Christmas Miscellany

When I was a child I lived on a farm in the heart of Ireland. There wasn't much air traffic then and whenever an airplane flew overhead in early December my mother called us children to the front steps. Standing on tip toe we'd shout our greetings as loudly as possible to Santa. We believed that the pilot of the plane was sent by Santa b to make sure we were still living at the farm.Our excitement was so immense and overwhelming that we kept shouting long after the plane with it's vital information disappeared among the clouds.

Santa brought my younger brother Andy a carpentry set when he was about three. Daddy carried him into the kitchen so that he could show it to Bob our older brother. He was busy trying to put a wooden puzzle together on the table and refused to look up. Suddenly he felt a sharp knock on the top of his head, he shouted before dramatically pretending to fall to the floor. On his descent he hit his head off the edge of the dresser and was knocked out!

My older brother and I began to wonder if Santa was real. Some of our school friends had been talking and not all of them believed in him anymore. It was very worrying. Bob decided that we should set a trap. Our presents from Santa were always left at the bottom of each bed. If Santa was real we'd soon find out.
There was a roll of strong twine in the shed and we took the kitchen scissors and went out there to cut a long piece of it.
'What are you two doing.?'
Daddy was standing there in the doorway. I had the piece of twine wrapped around my hand the way adults do it and Tom was holding the scissors.
'Well?' Daddy asked 'What are you doing?'
'We're going to set a trap for Santa,' I told him. 'It's all Bob's idea.'
'No, it's not, it's you too,' my brother protested.
'Tell me about the trap and maybe I can help you,' said Daddy.
'We're going to tie this piece of twine onto the inside knob of my bedroom door Bob explained. We'll tie the other end to the back of the chair inside the door. When Santa comes he won't see the twine and when he opens the bedroom door the chair will move with the door -- and I'll hear it.
'And if Santa is there what will you say to him?' Daddy asked.
We hadn't thought about this.
'Well if I was Santa I'd be very disappointed to be found out,' Daddy said 'and I'd take all the presents to some poor child who doesn't have a lovely Christmas like you do. But if you are dead keen to set a trap I'll help you, what do you think?'
'It's alright Bob,' spoke ruefully.' I don't want to see Santa after all.'
'I don't either,' I said as I began to cry.
'That's good Daddy,' said 'and I know that Santa will bring you lovely presents if you really believe in him.'


That Christmas Santa brought me a doll's pram because I believed in him. Months later when the March winds blew and the smoke curled over the roof of the house I dressed my gorgeous cat Minnie the Moucher in a pink baby's dress. She was delighted and purred loudly when I put her in the pram and covered her with a soft blanket. I placed the pram near to the little stool which I sat on beside the fire. Children's Hour was on the radio and a lady was telling a story about a potato called Sammy Spudd. Our elderly neighbour, Paddy Hogan, who came to visit us during the winter evenings arrived just as the story finished.
'Have you got a baby in that little pram?' He asked
'Oh yes,' I told him 'and the baby's asleep. She's teething and it was hard enough to get her down.'
 'A difficult baby,' Mammy laughed as she handed Paddy a cup of tea and some apple tart.
Daddy, with the cold of the evening clinging to him soon joined us beside the fire. He had tea and apple tart too.
Paddy always had great stories to tell.That particular night he had a tale about a a haunted house. 'Every night in April', he said mysteriously,' near to the time of the full moon, a knock came to the door of that old house. The owners had been warned not to open the door under any circumstances. But there's always a stubborn man to be found you know. And one Christmas Eve a loud the knock was heard -- like this' -- said Paddy as he banged and banged his walking stick on the flagstone floor. There was commotion within the pram and a creature with four legs, a furry face and dressed in pink leaped over Paddy's chair
'Well holy God,' Paddy gasped, 'It's alive!'

A Christmas liturgy is special wherever it occurs. Long ago in our small country church a parishioner came to worship well fortified in mind and body against the cold. The choir had been practicing carols for weeks and when organ music filled the air and 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' echoed around everyone listened in admiration. But the fortified Angel got carried away and kept singing 'Gloria in Excellencies Deo' when the choir had long since fallen silent.The embarrassed celebrant clapped his hands and said kindly, 'thank you, thank you very much.'
'Father O'Brien -- that's my Aunty, ' a child called out loudly. 'Let her sing us another song before you start talking.'

