams, my needs, my fears.

To silence the pleas, she did something she hadn't done since Jack died—she took the shell path to the water. The beach was empty and she walked until her feet hurt—a mile, two miles, three. As she walked, the sun began to descend in one of those glorious Florida sunsets that make you wonder if you've landed on another planet. The white powdery sand crunched between her toes.  How I've missed this! Maybe I was wrong to cut myself off from the things I loved.

By the time she arrived back at the shell path it was nearly dark. She turned for one last look at the moon and stars. A beach chair sat forlornly on the shore, waves lapping at its legs. Something fluttered from it. Oh, right, I left my towel there.

As she approached, a silvery tenor began to croon Jack's favorite aria from La Bohème. In it, Rodolfo sings to his new love Mimi, 'Che gelida manina—What a cold little hand you have!'

She rounded on the chair. "Edward?"

He sat up. "Grace?"

She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted to kiss his lips, his forehead, his hands. Instead, she stood quietly, her arms at her sides. "Edward, what are you doing here? I thought you hated the beach."

His eyes bored into her. "Not me. You. You didn't want romance. You didn't want to hold my hand, or light a candle, or hear my music. I respected your wishes."

She ached to cry out, "I was wrong! Edward, I want to be with you!" but fear clogged her throat. I'm not ready. All she could manage was, "Yes."

His lips twisted. "Yes." Then he stood up and walked away across the sand. Grace watched helplessly as the second love of her life left her.

She went to bed, but the hours ticked by as she lay awake, by turns angry and despondent. The next morning she called Amelia. "I've decided to stay here for Christmas."

"Mother? Why? You'll be so lonely!"

"No! No, I'll be fine. I have a promise to keep."

She checked the calendar. Four days to go to Christmas Eve. She had to find Edward before she left. I can't leave without telling him about Jack—without explaining my aversion to romance. She turned on the laptop and typed his name in the search box.

The first list turned up three dozen Edward Harpers, ten of whom lived in the Sarasota area. She spent two days tracking them down, leaving messages at the most promising leads. Then she sat down to wait.

Christmas Eve arrived without any word from Edward. Her suitcase stood ready by the door. As the light faded, she went outside to her patio. La Bohème played softly from inside. I can't lose him. Why didn't I tell him? What was I afraid of? The pain? You fool, the pain found you anyway. At least she had the beach and the music back. Only one more thing to do. She rose, found some matches, and lit the Christmas candle. As she watched the flame flicker in the evening breeze, she savored an uneasy peace. Perhaps it's for the best. I'll leave tomorrow and forget all about him.

Someone moved from the darkness into the light. She sprang up to find bright hazel eyes smiling into hers. He touched her hand and sang softly, "Che gelida manina. What a cold little hand you have, my dear. May I warm it?"

She gave it to him, then led him down the path to the beach.

M. S. Spencer Tale Spinner

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The Day the Elves Died

Christmas Eve arrived and the game was afoot. Reindeer clip-clopped on our roof and a shadow flashed by our front window. Our children were fast, but never fast enough to catch sight of the elves who delivered an early Christmas gift at the front door. There was no surprise to what would be inside the boxes. Year after year, Santa’s elves would make a stop by our house to drop off new pajamas.

“Santa wants you to wake up on Christmas morning in new PJs,” I would explain.

As the years went on, our two kids became suspicious. The once-joyful tradition was now a competition between us and our children. The elves (usually my husband) had to become trickier each Christmas Eve. “Where’s dad?” our son would ask right after dinner, and they would dash to the front window, sure they would catch him in the act of tossing a rock on the roof and clutching two packages. My husband was light-footed and never got caught, even as he returned through the back door a little out of breath.

Our daughter would confront him at the door. “Where were you?”

“Taking out the garbage.”

They weren’t buying it. “You guys are the elves.”

Echoes of earlier years came to me – squeals of delight, small feet racing to the door and the immediate tearing of wrapping paper. I shrugged off their disbelief, unable to let go of these memories. “When you don’t believe in the elves anymore, they don’t show up.”

This would result in exchanged glances between them and a silent mutual agreement to keep quiet. At least until the next year.

The tradition came to a screeching halt the year we spent Christmas at my parents. Their sprawling ranch house required a full-on sprint from a side door around to the front, and our kids were on full alert. A clatter on the roof caused their heads to swivel as they determined which parent was missing from the room. The doorbell rang, there was a grunt and a thudding of footsteps on the front walk. Our kids didn’t budge. There was no anticipation, no eagerness for a gift at the door. Our son, the older of the two, rolled his eyes and threw his head back. “Ugh. Is it those dumb elves again?”

I tried my best to rekindle the Christmas spirit in my all-knowing pre-teens. “You should see if there’s something out there.”

My husband stumbled in the side door, breathless and rubbing a knee. “What’s going on in here? I thought I saw reindeer on the roof.”

The kids double-teamed him. “You rang the doorbell,” said one. “There are no elves,” said the other.

My husband glanced around the room, bewildered at the mutiny. “What happened to your knee?” I asked in a low voice.

“I slipped on the grass. I think I cracked something.”

We finally got the kids to fetch the packages. Their expressions were as bored as could be when they drew out the new pajamas. They trudged down the hallway to change their clothes.

My husband poured us each a robust glass of wine and joined me on the couch.

I stared into the fireplace and watched the flames lick higher. When had our children grown up? “I think it’s over.”

He gave a long, drawn-out sigh and uttered one word. “Finally.”

****

Julie Howard is the author of the Wild Crime series. She is a former journalist and editor who has covered topics ranging from crime to cowboy poetry. She is a member of the Idaho Writers Guild, editor of the Potato Soup Journal, and founder of the Boise chapter of Shut Up & Write. Learn more at juliemhoward.com.

Hanukkah—The Festival of Lights

Hanukkah comes early this year—December 2-10. Sometimes the holiday comes later in the month and coincides with Christmas. One of my earliest memories growing up in Miami was driving around the city to look at the beautiful display of Christmas lights.

The Hanukkah tradition is to light the menorah, a 9-candle ceremonial lamp with space for eight candles, representing one for each night of the holiday, and one candle to light the rest. Hanukkah is a festive holiday. Families sing songs, play a game called dreidel—a spinning top— and exchange gifts.

When my children were younger, we would give them one gift each night.  Now that they’re grown and out of the house, we typically give or send them one big gift. In the old days, I remember my grandparents lining up the grandchildren and handing out a dollar each.  Now the money comes in the form of chocolate coins you can buy at the grocery store.

Another favorite Hanukkah memory is eating the traditional potato pancakes or latkes. You don’t have to be Jewish to enjoy potato latkes. My sister Elaine makes great latkes. They require a lot of effort, but when done right, they are crispy and delicious. My mother made great latkes when we were growing up. Today, I just buy them out of a box in the grocery freezer section. They’re not nearly as good. It is traditional to top the latkes with a little sour cream and some applesauce. I prefer applesauce and I also like mine sprinkled with sugar. 

This year, I may try something different. My new book, The Saffron Conspiracy: A Novel, will be released Jan. 7, 2019, and is available for pre-order now at The Wild Rose Press. https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/all-titles/6381-the-saffron-conspiracy-a-novel.html. So maybe a pinch of saffron could be added to the batter? It couldn’t hurt.

Here is my sister’s recipe and a picture of her potato pancakes. Wishing you all a happy holiday season. Enjoy!

Potato Latkes

Ingredients:

1 onion

4-5 Idaho potatoes

2 eggs

1 tsp baking powder

¼ cup matzoh meal

Salt: 1 teaspoon, then sprinkle more on as they fry

Pepper, freshly ground, several twists

Cheesecloth

Directions:

Mix the salt, pepper and baking powder together with the matzoh meal.

Peel the potatoes and drop them right away into a large bowl of icy water.

Chop onion: Use a food processor. Decide how fine to chop.

Do not drain liquid from the onion.

In a large bowl, crack the eggs and beat (not too much).

Heat large skillets: Cast iron or any good pan. Use more than one to speed up the cooking. Start low, and when almost ready with the completed mixture, raise the heat. During frying, constantly monitor the heat level, starting on medium high, high, then adding the mixture, then turning down to about medium. Then back up to medium high with the next batch, and so on.

Cut the potatoes lengthwise, and in a food processor, using the shred attachment, shred a few at a time. Then, take out the shredded potatoes into a big bowl, put the chop attachment on and put the shredded potatoes back into the processor, then give just a few pulses (5-10), until a nice chopped consistency (not too big, but not too finely chopped, either).

Then put the potatoes into a cheesecloth (in the sink), and squeeze as much liquid starch as you can! Then put the squeezed potatoes right into the eggs and mix around with your hands to absorb the potato mixture.

Then repeat this process until all the potatoes are in the egg mixture.

Add the onions and dry mixture to the egg and potato mixture, and mix: Use your hands.

Add oil to the fry pan(s) and wait until the oil is hot (but not burning). Add mixture by tablespoons, not too thick. Fry in hot oil. Turn when golden Keep adding oil to pan before each new batch. The more oil, the better it tastes.  The first batch never tastes as good as the rest.

