Out With The Old

Inspirational song: Wild Thing (Tone Loc)

Yes, I know what song I'm using. No, get your mind out of the gutter. It was literally the last song playing in the car as the man and I came home from our New Year's party, and it just seems so ironic, as neither of us are wild young things anymore. It was rough, keeping ourselves awake all the way past midnight. Every year, it gets harder and harder to stay up that late. Our friends are fabulous company, but even with a roaring fire and a borrowed blanket, the cold was making me sleepy.

As the evening wore on, we moved our gathering outside, where I huddled next to the fire, watching the men-folk set off fireworks. The gang didn't go as far overboard as they did in July, thankfully. They did have some lovely sparkly lights, and a few noisemakers. Right at midnight, every yard in the neighborhood set off some sort of explosives, and the ones we had were the noisiest of the bunch. It seemed like a good way to ring in the new year and send the old one to the rubbish bin of history. I'm so ready to move on.

To all of my friends and family, may 2015 be a thousand times better than any year that preceded it. Onward and upward for all of us. Here's to love and friendship, understanding, joy, and emotional growth. Now it's time to cuddle with my kitties and sleep late tomorrow.

The March

Inspirational song: Old Man (Neil Young)

I had an unfortunate run-in with the biggest regret of my life this afternoon. I keep it locked away in the most secure of bank vaults, down a dark tunnel in the back of my mind, with armed guards and laser trip wires to keep me from stumbling into it. But there we were, in the middle of a political argument that had little bearing on our day to day lives, and even though I saw it coming, I couldn't stop the jail break. The regret came running out, and tore me into horrible little pieces. The argument quadrupled in size. We screamed. I cried. It was every bit as awful as you could expect. It took hours for me to pack it back behind all the barriers and breathe normally again. It left me bleeding slowly on the inside for far too long. This is why it has to stay hidden.

I don't know whether it's the end of the year that made me vulnerable to thinking of the old regret (it's almost 20 years now), or whether it was the discussion itself. It is the only thing I have ever experienced that would be enough for me to travel in time and undo, if such things were possible. I have other smaller regrets, including the new one this year, wishing I had managed to recognize Cricket's terminal illness months earlier, when I might have been able to help her. Nothing else approaches this deep, dark secret in size or scope. I don't ever want another one like it.

2014 was awful. It really was. Some of the crappiness started in 2013, and will continue on through next spring (the condos, obviously). Overall, I am completely ready to see this year in the rear view mirror. I will shake its hand, pat it on the back, and wish it well as it leaves forever. My mother shared with me her very calm, peaceful, dreamy statement of hope for the new year, that she expressed to her close group of friends. She was positive, looking for good things to come. Today, all I care about is kicking the outgoing year in the ass as it ends. Come to my house first, Father Time. When the ball drops in Times Square, that means I will be in the right zone to flip the calendar first. I will be waiting for 2015 with open arms. Don't break my heart, Baby New Year. I need you to be good to me.

It's Not Real

Inspirational song: Dreamer (Supertramp)

I did a very brave thing while I was on Christmas holiday. Well, it's brave for a needy girl like me with low self-esteem. Several weeks ago, I wrote a couple short stories that thrilled me. One was quite dark and violent, in just four short paragraphs, and the other someone bittersweet in just over twice as much space. For the first time in my life, I submitted these things I have created up for review and judgement by an neutral outsider. I sent both stories in to a literary magazine, in the hopes that they would deem my fiction worthy of publication. It will be a while before I know what they think. Weeks? Months? I don't know. I will let you know when I do.

A friend of the family drew my attention to the 2014 winners of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest today. This is the award given to writers of the most wretched, horrible, or awkward opening line to an imaginary novel, based upon the opening to the 1830 novel Paul Clifford, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. He used what was already a tired phrase by then, "It was a dark and stormy night," and that was sadly the best part of his first sentence. There is a grand prize winner for the year, whose sentence was wonderfully twisted. But I have to admit, most of my favorites were in the "dishonorable mentions" under the category winners, particularly those for purple prose. I might have seen myself in a few of those entries, and it amused and frightened me at the same time. After tonight, I think I have a new goal for 2015. I need to enter this contest. If I could condense an entire horror movie down to four paragraphs, I can set up an audaciously bad novel in one sentence. I am allowed to enter as many times as I like. I'm going to try my hand and whip up six or seven truly awful lines. I can't publish them here unless or until they accept them there, so check back in a year and I'll announce how I did.

