The Mother of Anti-Climaxes!

Is Christmas Day an anti-climax? I ask this question of my Christmas-observing friends not with any antipathy or religion-baiting subtext. I ask it in genuine perplexity as a person for whom the holiday holds no intrinsic value or time-bound tradition. For me, December 24th and 25th are much like any other day on the calendar, with the noted exception that the only entertainment open to me are the aforementioned Asian restaurants and movie theatres. (Frost/Nixon is excellent by the way, as was our Christmas feast of Thai/Sushi!) The four weeks of December leading up to Christmas are awash with planning and preparation. The ubiquitous decorations and carols in every establishment are impossible to avoid. Television seems to turn its entire program schedule over to specials and holiday episodes. (I fall for this stuff every year. I love the constant repetition of Jimmy Stewart running through the snowy streets of Bedford Falls or Ralphie hoping against hope for that elusive Red Rider BB gun. He almost shoots his eye out, you know?) I watch in distanced marvel as my friends and neighbours scurry around for the last minute gift, decorate their living spaces within an inch of the fabled Griswolds, or cloister themselves in kitchens, baking furiously, but when the actual day arrives I always wonder "Where is the promised excitement?"

I have spent most of the past 21 Christmases in the southern climes of Miami in a condominium development that, while fairly heavy in Semitic owners, has more than its share of Christmas-fearing residents as well. Many of my floor neighbours are full-timers with children who observe the holiday. So, every Christmas morning I expect the full Hollywood scene. I expect to hear squeals of laughter and giggles of delight as my neighbours open their gifts. I expect to hear raucousness and singing. I expect wafts of delicious odours permeating through my walls as people prepare for their Christmas feasts. I expect to see my neighbours decked out in their finest to head off for religious ceremonies. I just don't see it happening. Instead I see people tired and fed up with the season. I see folks awash in obligation rather than enjoyment. I see people choosing to work on a day when few do. I hope that I am wrong, but it seems to this outsider who looks in that Christmas truly is the mother of all anti-climaxes. I would very much like to be proven wrong about this observation, so I am asking all of you readers who have some knowledge on the subject, to set me straight. Has Christmas become what Charlie Brown feared or is there still a bit of Linus left in the day? I am truly interested.

Chinese Food and a Movie, Anyone?

I have wonderful memories of Christmas. Given the fact that I am a non-Christian attempting to avoid all of the commercial trappings of the season, one might find this statement to be odd at best, but I truly do have wonderful childhood memories of Christmas' past. Most people know how Jews spend Christmas. We head out for Chinese food. There is a historical basis for this tradition. Firstly, we Jews really do know great Chinese food (a cultural stereotype that I am more than willing to embrace). Secondly, for many years it was all that we could find open on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. There was a time in my life when most proprietors of Asian restaurants were also non-Christians, so remaining open over the 24 hours of Christmas boredom was non-invasive. So, head out to any Asian restaurant tonight or tomorrow and you will most probably find the establishment packed to the walls with Jews. Growing up in Toronto meant an almost infinite number of restaurant choices, given our extensive Asian population, but the customer base was invariably the same on Christmas-Jews. But my memories of Christmas and Chinese food extends a bit deeper than most of my landsmen. 

My mother is a nurse and throughout much of my childhood, she worked on a post-surgical floor in a hospital nearby. Unlike many professions, hospital staff must work throughout the holidays. In my mom's day, nurses were given the option of working either Christmas or New Years. (for double time and half, no less!) Being one of only a handful of Jewish nurses on the floor, it was a no-brainer that Mom would volunteer to work the 24th and 25th. Her co-workers were immensely grateful, as at least one of them would be spared having to work through his or her holy day. She would often work the evening shifts-3 pm until midnight- and as such, she left the Little Bro and I in the somewhat capable hands of my father. Not usually an issue, except that when it comes to cooking, Dad is a bit of a lost soul. He can make a mean omelet and can pour a bowl of cereal with the best of them, but as a cook he is a terrific cleaner. We were not a restaurant going family the rest of the year, but every Christmas Eve Dad would splurge and off we went to Spring Garden Chinese Restaurant at Yonge and Finch. (I also have a vague memory of the Sea Hi on Bathurst once or twice as well!) After dinner, the three of us would head off to a movie, (whatever was playing at the Willow or Fairview that might be age appropriate) and then home to wait up for Mom. 

Now this might sound like a very benign memory in the grand scheme of childhood recollections, but it was a big deal for me. It was one of the few times that I can actually remember special time with just the three of us. Dad would make a big deal out of how it was our own special tradition. (Of course, years later I discovered that most Jews have Chinese cuisine for Christmas, but that is truly beside the point!) He planned it and he made a concerted effort to continue it long after Mom stopped working and she rejoined the party. This time was special Father/Kid time and I will forever cherish it. This afternoon, as we were all attempting to figure out something to occupy us this Christmas, Dad mentioned Chinese food and a movie. I think that both of our palates and stomachs have probably moved on past Chinese food. Maybe, sushi and Thai? Tomorrow? What do you think, Dad?

