It's hard to believe that Christmas was just a single week ago. So much has happened since then, and my decorations are still hanging around. That's a record for me. We got a call from Mom on Sunday telling us that my grandmother, her mom, had passed away. She was 86 wonderful years old.

Grandmomma smiled all the time, but hardly ever for pictures. Hardly. Ever. But she was almost always happy. Did you ever know someone who NEVER EVER NEVER EVER said a single bad thing about anybody? Well, I did. Grandmomma. Nope, never an ugly word came out of her mouth. Sure, she could show disappointment with us or life, but not once did I ever hear her gossip or carry on about anybody.

She was such a beauty. Skin as smooth as a baby's. A heart of filled with a song she just had to share. A deep love for God and all things heavenly. Praise God that's where she is now. We all sang When the Saints Go Marching In at her memorial service. She'd have clapped her hands and whooped it up with us, no doubt.

So, now that I'm home and it's January 1, 2010, I've got to start thinking of a new year and such. I've been reading about how some people pick a single word to serve as a guide for their year. After spending the better part of 58 minutes on it (two Clone Wars episodes) , I've chosen my word for Twenty Ten. It's

Legacy.

In the past 20 months, I've lost my sister, my father, and now my grandmother. I could pick a word like Hope, but I know already that God has that taken care of. Or I could go rogue and pick Sleep and plan to hibernate in the coming year because, hey, it might just be easier.

But,

Staring at the gravesites of my loved ones on Wednesday, I came face to face with their legacies. They are legacies I'm proud to remember, to have been a part of. Legacies that have shaped who I am.

I spent a lot of time with Mom exploring the legacy of Grandmomma as I dug through her trunk of memories, finding pictures of her and Grandaddy when they first dated, vintage birthday cards from when Mom was born, and even a bar of soap from the old Hartford Hotel from when my grandparents lived here while Grandaddy was in the service. I also dug through Dad's file cabinet drawers and unearthed some real gems - his resume applying for the job as town manager of Coeburn back in 1976, gorgeous photos he took when he worked for the Coalfield Progress, a recipe for his famous chili he had typed and printed for me.

True, the stuff I found doesn't make the legacies of my loved ones,
but the memories those things revive do.

I aim to use Twenty-Ten to make some memories with my family.
I want my boys to smile one day when I'm old and nuts and remember my legacy and be proud of it.
I want my husband to take my old arthritic hand one day and flash a nice gummy smile at me and tell me he's proud of the legacy we've built together.

I want God to look at me when I step into heaven and say,
"Well done, my good and faithful daughter.
Well done."

My legacy-building will continue tomorrow with the removal of all visible traces of Christmas Stuff.

Pistachio has a boyfriend.
A manly hunky boyfriend.
She calls him Baby.
Meet Baby The Snow Blower.

Baby is parked in our garage, nestled snuggly between the van and the truck. Like a little motorized gas-guzling family. So sweet.

Eaglescout the greatest snow blower driver of them all, is a tad disappointed with me that I didn't take a picture of him as he bid good riddance to our whopping 5 inches of snow this morning. Guess he'll have to live with the memory. Sometimes that happens. So, we thought Snow Storm Albert would drop more than a foot of snow on us, but he swerved a bit east and slammed the coast instead. I count my blessings like a good girl, though. I'll take what we got and be happy about it. But a foot would have been a nice surprise.

Church was canceled this morning. Not just our church but all the area churches. So we all rested and played and cooked and carried on. The kids watched a Home Alone marathon, seeing all four movies today. We, being the sane parents we are, let them watch with nary a thought.


I finally made those buckeyes I spotted on Beneath My Heart. I carefully loaded the peanut butter, powdered sugar, and margarine in Pistachio's stainless steel bowl. Then I prepared to mix it up a bit. But, of course I had to find the directions to figure out how to take the whisk thingie off and put the flat beater thing on. I had three choices - English, French, or Spanish. I chose Latin.


My favorite part was the chocolate dipping station.

Ahhhh.

I jimmyrigged a double boiler - a pot within a pot - and melted me some chocolate chips and some paraffin wax. It took forever for the wax to melt, but the recipe said it was important to add, so I wasn't about to cheat and take it out. I think the buckeyes turned out worth it. Although I'm more a Hokie than a Buckeye, myself.