I just got around to watching the Dr Who Christmas special from last week, all about dreams within dreams. Is that what my writing is? Dreaming about telling stories that aren't true, and then telling you about my dreams, hoping they'll come true by telling you? I think I might have the inspiration for my first Bulwer-Lytton entry. It's just tortured enough to work.

Post Travel Fatigue

Inspirational song: Cherokee Boogie (BR5-49)

Wow. I had a great Christmas break, but after the second six-plus hour drive in a week, there isn't a whole lot of brain power left for me to write much. I just have little snippets of things from the weekend rolling through my head, that are just little flashes, not stories. Such as when the man sent me a picture of my father while they were hiking around the archaeological dig site in the Georgia mountains, with the caption: "Finding his way the Cherokee way--with 4G and GPS." After a day feeling like I had my old, pre-Wheat Belly digestive system back and wanting to excise it with a hot knife, I told my father that I suspected with all the bread crumbs that (mysteriously) persisted around their normally pristine kitchen, I assumed that I had not been as careful as I needed to be. He suggested, "Or maybe someone intentionally contaminated your food with gluten." I really wanted to ask whether that was an admission of guilt. It sounded like one.

I am in the middle of some very excitable felines. Zoe did not like it when her father was gone, and she is jealously (but oh, so cutely) defending the territory right next to his hip from all invaders--particularly the two large Minions of Chaos who want to come get some of my attention. This is a bad time to be sitting with bare feet. Bare, partially broken feet. Time for the last of the pictures, and for me to go running for covers.

My Day of Rest

Inspirational song: Sabbath Bloody Sabbath (Black Sabbath)

We have hit that point in the holiday vacation where we are all overfed, overtired, and ready to do little more than play games on our devices, watch football, and do a little bargain shopping. I rather like days like this, where I have family for companionship, but there is so little pressure to live up to anyone's expectations. I even was allowed to sleep in a couple hours, and no one poked their head into my room to demand that I appear to make or eat breakfast. I'm not sure, but I think this is the first time in all of recorded history that I got to do that at my dad's house. Each and every one of us has had a nap today, and I think that was true of yesterday as well. This is what vacation is supposed to be about. The men went to explore an archaeological site not far from here, but I am giving my smashed foot another day of rest before I go hiking around on it.

The dogs are causing me less embarrassment today. Yes, they are still barking like idiots, and yes, Murray is being Murray. But we have made it through nearly an entire day without any major damage to the structure of my parents' cabin or garage. I'm a little afraid of saying that out loud. The day isn't over yet. They've had a couple walks in the hills, and Murray kept the whole pack safe from the shadows of the three dogs and the man as they wandered around after dark. We saw an article online about dogs being brought home from war zones with a picture of a dog that looked remarkably similar to him, who had a set of wheels almost exactly like his. I felt compelled to check out the window to make sure he was still in the yard, and not hanging out with some British ex-soldier thousands of miles away.

I have a new piece of furniture I want to construct, and after spending a couple hours in a department store that has as close to everything as one rural mountain store can get (it's seriously huge, with levels that keep going down like a parking garage), I have a lot of inspiration. I just need a little end table, but I saw so many that had the potential to keep some of my breakables safe from Zoe the Destroyer, that it might morph into a bigger project. I have a lot of unfinished things lying around the house. Maybe I can make a deal with myself, that if I finish one big one or two little ones, I will earn the right to start this end table. How long do you think that will hold me off? My guess is not very long.

It's Not a Party Until...

Inspirational song: Shindig in the Barn (v. Speck Rhodes)

When we accepted the invitation to spend the holidays at the cabin, I volunteered us to stay in the "bunkhouse," as my parents call the western-themed guest room in the back half of their garage. I thought it was the only safe place to store three naughty puppies, with us in the finished space and them in the garage. I cannot express how wrong I was. It is not warm up here, once the sun goes down, but someone has proven that he or she cannot be trusted to be sent to warm up in the garage with the door shut, unless one or both of us is in there with them. The first time we found damage to the door frame, it was a little scratching down low, and we thought a little wood filler and paint would fix it. The second time, this evening (after I fed them supper and closed the door thinking they would appreciate warming up, so yes, this time it was my fault), the damage is a little higher, and so extreme, I'm thinking we may have to do a little carpentry before we leave. We have to scrub all of Murray's mess out of the inside and outside anyway. He is not making a good impression, that is for certain. I am only eyeballing where this damage to the door frame lines up, but I'm wondering whether it isn't chewing damage, not clawing. It aligns with where Murray's face is when he is in and out of his wheels, but that could be a coincidence. There are blood smears on the top of the bigger one, like it might have come from bleeding gums or a raw lip. No one has cut paws. It is a mystery. A really annoying, infuriating, why-do-I-have-dogs-in-the-first-place mystery.

It was so beautiful this morning, it's a shame it had to start with me being mortified by my dogs' destruction. There was a hard freeze last night, and the whole landscape was fuzzy and white. It didn't take long for the day to warm up, with cloudless skies and no wind. I didn't get a real white Christmas, but that was close enough for now. I think I'll let my pictures do the talking for me tonight, and maybe tomorrow I'll have a fresh start, without dog damage, and without me being a total disaster. If I can go twenty-four hours without breaking another digit or throwing another one of my meals on the floor (I bumped a hot pan with my hand and in my surprise threw my omelet all down the front of the stove), I will consider it a huge victory. I have the feeling 2014 isn't done with me yet.

Home for the Holidays

Inspirational song: (There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays (Perry Como)

I didn't grow up in the Georgia mountains, but every time I come through here, I feel like I should have. It's just so stinking pretty up here. The place we visit is a brand new build, and I look forward to it becoming the "old family cabin" someday. It has good energy. This is my second holiday here, and it has been a fun one so far. The man and the dogs have traipsed around the hills, running (and rolling) through the hills and sending me pictures of proof that bears do indeed poop in the woods. I will spare you that particular photo, and I have to wait until the man wakes again to get pictures he took of the pups. Each one of us took turns falling asleep in our chairs today, but he took it one step further and carried his sleepy self off to bed early as soon as he woke from his nap. What better present for someone who spent way too many months working six days a week? Sleep well, Mr Man.

We each only asked for a couple gifts each, and we seemed to have gotten all we desired. I'm pleased that I no longer have to balance my electronic devices over bowls to hear them beyond arm's length. And after years of pretending I was disinterested, I finally admitted how girly I really am, and how much I wanted a Pandora bracelet, so the family got me started on one. Apparently I wasn't the only one who wanted to tease the man about his new mountain mining claim. I gave him an aluminum walking stick, and my dad gave him a big prospector's ax. Now he needs to get out there and find us some gold. (Or he can once he gets a license to use dynamite up in them thar hills.)

There's a family tradition, mostly perpetuated by me, that for every family gathering, somebody has to be sick. My dad and the man are both teetering on the edge of feeling crummy, but they are holding in so far. Me, I skipped colds, fevers, flu, or headache, and went straight to bodily trauma. I am not used to avoiding footboards on beds, so when I went striding across the room where my suitcase was, I wasn't careful enough to give a wide berth to the iron-framed bed. I smashed the same two little toes that I very nearly pulverized into pudding when I was a teenager. And just like that time when I was fourteen, I knew immediately it was more than just a stubbing. It wasn't until a couple hours later, when one whole toe was dark purple before the rest of the family understood that I wasn't just limping for sympathy. So I guess that's it. It's really a down home Christmas. Just like old times.

Smashing

Inspirational song: All I Want for Christmas Is You (Mariah Carey)

Remember a couple days ago when I mentioned that we were super nerdy LARPers? With the particular organization to which we belonged, we traveled a whole lot, meeting up with different chapters of the club, in giant geekout campouts. Mr S-P is not known for having fancy cars. He's notorious for having the worst kind of beaters, the held together with baling wire and chewing gum running on wishes and started by an old Coke can arcing between the frame and battery kind of crap cars. It became a running joke among our peers, that unless we had some sort of catastrophic automotive incident, the weekend was going to be a disaster for everyone. That's a lot of pressure to put on two 20-somethings, but the one time we pulled into our big summer camp out at the Great Sand Dunes national monument on time, with no breakdowns or gear left at home, other campers complained about the people drumming late at night  (not even actual members of our club) and they got us kicked out of the site for all time. We had to pack up and leave late at night, and because of construction on the road, one girl rolled her little compact car, ejecting the passenger in the back (he was okay) and fracturing her jaw. From then on, at least a dozen club members would demand a full accounting of our trips, wanting to hear something that went wrong. We kind of got used to travel screw ups, and accepted them as our personal burden.

Flash forward to our "of a certain age" years, and we still travel this way. We always leave late, leave key things behind (today it was dog food), and there is ALWAYS a story to tell once we arrive. Today was extra special. We were supposed to be on the road by about one or one-thirty. We weren't too far behind. I was loading up the last of the food and feeding the cats, when the man came in with angry face. He had opened the gate to the back yard and led all three dogs to the truck, to go to the grandparents' cabin. The tailgate was down on the truck, and he assumed the two able-bodied dogs would jump in. Instead, they saw the open door of the cab and gleefully leapt into the seats with muddy feet. When the man yelled and pointed at the ground for them to leave, they just climbed further in on our luggage and bags of food and presents. At this point, as one of our friends called it, "Hulk smash." He slammed the door so hard, the back side window shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. It took us an extra hour to get the glass cleaned up and to buy tape and thick plastic from Lowe's so we could just get on the road. Sometime after the holiday, we can stop and think about replacing the window. For now, I am referring to my favorite philosophy, gleaned from that brilliant story, The World According to Garp. This trip to see my parents will be wonderful. It has been pre-disastered.

I couldn't muster up any holiday joy to speak of last year. I was lonely and the weather wasn't cooperating, and it just wasn't there for me. This year, I have what I wanted most. Mr S-P is here, and we are with my family and it finally feels like the holidays. Sure, a couple inches of snow would make it better, but this is good for right now. There's onlyone more sleep until Christmas, and I am about to get it. Good night, friends. I hope Santa is very good to you.

A Stand-Up Guy

Inspirational song: I'm So Glad I'm Standing Here Today (The Crusaders ft. Joe Cocker)

I can't tell you how many times in the last month and a half I have pondered what lesson Murray is here to compel me to learn. Patience? Compassion? To pay attention and live deliberately? Maybe all of those, plus a lot more. I could have a bad attitude about all of the processes that come part and parcel with a handicapped dog. I could be angry when he pees all over my house, or I could yell when I have to clean up poo that he bounced on as he barked to tell me he'd done it, thus it was time to go outside...two minutes earlier. Instead, I decided to be silly, and every time he makes little trails on the cheap rugs in my kitchen, I throw my hands in the air, and I exclaim, "Yay pee!" as if it were something to celebrate. And then I go for the paper towels and enzyme cleaner. He's not doing this to me to be mean. It's just his reality, and now it's mine. Going outside takes a long time, as I find it difficult and exhausting to get him into his wheels. He flops over a lot, and it's a struggle to get him to bend his elbows into the bridle, or for me to hold his legs in the air long enough to align them with the saddle. I wore a floor length skirt yesterday, and I am absolutely certain the bottom of it dragged through dribbles of pee while I wrestled with his wheels. As distasteful or tiring or frustrating as I find all of this, I find I absolutely cannot hold it against Murray. He didn't ask for this, and I can guarantee that given the choice, he would rather have control over his legs, so he could run and jump and play with Elsa and Bump as an equal.

Today's song came from a friend of mine. She posted it in tribute to yesterday's news of the death of Joe Cocker. It's a song I wasn't familiar with, and when I listened to it yesterday, it moved me greatly. I've known and adored this friend for almost 15 years, but I've only had the opportunity to spend time in her presence for one weekend ever. Still, it was terrifying to me and to several of us when she dropped out of digital sight suddenly two years ago, and we got word after a while that she had been in a major accident, in a coma for months. She has fought her way back, but she is still wheelchair-bound. She has a lift that allows her to "stand" with mechanical intervention for short periods of time, but it wears her out and isn't all that comfortable. Many times, when I'm watching Murray in his wheelchair, and thinking about how much work he is, and how much compassion he needs and deserves, I think about this friend. I get the idea that she identifies with Murray better than anyone else I know, and she has been able to put human words to things he is going through that no one else could ever tell me. It helps me remember to be patient with him, to see things from his side, when I imagine her voice in my head, explaining what he's feeling. I hope someday I can get the two of them together, Murray and my friend. I think he'd like meeting her, and I suspect she'd like him too.

After a really rough year and a half, not just for me but for many of my friends and family, I feel like things are picking up. It's been more than a month since my man finally came home, and after we spent a couple weeks circling around cautiously and eyeing each other like suspicious house cats who didn't recognize the stranger who just appeared, we are starting to relax and bond again. There are still weeks to go, but progress has been made on condo flood recovery. One of my friends gets to announce to her family tomorrow that after years of trying and facing setbacks, she is finally expecting a baby (I wish I could witness that Christmas surprise). My kids are getting their feet under them, professionally speaking, and I couldn't be prouder of them. We've faced a lot, all of us, and we made it through to the other side. I'm so glad I'm standing here today.

Chaps

Inspirational song: Fighting Trousers (Professor Elemental)

Back in our geeky LARPing youth, Mr Smith-Park and I loaded up our giant van that we referred to as "the living room" (it had two sofas, two recliners, and a sound system, was surrounded by windows, and had a transmission hump as warm as a fireplace, we reasoned), and we drove down to a large gathering of like-minded geeky folk, a handful of miles outside of Austin. When we came flying into the campsite (the man NEVER drives anywhere slowly or cautiously), we had the best-known movement of Carmina Burana, O Fortuna, blaring from the cassette deck. Right around the same time, we both observed that if anyone had told our teenaged selves that we'd be rocking out to opera in public, we would never have believed them. (Yes, I have since learned that Carmina Burana is a cantata, not an opera, but that is not relevant to the story.) It turns out, there is a lot to be said for expanding one's musical horizons. As a snotty teenager, I also used to turn my nose up at country music, disdainfully calling it "yee-haw, shit, rope-a-chicken" music. Yet there I was, at the turn of this century, finding out just how freaking cool acts like BR-549 and Charlie Robison were, and discovering that Johnny Cash and Hank Williams had something going on after all.

Which brings us to tonight. I used to think I had come so far when I claimed, like so many WASPs do, "I like all kinds of music, except rap." Once again, more fool I, on so many levels. This evening, the man and I keep finding ourselves grooving in a sedentary, middle-aged person way, to all sorts of rap songs that keep popping up, between the TV, my iTunes, links sent to us, or the endless clicking through hipster rap on YouTube. (The man started with "chap hop" and just kept going. It was worth it. Trust me. Google today's song.) I spent years providing both of my children with the finest musical education I could, making sure they knew their rock and roll from Antmusic to Zappa, and everything in between. Darling girls are still returning the favor, making sure their often-clueless parents stay current on all the required listening, plus some that is purely gratuitous. Daughter one gave us a "Misty Mountain Rap" tonight, a dwarvish parody song. Bless her generous musical soul.

I sewed some Velcro on the gingerbread-colored dog pants, but I don't yet have pictures of Murray in them to share. I will wait until he's had his bath, so that he can wear them when he meets one set of his grandparents for the first time. I'm ready for him to have multiple sets of trousers. He goes through them quickly. And I have watched him intentionally flip himself over in the house multiple times today. He puts his front legs down, then chin, and if he doesn't get an immediate response out of me to remove the wheels, he puts one shoulder down and flips. He thinks doing this in the kitchen will improve his chances of being there when food falls to the floor, like maybe tripping me while I'm cooking will cause me to throw bacon straight down into his mouth. How sad for him that all he managed to get was attention today, when I abandoned food for a camera. It's a delicate dance we play. A very genteel battle.

Grandma Practice

Inspirational song: Santa Baby (Eartha Kitt)

Before I write tonight, let me be absolutely clear, so neither of my daughters sends me angry texts over the next 48 hours: I am aware that neither of my children is in any place in her life to reproduce at this time. With that caveat in mind...

I was having a lot of fun this afternoon, imagining what sort of grandma I'm going to be. I suspect it might involve a lot of pointless Christmas crafting. After endless years intentionally avoiding sewing machines (following burning out completely from running a costume design business two decades ago), I am finally finding myself occasionally pulling out the new machine for little projects. Today, I got around to designing attempt number two at doggie hot pants (diaper wraps). The first set from last month was too small to cover what it needed to in order to protect my floors. The second one today is probably too big, and sort of resembles brown twill lederhosen with gingerbread men accents. Or at least it will once I add in some sort of suspenders to hold them up by his ribs where I want and need them. Poor dog. He has no idea what he's in for. I had too much fun putting decorative stitches on his little holiday outfit (the first machine I've had with cute stitches since I used the one my own grandmother had in the 1970s), and as I sewed, I realized I can't wait to make little kid clothes for real. Murray is the closest thing I have right now to a child who can wear any clothes that I make. Both of my grandmothers were brilliant seamstresses, and my mother was pretty fabulous as well at that sort of thing. When I was a little girl, I had gorgeous clothes, tailored specifically for me, and I can't wait to pass along that tradition to my own grandkids. Until the day comes that I have the next generation of humans running around, I'm going to transfer my attentions to the dogs. Murray is the youngest of all the animals in the house, and I'm telling myself it's not that far of a stretch when I associate him with little kid attributes. Hence, his holiday clothes will have gingerbread men, penguins in scarves, and Scottie dogs on them. Yes. I hear it too. I do sound like a crazy woman. What, did you think it was all about the cats? This is what happens when you spend years trying to quash your creative side. Eventually that dam bursts open, and no one is safe, especially not a dog who can't outrun me.

Shopping Hell

Inspirational song: Sympathy for the Devil (The Rolling Stones)

During most days of the year, I wonder why parking lots are so big. I think some roads are over built, and some shopping centers are foolishly optimistic about their own draw. And then I make the mistake of leaving the house during the second half of December, and I start wondering why anyone ever builds little two-lane roads, even as arteries through mall parking lots. Today was awful. I went out to mail two things, a box and a card, and I ended up being gone for over three hours, and I wondered whether I was ever going to see my Park again. I made errors in judgement, one after another as I went along. Mailing the box UPS meant I had to drive three miles one direction or the other from the UPS store to mail a card that had to go out today. Once I had gone as far as the main post office, I figured I would just keep going and get a few bottles of wine to bring with us on our holiday trip (even though I had a trunk full of groceries, including a few frozen items). And I think that was the most critical error. Now, granted, I went where there was a big sale on wine, and ended up saving something like $21 overall, but I'm not so sure that was worth the additional time and irritation. There was a lovely, jovial mood as I and a couple dozen other people waited in the line that snaked back and forth halfway through World Market, and we strangers chatted like we were all at the same holiday cocktail party. That ended the moment we stepped out the door, back to the bumper-to-bumper parking lot Gordian knot. How can such pleasant people revert to being such a-holes once their cars are surrounding them again? And why did I subject myself to sitting among them for upwards of an hour, probably being a bit of an a-hole myself (although I did try to let a few people turn in front of me, not wanting to be made entirely of bad karma in case Santa is really watching)? If the universe is kind to me, the last two presents I'm waiting for Amazon to deliver will arrive by Tuesday morning. If my life is cursed, they will not arrive by then, and I will find myself hedging my bets and buying similar items at higher prices, standing in the longest lines of all, just to come home to find a box waiting on the porch. The only thing worse than Christmas eve freakout shopping is a post-Christmas return line. That would truly be hell.

Holiday Buzz

Inspirational song: Winter Wonderland (v. Perry Como)

The man had an errand to run at the mall tonight. It wasn't necessarily holiday-related, but we did wander around a little to shop, and to make fun of some of the things that we saw. It has been almost two years since the man went into one of these giant temples of consumerism. I think we were both curious how he would react, after spending so long abroad, in a region with a very different economic mindset. If he had exceptionally strong feelings of disgust or confusion at the shallow, materialistic society he has re-entered, he kept them to himself. He did, however, seem to be unmoved by all the shiny, sparkly things for sale in the brightly-lit displays. He has said for years that he is not the target demographic for most consumer goods. That is so true. He doesn't care about brand names or fashion, about slick packaging or bling. He abhors the concept of "disposable" anything. And he rarely considers the latest version of anything to be superior to generations that came before it (especially when that applies to cars). But any time we remind him that just because he doesn't have any interest in the wares on sale doesn't mean no one does, he good naturedly quotes the Once-ler. "The birth of an industry, you poor, stupid guy! You telling me what the public will buy?"

I seem to be maintaining my holiday mood, for the most part. It's still hard to keep a good buzz with all the warm sunny days in a row, but at night I get to see the lights in my own yard, and I have been finding foods that taste right for the season (like those great cookies from yesterday). I know the report from space is that Florida leads the nation in over-the-top light displays that can be seen from orbit, but that doesn't translate here. I really would have thought in a place like this, more people would decorate the front of their houses. After three holiday seasons of living here, I am firmly convinced, Coloradans get way more into yards full of fairy lights than folks in the Low Country. Should we assume it's because of the snow and cold weather?