Names have been changed to save embarrassment!

Happy Christmas Everyone and all good things in the New Year.

Children's Stories

                                                                 Children's Stories

   I'm always looking for a special treat at Christmas time -- for myself of course! Invariably I choose a book I've heard about which has a not too demanding story, maybe based on an historical figure or something unique from the imagination of the author. Often during my search through bookshelves, I'v been drawn more than once to the latest children's stories displayed invitingly on tables.Christmas is a time for such indulgence. It's the season to re-live memories of being read to at bedtime. And memories too of being older and hiding under the blankets to read a good story by torchlight!

   I'm thinking about this because I've just downloaded Linda Talbot's latest tale for kids which is published free with Smashwords.

   In A HAZARDOUS HIKE TO PARADISE
   the author writes about FIFI AND THE SWIFTIFOOTS and
   how they found THE FLOWERS OF PARADISE.

She describes mushroom people, a lost fairy and the creatures they collect on a house hunting trek through time. Apart from being mesmerized by the fantastical and colourful nature of Linda's writing, I'm sure you will particularly enjoy the wonderful illustrations by Swedish Artist Diana Munz.. Her work is captivating and awe inspiring. Where would you find such a combination of talent available for all ages who love the world of fantasy? Take some time this Christmas to download, enjoy and share some rare,intriguing and captivating make believe.

Cretan Gold

We've had bad storms here in western Crete during the past two weeks. The winds wrapped around the house. At first we thought these were from the north but the winds of Crete are all embracing, come from the four corners of the island and manage to penetrate all areas. The rain was torrential, like straight rods of cold liquid which bounced, and spat and lashed against the paved pathways, the streets and lanes. Local olive farmers were unable to work while at the olive mill the operatives had an opportunity to catch up with a backlog.

But it was not the end of the harvest for this year. The sun shone again two days ago and it has become warm and dry outside. Once again we can see the pickup trucks loaded with bags, slowly making their way to the mill. There are cars too, whose boots are packed with hessian bags of olives balanced precariously over the edge. On top of a load of bags a dog or two often stand guard looking even more satisfied than the owner of another bountiful crop.

Cretan olive oil is golden green, fragrant and delicious. It is a precious product which has been for centuries the source of good health and longevity among the inhabitants of Crete. It is said that greener oil will have a stronger aroma and a richer taste. However, if you empty a little olive oil into a glass container and hold this up to the light you will see a range of colours -- maybe dark green, pale green, and even a luminous golden shade.

Like wine, there is a wide range in the quality and taste. Flavour in olive oil is natural and unique. Connoisseurs may describe different samples as mild, delicate, light, buttery, fruity, peppery, and fragrant. The expert is able to distinguish subtleties of taste and can tell from which region the olive oil has come. The climate, the soil, the area where the olive grove is situated and the means by which the olives are harvested play a role in the final flavour.

Olive oil can be expensive because it is difficult to produce. Harvesting is back breaking and labour intensive. This work continues throughout December January and into February according to weather conditions. Cretan olive oil which is bought by other countries around the Mediterranean is often sold under the name of the country which imported it. This is an accepted practice because the Cretan oil has been mixed with the local product. But the market for the export of Pure Cretan Virgin Olive Oil, shipped directly from the island, is now being expanded. In our modern world, the names and locations of olive farms, oil producers and how to obtain olive oil products directly from Crete can be found on line. But no matter how the olives have been harvested and processed -- picked by hand or machine, processed in the old fashioned way by cooperatives or in factories using the latest technology, olive oil will retain its health giving, and legendary reputation.

I No Like

I'm back. This computer had to have an update so that I could connect with Santa.

Recently we traveled to do some Christmas shopping in Rethymnon, a city between Chania and Iraklion. It was a lovely dry day, good for walking by the port and along the streets of the old town. The atmosphere was friendly and inviting with shops decked out for Christmas.

When a slim and trim window mannequin stared unflinchingly at me I stared back. She was wearing a top in the exact shade of blue I wanted.
 'I've found it', I shouted to my husband, before rushing into the shop. He declined to follow. Instead  he crossed the street to look at antique fob watches.

I explained what I wanted to a smiling assistant in the blouse department. 'This is the  size for you,' she said. 'Why not try it on?'

I stood in the changing room which was narrow and didn't have a mirror. I don't like changing rooms without mirrors. It obliges the customer to go out to the main body of the store looking for one. What usually follows is advice from every other person around.

Within the tiny dressing space which was without a chair there were two hooks side by side on a wall. As I hung my jacket on one of these, it promptly detached itself taking my garment to the floor with it.Where was I to leave my jumper, my bag, shopping bags and my glasses? I hung up the blue top before creating a little pile -- jacket on the floor,glasses into a pocket, shopping bags balanced over this and finally my woolly jumper.Beneath this lot my handbag was hidden.

With space in which to maneuver gravely reduced, I took the chosen top into my hands. It shimmered and glowed in the semi darkness. Such a simple and roomy piece of elegance was a delight. But I hadn't  noticed earlier that there was an inner vest with narrow straps attached to the outer blouse. Well, I was getting two pieces for the price of one!

The fabric felt very soft and comfortable and the cuff on each sleeve was decorated with little jewel like buttons --  so sweet. Placing the garment over my head I gently pulled it downwards. Nothing happened until I began to feel a tightening around my neck. Attempting once more to move the fabric towards my waist line I failed. It was stuck. I'd put my head through the straps of the inner piece and these had wound tightly around my throat. I struggled and I have no idea how I finally managed to release my head from this strangle hold.

I should have given up, walked out and forgotten my dream outfit. But this was the exact top I wanted. I'd looked everywhere for something like it. I couldn't give up, could I?

Round two, I put my arms into the sleeves which caressed like finest silk.The tiny jewels twinkled at the cuffs as I rolled each sleeve above the elbow. Meanwhile I'd put my head through the designated neck opening which like the cuffs had twinkling jewels around the collar. Something caught in my eyebrow. Blood trickled into my eye. Oh no, I mustn't  get blood on this garment. Quickly I tried to roll the sleeves back towards my wrists, they wouldn't budge. Instead they tightened at the top of my arms. My right elbow became immobilized. My left elbow stuck out at an angle and I became convinced that I'd dislocated my shoulder.The inner vest had wrapped itself around my neck again. I couldn't move my arms up or down.

My breath had become laboured, perspiration rolled down between my shoulder blades, my left eye was blood shot, a neckband of artificial jewels gagged me and a voice from outside asked if I needed help. 'I'm fine,' I croaked.

Where was my husband? I considered running through the shop and out the main door with my jacket around my shoulders.  Maybe nobody would notice? Or I could try to find to my husband in the antique watch shop. But he'd probably laugh, and ask if I was auditioning for a Pantomime!

Her suspicions aroused the sales assistant couldn't resist peeping in, 'Oh, Oh' she gasped. 'You have big problem, here let me help.'
She pulled and she tugged. I wriggled and I squirmed. She called loudly for 'Catherina' who rushed to our aid. The inner vest and the outer blouse were pulled and twisted and reluctantly but firmly pressed into place, the bejeweled collar was adjusted and the cuffs positioned. The girls beamed with satisfaction before ushering me, red faced and breathless, onto the shop floor.There were cries of araios (beautiful).But my eyes refused to function properly, everything looked blue with an edge of sparkle. Then I became aware of body bulges where there had never been such obvious bulges before.I'd always been an expert bulge diminish er. I felt faint, my hair was damp and blood trickled from the tip of my nose.

'You are a beautiful woman,' Catherina, smiled, 'and this is perfect for you.'
'Yes, it is very beautiful colour,' the first assistant added. 'You like?
'I no like,' I almost cried. 'Look, this blouse makes me look so fat, it's far too tight.'
'No, no that's not fat, that is you, and you are beautiful woman.'
'You no like, but it is very nice and very good price,' said the first assistant.'
'I no like,' I cried, as I turned and ran as fast as I could to the dressing room.

Catherina and her assistant followed. Will they have to cut me out of this I wondered anxiously? And what will I do if they ask me to pay for it afterwards?
I needn't have worried. They peeled the garment off with an expertise known only to them.
Thanking them I gathered myself together and ran outside to lean my head against the cool window.  The mannequin stared at me with absolute disgust.

