The twenty-fifth day before Christmas

"And Dick the shepherd blows his nail" by Edward Frederick Brewtnall

The word "Christmas" only appears three times in Shakespeare's works, and just one of his plays is set at Christmas-time (bet you don't know which one!). But he did write some lovely winter-themed poems, like this one from Love's Labor's Lost V.ii. This is from the text of the quarto, published 1598, as presented at Internet Shakespeare Editions:

When Isacles hang by the wall,

And Dicke the Sheepheard blowes his naile:

And Thom beares Logges into the hall,

And Milke coms frozen home in paile:

When Blood is nipt, and wayes be full,

Then nightly singes the staring Owle

Tu-whit to-who.

A merrie note,

While greasie Ione doth keele the pot.

When all aloude the winde doth blow,

And coffing drownes the Parsons saw;

And Birdes sit brooding in the Snow,

And Marrians nose lookes red and raw:

When roasted Crabbs hisse in the bowle,

Then nightly singes the staring Owle,

Tu-whit to-who.

A merrie note,

While greasie Ione doth keele the pot.

Crabs are crab-apples, by the way. "Keel" means to stir to prevent boiling over. I don't recommend reciting this one out-of-doors in January. It's liable to make you even colder, cause ponds to freeze over, or give you a head cold. As long as the true identity of Shakespeare is in doubt, I might as well state that it's my belief that Shakespeare was from a dairy farm in Minnesota.

Respected English Professor assigned this as one of our memory works in lyric poetry class. This how we learned it more-or-less modern English:

When icicles hang by the wall

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail;

When blood is nipped and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl:

"Tu-who!

"Tu-whit! Tu-who!" A merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marion's nose looks red and raw;

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl:

"Tu-who!

"Tu-whit! Tu-who!" A merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Pieter Bruegel, "Hunters in the Snow"

The twenty-sixth day before Christmas

From The Tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter:

But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk, in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning (though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know what it is that they say).

When the Cathedral clock struck twelve there was an answer like an echo of the chimes and Simpkin heard it, and came out of the tailor's door, and wandered about in the snow.

From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that I don't know, like Whittington's bells.

Here's the watercolor of Simpkin wandering about in the snow. Gutenburg.org has many of the Potter books posted online with the pictures

The legend of the talking beasts is one of my favorite Christmas themes.  Among the special stack of Christmas books that only came down from the shelf in December, we had a picture book (a Little Golden Book, perhaps?) of the carol "The Friendly Beasts," and I believe Twin Sister and I sang it at the candlelight service before we were old enough to be embarrassed by singing in public.

The twenty-seventh day before Christmas

For your enjoyment here's a selection of readings on that seasonal treat, lutefisk!

Photo found on flickr.com, by user emoeby.  If you look in the background, you'll see a plate with a traditional Christmas menu: lutefisk, mashed potatoes, peas, carrots and ham.

A recipe (found here):

First of all, invite brave people over for dinner who do not have misconceptions about this wonderful fish! Next, go to a store that carried the freshest of fish and seafood. Ideally, you would get the lutefisk that they pull out of a barrel (most stores hate those barrels a lot and don't do that anymore). Second best, it comes skinless and "trimmed" and packaged in a plastic. 

Purchase the lutefisk a day before you want to serve it. Take it out of the plastic bag, put it in a large bowl, and cover with ice water. Change this water two to three times and keep in the refrigerator (if your family will let you). This firms up the fish.

Put the lutefisk in a glass baking dish and season with salt and pepper. Put in a preheated oven at 375 degrees F. for 25 to 30 minutes. The fish is done when it flakes easily with a fork. Do not overcook it or it will look like white Jello! It will be not brown.

In Minnesota, we allow at least a pound of lutefisk per person, served with hot melted butter. The two side dishes are riced potatoes and very small cooked frozen peas - no exceptions. And, of course, you must have lefse.

A old joke from Minnesota: 

Well, we tried the lutefisk trick and the raccoons went away, but now we've got a family of Norwegians living under the house!

Garrison Keillor, Lake Wobegon Days: 

Every Advent we entered the purgatory of lutefisk, a repulsive gelatinous fishlike dish that tasted of soap and gave off an odor that would gag a goat. We did this in honor of Norwegian ancestors, much as if survivors of a famine might celebrate their deliverance by feasting on elm bark. I always felt the cold creeps as Advent approached, knowing that this dread delicacy would be put before me and I'd be told, "Just have a little." Eating a little was like vomiting a little, just as bad as a lot.

Garrison Keillor, Pontoon 

Lutefisk is cod that has been dried in a lye solution. It looks like the desiccated cadavers of squirrels run over by trucks, but after it is soaked and reconstituted and the lye is washed out and it's cooked, it looks more fish-related, though with lutefisk, the window of success is small. It can be tasty, but the statistics aren’t on your side. It is the hereditary delicacy of Swedes and Norwegians who serve it around the holidays, in memory of their ancestors, who ate it because they were poor. Most lutefisk is not edible by normal people.

 See also “Lutefisk and Yams,” by Ulf Gunnarsson

The twenty-eighth day before Christmas

Elizabeth Goudge is one of my favorite little-known authors.  She wrote historical and contemporary fiction, mostly around the time of the Second World War.  Some of her best known works are Green Dolphin Street (there's a horrible movie) and Gentian Hill.  My favorites are a book set in Elizabethan Oxford called Towers in the Mist and one of her contemporary novels, Pilgrim's Inn.  She has elements of fantasy in her work, but the settings and characters are very homely--it's something between George Eliot and George MacDonald, if that's even possible.

I Saw Three Ships is one of her later works, a Christmas story for children.

"In the country," she said, "there is not a farm that does not leave its doors unlocked day and night during the season of Christmas. At our farm Papa and Mamma offered hospitality to all who came. By day the kitchen was full of hungry people being fed, and by night the angels went up and down the stairs."

 From I Saw Three Ships by Elizabeth Goudge

The twenty-ninth day before Christmas

From The Puppy Who Wanted a Boy, by Jane Thayer, illus. by Lisa McCue

One day Petey, who was a puppy, said to his mother, who was a dog, “I’d like a boy for Christmas.”  His mother, who was a dog, said she thought he could have a boy if he was a very good puppy.
    So the day before Christmas Petey’s mother asked, “have you been a very good puppy?”
    “Oh, yes!” said Petey.  “I didn’t frighten the cat.”
    “You didn’t?” asked Petey’s mother.
    “Well-l, I just frightened her a little,” said Petey. “And I didn’t chew any shoes.”
    “Not any?” said his mother.

“Just a teeny-weeny chew,” said Petey. “And I remembered--well, almost always remembered--to bark when I wanted to go out.”

“All right,” said his mother.  “I think you’ve been good for such a little dog.  I will go out and get you a boy for Christmas.”

Petey's mother finds that all the boys have been snapped up, so Petey takes matters into his own paws...

Thanksgiving Day

Thanksgiving at the Tappletons was a book we found at the public library when we were little, and it turned out to be one of our favorite picture books for any season.  The Tappletons are planning their usual Thanksgiving family gathering, and each family member has a particular dish to prepare.  Everything goes wrong: the blender flings mashed potatoes all over the room, the father is too late to get pies at the bakery, the salad gets fed to the rabbit.  They all cover up the failures, assuming that there will be enough other dishes so that no one will notice. So when they sit down to dinner, there isn't any food! 

Tappletons is currently back in print, but, unfortunately, it's been re-illustrated with the family as anthropomorphic foxes.  Find the original human illustrations, if you can.

Here's my favorite Thanksgiving disaster, followed by Grandmother's table grace, which we often recall when having our microwave Thanksgiving dinner in a hotel suite.

It was still dark when Mrs. Tappleton lit the oven and took the big turkey out of the refrigerator.  Just then someone knocked at the kitchen door. It was Mike the milkman.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Tappleton.  I thought you might like some eggnog for the holiday,” said Mike the milkman.
    As Mrs. Tappleton reached for the eggnog, the turkey slipped from under her arm.  Now, on a warmer day this might not have been a problem.  But this Thanksgiving Day was quite cold and the steps were covered with ice. Before she or Mike could even think, the turkey had slithered into the yard.
    “Get it!” shouted Mrs. Tappleton.
    Mike reached out but the turkey skidded past him, through the gate and into the street.
    “Hurry! STOP THAT TURKEY!” screamed Mrs. Tappleton.
    The milkman chased the turkey...  Mrs. Tappleton chased the milkman... And the turkey slid down the hill into the pond.
    Plop!  Splash!  It bubbled out of sight.
...
Turkeys come and turkeys go,
And trimmings can be lost, we know,
But we're together, that's what matters,
Not what's served upon the platters.

The last day before Thanksgiving

Here's the story of the first Thanksgiving, straight from one of the Plymouth party. Have fun with the spelling.

Edward Winslow, Mourt’s Relation

Our harvest being gotten in, our governour sent foure men on fowling, that so we might after a speciall manner rejoyce together, after we had gathered the fruits of our labours ; they foure in one day killed as much fowle, as with a little helpe beside, served the Company almost a weeke, at which time amongst other Recreations, we exercised our Armes, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and amongst the rest their greatest king Massasoyt, with some ninetie men, whom for three dayes we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five Deere, which they brought to the Plantation and bestowed on our Governour, and upon the Captaine and others.  And although it be not always so plentifull, as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so farre from want,  that we often wish you partakers of our plentie.

The second day before Thanksgiving

Not for boys

That guy I married and I are in the midst of a running skirmish concerning the classification of "girl books" and "boy books."  He contends that unless a story involves pirates/battles/mountain climbing/deep space, etc., boys simply won't be interested, and there is no point in trying to get them to read them.  I think that this is terribly limiting.  Girls can and do read both "girl" and "boy" books; why should boys be cut off from so much good literature?

This is one book that has been an exemplum in this argument.  I brought it home from the library, and we had this conversation:

Me: Did you read the Cranberry books as a child?
Him: No.
Me: I think you would like them.  The pictures are great, and there's a sea captain!
Him: It looks like a girl book.
[later]
Me: Did you read Cranberry Thanksgiving?
Him: Yes.
Me: Wasn't it good?
Him: It's a girl book.
Me: But there's a sea captain!
Him: He doesn't sail.

So there you have it.  Clearly, the Cranberry series by Wende and Harry Devlin, containing lovely writing and beautiful, detailed pictures, are unsuitable for boys.

From Cranberry Thanksgiving

Maggie darted about like a black-stockinged bird, in search of wood for the fireplace. She and her grandmother lived at the edge of a lonely cranberry bog in New England, and the winds were cold at the edge of the sea. Today, Mr. Whiskers was helping Maggie with her chores and they soon had armfuls of firewood.

"Happy Thanksgiving Day, Mr. Whiskers." Maggie smiled at her friend.

That wasn't his real name of course. It was Uriah Peabody, but Maggie had called him Mr. Whiskers ever since she could remember. Maggie was very fond of Mr. Whiskers. Her grandmother was not. "Too many whiskers and not enough soap," she often said to Maggie.

The third day before Thanksgiving

Mark Twain was a bit more cynical about Thanksgiving and the first American colonists than Longfellow was.  This is from his autobiography:

Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for - annually, not oftener - if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man's side, consequently on the Lord's side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments."

May your holiday be extermination-free!

Preparing for Thanksgiving...

So I neglected to post something yesterday, but I have a great reason!  I was in the kitchen all day, resulting in:

Two roast chickens
Stuffing (out of a box)
Mashed potatoes (from powder)
Gravy
A stuffing/mashed potato/chicken/gravy hotdish
About 3 quarts of chicken broth
Apple-sour cream bars (actually made with yogurt instead of sour cream)
Pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting

I also hand-washed about 7 sink's-worth of dishes because the newly-installed dishwasher was leaking.  But that should be squared away now; keep your fingers crossed, and maybe there won't be a pool of water on the floor when I get home.

I also did all the laundry, cleaned the kitchen and living room, and wrapped a few presents in preparation for our Thanksgiving trip tomorrow.  Why do I feel it necessary to clean the whole condo in order to leave it?  Color me mystified, but there it is.

That cream cheese frosting recipe can be found right here, posted, incidentally, on one of my very favorite blogs.

In other news, my church is prepping for the annual Christmas concert, which was described in last year's promotional video as "a cross between Sigur Ros and Arcade Fire, all playing Christmas carols."  Come see yours truly on the flute AND in the choir. Below (assuming this "embedding" thing works) is this year's promotional video, featuring the Good Shepherd Band and an adorable blond-headed child.

The fifth day before Thanksgiving

From The Courtship of Miles Standish by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 
Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,
Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic,
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth
Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage.
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered.
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;
Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping.
Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian,
Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other,
Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, "Look!" he had vanished.
So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little,
Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine,
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

The sixth day before Thanksgiving

Last year, I started to post bits of my favorite Christmas books, poems, and movies as Facebook statuses.  I've kept collecting such things, and now even have a few Thanksgiving related pieces.  And so, in an effort to actually post on my blog for once, welcome to the first annual Thanksgiving-and-then-Christmas countdown. 

Here's a portion of the classic Thanksgiving TV special, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. I admire Charlie Brown's optimism, but this is not what my dad means when he says that "past performance is no guarantee of future returns."  The returns on trusting Lucy are pretty guaranteed.

Lucy van Pelt: [holding football] Charlie Brown! Oh, Charlie Brown!
Charlie Brown: I can't believe it. She must think I'm the most stupid person alive.
Lucy van Pelt: Come on, Charlie Brown. I'll hold the ball and you kick it.
Charlie Brown: Hold it? Ha! You'll pull it away and I'll land flat on my back and kill myself.
Lucy van Pelt: But Charlie Brown, it's Thanksgiving.
Charlie Brown: What's that got to do with anything?
Lucy van Pelt: Well, one of the greatest traditions we have is the Thanksgiving Day football game. And the biggest, most important tradition of all is the kicking off of the football.
Charlie Brown: Is that right?
Lucy van Pelt: Absolutely. Come on, Charlie Brown. It's a big honor for you.
Charlie Brown: Well, if it's that important, a person should never turn down a big honor. Maybe I should do it. Besides, she wouldn't try to trick me on a traditional holiday. This time I'm gonna kick that football clear to the moon!
[he runs to kick the ball, but Lucy pulls it away]
Charlie Brown: Aaauuugh!
[falls flat on his back]
Lucy van Pelt: Isn't it peculiar, Charlie Brown, how some traditions just slowly fade away?

test

This is only a test of the rss feed system.  If there had been an actual blog post here, it would be way more interesting than this is.  This is only a test.

Counting the days...

In a rather early-beginning kind of advent calendar, I'm using the holiday season to get in the habit of posting on my blog.  We'll see if it lasts. 

How to feel awful without really trying

I worked at Kroger for about a month while looking for "real" employment. Working at the grocery store was not the most exciting job I've ever had, but it taught me a lot. For example, how to speak to people you've met and yet avoid recognition. Actually, that's an easy one: get a job at a grocery store. Nobody looks at the help. Nobody.

One girl, at least, saw me. On a Thursday afternoon, I was straightening up the stuffed animals in the seasonal aisle. It was shortly after Valentine's Day, and, in case you ever need to know, giant stuffed unicorns sell a lot faster than giant stuffed gorillas. After convincing the gorillas to sit upright, I walked around the end of the shelf into the make-up aisle. It was a very slow afternoon, like most afternoons, and I had already neatened the make-up—it's called "facing." I had also faced the entire pharmacy and the shampoo/soap aisle, so I was on my way to baby-food. All those tiny jars take forever to move around, so the baby aisle was my favorite for very slow days.

When I came around the aisle, a young girl was checking out the lip gloss. She was about 11-years-old and had just turned her head away from me, toward the back of the store, when I came around the aisle endcap. Suddenly her hand shot out, grabbed a pink tube of lip gloss, and slipped it in her pocket. She had been looking away from me to check for witnesses, but her timing was poor. She turned her head and looked straight into my eyes. It was clear I had seen her, and her sly expression turned to fear. The tube of make-up leapt back on to the shelf, and she scampered away. It took just a moment. My sudden approach, her turn, the taking and putting back, happened so fast that I had only had time to raise my eyebrows.

In my afternoon's-worth of training, I had learned not to confront shoplifters, but I followed the girl. It wasn't conscious—she had gone into the baby-food aisle. Her mother was there with her little brother in the shopping cart. The little girl took hold of the cart and looked at me again. She looked so scared that I left and went to stack bags of M&M's in the candy aisle. Should I tell her mother? Despite the don't-disturb-the-shoplifters policy, I wasn't afraid that the kid would slug me. But her mother might. I didn't want to deal with an affronted mother who knew her daughter would never shoplift. If the girl had kept the make-up, it would still be in her coat pocket, but it was back on the shelf. No one else had seen it. My mom would have wanted to know if the grocery girl had seen me take something, but then my mother actually cared; this mother might or might not.

I did decide to find them and tell the poor mother, but I had waited too long and they were gone. I hoped it had been the girl's first shoplifting attempt and that I had traumatized her so badly she wouldn't try again.

I'm glad she was scared, because I felt awful. Grocery stores are full of empty battery packages and Advil boxes; people take things all the time. But she was so young, and I had seen it. I felt sorry for her. Maybe her mother didn't let her buy lip gloss, so she took it. Maybe she was just a mean, nasty kid who shop-lifted all the time. But someone who should have cared didn't know her well enough.