O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree! Much pleasure thou can'st give me

Sometimes in the middle of this hectic season we love so well, Molly and I like to find a quiet spot near our Christmas tree listen to the stories our ornaments tell.

Our ornaments range wildly, from construction paper to crystal. With generous godparents who jumped in early, Molly has amassed the classiest collection in the family. Each year she scores another collectible and we will negotiate fiercely before she takes the ornaments away for her own tree.
St. Nick also brings all four kids an ornament each year commemorating special moments, proud achievements and various sports.
Our Charlie angel is one of my favorites. Made of paper, he's old now and a little tired. His tiny head has to be propped up by the trunk of the tree and his wings don't always stay outstretched. I love this angel because it reminds me of the little fellow who made it some 20 years ago.
We aren't so great with the visual arts in my family, but Charlie always managed to put together eye-catching work. When he was in second grade his teacher called me to school. It seems his poinsettia offended her. "May I see it?" I asked. "You can see it from here," she said and she nodded sharply at a display out the door and down the hallway. Against the wall obediently lay 22 beautiful flowers. Smack in the middle an enormous red plant jutted out from the wall. It had roots with a worm crawling through and jagged edged petals on which rested a bee. To the naked eye, it did look hideous. I really loved that poinsettia, though, and the circle of life it portrayed.
Molly and I decorated the tree ourselves this year but we didn't feel alone. The stories of all those ornaments and the people who inspired them joined us and each year the party grows.

I hope to keep this angel, by far the largest ornament
on our tree,  forever to remind me of a clever little
artist and his unconventional work.

Hmmm. Not sure whose ornament this could be.
St. Nick does have a sense of humor though.

When she got this ornament in 1993, it was because
four-year old Katherine loved to walk around our house
with a basket on her arm singing the opening number from
Beauty and the Beast. She's a nutty little ball of fun as well.

 

This is our oldest ornament, an heirloom from my grandparent's
tree. The Little Drummer Boy always gets the place of honor, just
under the angel.

Our leg lamp ornament has inspired bitter debate
between Molly and me because one of us intends
to give a genuine leg lamp to someone on her
Christmas list and the other can't seem to talk her
out of it.

We're really hoping to add another one of these
to the tree next year. Go Pack Go!

St. Nick brought Molly this Anne of Green Gables ornament.
A few summers ago, Molly's Uncle Steve challenged her to read
the entire Anne of Green Gables series. I joined her in this project
and we both spent a pleasant summer on Prince Edward Island.

St. Nick brought Charlie this ugly ornament to
commemorate his first year as a resident of
Illinois. I went to a cute little store that sold only
Christmas ornaments in order to find an Illinois ornament.
The shop owner told me she didn't have one. "But,"
she said brightly, "Illinois means onion in Indian and I
do have an onion ornament." Awkward. Thankfully, I saw this
 Abe Lincoln ornament out of the corner of my eye, bought it,
and the shop owner and I parted friends.

We have an ornament from the North Pole, thanks
to a travel-loving Grandma who went there to pick
it out.

Notice anything missing from this picture?
Someone needs to stop admiring her tree and
get shopping. There's not a single present under it.

Underneath all of those ornaments is a Christmas tree skirt my
Aunt Doris made 43 years ago. And on top is an angel she gave
me 25 years ago. Serenity sandwiches all the chaos in between.

Tailgate inspires warm memories of toasty spuds

My dad grew up on the side of a mountain in a self-described coal mining town called Colver, Pennsylvania.

He spoke of an enviable upbringing on 20 Row, a road that wound from Colver at the top of the hill down to the mine at the base. On that single street lived both of his grandmas, several aunts and uncles and a handful of cousins. Imagine a childhood during which a single sled ride took all morning and a backyard stretched for miles.
We admire many things about our Pennsylvania relatives, their ingenuity most of all. My grandmother tucked baked potatoes into the woolen mittens of her three children. The spuds kept their fingers warm on the way to school, and served as lunch at noon.
Molly and I channeled that bit of clever family history Sunday as we prepared for our own family tradition -- the tailgate party.
Because the first rule of proper tailgating, from our perspective, is to find someone else to fire up the grill, our own contribution was the twice baked potato. Our host, Gregg Graycarek, supplied delicious tenderloin from a grill that is stored on site for the season. Genius, right?
Read on for our twice baked potato recipe. If you really want to enjoy the game, though, we suggest you simply tuck a couple of baked potatoes in your mittens before you head into the stadium. Think how warm your hands will stay and how good those taters will taste at halftime.

Tailgate Twice Baked Potatoes

12 medium potatoes, scrubbed, pricked and baked

Two cups shredded cheese
Four tablespoons butter
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk
1/2 large onion chopped
salt and pepper to taste

Baked the potatoes in a 375 degree oven for one hour. Slice lengthwise and scoop out the inside. Be sure to leave the skin intact. Put the scooped potato in a large mixing bowl and add 1 cup cheese, butter, cream, onion, salt and pepper. Mix with electric beater, while slowly adding milk. Line pans with potato skins. Scoop mashed potato mixture back into the skins. Sprinkle with the rest of the shredded cheese. Put the potatoes back into the oven until cheese melts, about 15 minutes.

Cover the hot pans with tin foil and place them in a cooler, which has been lined with a bath towel. Fold the towel over the pans and close the cooler. Potatoes will stay hot for a couple of hours.

Katherine and her boyfriend Santiago enjoy the tailgate party.

Here are our 12 baked potatoes waiting to be embellished.

Chopped the onions extra small because they won't cook very long.

Scoop out the potato while it's so hot it turns your fingernails red. 

The guts go in the bowl and the skins go on the pan. 

Basically, you're just whipping up some mashed potatoes.

Add the butter.

Mash the potatoes. You can do this by hand.

Here's how it looks before it's all mashed.

Scoop it all back into the shells.

Sprinkle the cheese on top.

They look good enough to eat, but you still have to bake them.

Cover the pans with foil and put them in your cooler.

And here they are. Still nice and hot and ready to serve.

Happy birthday to a legendary Packer fan

One of the greatest Packer fans and kindest people we know turns 82-years old tomorrow.

John Spalding officially joined our family in 1971 when he and his wife Pat stood as godparents to my youngest sister. He legally became a member of our family 24 years later when, following the deaths of their respective spouses, he and my mother married.
Through all of those years, he has treated our family with love and respect.
Each year at Christmas John gives my siblings and me a special gift honoring the memory of our father. One year he commissioned an artist to create a beautiful scrapbook with copies of the photos and mementos my mom had collected through the years. Another year, he gave each of us a framed picture of our dad, Ron Kostelnik, tackling former Chicago Bear great Gale Sayers, autographed by Mr. Sayers.
A successful businessman, John spent his Sundays from 1960 through 1988 on the sidelines during Packers games working as a pencil and paper statistician. He tracked player minutes for the Packers under coaches Lombardi, Devine, Gregg and Starr.
His devotion to Green Bay only grew once he retired from the team.
Last year, against all advice, John flew from sunny Florida to Chicago for the NFC Championship game and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, despite the 17 degree temperature and 26 below wind chill. He has attended every Packer Super Bowl since 1967.
Yesterday, John once again spent his Sunday afternoon at Lambeau Field, cheering the Packers on to a 13-0 record and 19th consecutive win.
Unlike his beloved team so far this season, John is not perfect. Due to a raging chocolate addiction, his go-to meal when my mother is not around consists of a chocolate shake and a handful of chocolate chip cookies.  
And he drives large cars with blissful ignorance of the road rage he inspires. I once sat in the passenger seat on a drive from Tampa to Long Boat Key and lost count of the angry gestures from passing motorists I ducked.
But he's an intelligent man with an inspiring faith both in his team and in his God and we're hoping 2012 brings him nothing but joy.

Here are the hearty members of our family who sat through the
bitter cold 2010 NFC Championship Game in Chicago. Left
to right are Katherine, Charlie, John and my youngest sister
Jenny, whose hair is the same color as her hat.

Another sister, Kathy, joined John and his son Dan Spalding for
a sunnier game in Denver. They flew out, caught the game and
flew home the same day.

More than 100,000 people attended the Super Bowl in Dallas
this year, and Kathy and I ran smack into John and his son Terry.
Go Pack Go!

We honored the pants

Molly and I have always loved yoga…pants.  As flexible as frosty panes of glass ourselves, we've never even considered actually participating in the sport that inspired them. We've cheerfully pranced around in yoga pants for years and the only sun salutation we ever executed has been a squint.
If for no other reason than to honor a style of trouser that consistently offered us both the extra length and the drawstring waist we so appreciate, we wandered into an actual yoga studio yesterday. We figured it was the least we could do.
We inhaled as we unrolled our borrowed mats. Molly and I normally work out in stinky gyms or musty basements. This studio smelled of potpourri. And the people spoke gently. And wore no shoes.
We assumed the child pose and felt at one with our fellow yogis. Downward dog. Check. Upward dog. Double check.Warrior One. Cool.
And then the movements became a little more challenging.
"Now take your left leg and raise it in the air. Raise your left arm and look toward the ceiling. Now flip over. Don't even think about it."
Somehow, the others gracefully segued into perfectly arched backbends. Meanwhile, our downward dogs became mutts and they were barking.
Our instructor walked over and gently suggested we move our mats.
"A lot of our beginners prefer the back of the classroom," she said as she kindly helped me drag my mat into a corner.
The class continued and Molly and I both worked hard, gamely holding positions I can't even describe.
Chaturanga became a position of refuge for us.
We wrapped up the hour-long class as the sun set through the studio windows. I can't say either one of us experienced an epiphany as we breathed through our noses and opened our spines to new experiences. But our muscles felt nice and loose and our minds felt warm and free.
We're taking our yoga pants back to the studio next week.

Molly wouldn't let me take pictures of our little
yoga adventure. She actually was quite
 firm about it. So, I'm including a few of my
favorite shots from the archives. Here she is with
her brothers on a family vacation in 2005.

Awww. Molly and her big sister Katherine in 2007.

And here they all are last year at Katherine's graduation
from the University of Wisconsin. Go Badgers!!

And then sometimes your tannen baums

I spontaneously bought a Christmas tree yesterday, a bold move for any single member of Christmas crazed family. For someone with my track record, though, it was especially so.
I had stopped at a local market for a simple bag of frozen fruit when a small sign buried behind the boughs caught my eye. "Frasier Firs. $29.99"”
Quite a deal, no?
I bought the fruit and the tree.
Two kind store employees helped me hoist the thing onto my tiny car and left me to twine it. As I drove home, tree trunk precariously perched above my windshield, tree tip jutted out near the tail pipe and white rope flapping along the sides, I thought about my history with Christmas trees.
As a newlywed, I decorated our first tree with candy canes and homemade cookies. The tree looked beautiful and I planned to photograph it the following morning. As I slept, the cookies slid off their ribbons and landed in a mushy heap on the floor. Martha Stewart, I am not.
In later years we joined my siblings on annual jaunts to my father's farm to cut down wild trees. This charming tradition netted all four of us the ugliest trees in our neighborhoods. One year, my brother even accidentally cut down a cedar bush and tried to pass it off as a Christmas tree. A tree farmer, Dad was not.
Eventually, we all gave up and bought our trees from local lots. The first year my husband overshot and dragged home a tree so big he couldn't fit it through the door. He chopped the top off, shoved it through the door and, that year, our angel hunched humiliated inside our square tree.
For the past several years, Molly has taken charge of our tree selection and we have enjoyed a run of healthy, beautiful trees.
She was not pleased to hear I had bought a tree without her. However, once we had sawed off the bottom with a kitchen bread knife and wrestled the thing into its stand, even Molly approved.
So fleeting is the time we spend with our Christmas trees, whose imperfections make them even more beautiful, and so grateful are we that the stories they inspire last a lifetime.

I love this Christmas tree photo, circa 1968. My mom has
it down, but the rest of us took a few years to work out the
 kinks of the self-timing camera.

Fast forward 24 years and I'm wondering about my own tree.
Why is there just one present under it? And why is the base of
the trunk as tall as the baby?

This year's tree seems to have survived
it's undignified parade through the city
streets intact. We both ignored any un-
Christmas-like gestures directed our way.
Molly and I can't wait to decorate it!

Every neighborhood should have a Cookie Lady

We call her the Cookie Lady because that's the way she signs cards on the tins of goodies she sends through the neighborhood. Our friend Connie, though, is so much more.
Feisty, Irish, sweet, witty, charming, crafty, and just a bit naughty, Connie anchors our little corner of the city. Born a Murphy, Connie approaches life with solid faith and Gaelic glee. Diagnosed with cancer, Connie walked to the hospital each day for her chemo treatments and carried homemade cookies for the staff. She beat that cancer and fought back many challenges in a life that would have felled a lesser colleen.
Today, 85-years young, Connie rises at 4 a.m. and bakes. After many years of subtle requests and then outright pleas, she finally coughed up the recipe for her amazing molasses cookies. Molly and I can make the cookies now, but we have trouble recreating the essence, spiced, as her cookies are, with eight decades of flavor.
Several years ago she began knitting Christmas stockings for friends and family. To date, she has created 650 Christmas stockings. The stockings hang low and allow plenty of room for the generosity of good ole St. Nick, a particular favorite of the Cookie Lady.
I mentioned to her that my sister had become engaged to a man she had been dating for some time.
"Well, it's about time," Connie chuckled and the following week she showed up on my doorstep with Christmas stockings for the happy couple.
I popped in on Connie yesterday and found her jammied up and writing Christmas cards. She sends 150 cards and selects each one individually to match its lucky recipient. True to her stylish nature, Connie wore earrings to match her robe.
We're very grateful in this house to be included among Connie's tremendous circle of family and friends. She has spun herself an admirable yarn and created a legacy of love.

Here she is at work on a Christmas stocking,
a year-round project for her. This picture is
not 100% current, but she suggested I use it
anyway. "Let 'em think I still look like that,"
she said. The truth is, she hasn't aged much
beyond this at all.

This is Connie's house, all spruced up for the holidays. She
decorates full on for every holiday but Christmas is her speciality.

Connie requested that I include a shot of her Madonna. A lifelong
Catholic, Connie walks to 8 a.m. mass each day.

Here is Connie's mantel with the original stockings she created
for her own husband and children.

And here is our mantel with the enormous stockings Connie gave
us. St. Nick has become pretty generous at our house thanks to
Connie's stockings. She sets a high bar.

"Lights please" -- Linus Van Pelt

Annually, the family flees the house when I string the outdoor Christmas lights. I battle the elements and wrestle the lights, cursing the increasingly scraggly bushes on which I hang them, all alone. Even our neighbors cross to the other side of the street when they see me out there making my holiday scene.
 Long ago I chose the old school large white lights for my display and I have regretted that decision every year since. But, illuminated against the green and especially covered by snow, they do look lovely.
This year I felt like the Christmas gods had smiled on me. I stuck my finger out to gauge the wind and found it silent. No wind? How odd. I trudged outside to begin my annual treasure hunt through the clutter and discovered a weirdly organized garage. A box labeled extension cords actually contained them. My tiny fake trees, which I often find jammed against bent backboards and old bicycles, were, this year, placed exactly where I had left them. I looked on the work bench for an adapter…and found one!
So confident, even smug, did I feel that I began to hum Christmas tunes. And when that first string of lights blew, leaving a dark sooty smudge on my wrist, I soldiered on. In fact, I completed the entire display, giant wreath on the balcony, lights on the bushes, spotlight on the wreath, in record time.
A crisp wind blew in a cold front that night as I walked with my husband. "I sure am glad I got those Christmas lights up," I said out loud like a fool.
You already know how this story ends, don't you?
Perhaps you’re my neighbor and you're reading this thinking our house looks especially dark this year.
Just 10 hours after I proudly lit our annual Christmas display, it blew out the outdoor light fixture into which it was plugged and the entire display went dark.
Our electrician shook her head as she removed the offended fixture. "Christmas lights," she said, a little disdainfully if you ask me.
The message here, though, is one of yuletide optimism. Because when our electrician returns to connect our new fixture, I intend to re-light my Christmas display.
I hope December finds you equally sanguine. I hope this time of year inspires peace. And I really hope my Christmas lights don't blow out my new light fixture. Fingers crossed.

At least the lights inside the house still work...for now.

A couple of cast-offs from last year.
They snapped in the ice.

I'm including this picture of last year's cards
not just because the wooden light decorations
are taunting me, but also because you have
until December 9 to get your card to a soldier.
Just mail it to this address (no glitter):

Holiday Mail For Heroes
P.O. Box 5456
Capitol Heights, MD 20791-5456