By Marilyn Baron

www.marilynbaron.com

A Blue Christmas by Ginger Dehlinger

The festival of lights we associate with the Christmas season usually includes some combination of Macy’s red, angel white or evergreen, so why am I drawn to the less common blue? My favorite color is lavender, with yellow a close second, so I almost never wear blue unless it’s blue denim, and I don’t have more than an occasional splash of blue anywhere in my home. But whenever I see a blue light, be it Christmas or otherwise, I feel a softness behind my eyes that makes me stop and stare. It isn’t just any shade of blue that has this hold on me. I don’t know if it even has a name. I would best describe it as ethereal cobalt, or the blue of a delphinium blossom in the noonday sun.

The first time I remember seeing this color and experiencing a strange attraction to it was in my childhood home where we owned one string of multi-colored Christmas lights that didn’t blink, twinkle or bubble, and only one of which was blue. Every year we selected a Christmas tree larger than Charlie Brown’s but not so tall as to look underdressed wearing a single string of lights. To protect the tree’s needles we put small, star-shaped aluminum collars around the bulbs before screwing them into their sockets. I positioned the bulbs just so to prevent their collars from obscuring the full effect of the light, and then always made sure I could see the blue one from wherever I was sitting.

On the rare evenings our parents were out of the house, my sisters and I would darken the living room and experience the magic of this radiant tree that prettified our modest home for a few weeks each year. No one spoke, each sister absorbed in her own thoughts, mine soothed by the one blue light that held my gaze.

By the time I was married and had a house of my own, the traditional string of multi-colored lights had become passé. I decorated my Christmas trees with strings of clear, twinkling lights meant, I suppose, to replicate sparkling snowflakes or stars on a winter’s night.

I live in Bend, Oregon where Sarah Street is a virtual wonderland of lights during the month of December. One of the properties on that street was for many years bedecked in hundreds of blue lights. They trimmed the roofline, windows, and doors of the house and glowed in the branches of the trees and bushes in the front yard. I used to drive over there as often as I could during the most hectic season of the year, and sit in the dark like I did as a child, filling my soul with the blue serenity that lessened my stress.

When I drove over there last Christmas, most of the houses on Sarah Street were dressed for the season, but not a single light illuminated the house of blue. I wanted to check with the neighbors to find out if the people living there had moved, and if so, get their new address. But I was busy as usual, and with no blue light fix that year, I feel a blue Christmas coming on.

I had never shared this blue light fascination with my husband —it just didn’t seem important until my favorite place to enjoy Christmas lights went dark. So I told him about the one string of lights I grew up with, and while I was out shopping one day he wrapped a string of blue lights around a pole outside our kitchen window. That night he left the dinner table for a minute and turned them on. When I carried the dishes to the sink my heart swelled and tears welled at the beautiful sight. Now I bask in this mesmerizing color every night, spending longer than probably necessary to do the dishes. 

Ginger Dehlinger

“fiction embraced by fact”

Brute Heart

Never Done

http://gdehlinger.blogspot.com

Christmas: the season of lights, the season of love.

Have you ever wondered how lighting a candle can make you feel better? And there seems to be no better time of year for candles than during this season, and yet this season can be stressful. For many, the holidays are one of the most stress-filled times of the year. Whenever I feel overwhelmed by a stress-filled event, such as the holidays, or interacting with friends, family, co-workers, or even writing my next book, I step back and remember how things began.

 

Just like relationships or the book I’m writing, the holiday season had a beginning. It began with a festival of lights to chase away the winter gloom. People would light candles and gather around the fire to give thanks and to share food and laughter. Lucian, the third century poet, advised that this was the time when “all men shall be equal.” By the eleventh century people would decorate their homes and churches with mistletoe, holly and ivy. The nativity play was common in churches by the twelfth century and Christmas carols by the thirteenth. In medieval times, Christmas was celebrated over twelve days. There was even a special Twelfth Night cake, decorated with sugar paste icing. Baked into the cake was a bean and a pea and whoever found these items were crowned either King of the Bean or Queen of the Pea. A fun and festive occasion. In a season when there was little agricultural labor to be done except the care of animals, work could be suspended for the full twelve days and festivities were sometimes prolonged until Candlemass on February 2.

 

Imagine the idea of celebrating good will toward your family, friends, and strangers for almost two months. What a wonderful way to start the new year. Who knows, it might evolve into the Christmas spirit all year round. 

 

So, remember to light candles, remember the people in your life, concentrate on the beginnings of your relationships with them and why they are important.

Pam Binder

http://pambinder.com/

Heaven’s Christmas Dog

Military families are little different from other families with a single exception. Promotions and new assignments of the parents usually mean relocation for everyone.  The family uproots to new schools and new friends, a disquieting if expected part of military life.

When his dad announced they would be moving to Erie, Pennsylvania, the family broke out a map. The oldest son thought a couple teen years in the world of American Bandstand might be fun. Besides, leaving assigned homework projects, social gaffes, and the occasional transgression behind meant a fresh start. Of course, Christmas would be a motel room again, but everyone had done at least one motel birthday, Christmas, or Thanksgiving.

The guy who convinced the government camels made sense in the USA was the same who declared Route 66 to be America's highway. The oldest son of three siblings took the station wagon's rear-facing seat with Quileen, the Pekinese who'd replaced the deceased family dog. Together, they read Tom Sawyer and ignored the countryside.

The ferocity of the Albuquerque snowstorm surprised everyone. By noon, the falling snow emptied the streets and left behind a flaky white utopia. The motel room became a war zone with cabin fever ragging.  Life’s lessons about cold and wet formed parental meat and potatoes so after an hour, huddling semi-hypothermic kids met no more protests. The same bologna and cheese made sandwiches for dinner. Stores remained closed and of course, such fare fit the family's budget.

When the first snowplow made the Sandia Crest, a neighboring stranger told of another storm poised to move in. His dad decided not to wait the extra day and be late reporting. Marines were never late.

The oldest son would be responsible for the dog and carrying out luggage. They loaded and waited while grey sky yielded new flakes. Other cars waited, more pent-up bulls than family steeds. When the snow plow finally passed, each fell into line and became one of many as the frozen sky darkened.

When the oldest son snuggled for warmth, he realized the dog wasn’t by his side. He glanced around. No dog. He carefully moved bags. Ever alert, his Dad’s eyes followed in the rearview mirror.

“Where’s the dog?” The car went quiet, the question a cleave in his heart.

“I must have left her,” the son said, his mouth dry.

Silence.

His dad spoke. “Everyone look around. Check the floor.”

No dog.

The snowplow pushed a one way, single lane up the mountain. No U-turns. No slowing. No turning off. The line of cars behind depended on the taillights ahead with little visability. Quiet screamed in the oldest son's ears. The middle seat sniffled.

His mom said, “I checked both rooms. The dog was not inside.” His dad said nothing. “What are we going to do?”

His voice lowered. “What we have to do.”

The air supply ran low in the back of the station wagon. Dark skies chose that moment to open. Heavy wet flakes whipped back over the windshield, only to disappear disappeared into the headlights behind. The oldest son nearly as tall as his father, often fancied himself an equal. On this night, tears threatened.

When the snowplow pulled into the Howard Johnson, another picked up the lead and continued the march up the mountain. His dad stopped in front of the restaurant’s frosted glass.

“I’ll call the motel,” he said. “Maybe they have her.”

The last of the conga line moved east. The oldest son prayed unable to consider what the alternative might mean. All watched their Dad feed the payphone, dial, and glance toward them. The wind flapped his pant cuffs in driving snow. He hung up, then dug for more change.

When his dad finally dropped into the driver's seat, he looked in the rearview mirror. “The motel doesn’t have the dog.”

A cry rose from the middle seats.

A veined hand raised for silence. “The dog's not in the room and not outside. I called the pound. They don’t have her. We’ve lost a day already. Christmas Eve is tonight. What else would you have me do?”

The son couldn’t answer. His dad opened the car door and trotted into the restaurant. In a minute, he returned and drove the car in a half circle. They waited as the wipers failed to keep the windshield clear. A snow plow’s yellow rotators began and huge tires crunched to the highway. The family wagon pulled behind and made the turn. Another traveler joined as sheets of snowflakes careened. The trio moved down the mountain.

An hour came and left. They inched through drifts. The unplowed city streets proved worse.

His Dad flashed the headlights as they reached the motel lot. A gloved hand emerged and waved. The family wagon stopped in the empty street.

“Just you,” his dad said into the mirror. “Go have your own look. Make it fast. It's now or never.”

The son waded through hip-deep snow calling for an ankle-high dog. He ignored the freezing air and yelled. The motel owner looked out but didn't open the door.  The station wagon reversed course on the white street. No one emerged to help. A gut-deep shiver began. The horn honked. Dread overwhelmed him and he headed once more for their old motel room. A little dog sat at the door wagging an ice-encrusted tail. Dark eyes asked the question and never left the boy’s face.

The family drove through the remainder of the night, retracing the path up the mountain behind yet another plow. His dad said nothing. As the gray dawn crested the plains ahead, the last of the bologna made its way around.

The son trembled to imagined life if they'd lost Quileen. In two more years, he would find out. But for now, on that longest and happiest Christmas’ eve, the universe was once again whole, and a lesson imparted that would forever shape a young life.

Oliver F. Chase
http://oliverchase.net/