The Card Contest

As a family we were always very good at geometry. Figuring out how to stuff five carry-on suitcases into Europe's version of a 'family-size car;' parsing out dinner on our plates using our own version of the food pyramid (the version where bread and grains got a lot more clout); and making sure every last Christmas card fit onto the massive bulletin board in the kitchen.

While the suitcase stuffing and plate filling were done well, where we truly excelled was in the Christmas card math. We would order and reorder them to get closer and closer to horror vacui perfection, maintaining the integrity of each card, all to create the ideal display from which to judge and rank them - One of our favorite Christmas activities. There was best picture card; Most classy; Funniest; Best corporate card; Best overall; Worst; and every other year or so, Worst Ever.  

Ever since I was young, when I would run to the mail box after school to collect and open the ones that were addressed to 'Mr. and Mrs. and Family,' I have loved Christmas Cards. I love receiving them. I love sending them. I love the statement one of them makes about the person who chose or designed it. I love the little notes that are included. I love commenting on the awkward ones. And I still love ranking them.

There are only three days left till Christmas. And in terms of Christmas Cards, this is crunch time. This is the rush. When the two or three a day become ten or eleven. When the people to whom you sent a card realize that they forgot to include you on their list, so you get their B-List version. When you start to run out of room on your fridge or in your snowman card holder or in your Simon Pierce glass bowl.When you start to file and organize them, entering the best of the best into your own little contest.

I know the next couple of days will bring new entries, but so far, here are the standings ... 

Best Picture Card

Most Classy

Most Exciting

Best Detail

Worst. (Okay, I didn't receive this, but when I saw it on Yahoo! News yesterday, I cringed.)

And best overall.
But this needs a little explanation. It wasn't so much the design, imagery or humor behind it. It was the timing - on the first night of Hanukkah. It was the delivery - a knock on the door, a truck driving away, the two people at the dinner table with mouthfuls of pasta both running to the door a la the delivery of the Christmas Story lamp. And it was the sentiment - the chance to shop at Dean and Deluca, the Figgy Pudding it might bring to the table, and the elegant dinner party that it will help make.  

And then, there is ours. The best I've ever sent. And one that I'm hoping will rank highly in brother's and sister's own card contests. This year, instead of the usual fine art spin I take on the Christmas card - An Italian fresco depicting the nativity, an Andy Warhol Christmas shoe, Matisse's doves - I designed and sent my (our) very first photo card thanks to Purvis Photography and the best day ever.

The statement I wanted to convey. To Christmas. To 2011. To You. Wishing you the Best. Christmas. Ever. (And I coined that before Glee.)

Lo

Lo, Please Exit Stage Right

In 1987, my family got its first video camera. Suddenly, our collection of still photos - those that illustrate Christmases and Birthdays, Bartlett Street and St. Edmund's, Quincy and McMurray - progressed into motion, leaving us with the words and actions that preceded and followed the pose. Suddenly, our young personalities came to life on the screen, enriching our memories.

On Thanksgiving, we brought out the very first home video - a compilation actually, of several shorter videos that span '87 and '88. My brother, sister and I had watched this VHS countless times, laughing and confirming what we already knew. But Peter had never been privy to it. So we had a viewing.

It wasn't just the champagne talking - The hairdos, the conversations, the time Aunt Kay called someone a 'Jagoff,' my winking and blinking show, the chin-up scene, and my brother taking a bite of a cookie and throwing it back on the plate were all cause for raucous laughter.

I don't have a digital version of the video, but to paint the picture ... take this photo:

And then add the before and after. Most likely, I would have pushed my adorable brother and sweet sister out of the way, put my leg warmers on, and started doing a song and dance. My dad would have told me to stop and get back into position. Fine. Click. Following, I would have resumed my attention mongering, fighting for center stage, posturing to be the most talented one, playing the role that the middle child theory predicts.

This week, I started thinking about that video and five year-old me on camera. Although me now and me then are decades apart, the imaginary spotlight is still in the fabric of my being. The goal is to be the best - the most - the biggest - the loudest at everything, of all the people in my circle. It's like I believe I've entered a never-ending talent show and I've signed up to do every act in it. And I, judge and participant, always get the blue ribbon.