Then, I had to make snow cream because we had SNOW! Benjy did the honors with Eaglescout monitoring. You have to have clean snow, ya know.

He presented the big purple bowl we use every year and I got to mixing. No Pistachio for this job. I mix this up myself - a can of evaporated milk, a cup of sugar, some vanilla to taste, and a purple bowl full of snow. Lore tells me never to use the first snow. Apparently it brings down all kinds of ick we don't want to ingest. Since this is our second snowfall, I think we're safe. Of course, who knows how legitimate this tale is, but since my dad followed it, I'm not about to jinx myself by eating toxic snow.

And now, for a new picture of Mom and Dad. I believe this was shot at a Virginia Press Association conference in Charlottesville. This was possibly before I was born, so I'm not sure what they're smiling about. Dad was a writer and columnist for The Coalfield Progress at the time. I have a bunch of his columns and I treasure reading them now. And plus also, he called his column At Random. How'd he ever know to steal that from me?????

We have a new tradition here at Cleveland Street. I mean Somerset Drive. I heard about this on the news. Yes, I still watch the news because apparently it still happens even in Connecticut. You wrap up a bunch of Christmas books and open one a day in the nights before Christmas. I started this a few nights ago after wrapping more than a dozen books in craft paper and using a roll of tape to make the dang stuff stick.

Each night the boys choose one package to open and we read it together. Some books are oldies we have treasured for years - The Polar Express, The Grinch, The Shining. (Um, kidding about that last one. I'd never read that to myself, much less to my offspring.) Some reads are new, like the Phineas and Ferb Christmas book I found at my heaven-on-earth superstore, Barnes and Noble. Junie B. Jones First Grader - Jingle Bells, Batman Smells, P.S. So Does May
is my FAVORITE so far. And plus also I feel like I'm teaching again reading it aloud. The other night Camden made noises and I had to give him the Mean Teacher Look. I didn't even have to send him to Principal's. Cause he completely got it, I tell you! We'll finish it tomorrow night, so I'm likely to be in mourning for a bit. Till I find a new Junie B. to subject my children to.

So this little countdown to Christmas has gone swimmingly, I must say. Don't you love that word? Swimmingly? It means nothing about floating in a pool of water in this context. But it sounds just swimmingly in a sentence.

Which brings us to my next topic.

Check out these veggies. They are fixing to swim with some other stuff in a casserole of Pioneer Woman proportions. The M&Ms did not make the Olympic team and, therefore, didn't swim with us.

They went swimming with this.

It's a whole chicken.

It was whole when I dumped it in a pot of boiling water and let it cook and cook and cook and smell up my kitchen with its chickenness. Might have been that bag of innards that I forgot to remove that smelled the most....

But, it turned out worth the trouble. Even if I had to pick it apart with my bare hands which clearly weren't meant for such labor.
Still, I persevered. And I must say that after my little bits of chicken went swimming with the veggies and the spaghetti 3 cups of sharp cheddar cheese and this and that and the other, it turned out pretty daggone tasty.

I was so shocked that I survived the rawness of the chicken that I forgot to take a picture of the finished casserole, but trust me. It was gooooooooood. I served it with a delightful salad and fresh-baked bread which used to be fresh frozen.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, I present you with Pistachio. Thanks, Mom. I can't wait to learn how to use this baby!

Also for your viewing pleasure, one of my favorite pictures of Mom and Dad, snapped at Mom's surprise birthday party a few years ago.

This is the consequence of listening to this:

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Hmmmmmm, what could this be?

Mr. Parker: Fra-gee-lay. That must be Italian.
Mrs. Parker: Uh, I think that says FRAGILE, dear.
Mr. Parker: Oh, yeah.

Mr. Parker: [unveiling his major award] Would you look at that?
Would you look at THAT?
Mother: What is it?
Mr. Parker: It's a leg!
Mother: But what is it?
Mr. Parker: Well, it's... A leg, you know, like a statue.
Mother: Statue?
Mr. Parker: Yeah, statue.
Ralphie: Yeah, statue.
Mother: Ralphie!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] My mother was trying to insinuate herself between us and the statue.

