Resolutions

I have two perfect New Year's resolutions.

1. Don't feel guilty.
2. Don't feel guilty when you break resolution Number One.

I love men, but I must admit feeling that they don't shoulder their fair share of guilt. In fact, men seem to lack the tsunamis of guilt that overwhelm women most of the time.

Since guilt appears to be a women's problem, it behooves all of us females to help each other dodge the guilt bullets. How did we ladies get to this sorry state of, "I should have done more, I could have done more?"

In my case, I lay a huge share of the blame on those nuns who only rewarded the girls that had no life other than homework and good deeds. The sisters filled all our hours so we had no time to think of the opposite sex. I suspect my Protestant, Jewish, Hindu and Muslim friends had similar scenarios concocted for them.

Ladies, we are no longer seventh grade girls trying to please Sister Mary Innocentia. We do not have to stay up until midnight baking cookies for the bake sale. We do not have to die a thousand emotional deaths when we forget to send a birthday card. We do not have to take on volunteer jobs we have no time for, nor do we have to feel guilty when we can't be three places at the same time.

I have a few words for Martha Stewart, too. You, Ms. Perfection, are a purveyor of guilt by the truckload to your own gender. We cannot possibly live up to your "real simple" standards. Have you been talking to the nuns?

So here is my antidote. When guilt rears its ugly head, grab a good book, pour out a tumbler of wine and quickly head for the couch. And don't feel guilty; figure the couch is lonely.

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Resolutions

I have two perfect New Year's resolutions.

1. Don't feel guilty.
2. Don't feel guilty when you break resolution Number One.

I love men, but I must admit feeling that they don't shoulder their fair share of guilt. In fact, men seem to lack the tsunamis of guilt that overwhelm women most of the time.

Since guilt appears to be a women's problem, it behooves all of us females to help each other dodge the guilt bullets. How did we ladies get to this sorry state of, "I should have done more, I could have done more?"

In my case, I lay a huge share of the blame on those nuns who only rewarded the girls that had no life other than homework and good deeds. The sisters filled all our hours so we had no time to think of the opposite sex. I suspect my Protestant, Jewish, Hindu and Muslim friends had similar scenarios concocted for them.

Ladies, we are no longer seventh grade girls trying to please Sister Mary Innocentia. We do not have to stay up until midnight baking cookies for the bake sale. We do not have to die a thousand emotional deaths when we forget to send a birthday card. We do not have to take on volunteer jobs we have no time for, nor do we have to feel guilty when we can't be three places at the same time.

I have a few words for Martha Stewart, too. You, Ms. Perfection, are a purveyor of guilt by the truckload to your own gender. We cannot possibly live up to your "real simple" standards. Have you been talking to the nuns?

So here is my antidote. When guilt rears its ugly head, grab a good book, pour out a tumbler of wine and quickly head for the couch. And don't feel guilty; figure the couch is lonely.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Tree

I was a lucky child. My parents always had a fight right before Christmas. Since this was the only fight they would have all year, I considered myself blessed.

The annual Christmas fight always was triggered by the same object, the Christmas tree.

We would go to the local tree lot where my frugal parents would hastily choose a tree from the bargain corner. "We only have it up for a week," they rationalized.

During the short drive home, the tree would deposit half its needles in the trunk of the car.

On Christmas Eve day, my father and the tree would retreat to the basement. Muffled curses and a lot of banging would filter upstairs. Then my grim-faced father would lug the Charlie Brown tree upstairs and unceremoniously deposit it in the living room.

My equally grim-faced mother would try to make the best of the situation... for about three minutes. "It's listing very, very badly to the left," she would say.

I won't print what my dad said. He and the tree would bang downstairs back to the basement.

When the tree made its second coming, my mother would string on the beautiful, pastel, wartime neon snowball lights. Thank goodness they did not work in series; one or two burned out every year, but we always had the rest. She finished the tree with exactly 3 dozen ornaments. Our tree never had tinsel. My mother considered tinsel to be tacky.

I will never have to worry about getting caught up in the glut of Christmas excess. My parents trained me well.