I begged to be allowed to take control of all of the food for the holiday with my parents, and was granted conditional permission -- they'll let me do all the cooking as long as I don't try to feed them anything weird. Now I need to come up with a menu, so we have time to shop. What sounds good, on a grain-free holiday table? Maybe I need to wade through some of the Paleo websites, for inspiration. This is the first time they've given me this much free rein at the holidays. I want to wow them. This has the potential to be wonderful.

Spoiling My Appetite (ATK #8)

Inspirational song: Makin' It (David Naughton)

I had been trying to come up with a way to indulge in a few traditional holiday sweets, without going back on my absolutely necessary dietary changes. I remembered the almond shortbread cookies I made for the very first installment of Annie's Test Kitchen, back in June. I have been desperate for something sweet and spicy, ever since I strained the dregs of whole spices from the mulled wine out of the base of the crock pot, and put them on the stove in water, as simmering potpourri just like mom used to do. A few years ago, I discovered a recipe for speculaas, an abundantly spicy cookie from Northern Europe (Germany? Norway? I forget exactly), and I fell in love with it. Today, I tested the feasibility of combining the two recipes, and the results were so amazingly perfect, I had a hard time slowing down long enough to take a couple pictures of the finished cookies. I wanted to eat all of them immediately, but somewhere I found the strength to save a few for the man. I certainly spoiled my appetite for dinner, as I wasn't ready to eat until after 8 this evening.

As usual, I did a lot of winging it as I combined recipes. The shortbread called for maple syrup as its only sweetener, but I didn't have the full 1/4 cup left to do it, so I did what my grandfather would have suggested, and reached for the molasses. Oh, yes, I am definitely his granddaughter. It was the right combination. I thought I used a heavy hand with the spices, but I wouldn't mind even more in the batch I plan to make next week to take with me to my dad's cabin. And as it turns out, these were pretty spiffy with a scoop of organic chocolate ice cream on top, and drizzled with a little amaretto. (That was the man's idea, and he gets full points for that one.)

For a full explanation of the base cookie recipe, refer to the first Annie's Test Kitchen blog post, here: http://scenesfromsmithpark.blogspot.com/2014/06/annies-test-kitchen-part-1.html

Grain Free Speculaas

Dry ingredients:

1 1/2 c finely ground almond flour
1/2 c tapioca starch
1/4 t baking soda
1/4 t sea salt
1/2 T cinnamon (or more on all spices, to taste)
1/2 t cloves
1/2 t nutmeg
1/4 t anise
1/2 t ginger
dash allspice
dash cardamom

Wet ingredients:

3 T (heaping) dark brown sugar
1/3 c melted butter
1/4 c maple syrup (or half maple, half molasses)
1 T vanilla extract

Blend the dry ingredients thoroughly, then stir in the wet and stir until uniformly mixed. Roll into walnut-sized balls and place on a cookie sheet a couple inches apart. Bake at 350 until well done, about 15-18 minutes. Cool on a wire rack until set and crisp.

No Spoilers

Inspirational song: Love Bites (Def Leppard)

A couple months ago, I promised to start writing much earlier in the evening, so that I could get on a better sleep/wake schedule. I haven't been very good about keeping to that promise. Now that the man is going back to work, and we have figured out how to keep Murray from waking up and whining at 5 am (don't feed the dogs until late--solves a lot of problems), I have to reinstate my vow to be on a more human schedule. I've been having too much fun this week, playing bunco with the girls, re-watching movies, and staying up late. We just got home from seeing the last installment in the Hobbit movies, and it's already bed time. I will share no spoilers about the film, just in case you were planning on seeing it, and hadn't read or re-read the books. (It has been so many years since I read the books, I kept counting on my fingers, trying to identify all five in the Battle of the Five Armies. I failed.) I enjoyed the whole series, and I am not such a purist that I was angry that they deviated from the books in significant ways. And naturally I left thinking how much I want to live in Bag-End. Love that architecture.

Now I'm home, trying to write quickly so I can go to bed early like I swore I would. The cats are getting dangerously close to crossing the line between distrust and play. I think they are actually starting to like each other, but aren't ready to admit it in front of me. I'm going to let them ricochet across my lap while I finally watch the last 45 minutes of the Voice finale from last night. No, I don't know who won yet. Don't tell me. No spoilers.