Mr. Parker: Holy smokes. Do... Do you know what this is? This is... A lamp!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] It was indeed a lamp.
Mr. Parker: Isn't that great? What a great lamp.
Mother: I don't know...
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] The old man's eyes boggled...
Mr. Parker: Oh WOW!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] ... Overcome by art.

Mr. Parker: It's a Major Award!
Swede: Shucks, I wouldn't know that. It looks like a lamp.
Mr. Parker: What is a lamp, you nincompoop? It's a Major Award. I won it!
Swede: Damn, hell, you say won it?
Mr. Parker: Yeah, mind power, Swede; mind power.

Mr. Parker: Get the glue.
Mother: We're out of glue.
Mr. Parker: You used up all the glue on purpose!

Mr. Parker: [after Mother "accidentally" breaks the Old Man's leg lamp] Don't you touch that! You were always jealous of this lamp.
Mother: Jealous of a plastic...
Mr. Parker: Jealous! Jealous because I WON.
Mother: That's ridiculous. Jealous. Jealous of WHAT? That is... the ugliest lamp I have ever seen in my entire LIFE!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Now it was out.

The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone,
and the lamp blazed forth in unparalleled glory.

Only one thing in the world
could've dragged me away from the soft glow
of electric sex gleaming in the window.

Oh, look at that!
Will you look at that?
Isn't that glorious?
It's... it's... it's indescribably beautiful!
It reminds me of the Fourth of July!

---

Around our house, we quote stuff. Mostly Eaglescout quotes stuff. He can remember every line from every movie and even every commercial he's ever seen. What can I say? The man's got skills.

Beginning around, oh, my birthday, which is in September, we start quoting A Christmas Story (or Napoleon Dynamite or Sponge Bob or Monty Python or each other).

Ralphie as Adult: Only one thing in the world could've dragged me away from the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window.

Flick: Are you kidding? Stick my tongue to that stupid pole? That's dumb!
Schwartz: That's 'cause you know it'll stick!
Flick: You're full of it!
Schwartz: Oh yeah?
Flick: Yeah!
Schwartz: Well I double-DOG-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.
Schwartz: I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

Mr. Parker: He looks like a deranged Easter Bunny.
Mother: He does not!
Mr. Parker: He does too, he looks like a pink nightmare!

Mr. Parker: It's a Major Award!
Swede: Shucks, I wouldn't know that. It looks like a lamp.
Mr. Parker: What is a lamp, you nincompoop? It's a Major Award. I won it!
Swede: Damn, hell, you say won it?
Mr. Parker: Yeah, mind power, Swede; mind power.

Mr. Parker: Get the glue.
Mother: We're out of glue.
Mr. Parker: You used up all the glue on purpose!

Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Some men are Baptists, others Catholics; my father was an Oldsmobile man.

Mr. Parker: That son of a bitch would freeze up in the middle of summer on the equator! Mother: Little pitchers!
Mr. Parker: Thanks... hold it!
[the furnace conks out]
Mr. Parker: It's a clinker! That blasted stupid furnace dadgummit!
[he walks down a few stairs and falls the rest of the way down]
Mr. Parker: Damn skates!
[coughing]
Mr. Parker: Oh, for cripes sake, open up the damper will ya? Who the hell turned it all the way down? AGAIN! Oh, blast it!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] In the heat of battle my father wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan.

Mr. Parker: It's a Major Award!
Swede: Shucks, I wouldn't know that. It looks like a lamp.
Mr. Parker: What is a lamp, you nincompoop? It's a Major Award. I won it!
Swede: Damn, hell, you say won it?
Mr. Parker: Yeah, mind power, Swede; mind power.


Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Over the years I got to be quite a connoisseur of soap. My personal preference was for Lux, but I found Palmolive had a nice, piquant after-dinner flavor - heady, but with just a touch of mellow smoothness. Life Buoy, on the other hand...

Head Elf: COME ON, KID!