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Tree

I was a lucky child. My parents always had a fight right before Christmas. Since this was the only fight they would have all year, I considered myself blessed.

The annual Christmas fight always was triggered by the same object, the Christmas tree.

We would go to the local tree lot where my frugal parents would hastily choose a tree from the bargain corner. "We only have it up for a week," they rationalized.

During the short drive home, the tree would deposit half its needles in the trunk of the car.

On Christmas Eve day, my father and the tree would retreat to the basement. Muffled curses and a lot of banging would filter upstairs. Then my grim-faced father would lug the Charlie Brown tree upstairs and unceremoniously deposit it in the living room.

My equally grim-faced mother would try to make the best of the situation... for about three minutes. "It's listing very, very badly to the left," she would say.

I won't print what my dad said. He and the tree would bang downstairs back to the basement.

When the tree made its second coming, my mother would string on the beautiful, pastel, wartime neon snowball lights. Thank goodness they did not work in series; one or two burned out every year, but we always had the rest. She finished the tree with exactly 3 dozen ornaments. Our tree never had tinsel. My mother considered tinsel to be tacky.

I will never have to worry about getting caught up in the glut of Christmas excess. My parents trained me well.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Fruitcake

Fruitcake can be very scary stuff. Let's face it, sometimes the idea of a tradition is better than the tradition itself.

Fruitcake has two basic flaws. First, the garishly colored, hard, super sticky fruit lurking in most every fruitcake. I challenge anyone to eat this stuff naked right out of its little plastic carton. This "fruit" bears no resemblance to the luscious fruits of everyday life i.e., apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, plums and grapes.

The second problem is fruitcake's density. Miss Piggy really did give the best diet advice ever uttered, "Don't eat anything you can't lift." Two square inches of fruitcake would make an admirable boat anchor.

When I was a young mother, our neighbor gave us one of her special Christmas fruitcakes every year. Naturally, my husband and two children wouldn't touch the thing. Since I was raised never to waste food, I would make noble attempts to eat this fruitcake Rock of Gibraltar. Finally, I couldn't face one more of her uninspired creations. And I hit on the perfect means of disposal. No food would be wasted, and a new tradition would be born.

On the day after Christmas, my husband and I drove to a local park at midnight. This park was where my favorite bird, crows, all gathered in the trees at dusk to roost. We stood on a high hill and shot the fruitcake like a discus into the meadow next to their rookery. I'm certain the crows enjoyed it for breakfast. The Annual Fruitcake Toss continued for many, many years.

Ironically, I do bake a small fruitcake every holiday season. All the fruit in it is recognizable and could stand on its own merit. If you try this recipe and don't like it, you now know what action to take.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Fruitcake

Fruitcake can be very scary stuff. Let's face it, sometimes the idea of a tradition is better than the tradition itself.

Fruitcake has two basic flaws. First, the garishly colored, hard, super sticky fruit lurking in most every fruitcake. I challenge anyone to eat this stuff naked right out of its little plastic carton. This "fruit" bears no resemblance to the luscious fruits of everyday life i.e., apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, plums and grapes.

The second problem is fruitcake's density. Miss Piggy really did give the best diet advice ever uttered, "Don't eat anything you can't lift." Two square inches of fruitcake would make an admirable boat anchor.

When I was a young mother, our neighbor gave us one of her special Christmas fruitcakes every year. Naturally, my husband and two children wouldn't touch the thing. Since I was raised never to waste food, I would make noble attempts to eat this fruitcake Rock of Gibraltar. Finally, I couldn't face one more of her uninspired creations. And I hit on the perfect means of disposal. No food would be wasted, and a new tradition would be born.

On the day after Christmas, my husband and I drove to a local park at midnight. This park was where my favorite bird, crows, all gathered in the trees at dusk to roost. We stood on a high hill and shot the fruitcake like a discus into the meadow next to their rookery. I'm certain the crows enjoyed it for breakfast. The Annual Fruitcake Toss continued for many, many years.

Ironically, I do bake a small fruitcake every holiday season. All the fruit in it is recognizable and could stand on its own merit. If you try this recipe and don't like it, you now know what action to take.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Lucia

I want to make it clear that I am not a Swedish wanna-be.