Oh, The Things One Sees!

Have you ever been in a situation where you wished you had remembered to throw your camera in your bag? You are quite safe in the knowledge that without verifiable proof, nobody will ever believe what was actually witnessed? I had such an occasion very late last evening on the mean streets of North Miami. Oh, how I wished I had carried my camera!

The Husband and I ventured out into the balmy South Florida night at around 1:00 am to retrieve The Progeny who were flying into Miami International from the frozen tundra. We are located much closer to Fort Lauderdale, but given airfare at this time of year, Miami was a much cheaper alternative. Given the weather nightmares that are occurring all across the continent, the boys' flight was about an hour behind its scheduled arrival, and as such we found ourselves traversing the still busy Miami roadways at this ungodly hour. (It is truly unbelievable to me what can be done at 1:00 am. We could have eaten at any number of diners, drive-ins or dives, shopped at the local Walmart for those last minute "just can't live without" holiday items, taken in the early show at the strip club up the street, had our prescriptions filled at Walgreen's, bought a fifth of anything at the liquor store and done our banking at the drive through! We are Canadians. Our cities close at ten. We aren't accustomed to all of this conspicuous commercialism. My American friends have learned to thrive in a 24/7 world, while my country-people are more the 12/5 type! But, I digress.) As we headed west along Hallandale Beach Boulevard towards the entrance to I95 south, we noticed that there was an increased police presence on the roadways. Given that it was 1:00 in the morning, The Husband and I found this little occurrence quite comforting. I mean, this is the city where last week a husband and wife attacked each other with kitchen knives! The police were out in full force. In the span of a few miles we noticed cars from both Aventura and Hallandale. Three cop cars all within our vision. As we approached the final traffic light before our turn onto the highway, we found ourselves parallel with a solo officer in a marked Aventura cruiser. We noticed that he was busy punching something into his onboard computer touch screen; checking a suspicious license plate, no doubt. As we pulled up even with this joker, we saw what it was that was really eating into his concentration. This dedicated "keeper of the peace" was playing Microsoft Solitaire online. The Husband and I looked at each other incredulously and just broke out into gales of laughter. We couldn't stop. My asthma kicked in and it took me a good few minutes to breathe properly. This was a classic example of our tax dollars at work. I remarked that I wished that I had my camera, but the husband noted that perhaps taking a flash picture at 1:00 in the morning of a cop with a gun "doing his duty" might not be the smartest move in the world. They do have a tendency to shoot first and question later. It is interesting to note that at least they have made an effort to train these officers in computer literacy. What's next? Tetris?

I Want a Dog!

As previously stated, I would love to have another dog. The Husband has been adamant in his disapproval, and has come up with every excuse under the sun as to why this would prove to be impossible. I have heard it all. "We aren't in town enough" or "Do you really want a big sloppy animal soiling our pristine living spaces again?" It isn't enough that I am the one who goes the extra inch to keep those living spaces pristine, now he feels that it is his responsibility to remind me of the cleaning duties. None of these half-assed pretenses has deterred me in my quest for a chocolate brown labrador puppy, but I feel as though I am fighting an increasingly losing battle. This week, my dear friend Twin Son's Better Half, took up the cause on my behalf. She suggested that we share the animal or else she might be forced into adopting a second feline for their household, something to which Twin Son is forcefully opposed. A flurry of emails and Facebook notes went back and forth until it became almost comical. And while I have yet to give up entirely on my quest for filler for the animal void in my life, I have at least learned to tread a bit slower. I truly will have no other than canine in my home (please don't suggest aquatic, rodent, feline or rabbit-like creatures as substitutes--they positively will not do!), but I have made friends with a denizen of my building down south.  Check out the closest thing to a pet that I currently have in my life.

My Parallel Existence

We all take tremendous comfort from our memories. There is a calming stasis that exists within them. High school friends with their natural hair colour, (or in the case of some of the guys-any hair at all!) or old homes with rooms that seemed much larger at the time. Our memories have this innate ability to remain constant, while everything else around us goes through a natural metamorphous. People and circumstances remain constant in those reminiscences, while reality moves forward with light speed. Such is the circumstance in which I find myself whenever I trek to the southern home. 

We started coming to this place when Older Son was but a lump in a stroller. My parents purchased this home away from snow so that they could escape the miseries of winter. At the time, they were amongst the youngest snowbirds in the building, not much older than I am now. Over the years it became a regular retreat for all of our families, and when Other Mother and Other Father bought their place one floor up, the December exoduses seemed carved in stone. The Husband and I purchased our sanctuary in the building a few years back and a certain circle of completeness was neatly formed. 

The characters in the condo seemed to be never-changing. We would return year after year to find the same people with the same stories and the same miseries. True, we would hear about weddings, babies or bar mitzvahs, but they seemed to occur in another space and another time; a space and time to which we could never fully relate. I had a real life of work and family and friends north of the border and these people existed solely in our parallel universe of snow-birding in South Florida. 

Then slowly, as my attention was diverted by my real life, things started to change. Every year, one or more of these individuals wouldn't return. Age or infirmity or time had called, but still we carried on and moved forward with those that remained. We kibbutzed and played as though we were safe within our protective bubble of this parallel world. 21 years is a long time to be oblivious, and so it is that I find that I can no longer ignore the realities that have interfered with my parallel universe. This year change has smacked me hard. 

The physicality of the building is changing. This is a good thing. The 1980's have been over for decades and this place is in dire need of a facelift. There is much grumbling and much discord from the denizens, but they will survive once they embrace the change. It is a virtual impossibility for every single person to agree on decor and design, and the animus right now is profound, but I have hope that once the mess is over they will move on to the next fight. No, the change I feel runs deeper than tile and carpet. There is a connection that has been severed with the loss of two specific individuals. The first was a kindly gentleman who became a sort of adopted grandfather to all. He was omnipresent in his captain's hat and he always had a hello and a story for all he encountered. He was here the first day I entered the apartment, and his void is felt keenly by all, especially around the pool where he was a regular. The second was a regal lady who was a survivor. Never a hair out of place or a shoe that didn't match the bag, she relished the life she had built. She had her difficult moments, but she and I connected, and I always felt that her inquiries about my children were heartfelt. I will miss her class. 

The characters in this parallel universe are changing. I can no longer avoid it. I need to embrace it. I am establishing new connections and new ties that will eventually lead to new memories. My real world and my winter world are converging, and I can no longer cling to the fantasy that time stands still. My bubble has finally and forever burst and I am the better for it. Thanks for the memories.

Travel Shit and Other Transient Thoughts

I am not known as a relaxed flier. (This little tidbit of information surprises you?) I am able to muster up a tremendous amount of anxiety when I spy that tin can with wings approach the gate. I find myself fully ensconced in the camp that wonders about the logic of thousands of tons of metal and gasoline lifting 40,00 feet off of terra firma. I also suffer from an extreme case of motion sickness that morphs into vertigo at first puke. The anxiety that I experience in flight, only serves to exacerbate the barfing. It has always been this way.

I have been a projectile vomitter for as long as I can remember. Many a family car trip was interrupted by pit stops at filthy restrooms, so that my extraordinarily patient mother could wipe emesis from my clothes. One would think that age and experience would cure my issues, but no. If I ride in the back seat of a car, I require a window cracked open a hair to allow for airflow. I cannot read, play word games or move from side to side while a vehicle is in motion, else the heaving starts. Boats on the water? Forget it. I have been seasick in some of the most beautiful places in the world. I was nauseated on ferryboats to Sausalito and Prince Edward Island. I puked off the back of a launch in Ochos Rios Jamaica. I was leveled by a hydrofoil in Capri, (I puked into a baseball cap for 45 minutes!) and I hung my head out of a covered launch in Santorini Greece. I have left little parts of my meals in locales the world over. And, planes are the worst. The stench of jet fuel mingling with body odours and weird foods is almost more than I can bear. Combine that with slight fear, and there exists a recipe for disaster. (One of the first times that I flew all alone, with nobody to cover me, I was pregnant with Older Son. The husband was on a business trip and I decided to head to Florida to spend 10 days with my parents. I was about 4 months along and the flight was incredibly rough. I couldn't reach for the bag fast enough and thus, I threw up all over my seatmate. He was an incredibly lovely man who told me not to worry. His wife was also pregnant and he was quite used to a woman vomiting on him! My embarrassment knew no bounds!) I now take a very strong anti-nausea that at least keeps my stomach contents where they belong, if not fully curing the illness, but the pills make me incredibly groggy and I am often passed out cold before the plane is in the air. This state of being is not usually an issue when I am traveling with somebody, but when I am alone, as I am today, it takes all the energy that I can muster just to stay conscious.

