My Best Childhood Christmas

Christmas Elf: Caught in the Act . . .

It started out ordinarily enough.

Dad waving from the driveway as he started the long drive to Lethbridge to begin his Christmas shopping.

I should point out, here, that Dad always began and ended his shopping on the same day.

Christmas Eve.

He had a thing about children sneaking into his closet to peek at presents.

Not that I ever did.

Personally, I think it had something to do with his own childhood and his own childhood foibles and tendencies.

Ahem.

We waved happily to him, then went back to helping Mom with the Christmas baking.

Our duties were carefully delineated.

She mixed.

We watched.

She finished mixing and dug out cookie sheets and baking pans.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and began to spoon/scrape.

We waited.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and finished spooning/scraping.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We licked the bowl.

Literally.

She shooed us away and started again.

She mixed.

We watched . . .

You get the picture.

But when pans started coming out of the oven, yet another duty was added to the roster.

Tasting the now-baked deliciousness.

And so it went.

Everyone had their responsibilities clearly outlined.

And we did them whole-heartedly.

No slackers in this bunch.

Sometimes, though, baked goodies actually made their way past the ravening hordes children to the fancy Christmas platters set out to receive them.

Not often, I will admit, but frequently enough that we realized what those platters were for.

But I digress . . .

Other duties included:

1. Hiding when the baking was finished and clean up was indicated.
2. Giggling loudly during hide-age.
3. Sitting under the tree and periodically shaking/squeezing packages.
4. Teasing younger siblings that Santa Claus would never be able to find our ranch.
5. Re-arranging Christmas ornaments.
6. Breaking said ornaments.
7. Hiding again . . . because.

It was a busy day.

Mostly for my Mom, but why haggle over details?

Finally, just as we were getting ready to climb into bed for the long, sleepless night, we would hear Dad's car pull into the driveway.

And then would begin another whole round of excited children doing the dance of joy.

Sleep was further away than ever.

But, finally, we were herded into our beds and the doors firmly shut against peekage/sneakiness.

The wait was on.

I shared a room with my younger brother, Blair and my younger sister, Anita.

Somehow, I managed to keep them bottled up until some of us (not me) were ready to fizz over.

About 5 AM.

We could wait no longer.

Now the rule in the Stringam household was 'Look, but don't touch until Mom and Dad's feet hit the living room floor'.

On this particular Christmas, looking was especially exciting.

Because Dad had strewn his gifts over the living room floor.

The entire living room floor.

From the soft light of the Christmas tree, we were able to make out strange, long objects arranged at intervals from the doorway all the way to the tree itself.

What could they be?

We knelt down, trying to get a better view.

Weird.

Had he opened a crate of something and left the boards flung about like flotsam?

Normally such behavior was reserved for the younger set.

Double weird.

Just when we were ready to burst with the excitement and curiosity, we heard our parents make their way up the hall towards us.

Finally!

Dad reached around the corner and snapped on the light.

Our eyes were glued to the newly-revealed treasures.

Skis!

The entire floor was littered with skis!

Beside each carefully arranged set of skis were a pair of poles and leather ski boots.

We hopped and skipped carefully around the room, checking name tags and finally settling beside the set that bore ours.

Mine were blue.

With long, silver poles.

And black leather ski boots.

I don't remember what else I got that year (sorry, Family).

Nothing could compare with my shiny new and wondrous skis.

Then I discovered that the excitement didn't end there.

The rest of Dad's gift included a week-long family skiing trip to The Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.

The first of many such trips.

And the beginning of a whole new chapter for the Stringams.

Yup. The best Christmas ever.

Now, it's your turn. What was your best childhood Christmas ever?

