The Gift of the Magi

It hangs next to my fireplace and chimes the hour and half hour. My antique wall clock. I suppose since it is only a reproduction from the New England Clock Company and was purchased sometime in the mid 60's, it doesn't really qualify as a true antique.
The body is of wood, its design reminiscent of a Swiss chalet, with a brass pendulum and two heavy weights hanging from chains which periodically have to be raised. Their weight is what gives the clock its movement.
The face of the clock is hand-painted, with the rather sobering sermon "Hark, what's the cry, Prepare to meet thy God today." Now that I think of it, it is a little creepy. Kinda like when we teach little children the prayer "If I should die before I wake..."

I discovered a little while back when googling the New England Clock Company that they use that very clock for their web page. I also discovered that it is supposed to have a little weather vane on top. Long gone. Its twin is currently on eBay.
This clock is especially dear to me. A little back story:
My parents were looking around an Ethan Allen store back in the 60's. It was Mom's favorite store. Ever. They both almost simultaneously saw this wall clock. Mom had pined for years for a grandfather clock but A) they are expensive and B) she had five kids.
So they spot this clock and speak briefly to the salesman on the floor. They wander off in different directions and Mom sneaks around to the salesman and says quietly "Put that clock back in and I'll pay you later." Did I mention it was close to Christmas?
Mom wanders off and pretty soon, Dad comes up to the same salesman and quietly says "Put that clock back in the back and I'll pay for it later."
What is a salesman to do? He evidently dithered about it for a minute or two, then went up to Mom and quietly told her that both of them had asked for the clock to be put back. Obviously, they didn't want two clocks that looked the same, did they? Mom quietly tells him to remove her name from the order and to not say anything to Daddy.
I imagine it would be difficult for couples as close as my folks to surprise each other with their Christmas gifts. I mean, they were practically of one mind, truly 'mind melded'. So it was something of a miracle that Daddy frequently was able to fool Mom so she had no idea what her gift from him was.
Not that Christmas. She was holding the box containing the clock in her lap and prior to opening it, she turned to Daddy and told him she knew what it was. He was totally shocked. So she told us the story that was so sweet. So deep was their love, they had both chosen to give the other the same exact same gift.
I love my clock. Except twice a year. You know, when Daylight Savings time comes and when it goes. Especially when it goes. You see, the way you 'reset' this clock involves manually turning the minute hand around the face and waiting at the half hour for a single chime, then moving it to the o'clock position and waiting for it to chime however many times it is. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock...you get my drift. If you don't take the time to wait for it to chime before moving on, the clock becomes disoriented and will chime twice at nine, eight times at four. It literally loses its mind, kinda like a somewhat-dim pet who wants to please but can't figure out what you want of it. This process can sometimes take a half hour or more, depending on if you screw it up and have to start over.
Another family story about this clock:
When we were all married and having kids and going home for Christmas, Mom made sure that every single couple had a place to sleep. She had only one extra bedroom, with Daddy's study the third bedroom. That was where grandkids slept on the floor. Her living room and family room both had sleeper sofas so they doubled as bedrooms when we were home for the holidays. Margery and Daniel frequently ended up in the living room. Where the chiming clock hung. Daniel would stop the pendulum so the clock would stop and not chime all through the night.
The following morning, Daddy would laborously reset the clock, moving it through its paces hour by hour. (Daniel was always the rebel...when he was dating Margery, and he'd bring her home for a goodnight kiss, he'd unscrew all the Christmas lights on the front porch, the better to have a little privacy.)
I guess that is why I have so many precious things. A tray I got as wedding gift from a dear professor, the blue glass collection I got from my mom, and the Clock. All having been in the family long enough to be imbued with memories. Deep in the very materials these things are constructed of, in the very atoms that form these objects, are memories.
My family's own "Gift of the Magi" story, soaked into a wooden wall clock, with weights and a pendulum.

The Bible Tells Me So

I'm having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit this year. Perhaps it's because the news is so bad. Little children shot in their classroom, while gun nuts defend their right to own Howitzers and tanks and grenade launchers. Fake-o Christians getting their dander up about a fake-o "War on Christmas" ginned up by a fake-o "news" organization.

I actually feel guilty about passing on the posts by well-meaning individuals who post pictures of the Bible and tell their friends to "like" if they believe in it. (And don't get me started on the totally phantasmic, anachronistic Kincaid-style paintings of Santa Claus kneeling before a manger with a beatific swaddled child and the legend "Jesus is the reason for the season."!) Being a little OCD and a lot Grammar Nazi, I always ask myself, "What does that mean?" Are you asking me if I believe that book exists? Yep, I'm pretty sure I've seen several hundred of them in my lifetime.

Are you asking me if I believe its teachings? Well, that depends on which teachings. I believe we should be more loving. I believe we shouldn't judge each other, 'tho that's probably my greatest sin. I don't believe that we should stone people who touch pigskin on the Sabbath, or whatever. And I certainly cut my hair and eat pork and in general break quite a few of the more strict teachings. I wouldn't dream of forcing a widow to marry her husband's brother, regardless of what the Bible says about that.

Are you asking me if I believe it's literally true? Once again, the Grammar Nazi in me comes out. I believe the Bible has some "literal" Truths-with-a-capital-T to teach us, like the aforementioned being more loving and less judgemental. But do I believe that all the events which are reported in that book really, seriously,  happened? Uh, nope. Or at least not most of them. And, to me, it doesn't really matter whether they happened or not.

It has nothing to do with our ability to use the Bible as an moral guide. Some people seem to use the Bible as a bludgeon, beating the crap out of anyone who disagrees with their interpretation, and only certain passages but not others, at that.

The events described in the Bible were part of an oral history, first told by the Jews, then by the early Christians. Oral historians were also called "storytellers". It was many centuries before literature even distinguished between "fiction" and "nonfiction"...the listeners didn't care. While they were listening, they believed it actually happened, whether or not it did.

I had this conversation with my sister this summer, while we were driving along the road to a family wedding. She, who believes that everything in the Bible is literally true (despite some contradictions), became quite upset when I tried to explain that it is a more important book, a more influential book, if one believes that it contains certain Truths, just not stories that may or may not be "true".

I used the example of the parables. "Do you believe that the parables actually happened," I asked. Well, no she didn't. But we can still glean Truths about how to live our lives and treat our families through those parables, right? Right. So why couldn't the entire Bible be suggestions on how we treat each other and live our lives?

Of course, the strictures against killing each other or cheating on your spouse, I consider to be more than just "suggestions". But did you know that in some translations, the Commandment "thou shalt not kill" is expressed "thou shalt not murder"? The ancient Jews rightly felt there was a difference between accidental killing, mercy killing, etc.and the outright purposeful murder of another in order to gain something he had. A different kettle of fish altogether.

Equally hard to pass by are those posts by well-meaning friends who wouldn't understand my system of morality if I talked to them for three days, let alone understand a Facebook quip which might be taken the wrong way. But it is tempting to reply, when you see someone railing against the innocuous greeting "Happy Holidays" and claiming that we are declaring war on Christmas and trying to take Jesus out of the season and for all they know, we eat little children for breakfast.

I've tried to explain that I began saying "Happy Holidays" years ago when I was dating a Jewish man whose family celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas. My best friend from college celebrates Kwanzaa and Christmas. Some of my friends celebrate Christmas only. But I really don't want to question my mailman about what holidays, if any, he celebrates. Some social interactions are much too brief to be able to sit down with the check-out clerk and determine which holidays her family celebrates, so as not to offend with the wrong greeting. So, by insisting on "Merry Christmas", those folks are actually insisting that everyone celebrate their holiday and no other.

When I was in high school in St. Louis County, we lived across the street from a Reformed Jewish family who had a son my brother's age. Tim and Gary were inseparable and Gary happened to be at our house when our Christmas tree was brought in and decorated. Never having had a tree, he wanted to experience that particular tradition. (Which, let's face it, has nothing whatsoever to do with Jesus' birth). My parents first called to check with his parents to see if it was okay, then allowed him to help. We even nicknamed it a "Hanukkah bush" in Gary's honor.

(Parenthetically, my mom used to say that the Prestons were the most "Christian" [as in "Christ-like"] people she knew. The day we moved in, Ann was at our door with a pot of hot coffee [always a plus with my caffine-addicted parents] and a plate of hot rolls. The first Sunday it snowed, there was Joe, out shoveling our driveway so we could get to church. When my dad asked Joe what the heck he was doing, he said we shouldn't have to work on Sunday and since it wasn't his Sabbath, he would do the work for us. Naturally, the next Sabbath it snowed, Daddy went out to shovel Joe's driveway so they could get to Temple.)

Those who claim that Christmas has been co-opted should perhaps take a look at Christian history. Because the Winter Solstice, celebrated by pagans for millenia, was co-opted by early Christian missionaries to the British Isles. That's why Christmas is celebrated in December, to dissuade the horrible pagans from practicing their heathen rituals and get them into church. Because most biblical scholars (including the Pope) believe Jesus' birth might have been in late spring or early summer.

(I'm also sure that it's no coincidence that Hanukkah occupies the same month...come to think of it, Jesus would've celebrated Hanukkah, right?)

The Christmas tree is also a pagan symbol, since pagans believe that spirits live in trees and plants as well as in animals. The evergreen, since it didn't "die" and lose its leaves in the fall, was a symbol of eternal life and rebirth, just as the Solstice was a celebration of the rebirth of the Sun.

So don't get your panties in a twist, folks. Axial tilt is the reason for the season and we can all respect and honor others' religions and traditions without being disrespectful of our own. And that's the Truth!

A Christmas Memory

No, this won't be nearly as well written as Truman Capote wrote his Christmas memories. But it is one of the many memories I have where I wish I could say it turned out better.


Years ago, when our children were small, we bundled them up on Christmas Eve and took them out through the snow to the Cathedral, where midnight mass was being held. No, we're not Catholic, but a friend was singing and we thought a celebration of the season was just the thing to put us in the mood for Christmas.


It was. So about 1:30 on Christmas morning, having gotten our sleeping children bedded down for the night and finished last minute wrapping and stocking stuffing, we prepared for bed ourselves. (correction: we assisted Santa in stuffing stockings and wrapping gifts...on account he's so busy, don't you know!)


Just as we were turning out lights, we realized that there was a fire truck just four doors down on our street. This neighborhood was one that city planners like to call "transitional"...that is, it was "transitioning" from crack houses and whore houses to gentrification. The houses in our neighborhood were all architectural masterpieces, with lots of wood carved staircases and mullioned windows. We were part of the gentrification, not a part of the crack houses, just for the record.


So my husband put on boots and tramped through the snow to see what was going on. He discovered a woman and her daughter, both in house slippers and nightgowns, with blankets thrown over their shoulders, standing in the freezing snow. They lived in the apartment next to the fire, but had been evacuated in case the fire spread.


He invited them to come to our house, where at the very least, they could be warm. They came, but the woman insisted on sitting on the boot bench in our front hall, her blanket regally clutched around her shoulders, back ramrod straight.


I offered coffee, hot chocolate, anything warm. She declined, not wanting to "be a bother." From the condition of their clothing and their apartment building, they were obviously not a part of the gentrification of the neighborhood.


I went into the living room and turned the tree lights back on, for the entertainment of the little girl, who couldn't have been more than six. Her eyes twinkled in the tree lights, her mouth forming an "O". "We don't have a tree, 'cause Momma says we can't afford it."


My heart sank. My mind quickly searched the wrapped packages I'd just placed under the tree (correction: Santa had placed), rejecting them all because they were trucks and little boy flannel shirts and army guys. Nothing even remotely appropriate for a girl child.


This woman, asking for nothing but a warm place for her and her child to wait for the Fire Department to complete their work, stayed only an hour or so. She didn't say much, though the child chattered in the way of a child who knows no stranger. I offered more blankets. Declined, with dignity.

The little girl eventually fell asleep on the sofa, tired no doubt by all the excitement of the evening. My husband carefully bundled her up in the thin blanket and carried her home, her mother expressing gratitude just for the warm place to sit on a frigid, snowy Midwestern night. She wouln't take anything else from us.


But til the day I die, I will always regret not having had anything under that tree that a little girl would have liked. I would have told her that Santa, in his infinite wisdom, had dropped off the package for her, knowing that her apartment was filled with smoke and water.


Every year, I donate to Toys for Tots. Let that be my penance.

Now Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding

Just finished watching Julie/Julia a few days ago, so perhaps that is why I was inspired to blog about figgy pudding.

Yep, the self same figgy pudding in the carol. I kinda came to making figgy pudding for the first time this year through the back door. You see, my fig tree, which last year mostly fed the birds, decided to have some really serious plant sex this year. All that sex, all those little babies in the form of wonderful figs.

I guess the flavor of figs is an aquired taste. I only recently became a fig fan, mostly because of this darned fig tree with its profligate sex. Last year, I was waiting until they turned a sort of burgundy brown, which I THOUGHT was the signal the fruit was ready to eat. Wrong.

When they are burgundy brown, the figs are actually almost rotten and extremely mushy, which is the birds' idea of a Baskin-Robbins triple scoop with fudge sauce AND sprinkles.

This year, after discovering when figs are really ripe, I picked figs. And picked. And picked. And picked. I made gallons of fig jam, I made my version of fig newtons, I gave a local chef pounds of the fruits. I don't know what he did with them, but knowing his reputation, he probably made a luscious sauce for pork. Or a souffle. Or something.

So anyway, the fig tree was still producing. I think it must have continued to produce fruit for 3-4 weeks. Now, as I've said, I'm a fig fan, but this was really too much. Having been raised to NEVER waste ANYTHING, I started drying figs. I have a countertop dryer and for several weeks, the poor thing blew warm dry air on tons of figs.

It was at this point (yes, I'm kinda slow) that I realized I had no idea what to DO with dried figs. We're talking tens of pounds of fruit, even accounting for the dried fruit being lighter than the fleshy fruit. I'm a fig fan, but not THAT big a fan.

Suddenly, Julia Child popped into my head and started singing "Now bring us some figgy pudding" in that impossibly lyrical-yet-somewhat-annoying voice she had. Figgy Pudding. What in the heck is that???

I did what any early 21st century researcher would do. I Googled. (funny that this word has become a verb, what?) Google pointed me to literally HUNDREDS of recipes for figgy pudding. Who knew that figgy pudding was such a popular recipe, since everyone I know has said, "Figgy pudding? You're making figgy pudding...like in the song? What is it?"

I'm slow, as I've pointed out. I thought that if I found a recipe at all, it would be in some obscure Chaucerian-age book located in the Vatican archives. And yet, here were hundreds to choose from. So I started reading. And reading. And reading.

I found out that figgy pudding is a sort of cross between a bread pudding and a fruit cake. I finally settled on a recipe that was featured on a cooking show on NPR. These people, I thought, are esoteric enough to be experts on figgy pudding, but practical enough to have altered the recipe so that those of us who know our way around a kitchen could make it, despite not being professional figgy pudding bakers.

I misspoke. It turns out that figgy pudding isn't baked, at least the original wasn't (though some of my rejected recipes bake it). It's steamed. And here's the best part of all...YOU POUR BRANDY ON IT AND SET IT ON FIRE!!!! I have never in my life lit on fire (at least, on purpose) any of my culinary creations. I tend to be the type of cook who sticks with the hospital auxiliary published cookbooks which feature a lot of Jello and mayonaise in cakes and potluck casseroles in their selections. My favorite cookbook is a very dog-eared Better Homes and Gardens red-checked number (you no doubt have seen this cookbook on your grandmother's shelf).

So here I am, steaming a cake and lighting it on fire!!! I feel so adverturous and out there. So "outside the box" and avant garde. I have a notion of what it must taste like, from reading the ingredients. But I have no idea at this point if it will taste good. Maybe it will be one of those offerings to my family where they laboriously eat it, telling me it's the best thing they've ever had but no, they are too full for any more. When people ask for seconds of dessert, after a huge holiday meal, you know you've struck a chord. I have visions of this being a "no seconds for me" kind of dessert. Something you can say you've tried, but secretly think "so this is why no one makes figgy pudding any more."

One advantage to making figgy pudding, you can make it up to three weeks in advance and it keeps. Due to the ingredients, I imagine it's one of those dishes that improves with age.

So several mornings in advance of our Christmas dinner, I made a figgy pudding. All by myself. Another thing you should know about making figgy pudding is that it's one of those recipes that requires that you make this mixture and then that mixture and then fold them together and then you make two more mixtures and then fold these together and then...you get the idea. Many steps and every conceivable bowl and saucepan in the kitchen is dirtied in the construction.

The recipe calls for brandy. Lots of brandy. Which you use to reconstitute the dried figs and then light THAT on fire. So here I have this flaming saucepan in my kitchen while I'm attempting to make bread crumbs! I could scarcely take my eyes off the saucepan in flame.

I finally assembled all the parts and then assembled all of the assemblies and scraped the final mixture into a Bundt pan. I dragged out my water bath canner (the only container in my house that would accomodate the Bundt pan), filled it with water and gently lowered the cake into the water bath. The recipe instructs you to cover the cake pan with aluminum foil and cover the water bath with foil as well. Then you put the top on the water bath and wait.

Two hours. That's how long it takes to steam the figgy pudding. Due to all the foil and the scalding water, one cannot look at the pudding during cooking. I held my ear to the side of the water bath to insure that it was gently simmering, but other than that, I had to trust NPR that they know what they're doing. (That and the INCREDIBLE smell! It really smells good.)

I am now officially a figgy pudding maker. But what does it taste like, you may ask? Search me. I haven't yet served it, so I have no idea. Will update the blog when I know. I will also let you know if I burn the house down on Christmas in my flaming attempt to be "out there."

What else can I do with dried figs?

Post Script: The Figgy Pudding tasted really good, but I had left-overs...guess it's one of those, "No, no seconds for me" dishes.