When my husband saw me he crossed over to where I was.
'He tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around.
'Are you alright? Are you feeling tired? Did you get what you wanted?' he asked.
'No, yes and you've no idea what I've been through,' I said.
'Probably not,' he smiled. 'But you can tell me all about it over lunch, you would like that wouldn't you?'

'I no like,' I laughed.

'to be sure to be sure'

Who doesn't like licking the wooden spoon when a cake has been mixed? When we were children this activity signalled the beginning of Christmas. My mother was a wonderful baker of a very special Christmas cake. It was filled with fruit, red and green cherries, candied peel, raisins, currants, sultanas, apple, spices and a far from wise helping of sherry, brandy and whatever you're having yourself. She put at least two inches of  homemade almond paste, duly seasoned on the waiting cake as Christmas drew closer. This glowing, sugary, yellow cape was covered with white icing and decorated with non edible reindeer and fir trees saved from year to year.

When mother made the family Christmas cake she made another for Granny Jane. Our paternal grandmother lived 'down the country' on a farm with two adult sons known as, the boys -- the two of her ten children who, like my father, were not in a far away land. Mother let us make marzipan decorations for Granny's cake. We worked seriously to create suspect looking cows, bow legged horses and jaundiced pigs. The cake was then transported courtesy of the Laundry Van driver along country roads and through sleepy towns to her farmhouse.

One year when Granny took the biscuit tin containing the cake from its hiding place it seemed lighter  than usual. The boys sat quietly as Granny, who told the story to my father, cut a substantial slice.
There was a splintering sound, the icing cracked, the cake buckled as pellets of it scattered onto her embroidered tablecloth. She'd cut through a shell, there was nothing inside except a film of cake and an empty space. Granny chased the boys into the farmyard holding the knife aloft, shouting 'Happy Christmas indeed' before threatening to kill them. But they hadn't eaten it all -- they wouldn't dare. No, they'd had saved a generous portion for Granny.

When I lived in Dublin with my mother's friend Veronica, she made her Christmas cake in early October. Her motto was that, to be sure to be sure, the first edition must be sampled almost straight from the oven. She couldn't possibly wait for it to cool -- it would be a terrible waste of good whiskey! Even when I'd moved on and had a place of my own I'd wait for that phone call and her invitation to come over for the usual sampling of hot Christmas cake. We called this ritual 'drinking the cake'. I've had a longing for hot Christmas cake ever since but I'm afraid the consequent indigestion has become a deterrent.

The years passed and my mother continued to make her special cake. Each New Year she'd invite a few neighbours for a glass of sherry and a slice of cake. Gradually there were hints. 'Mrs.Lannigan's daughter Maisie had made a magnificent cake, the flavour was out of this world. Mrs. Byrne's Angela decorated their cake and you wouldn't believe it was done by human hand. Was it like the cake we used to decorate for Granny Jane, I asked pretending innocence? 'It was not!' I was told, with the addendum that it was about time I took responsibility for the family cake. 'Oh yes.' said Mrs. Madigan, 'sure you must be an expert, you've been watching your mammy for years.'

My husband and I discussed this cake making dilemma when another Christmas beckoned. I blame him entirely for what happened. We bought a weighty Christmas cake in a well known store. Having carefully studied the ingredients listed on the label I was happy that it more or less resembled those my mother used. But to be sure to be sure we inserted a metal skewer here and there on the surface of the bought cake and generously poured in some extra spirits. We made the almond paste and it was perfect. The white icing caused some difficulty though because overnight there was an avalanche and Santa was buried in snow.

We rescued the situation and set off for 'home' with our cake. My mother was delighted and said she'd reserve it for New Year. 'This will open their eyes,' she smiled. The phone rang on New Year's Day and it was my mother sounding slightly tipsy. 'That cake' she said 'was de del delicious. absolutely de del delicious, everybody agreed that they'd never tasted anything like it.' They want the recipe. You'll send it to me as soon as you can won't you? You see Mrs. Lannigan is making Maisies's wedding cake -- three tiers if you don't mind, and she thinks your recipe will be just perfect.'

Oh no, why hadn't we kept the label?

My ever resourceful husband had -- just to be sure to be sure

Good luck if you are icing a cake. I'll be back in a couple of days!