Another cookie, please!

                                                                     
A couple of days ago I was a tad caught up in feeling down over my lack of holiday spirit, perhaps too self-absorbed in wrestling with my own seasonal demons to realize it’s not all about me!

Then, today, I read a Blog.  Not just any written collection of thoughts, mind you, but a Blog of great significance to me and many of its loyal readers.  I’m fortunate to know its creator and have mentioned her contributions here and there in my own postings; Kelli’s writings are, well, a gift.

If I ever grow young again, I want to be just like her.

While reading over the beginning of her latest posting, I sat and thought how very much on the same thinking page we both were concerning the holidays.  How quickly we look past all we do have yet, during rough times, we focus on so much that we still want and fret over what we cannot have and honestly don’t need!  Stress, finances (especially the lack of), wish lists and more are a major part of this season but we all easily forget about those who don’t have dreams left to dream.

                                                

It’s that time of year…again. 

Lyrics from The Christmas Waltz gently sing about “when the world falls in love”;  I would so like to believe that, somewhere, someone isn’t caught up in absolute holiday madness and is managing to gleefully dance along through all the preparations with a song in their heart.

Some of you still have turkey and trimmings left, don’t you? 
I knew it…me too! 

Almost overnight, we go full swing from one holiday right into another but, hey, there’s no pressure, no stress, not at all. 
Like hell there isn’t! 

For example, the day after Thanksgiving, the first Christmas card of 2010 arrived in our mailbox; this, I felt,  was just a little over the holiday top.  That card was sent by someone totally organized who purchased their box of holiday greetings and gift wrappings the day after last Christmas at 50% off;  by someone who likely has all their shopping done, gifts wrapped, tree up and decorated, sinful yardage of icicle lights tacked up on their home and all their holiday baking done. 
I hate people like that!

That used to be me.

How did I once manage to coordinate holiday preparations with three young children in tow and now, years later with aforementioned birds having left the nest and just my husband and myself, I’m already stressed about not having everything in place…not even started?

                                                     

What happened to me….where did I go?

It seems the magic of the season has disappeared for me.  Each year I’ve anxiously awaited that first blast of holiday music on the radio, always getting that little zing of excitement that ran up the back of my neck when Nat King Cole’s voice started crooning about chestnuts roasting. Gone is the thrill of taking down endless boxes of decorations from the attic, watching the first snowflakes of the season arrive to gently rest on the trees outside my windows or the sight of a home with a candle in every window.  It’s these, simple, things I miss the most.  Mostly, I miss the person I used to be during the weeks leading up to this most wonderful time of the year.

                                  
If someone sees my photo on some milk carton or recognizes me wandering aimlessly through some overheated, crowded mall……send me home. 

Thank you!

Trudging over a rocky path of painful childhood memories, I forget the occasions where hurt didn’t prevail in some manner.  We all do that.  I think.

Don’t we?

A week ago saw me rushing around in my usual frenzy right before Thanksgiving.  My oldest daughter and her two beautiful little boys were visiting from Florida, my home was a pleasant combination of playful noises and organized chaos with my grandchildren running around, anticipating all that turkey day would bring.

                                                                                                                                                     

Cooking preparations started last Wednesday as I busily worked in my kitchen grilling bacon and sausage; next to the indoor grill, in a large saute pan, vegetables simmered away in sage, ginger, rosemary, marjoram and other spices all tucked inside a little Bell’s Seasoning box.  This mixture, along with the meat, would soon marry with cubed seasoned bread to become fragrant, and delicious, turkey stuffing.   Except for music softly drifting in from the living room, things were quiet until I heard a familiar voice from behind asking “Did you put apples in the stuffing?”.  No one was there but the voice was undeniably my Mom’s.  Before Alzheimer’s took charge, those words were part of her yearly Thanksgiving repertoire and, once again, they started playing in my head.  Silently, I answered Mom, telling her “yes, of course I put Apples in, don’t I always?” and heard her give her usual sigh of annoyance with me. 

End of conversation.

She was never what could be defined as a creative, or adventurous, cook.  Mom made just the basics each week, mostly to suit my father’s feeding demands and I was never allowed in the kitchen to watch, or learn, what she did; when I married, it was a mad scramble to purchase and read every cookbook I could get my hands on just to get beyond the ability to boil water.  Over the last 40 years I’ve amassed quite an admirable library of written culinary treasures.

                                              

That’s one positive thing I can thank my mother for.

She enjoyed Thanksgiving more for the leftovers than the actual dinner each year, making sure to remind me about what food items she wanted to take home at the end of the day.  Shopping bags would be packed with containers of Turkey, Stuffing, Sweet Potatoes and more plus carefully wrapped plates of all the desserts that were served.  For the next week, or so, I would get a call each night from her telling me that “it was like Thanksgiving all over again” after she re-heated all the holiday food booty, stashed in her refrigerator, for dinner.  Probably one of the few honest statements Mom ever made remains embedded still in my mind….”I don’t know where you learned to cook, it sure wasn’t from me!”

No Mom, like so many things, I did it on my own but I’m glad you enjoyed all my hard work.  And, by the way, thanks for not throwing away all that Tupperware when Alzheimer’s started helping you clean house years ago.

 

Tonight, it will be Thanksgiving all over again, at my house.