My grandfather got off a boat from Bohemia, and my grandmother said "Make out the lights", the literal translation from the German, until the day she died. I am almost always content to be what I am, an American of Czech / German descent.

However, on one day of the year, I long to be Swedish. That special day is December 13, St. Lucia Day in Sweden.

How St. Lucia, a very Italian saint, has come to be adored by a nation of Swedes is lost in the murky mess of history. What is certain is that she is the saint of light, and the Swedish people want her to visit their homes and bring back the light to their dark, northern nation.

The Swedes accomplish this feat by lighting up their big sisters. Early on December 13, the oldest girl in the family dons a white dress with a crimson sash, puts a lingonberry leaf crown with lighted candles on her head and serves her family breakfast in bed. Even the sweet rolls, luciakatter, are special. They are almond, raisin, saffron flavored buns.

Living in the upper Midwest, I feel a compelling need for a Lucia girl. When they were younger, my granddaughters could be pressed into doing Lucia duty. Teenagers are more skeptical about these matters.

I may have to run a classified ad. "Wanted, one Lucia girl, no experience necessary. Crown and candles provided. Just bring back the sun."

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Lucia

I want to make it clear that I am not a Swedish wanna-be.

My grandfather got off a boat from Bohemia, and my grandmother said "Make out the lights", the literal translation from the German, until the day she died. I am almost always content to be what I am, an American of Czech / German descent.

However, on one day of the year, I long to be Swedish. That special day is December 13, St. Lucia Day in Sweden.

How St. Lucia, a very Italian saint, has come to be adored by a nation of Swedes is lost in the murky mess of history. What is certain is that she is the saint of light, and the Swedish people want her to visit their homes and bring back the light to their dark, northern nation.

The Swedes accomplish this feat by lighting up their big sisters. Early on December 13, the oldest girl in the family dons a white dress with a crimson sash, puts a lingonberry leaf crown with lighted candles on her head and serves her family breakfast in bed. Even the sweet rolls, luciakatter, are special. They are almond, raisin, saffron flavored buns.

Living in the upper Midwest, I feel a compelling need for a Lucia girl. When they were younger, my granddaughters could be pressed into doing Lucia duty. Teenagers are more skeptical about these matters.

I may have to run a classified ad. "Wanted, one Lucia girl, no experience necessary. Crown and candles provided. Just bring back the sun."

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Peacock

My neighbor the next road over got a free peacock, or more correctly, a free peahen. She did not win this bird in some oddball raffle or sweepstakes. The peahen just walked into our neighbor's yard and decided to stay. Maybe this bird was just tired of looking at some guy's big tail.

The peacock joined the chicken which arrived three years earlier in a similar fashion; i.e., out of the blue.

No one in our neighborhood has reported any missing peacocks. And no signs have appeared on telephone poles with a fetching photo and the words, "MISSING, our beloved peacock, Persephone. Reward."

Maybe our homes have giant, invisible animal magnets. My neighbor's house has an avian magnet; ours is decidedly feline.

Peacocks are native to India, a place with a much toastier climate than here in Wisconsin. Our winter is setting in. Another neighbor has offered the peacock and chicken heated quarters for the winter. The trick will be luring them in. After all, they are birdbrains.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Peacock

My neighbor the next road over got a free peacock, or more correctly, a free peahen. She did not win this bird in some oddball raffle or sweepstakes. The peahen just walked into our neighbor's yard and decided to stay. Maybe this bird was just tired of looking at some guy's big tail.

The peacock joined the chicken which arrived three years earlier in a similar fashion; i.e., out of the blue.

No one in our neighborhood has reported any missing peacocks. And no signs have appeared on telephone poles with a fetching photo and the words, "MISSING, our beloved peacock, Persephone. Reward."

Maybe our homes have giant, invisible animal magnets. My neighbor's house has an avian magnet; ours is decidedly feline.

Peacocks are native to India, a place with a much toastier climate than here in Wisconsin. Our winter is setting in. Another neighbor has offered the peacock and chicken heated quarters for the winter. The trick will be luring them in. After all, they are birdbrains.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment