Two Dinosaurs and a Pig

Two dinosaurs and a pig are making their quiet way towards the Nativity.

Well, they are supposed to be Wise Men (or, as we have sometimes said, Wise People). And one year the Nativity was of dinosaurs, as I recall, since my partner put it together. During the 12 days of Christmas they search and wander, and I move them ever closer to their goal.

Yes, we celebrate all the 12 days of Christmas. While others are stripping down the ornaments and piling tinsel in boxes, we are barely started. We celebrate other things as well; this time of year I am game for just about any moment that brings light and delight into my space, but I am fondest of these 12 days.

It takes that long for me to start to come to terms with a sense of return and birth and light; I'm slow on the uptake. It also eases the push to Do Everything!!! Only So Many Days to Buy!! Our Christmas Day was always simple as our children grew; yes, Santa would bring trinkets, and created gifts would be exchanged. I'd be seeking a bit of joy and light; we'd light more candles and sing (badly). Sometimes we'd festoon the dogs and cats a bit; my now departed yellow lab would put up with red hats or bows and glitter fairly well; just another human folly.

And, the evening before, baking.

I've been careful to avoid most vows in my life. I take them too seriously to give them away freely; no piecrust promises, no easily sworn and forsworn words. But when my partner and I got together lo these many decades back I did promise him I'd bake his traditional bread. At Christmas, at Easter, and sometimes for his January birthday. Somewhere I still have a stained index card in his mother's handwriting with the original recipe for the nut filled Slovenian bread, potica. (the "c" has a funny curl at the bottom when properly written). It's a typical traditional recipe, in which the instructions are vague: you put in "enough flour for a soft dough"; you grind "enough nuts to make a filling".

This Christmas Eve we were busy; partner had places to be and a radio show; I had things to do as well. We didn't connect in the same space until it was coming on 10 that night, and my youngest had already fallen asleep, talking of angels.

I told Paul "I don't see how I'm going to make potica this year--maybe for new year's or something". He was kind of willing to compromise "you made that great Finnish bread last year" he said wistfully. I pointed out that the baking of a yeast raised bread is not a quick task, and our space was cold; the bread would rise so slowly.

And I thought "really, how unrealistic, how stupidly demanding". Oh, yeah, Christmas. Merry merry.

Champ woke me at 3 in the morning. Gabriel was awake. Gabe was persuaded to not venture near our Christmas twig (well decorated, a bit of a fir tree from the land) until, as I said, the sun was up. I plugged in the little heater and the hot plate and made some tea for both of us. Gabe was still talking of angels.

"Want to help me with the bread?" I asked him. Yeah, that sounded okay. I helped him pour some rice milk into a pan with a chunk of butter and some brown sugar. We heated it. We folded in some finely ground whole wheat flour mixed with a bit of white. We added yeast dissolved in a bit of warm water and put it all aside and played with some toys a while. I realized after the first rising that the eggs were supposed to already be in the dough. Well, okay. We separated a bunch of eggs (the recipe takes 8 of them). Yolks into the dough. Squish. More flour. A bit of salt. The fun of kneading (Gabe is good at this). More rising.

Beating the eggwhites takes a long time, especially if it is still dark and you are thinking probably you have lost your mind. We did it, added ground almonds and sugar and a bit of cinnamon. The cinnamon is heresy, but that's how I like it. For that matter, the almonds are heretical too--walnuts are the proper nut, according to the original recipe.

Couldn't find the bread board. Well, who needs a bread board. We kind of stretched out dough in mid air and tried very hard not to drop it on the dog or the cats; really it is supposed to be stretched paper thin, but I've never had the patience.

Balancing it on plates we spread the filling, rolled it up, put it in bread pans (two loaf pans, one bundt pan). To the circular loaf's filling I added cut up apples and raisins. More heresy. Let it rise yet again.

And...into the toaster oven, the only "oven" I have at the shop. The tops burnt, but the loaves were delicious.

When Paul got up Christmas morn, when our daughter and her love joined us, when my eldest son and his girlfriend stopped by--yes, there was, as promised, potica.

A miracle, I think. We still have one slightly stale loaf left; Paul is dunking it in his tea with much pleasure.

But I was talking of the dinosaurs and the pig, wasn't I? I figure they wander around a bunch. They've heard of something amazing. They've seen signs. But it takes a while to get there. A while to take it in.

As when we fall in love--so quickly--and take decades to let the truth of partnerships grow in our stubborn hearts.

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. A thousand blessings.

gifts and small blessings

This morning I was given an armload of chickadees.

Well, okay, no one walked up to me and handed me a bunch of twittering and excited birds, but when I was walking Champ the injured pitbull through the nearby vacant lot just after dawn today an excited throng of little birds fluttered and hopped all around the stalks of blue chicory, now gone to bird delighting seed. What can I say? It felt like a gift.

The ravens were out in great flocks as well, calling from the oaks, swooping down to the pavement at the school. Champ tried to catch them, as he always does, though I tell him he really can't fly, tug at the leash though he may. He doesn't believe me. My youngest son never believed me about this either; he was so certain, when he was 5 or 6, that the whole family knew how to fly and probably did so when he was asleep. These days he spends a lot of time earnestly holding up two fingers, one and then the other, and saying his words for "good" and "evil". He is perpetually trying to figure out the world; his other categories of preoccupation are "real" and "not real". He'll be 19 this spring, something that seems incredible to me for many reasons. Because he had such a difficult first few years, in which every wind, every change in the weather sent him into pneumonia and desperation. Because, as a person with Down Syndrome, he just doesn't quite look that old, though his prized fuzzy beard is growing in. Because...well, yesterday I was 19, and this is my youngest child.

How can that be?

I was recently off in another region, in a city, in an apartment looking out to the ocean. And there's a long story to be told there, of old friendship and the passing of time and the joy of taking time out of a life full of distractions and obligations, but this is not the place to tell all that. Still, when I was there, with a cherished friend, I glimpsed, on her bookshelf, a blue vinyl volume. High school yearbook. Our senior year.

Well, being a writer and a narcissist at that, I was curious to read what I might have written back then to my dearest friend. Of course, I also teased her by reading aloud a lot of the other nicely scrawled sentiments...you know the sort, "you seem like such a nice person; it was nice having you in Spanish class" or "I hope to know you better in the future". There was one by a guy neither of us could recall that sounded like a confession of true love. How had we missed that one? Well, he was younger than we were.

My statement, written in my still childish hand--it wasn't until I was in my 30's that my handwriting got some strength and dash--said pretty much "it is so odd to be writing to you". And I added a line of cryptoscript, bidding her "make that say whatever you want". I don't remember doing that. My ever faithful and loving friend thought it highly original. I thought it was a writer's cop out, personally, but inscribing year books is not a highly thought of field.

And we laughed. One of her cats captured and killed the dread feather duster (he is diligent in protecting his mistress from the incursions of the hot turquoise monster). It has been a long, long while.

Indeed, it has been pretty much a lifetime, though I'm hoping we have a couple decades left to us. Her mother said, one afternoon, "I still feel 17". Yes, I said, I know that feeling too. It was kind of nice to know it would go on--this lovely woman is going to be 85 next year, and still flirting madly with attractive young men. "Oh, women really love tall guys" she said to one blushing checker, and nudged me "don't they?" I chimed in in the affirmative "oh yes, especially when they are so cute". He asked us what we were doing that evening. Thanks to her I am kind of looking forward to becoming a thoroughly wicked old lady, scandalizing the neighbors.

"Ever see the movie Harold and Maude?" I asked, as we left the smiling--and yes, very cute--guy. Turns out to be one of her favorites. Ah yes.

It has all made me think more about blessings, about my life of such wealth. Traveling to that city I talked a while with a woman on a train who said "If you have three friends who will drop everything and come to you when you need them you are rich beyond most". Why yes, yes I am.

Gabe and I are cutting snowflakes from bits of paper. I have to keep adjusting his hand so he doesn't end up cutting himself, and it is a slow process, but the end result is very pretty. Tonight the streets of this little town shine with rain and colored lights; this morning my cats managed to turn on the radio, blasting the air with old Christmas songs sung by little children with clear and delicate voices. Coming to the door I thought surely we had morning carolers, how odd. No, simply the cats doing their bit.

Does it connect? Well, of course it does, this time of year, when connections are made with more ease, and the air is bright with renewed, impossible promise. And chickadees.