|
|
Scylla (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bardicsidhe) wrote,@ 2007-12-25 21:03:00 |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
Christmas at Last
Bit much to cover tonight, but I'll do my best. It's been one heck of a day.
I brought Simon home with me to visit the folks, anticipating staying throughout the following week and not wanting to leave him by himself on Christmas. He is, after all, my guardian and my small and stalwart companion, and it seemed unfair to leave him alone, as he so dislikes said state of being. I brought home all of Simon's accoutrement as well - commode, bowls, food, brush, etc. - and set up my room as a sort of safe haven. Simon has been an 'only cat' since parting ways with his littermates three years ago, and I was concerned for both my own cat and the three other cats living with my family. Predictably, when I arrived the swarm of furry residents converged on my room and proceeded to inspect the newcomer in his carrier and his luggage like a trio of four-legged circling sharks.
Cosmo - the regal yellow patriarch of the feline contingent - presided with disinterest, although made it clear that Simon was to stay out of his way. Jojo - the Siamese female - continues to declare with spitting and hissing that she isn't having any of it. And Rav - the Bengal tom, who is the only male in the house with testicles intact (with the possible exception of my brother) - coaxed Simon into becoming his playmate after only a few days of anxious staring. Now they regularly chase each other around the house. Simon's a member of the family, as much as if he were my son, my brother or an 'adopted' friend.
I watched Ghost Rider. I watched The Bourne Ultimatum. I watched The Da Vinci Code, all for the first time.
My immediate family and our respective pets unwrapped gifts this morning. My mother had decorated my cat with a festive collar that looked like a burgundy scarf; even though his disgust was obvious he looked quite handsome with his scarf against slick black patent-leather fur. I had to remove it when he went for a drink, however; his scarf was falling into his bowl. All of the animals wore similar collars: Rav's reminiscent of gingerbread with brown fabric and white 'frosting' trim and red and green 'candies'; Jojo in a red velvet bow; Cosmo in a red velvet collar with a red gingham bow; Max (the Golden Retriever) in a collar decorated with printed candy canes and holly leaves.
I got quite a nice assembly of presents, mostly 'useful' things which I would have spurned five, ten years ago. A new .mp3 player was among the lot, for which I'm pathetically grateful. My old one suffered some sort of seizure this year and began to turn itself on and off at its own will.
The relatives descended on the house around 10:00 AM. By then we'd already finished breakfast (orange rolls) and were making more of the major preparations for lunch. I put together a raspberry-chocolate cheesepie the night before, and made buffalo chicken dip as an appetizer before lunch with my new crockpot.
Grandma's strange. I think she's slowly losing her mind, I think at her own behest, locking herself into a repetitive world. She watches Gone With the Wind or The Bishop's Wife every night. She refuses to read the negative news in the paper. She watches Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy and baseball and football and golf with Grandpa. She won't drive herself anywhere anymore; she doesn't pump her own gas. And she can only seem to remember that I like orange jello with mandarin oranges in it, or that I like sweet relish, or that Dad likes black olives and when he and Aunt Beth were kids Grandma bought them each a can of whipped cream to suck on all day for Christmas. Thus I usually get as a gift for Easter, birthday, occasionally Thanksgiving and always Christmas: a package of Jello and a can of mandarin oranges. Or, a jar of sweet relish. And my father gets a can of whipped cream on Christmas and a can of black olives for every major event.
Truth be told, I don't really like sweet relish that much and I'm not a huge fan of orange jello (although I can totally demolish a can of mandarin oranges), and I curse whoever (probably my mother) told her that I 'really like' either (she's prone to exaggeration when it comes to me. Maternal thing? I don't know. Either I 'really really love' something or I 'absolutely hate' it.) so that now said food items make wonderfully appropriate gifts. My cup runneth over with sugary pickles.
To Grandpa's credit - he gave me a blender.
We ate. I discovered that beer is quite good with turkey. Dinner was a success. My dip, my dessert was a success. I have designs to produce a lemon meringue at some point this week. There is a round of Swedish Rye Bread yet to be consumed. I am most content.
I purchased a bottle of cheap, sugary wine with the hopes of re-enacting my earlier success with mulled cider for my family. Seto's tradition has become Tristan's has become theirs has become mine to share as well. Mulled wine was an enigma before; now the tradition itself is steeped with the spice of memories with many loved ones and has the feel of something sacred. I like the process of assembling the various spices, peeling citrus fruit and spiking the peels with cloves. There is no proper recipe, just an experimental and creative spirit and a heavy handful of faith that the finished product will be just as good as the memory says it should taste.
You'll have to excuse me. My cat has just arrived to kiss me goodnight.
Bit much to cover tonight, but I'll do my best. It's been one heck of a day.
I brought Simon home with me to visit the folks, anticipating staying throughout the following week and not wanting to leave him by himself on Christmas. He is, after all, my guardian and my small and stalwart companion, and it seemed unfair to leave him alone, as he so dislikes said state of being. I brought home all of Simon's accoutrement as well - commode, bowls, food, brush, etc. - and set up my room as a sort of safe haven. Simon has been an 'only cat' since parting ways with his littermates three years ago, and I was concerned for both my own cat and the three other cats living with my family. Predictably, when I arrived the swarm of furry residents converged on my room and proceeded to inspect the newcomer in his carrier and his luggage like a trio of four-legged circling sharks.
Cosmo - the regal yellow patriarch of the feline contingent - presided with disinterest, although made it clear that Simon was to stay out of his way. Jojo - the Siamese female - continues to declare with spitting and hissing that she isn't having any of it. And Rav - the Bengal tom, who is the only male in the house with testicles intact (with the possible exception of my brother) - coaxed Simon into becoming his playmate after only a few days of anxious staring. Now they regularly chase each other around the house. Simon's a member of the family, as much as if he were my son, my brother or an 'adopted' friend.
I watched Ghost Rider. I watched The Bourne Ultimatum. I watched The Da Vinci Code, all for the first time.
My immediate family and our respective pets unwrapped gifts this morning. My mother had decorated my cat with a festive collar that looked like a burgundy scarf; even though his disgust was obvious he looked quite handsome with his scarf against slick black patent-leather fur. I had to remove it when he went for a drink, however; his scarf was falling into his bowl. All of the animals wore similar collars: Rav's reminiscent of gingerbread with brown fabric and white 'frosting' trim and red and green 'candies'; Jojo in a red velvet bow; Cosmo in a red velvet collar with a red gingham bow; Max (the Golden Retriever) in a collar decorated with printed candy canes and holly leaves.
I got quite a nice assembly of presents, mostly 'useful' things which I would have spurned five, ten years ago. A new .mp3 player was among the lot, for which I'm pathetically grateful. My old one suffered some sort of seizure this year and began to turn itself on and off at its own will.
The relatives descended on the house around 10:00 AM. By then we'd already finished breakfast (orange rolls) and were making more of the major preparations for lunch. I put together a raspberry-chocolate cheesepie the night before, and made buffalo chicken dip as an appetizer before lunch with my new crockpot.
Grandma's strange. I think she's slowly losing her mind, I think at her own behest, locking herself into a repetitive world. She watches Gone With the Wind or The Bishop's Wife every night. She refuses to read the negative news in the paper. She watches Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy and baseball and football and golf with Grandpa. She won't drive herself anywhere anymore; she doesn't pump her own gas. And she can only seem to remember that I like orange jello with mandarin oranges in it, or that I like sweet relish, or that Dad likes black olives and when he and Aunt Beth were kids Grandma bought them each a can of whipped cream to suck on all day for Christmas. Thus I usually get as a gift for Easter, birthday, occasionally Thanksgiving and always Christmas: a package of Jello and a can of mandarin oranges. Or, a jar of sweet relish. And my father gets a can of whipped cream on Christmas and a can of black olives for every major event.
Truth be told, I don't really like sweet relish that much and I'm not a huge fan of orange jello (although I can totally demolish a can of mandarin oranges), and I curse whoever (probably my mother) told her that I 'really like' either (she's prone to exaggeration when it comes to me. Maternal thing? I don't know. Either I 'really really love' something or I 'absolutely hate' it.) so that now said food items make wonderfully appropriate gifts. My cup runneth over with sugary pickles.
To Grandpa's credit - he gave me a blender.
We ate. I discovered that beer is quite good with turkey. Dinner was a success. My dip, my dessert was a success. I have designs to produce a lemon meringue at some point this week. There is a round of Swedish Rye Bread yet to be consumed. I am most content.
I purchased a bottle of cheap, sugary wine with the hopes of re-enacting my earlier success with mulled cider for my family. Seto's tradition has become Tristan's has become theirs has become mine to share as well. Mulled wine was an enigma before; now the tradition itself is steeped with the spice of memories with many loved ones and has the feel of something sacred. I like the process of assembling the various spices, peeling citrus fruit and spiking the peels with cloves. There is no proper recipe, just an experimental and creative spirit and a heavy handful of faith that the finished product will be just as good as the memory says it should taste.
You'll have to excuse me. My cat has just arrived to kiss me goodnight.
Post a comment in response:
