CHRISTMAS TEA, 2013

Our little annual Christmas Tea Party, on Sunday, December 15.  We six regulars gathered just at twilight, and Chris and Sweetpea went out to a movie for the evening.   We swapped our usual burgundy-and-pink for bright reds and greens and gold and white this year, and the whole room was made brighter with several strings of little lights.   Chris surprised me with a couple of strands one morning---I walked in to see colorful twinkles all across the far wall, strung freehand in loops and swags, and altogether charming to my country-girl, neon-loving heart.

 

They have their own tee-ninecy remote, to make them do all their dancing---how nifty is THAT?

 

 

 

The party table---phone photos, in their usual blur when I’m getting everything onto the table.

Some charming little Christmas Tree ravioli, with bocconcini and grape tomatoes in a red wine vinaigrette. 

We’d intended to put the tri-color tortellini onto skewers with the cheese and tomatoes, but he also brought home these, and I couldn’t resist.   We’ll have a pasta night sometime during the holidays and use the other package, plus the tortellini, with several sauces.

 

My favorite is browned butter and  dry, aged Mizithra.

Plump little fennel-sausages, in a cranberry-mustard glaze, Egg Salad Sandwiches, Red Pepper Jelly on Cream Cheese, and the little mannaze dish holds Curry Mayo.   I’d not made it in years, but it was a Southern standby in the Seventies, for every kind of party.

 

And of course, Paminna Cheese in all its shining glory.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Crudite with Bleu Cheese Dip, and a dish of Chicken Salad in an old candy dish---the kind that has a tall lid an Archbishop would envy.  Everyone could choose to have their salad on a croissant or crackers.

 

Caro’s Asian Meatballs, without which no party . . .

 

 

Hot Artichoke/Parmesan Dip.   Four ingredients, two minutes to make, ten to bake. 

 

And of the Cookies and Candies and Barks and Hats, moiré non.

 

How I wish you could have joined us!

WAYFARING STRANGER?

 

 

 

 

 

In looking for pictures to accompany a little reminiscence of Christmas, I Googled “Nativity Scene,” and got floods and archives of everything from actual pageants, with live animals, to ivory crèches and plastic roof-only little depictions, with varying numbers of participants, from just Mary and Joseph with the Baby, to enormously-elaborate carved sets with enough folks and animals to populate Oberammergau.

 

And one little oddity caught my eye---in the little plastic ones I was looking for, was a strange little figure, always striding in from the left, clad in anachronistic high-boots, tam and Alpenstock, with a knapsack on his hip.   I first took it as a little inside joke, perhaps, on a Made in Germany model.   But no, he appeared in the Hong Kong and China editions, as well.   And perhaps they ARE copies of that original little thought which began as a jest, and has been perpetuated-in-plastic for some time now.

Sometimes he seems wearier than others, more care-worn, more exhausted from the long, long journey.

 

 

 

 

And others, he seems to burst in from Stage Right with a bright clarity, eager to see the Babe, rushing  to arrive.

 

 

Now I’m wondering about his history, his enduring entrance into such a way-before-his-time tableau, and it strikes me that EVERYBODY’S welcome.   Anybody could have walked right up to that gathering, and been welcome to stand

 

and worship, or rest a while in the meager shelter. 

 

 

In this photo, he seems obviously shepherd, for the walking staff has a decided crook. 

 

 

  

 

The tableaux are always the same, with all the expected figures in the same places, and the onlooker/ visitor walking right in.  He’s always attached to the scene, glued in his accustomed spot, and I wonder---if ever he were included in the separate figures that we all arrange on our buffets or beneath the tree---would we wonder who he IS, and how he strayed into the Christmas box, and where would we PUT him?   Is he the Wanderer we’re told to welcome and comfort? 

 

 

I know.   The strangest things capture my imagination, and off I go.   But the enduring little character, with his hiking boots and Alpenstock/staff, his bright little pair of plus-fours, appears to be from Europe, dressed for days in the mountains, or from Scotland, ready for a long hike in the Highlands, strayed somehow into such a moment in time which changed the world.

 

It’s WAY early, and I’ve been up since just before four, so my thinking processes are either alert and sending those synapses into overdrive, or I’m soggily musing on what might be.   Train of thought; stream of consciousness---whatever it is that sends my thoughts flying beyond reasoning.

 

Perhaps it’s because I woke up smiling, thinking about Sweetpea’s pronouncement at Christmas a couple of years ago, “And did you KNOW that Baby Jesus had to sleep in the sheep's dish?”