[pulls Ralphie]
Head Elf: COME ON!
Santa Claus: HO! HO HO!
[spins Ralphie around]
Santa Claus: HOOOO... HOOO... HOO... And what's your name little boy?
Male Elf: Hey, kid! HURRY UP! THE STORE'S CLOSING!
Head Elf: Listen little boy, we have A LOT of people waiting here, so GET GOING!

Mr. Parker: Fra-gee-lay. That must be Italian.
Mrs. Parker: Uh, I think that says FRAGILE, dear.
Mr. Parker: Oh, yeah.

It's not easy being green. Here in Connecticut, we have to have our cars pass the state emissions test before we can get them registered and plated up. My van passed. Was I relieved. The whole time I sat at at Firestone trying hard to concentrate on the juicy murder Virgil Flowers was working in my latest paperback when all I could really think about was "what if I fail????" Like it would be a personal reflection on ME. (As opposed to a generic reflection of me, which would have been easier to stomach, I'm sure.)

So, the big blue van passed, but the little blue truck, which had been Dad's before he passed and Uncle Mitchell's before he passed, failed. I wasn't nearly as nervous over this because, well, my wheels scored the A. But when I heard that Dad's wheels got a big red F, well, I was a tiny sad. Ah. Poor truck.

So now the little blue truck sits at Firestone awaiting diagnostics and screenings and stress tests and that sort of thing. Hopefully it'll pass muster by Friday because that's when Eaglescout and I plan to hit the DMV, or whatever they call it up here. Gonna get new licenses with our pretty faces on them and license plates, and I'm hoping they have nifty driving gloves because I hear that's all the rage. Special gloves for gripping the steering wheel. We didn't have those in Pittsburgh. We just knuckle-gripped that wheel and prayed hard. People just knuckle grip in driving gloves up here.

It's been a Jib Jab day up here. Check out my salute to Eaglescout and his favorite movie:

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Finally, every box is unpacked, smashed, recycled, and out of my life. All the goods are put up. Somewhere. What's not put up is put down in the basement. I wasted no time hanging my favorite wall saying over the stove where I'm learning to cook. I could choose to order take-out, but we're back on the Dave Ramsey wagon heading toward Financial Peace, so cook I must.

On that note, oh how that Pioneer Woman is my hero. I have taken to hanging out with her recipes and writing up menu plans and making my grocery list. Never in my days have I made grocery lists. I even organize them by departments - produce, dairy, meat, other. I'm sure there are names for the "other" items, but I just can't be bothered to come up with them because I'm so busy learning how to turn on my ding dang stove. That thing has five burners! And it gets so hot that I've set off my smoke detector at least once a day since my mission to learn how to cook decent healthy meals full of butter for my loving family. (Did you know that if you burn toast you can just scrape off the black part and it's good as new?)

Get this - I made my debut with Thanksgiving. OK, white lie. I actually cooked crispy yogurt chicken on Thanksgiving Eve. It was delicious and crispy and tasted nothing like yogurt. But for daggone real, I cooked the entire Thanksgiving meal all by my little self and even cleaned up to boot. I'm a bit particular about clean in my kitchen.

Oh, proud as a peacock, I was. Not to brag or anything. But this is big stuff. BIG. Seriously B.I.G. I once cooked a broiler chicken and couldn't even stand even touching it. Raw. Cooked. Either way, it was altogether gross and dumb. But now, well, I picked up a 15-pound turkey, dunked it overnight in an apply brine solution, stuffed fresh herbs under the skin then crammed the whole thing in a baking bag, and baked that poultry. Imagine my surprise when it was tender and juicy and edible.

I owe it all to Pioneer Woman.

I also made homemade stuffing, but I didn't stuff it in the turkey. You would have to put it in the turkey cavity, which is a fancy cook way of saying its butt. That's gross and dumb, just like that chicken I mentioned. So I made it in the oven all by its lonesome and it was bacteria free and yummy, just like Pioneer Woman promised.

Also on the menu -

homemade cranberry sauce.

See below? Proof. I really did this.

Oven roasted asparagus

whiskey glazed carrots
man, oh man, these were good. And I'm not a whiskey woman.
But, oh wow.
These were the yummiest carrots on the planet Thursday.

fresh baked white bread

a whole entire box of butter

real butter

sweet potato pie

and pumpkin pie

OK, so I cheated a little bit. I accidentally bought the sweet potato pie thinking it was a pumpkin pie. Then I realized at home that all things orange are not pumpkin. So I plopped some marshmallows on it, baked it, and then cooked a Sara Lee frozen pumpkin pie. It's the only thing left over from Thanksgiving dinner.

And honest to goodness, we humans did eat the meal. Really. Emma the Dog got a special plate for herself after we dined in the dining room. Yes, we have and use a dining room now. She also washed dishes for me. I'm particular about clean like that.

So, now that all the boxes on the first and second floors are unpacked, their contents painstakingly unwrapped from 14 rainforests worth of paper and displayed here and about, boredom is knocking at my door. Oh, how I dreamed for days of lazy mornings, drowsy afternoons, and nap-worthy evenings. And now I just find myself thinking about things I could buy, if, oh, I had money.

Well, turns out, our fabulous realtor (or is it Realtor???) hooked me up with her genius hair guy, William. He works at Hairdresser on Fire, and let me tell you, baby, he was On Fire for me! He's my new beaux. OK, so he already has a beaux, but he's mine once a month, and that's all that matters about that.

Let me fill you in on my morning with William on Fire for My Hair.

First and foremost, he did not say one unkind thing about my kitchen color that went south back in Pa. You know, when I tried to highlight my head from a box of stuff that said it would work? I bought it at WalMart. That should have been my first clue.

But Will, that Fabulouslo Man, totally fixed all that. A few minutes in his chair and I was highlighted and lowlighted and coiffed happily ever after.

But, listen, people. That's not all. Because and plus also, Will, the Man On Fire for My Hair, said that since I was living in Connecticut and all, I could get my brows waxed. Cause people in Greensburg totally just don't do that. So, swipe, rub, RIP, and swipe, rub, RIP, and swipe, rub, RIP! I was WAXED! And it hardly hurt at all. Nothing like 40-Year Old Virgin.

Check me O.U.T.!



Oh, it's better than Botox, this waxtox is. I have brow bones! Who knew?!

It was totally by chance that we met up with Santa today.

Really.

We'd be the last people to go searching out Santa Claus before Thanksgiving. We still cannot believe that there are Christmas decorations in the stores and have been since back-to-school sales ended.

ETA - I know I have to get to Dollar Tree to get some Christmas ball ornaments to make that way cool wreath. Gotta get there before everybody else does!

But still, we found him. Today. Alive and well. At Yankee Candle Village in Mass. We're that daggone close to MA, I tell you! Don't tell anybody, but I think this may very well have been the REAL Santa.

So, we were strolling through Yankee Candle Village, home to all smells candle-able. And lo-and-behold, there is Santa's Workshop before our eyes. And a giant sign that counts down the days till Christmas - 40 days, 13 hours, 13 minutes, and 9 seconds. Reminded me of the giant clock in Roanoke, Viriginia, that counted up the national debt. Turned out this was a bit of bad news on Roanokers' rush-hour commutes, so the clock died. Not unlike budget control. Not that this blog would ever get political.



And so, Camden and Benjy, not even realizing how real this Santa was, stood in line to wait to see The Man. I'm telling you, they didn't even care. They were just happy to look around at all the toys and sights and that doggone clock telling me I needed to buy some serious presents for all my loved ones near and far.


When it was our turn, let me be the first to tell you, Santa talked, really talked to the boys. He told them about how he isn't at the North Pole that often, how Mrs. Claus won't count squash pie as a vegetable, and how the reindeer only recently returned from the tundra. Seriously, I haven't used "tundra" in a sentence in quite some time now. Santa also listened carefully as Camden explained his idea for an invention that would create Star Wars guys and their vehicles. He showed Santa a diagram, told him how to turn it on, and then Santa said, "how do you turn it off?" And Camden, not to be beat, told him it turned off automatically. That's my boy.


This Santa has to be my favorite of all the Santas I've met. And I've met a few in my day.


Benjy, in his Benjaminess, told Santa he'd be happy with "whatever you bring me. I'll be fankful for it." Ahhhhhhh.

And now, because you need to be grossed out at least once a week, and who am I to stand in the way of your therapy.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

There.