Dough Snakes

I like snakes.
And it's because of my Mom's cooking.
Hmmm.
Maybe I'd better explain . . .
I loved to watch my Mom when she was in the kitchen.
I would sit on the cupboard, more or less out of the way.
And follow her movements closely.
She peeled potatoes so fast that I thought every potato had two skins.
I had watched.
Two skins.
Because there was always a skin where she had just peeled.
At other times, she could take her large ceramic bowl and dump in this and that and come out with something delicious.
Every time.
I once told her she was a 'dump cook'.
"I'm a good cook!" she protested.
I tried to explain that that was what I meant, but I don't know if I got through.
But I digress . . .
Sometimes, she would start her trusty Sunbeam mixer.
A sure Diane magnet.
Within seconds, I was standing beside her.
"Mom! Can I have a taste?"
"Honey, it's just butter and sugar."
"But it looks so good!"
"Well, if you want . . ."
Did you know that butter and sugar can actually taste really good?
Well, if dispensed by Mom on a large cake spoon.
But the best of all was when Mom would bake buns.
Or rolls, for anyone who doesn't feel comfortable calling them 'buns'.
She would dump in (see above) bits of this and that and make a large, sticky mass.
Then she would start punching with her hands, adding little bits of flour.
I should point out, here, that if you see a great tub of something powdery and white in Mom's kitchen, icing sugar tastes infinitely better on the end of a wet finger than flour. Just saying.
Moving on . . .
She would punch and punch until she had her dough to just the right consistency.
And yes, I did know what consistency meant.
For a four-year-old, I was a brainiac.
Mom would pinch off a portion of the larger mass and work it into a long roll, ready to cut into smaller pieces.
Then would come the exciting part.
She would chase me around the kitchen, wiggling this long roll of dough, and saying, "Sssssss!"
That was my cue to run around and shriek loudly.
I was good at it.
The dough snake was going to get me!
The dough snake was going to get me!
Finally, when Mom had had enough, she would set the 'snake' back on the counter and proceed to chop it into bits.
One of which she gave to me.
Snake really tastes delicious.
Remember the part when I said 'brainiac'?
I lied.

It's a Pie Day!

My Mom. Doing what she did best!

Pie.

That king of treats.

The amazing union of lightly browned and flaky crust and yummy filling.

And topped with a delicious scoop of iced or whipped cream . . .

It's like heaven.

In your mouth.

Spilled on the floor and reduced to its sticky, disparate parts, it's not as good.

But we won't go there.

And I just finished cleaning.
So . . . pie.

Today is pie-making day.

Whenever our family celebrates, we do it with pie.

It's a long-standing tradition that spans one generation.

Okay, we started it, but it's still a good tradition!

So, because tomorrow is the launching of my new book, Carving Angels, and every party requires pie, I will spend today making it.

Pie, I mean.

I love making it.

My Mom made fantastic pie. 

Sweet. Flaky. (This is the only place where 'flaky' is a good thing.)

And utterly delicious.

And so, when I make it, using her recipes, it's like spending time with her.

I even have a picture, which I prop up and talk to.

Okay, it's weird, but she's been gone for nearly a decade and I miss her.

And now, in honour of this grand occasion, I am including some of my favourite 'pie' quotes:

1. "Keep your knives, we're having pie!"  ~My Dad. Just before Mom whacked him.
2. "Keep your fork, Duke, there's pie."  ~The proprietress of a diner to the Duke of Edinborough.
3. "A boy doesn't have to go to war to be a hero; he can say he doesn't like pie when he sees there isn't enough to go around."  ~E.W. Howe
4. "It is utterly insufficient (to eat pie only twice a week), as anyone who knows the secret of our strength as a nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents, the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished."  ~EDITORIAL New York Times, 1902
5. "But I, when I undress me
   Each night, upon my knees
   Will ask the Lord to bless me
   With apple-pie and cheese."
               ~Eugene Field
6. "Thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes."  ~Arcadia   Robert Green, 1590
7. "In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."  ~ Isaac Asimov
8. If all the world were Apple pie, And all the seas were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What would we have to drink?  ~ Unknown

I have to go. My Mom is waiting.
Happy pie day!