 

It just seems such a sweet little oddly-arranged COME YE, that it’s just taken my imagination for a run around the block before the caffeine has kicked in.  Anybody know who the little figure represents?

 

 

AND SWEETER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our party last night was a nice evening---six ladies together, all old friends or family, all relaxing together, eating good party food, laughing and talking.   It’s all a little bit of a blur to me, all the fun and work and putting-together, and even the hurried photos I was making as we bustled about, chattering and setting down dishes and brewing the tea, but it was lovely, I think.

 

Chris and Sweetpea went to see Frozen whilst we ladies gathered and ate and talked, and just as we finished the cheese course and were heading upstairs to get all those boxes and tups and bags and plates of cookies and candy and other delights to share around, our movie-goers returned.

 

Click of two doors, burst of snow-stomping feet at the top of the stairs.   Cheery calls of “We’re HOME!” down the stairs, and then they burst brightly into the room, in a swirl of energy and color and a warmth that belied their rosy cheeks and shining eyes in all those heavy clothes.

 

 

 

Chris, of course, was in his Santa hat---I’ve told you he wears it for about a month every year, to the delight and puzzlement of many a little one at the next table, or passing on an escalator or in a car.   He’s just the picture of the Jolly Guy, himself, and I cannot imagine The Real Thing having a kinder, happier nature and outlook.

 

They just exploded into our midst, all light and color, as we ladies sat looking on at the pair.   I cannot tell you the joy in my heart to see these two, so close, the Child of his heart, and the Ganner of hers, in from their outing, and eager to tell of their adventures.   I wish you could have all shared that magical moment---I know I’ll carry that spot of BRIGHT with me for all my days.

 

Of the party, moiré non,

 

 

SHORT AND SWEET

I ran to the nearby grocery store for just a couple of items, and got in a line of four people or so, directly behind an older lady, one of the sweetly-disheveled ones whom I think of as Doddery Dears.   She had on a little black tam to match her sweater, both garnished with generous helpings of face powder and white lint, as well as several gleaming pinkish hairs from her slightly-askew wig, and one of those purses-within-purses into which she was delving, with her smudged little eyeglasses sorta side-saddle.  She just felt as if she NEEDED me, needed Everybody, to guide and aid her progress.

(Quite different, you understand, from my own three-score-and-eleven, and my fashionable get-up of red hoodie over shorts and T-shirt, with baggy gray socks and ratty  clogs.   I rationalized that I’d get DRESSED if I were doing the groceries for the week; for two things, you just grab the keys and dash.   At least this time, I didn’t have leaves and sticks in my hair).  (Or a broom over my shoulder).

I like to have my money already in my hand before they ring up my items, so as to delay folks behind me as little as possible, and to be visible to the fewest in my own slipshod state---not to mention those CAMERAS which seem to be everywhere.   I have no doubt whatsoever that my own progress through life must be the source of levity in shadowy viewing-rooms throughout security ranks everywhere.

I saw from her several dips into her purse that she must be getting her own card or check or something ready.    She dug around all through the first person’s transaction, finding a crumpled bill, then bit by bit of change.   Then she put the little bar divider on the counter, set her bananas and Jello and eggs and bread down, and went back to mining her purse.

Down onto the counter amongst the groceries went her keys, her wallet, her glasses case, assorted little gews and gaws, a mint or two, several bobby pins (I have yet to figure out how digging three bobby pins from the recesses improves your chances at finding your money, but then I’m a pocket-person, anyway).   On and on went the excavation, through the next person, and then it was her turn.   The cashier was quick, the food was bagged, and still Our Lady of the Linty Sweater pursued her digging and sorting with the zeal of a Leakey.

She was up to her elbows in that purse---I expected her to do one of those Ernie Kovacs bits and pull out a horse, or at least an umbrella, and was perfectly prepared to grab her around the waist if she toppled in. That thing looked like one of those late-night Ron Popeil offers---the ones that the sides expand to hold your scarf, and then if you’re called away, you can just plump out some more pockets and crevices and go to Europe without excess fees.   And if you order right now, you get six steak knives and a foggy watch?   You know---one of those.

Now, I’ve got up to the cashier without my debit card, having left it in another pocket.   I’ve completely forgotten having broken that last twenty I was carrying, and had to accept a bit of change from the kind man behind me to eke out my $5.29 purchase when I thought I had plenty. 

I even had a lovely thing to happen once, long years ago at the register when I hadn’t noticed I’d written the last blank check in my checkbook.

 

 I said, “Oh, gosh!  I don’t have a check; I’ll have to run to the car and get some.”

 An eightyish gentleman, long known to me from his coming into our office, apparently heard only the first part, and being, as he was, dependent on his own check’s arrival every month for his livelihood, said, “I’ll pay fer it, Hon, til your check comes.”

Sorry---I DO take mind leaps to memories of old times.

And I just kept thinking, Older lady.  Bananas. Bread.  It's not like it was a National Enquirer.   Anyway, I thought I could see a five and a one in the hand hanging onto the purse as she foraged, and so I asked, “How much else do you need?   Let me help.”

“I need a dollar and twelve cents,” she said.

I handed it over, the cashier finished up, I moved forward. 

Dear Lady picked up her bags, turned back and said, “Thank you SO much, Honey---you’re a lifesaver.  All I’ve got is hundreds---we’re going to Maui in January!”

WARM THOUGHTS

From letters to two friends this morning, with thoughts of all my faraway friends who drop in here:

 

Hey, this what's-left-of-a-morning.   I'm a lazy girl today---Sweetpea's little program last night was cute as the pie they were singing about, and the whole fifteen-minute show was encompassed in a thirty-minute drive each way, with the snow blowing sideways across the road, and all the lights of cars and buildings and businesses and neon all-a-twinkle in the Rain-X coating on the windows, and the chill dropping minute by minute on the little degree-thingie on the dashboard.    And of course, I wore an old plastic Christmas-Tree pin on my coat---it's been around since plastic was a pup---cause that's what Grandmas do.  You wear a plastic Christmas ornament/holly/tree on your lapel to a Christmas program with kids. 

 

 

It was FABULOPOLUS.  They sang their little hearts out, with her in a swingy, swirly red velvet dress and all the little girls dressed as if to go see Nutcracker, as we had last weekend.   THAT was a snow-on-the-ground day, as well, and we wore velvet and sparkly pins and she spent more time in the back of the box, dancing to the music JUST FOR HER< THAT ORCHESTRA, than in her seat looking raptly over at the magic on the stage.

 

I digress.   If you could hear the distinctive, unmistakable sounds here behind me---the scrooooooooch-scritttttttttch-scurch of a great roll of strapping tape being wound round and round a huge box of goodies for the FL clan---you'd know Chris' destination for the day.  Everything (I'll have to go look and see if he DID leave the sink) is in it, including my previous NOOK all loaded with everything I've been reading for the past two years.   And many, many are little-girl books---Alcott and Understood Betsy (my all-time favorite of all) and the Maida books, and all of Austen, with lots for DD and DSIL, as well.   For any of your own little ones, DO look into Betsy and the Maidas, for they were the delights of my heart when I was very young, and I don't think they've faded with time.

 

Our little annual tea will be this weekend.  Just us same six ladies as always, and usually about the same menu, for one is GF, and has never been able to eat much anywhere else.   Even my recipe for Paminna cheese is right, and she digs right in.   (as much as a lady of my age, and of genteel raising and dignified bearing, can be said to partake in that fashion).

 

Must get me to the work.   Much to do---Chris did some of the party-shopping yesterday and he came home with all sorts of goodies---including charming three-color Christmas tree-shaped ravioli from Sam's---can't wait to see how they cook.   We planned tri-color tortellini, on skewers, cold, threaded with grape tomatoes and bocconcini balls and a pesto drizzle, but these are too cute to pass up.

 

 

It's really always a little supper, rather than tea, with a Christmassy table. And then we clear away, and go upstairs and get the cookies for our swap---spreading them all OVER the tables down here, and laughing like little kids. Our oldest lady is 87 (Honey, whose birthday breakfast I do every June) and dating the nicest gentleman. Blushes and simpers all round.  

 

I'm SO looking forward to a pretty occasion, for we've not really entertained since last January on Chris' birthday.  Houseguests, yes; comfy big meals with paper plates and everybody cheerfully dishing up and carrying things from stove to table, yes;  holidays with the traditional dinners and the pretty plates and cloth and hearts full of celebration, yes.  But an occasion to polish silver and get out the Mammaw goblets and dust all those top teapots WAY back in the corner---not in a while.   Just haven't felt like it.

 

You'd make our table absolutely exponentially more wonderful, had we a transporter to hand.   And Sweetpea and her Ganner would stay home from the movie and she'd entertain at her own table, pouring out for your own little ones.   (She's long known "finger on the pot-lid" when she pours, and now with her tiny newest pot, I've caught her with three fingers on the handle and index on the lid, deftly pouring one-handed whilst she creams and sugars with the other).

 

Love to you and all in your own homes.   Warm, warm love, and thank you for these five years of visiting us here at Lawn Tea.

 

rachel