Flying has become a chore rather than an excited enticement for travel. Airlines have found ways to suck every taste of joyousness from the experience. The constant leveling of surcharges has forced travelers to stuff their personals in cases so small that it is a wonder that people ever change their clothes while on vacation. Flying with anything in liquid form is strictly prohibited, so most people are left with the options of purchasing their shampoo and toothpaste on arrival, or living the organic life of a 60's commune dweller. Every bit of baggage is scanned and scrutinized and shoes have become lethal weapons. It is not like any of these restrictions are new, but every single time that I line up for security, there is always one dipshit who thinks that they are special. Today it was the asshole who decided that her shampoo and liquid foundation wasn't liquid enough to qualify for the 1 litre Ziploc and held up the entire line while she systematically tossed the entire case into the trash. Then there are the fun people who have made it their life's ambition to entertain us all at the Customs and Immigration booths. The lines today at Terminal 3 were extensive. The wait was at least a half an hour to enter the 7th circle of hell known as the interrogation by US Customs. There are normally 20 or so booths available, but the joke for today was that there were only 5 open. As I finally made it to the front of the line, the booth that I was waiting for, inexplicably closed. I was shunted to an adjoining booth where I met Chahima, the most colourless and most humourless woman on the face of the earth. Chahima is obviously of Semitic descent, and I think that she felt it was her duty to oppress all of us in much the same manner that she herself has probably been unfairly racially targeted. By the time that Chahima and I met, my medication was kicking in big time. My tongue felt like it was coated with a layer of velour and I am not altogether certain of what I said to her. I might of accidentally admitted to a third world revolt. After a thorough grilling as to my profession and how I could afford to take the time off, (she also inquired as to the husband's line of work-as if women can't afford to do these kinds of things without the support of a man!) she grudgingly allowed me to pass. 

Breakfast was not an option. Why does every food item in airport cafes have cheese as its major ingredient? I had to fight for a plain toasted bagel and OJ. The terminal was spinning at this point and sleep would hit me soon, whether I was ready for it or not, but at least I knew that my nausea would be contained. 

I finally settle into my seat on the plane and am readying my ipod into position, when my seat mates join me. I was seated next to a shi tzu. Not a woman who looked like a dog, an actual dog! Tiger Lily. Who in their right mind names a dog Tiger Lily?  That is such a cat name. No self respecting canine could answer to such a name in the dog park. All of the other dogs would laugh and beat her up. But here I was, seated next to Tiger Lily and her very nice people-both large in stature-so that I was pressed right up against the window. Poor Tiger Lily. She was not a happy flier. They fed her doggie Valium, but her anxiety was so acute that it wasn't working. She was only happy when she was seated in Mrs. Tiger Lily's lap, and luckily for them, I didn't mind a bit. Better than the screaming twins that were seated three rows behind. Mr and Mrs Tiger Lily kept apologizing to me for their little girl's behaviour. They offered to buy me a glass of wine, but with my meds, I might still be on that plane. I offered to give Tiger Lily a taste of my pharmaceuticals, but we all thought the better of it. Three hours and a long nap later, I arrived at my destination. Stomach contents still in place and free from doggie breath, I am still heavily sedated, but I am where I want to be-in the land of the warmth and water. My guess is that Tiger Lily will be sleeping it off as well.

The Cookie Wars

This blog stuff continues to amaze and perplex me. I have written for over a year now on everything from Sarah Palin's lack of intellectual acuity to the misery that is the St. Louis Rams season. But, nothing has touched the hearts, minds, and apparently the appetites of you the readers like The Great Family Bake-Off. I have apparently touched a nerve. The passion and true dedication that has been expressed over the past few days, as people have done everything short of kiss my feet for recipes, has been remarkable. You people have turned sucking up into an art form. There have been attempts to circumvent the integrity of the voting by stuffing the virtual ballot box and there have been episodes whereby bribes were offered, though never changed hands. I had the unfortunate experience of hearing about my father's prostate. (That should keep me in therapy for a few years!) I even had people try to play on my emotions and trade on friendships. All I can say is "SHAME ON ALL OF YOU!" These are cookies for f@#$ sake. Get a grip people. In the end, while you all have your favourites, it really wasn't a contest. The real winner is the traditional Chocolate Chunk Cookie and as promised the recipe is printed below. If you follow the previous caveats, all should work well, but you should know that this is a truly deadly cookie and a family tradition. Don't mess it up. 

Chocolate Chunk Cookies

1 cup Dark Brown Sugar

1/4 cup White Sugar

2 1/2 cups Flour

1 cup Butter Softened

1 Egg Beaten

1 tsp. Pure Vanilla 

1 tsp. Baking Soda

1/4 tsp. Salt

1/2 cup chopped pecans (optional-but worth it!)

1 large 300 gram bar of dark chocolate (70% dark. A full bar of President's Choice is great as is Lindt!) Use the whole bar. Don't skimp on the chocolate.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Combine flour, soda and salt.

Cream together sugars and butter in a food processor or mixer. Add egg and vanilla and combine well. Add flour mixture until just combined. Do not over mix.

Chop chocolate into chunks and chop nuts. Add by hand to the dough and combine.  Drop onto cookie sheets in balls. Bake at 350 for 12 minutes. Cool slightly and transfer to cooling racks.