Over the past couple years though, I've found more and more exhaustion in striving for first place. Mostly, because I've recognized the abundance of talent around me - the people and their products that hands down, win. This week alone, I stumbled on a friend's magnificent photography, another friend's artwork, and publicity in Vanity Fair for another friend's amazing doughnut cookbook (of which I have a signed copy.) Although, I love thinking that I'm such a creative and such a chef, I have friends that do it way better.

During one scene in the home video, my brother walks toward the camera to ask my Dad, the videographer, a question. I in turn, walk up to him, literally cover his mouth and push him away to seize center stage. The camera immediately shuts off. Game over. Had I let my brother finish his query, it might have been something remarkable, something incredibly sweet or the funniest part of the show. It made me wonder how many other people I've silenced in my loud pursuit for number one, and what great things they might have said.

In this week before Christmas, during the time of year when the most magnificent things happened on the most silent nights, I'm going to be a little quieter and more aware of the small voices that have big things to say.

I'll start with my Veal Parmesan last night. It was good, but yours will be always be the best, Dad.

Lo.

Baum

Peter and I have a very special, very sweet, brand new addition to our little nuclear family. A little someone that I can't wait to wake up to every morning; that I can't stop thinking about at work; and that I hastily swerve through traffic at the end of the day to see. 

It's Baum, our Christmas Tree.

We named him on the ride home from Marmion Abbey Farms on Sunday, right after we pulled the car over to prop up the camera, set its timer, and take a picture of ourselves in one of those head-in-hole boards that Peter spotted on the way out. 

Last weekend, we had set our sights on trekking into a forest a la Berenstain Bears' Christmas Tree to find the biggest, best tree. But living in the exurbs, surrounded for miles by urban sprawl, we figured a twenty minute drive to the tree farm in Aurora would suffice.

Upon arriving, we classified the wimpy trees left for public chopping as Charlie Brown-esque poor trees.  Knowing that we weren't going to return to a decorated tree house if we failed to find our perfect tree, we perused the pre-cut selection - a bounty of tall, full Douglas and Frazier Firs (why didn't they leave those where they were for us to chop down?) Among them was our big guy, calling to us, 'Pick me! Pick me!' So we overlooked it's eight and a half foot stature and the doubt in Peter's mind that it would fit, and packed it into the pick-up. Our very first Christmas tree. In our very first house. In the very first year of our marriage.

After surviving the two-hour hunt for a tree stand during the great tree stand shortage of 2011, finally finding one at the second Home Depot that we tried, we came home to start decorating. As I was hanging ornaments with Il Divo blasting in the background, I got so excited - on the brink of emotional - thinking about our tree and all that will happen under it this year and in years to come. I looked at each ornament - some that were Peter's, some that were mine - and saw how two lives came together this year.

It took us two days to finish - mostly because we needed more lights (still need one last strand) and we needed tinsel (the other item on the Naperville shortage list.) But on Monday night, it was a marvel to behold - the solution to the ranch's interior design challenges - the reason why I now believe we no longer need to spend money on house renovations - all we needed was Baum. 

Growing up, I used to spend December evenings laying under our family tree, looking up into its magical beauty - imagining how it surely came to life each night - how Clara danced with the Nutcracker; the trumpet and French horn harmonized with the soulful sounds of the saxophone; Bubby Brister threw a Hail Mary, Bobby Bonilla caught it, and passed it to Mario Lemieux; the train traveled along the bow of the tree to pick up Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, and Donald; me and my brother and sister, ages zero to thirty laughed and played together while Mom and Dad as Raggedy Ann and Andy watched over us; the shepherds herded the clay sheep; Gloria burst out in a hymn of glory and praise in front of a giant stain glass window; all gathered from near and far, right there in our living room to play witness to the birth of baby Jesus under the sun, moon and glimmering, half-eaten Star of David.

At the age of 29, as I gazed up at our very first tree this morning, I sensed the same kind of magic that I felt as a child, but with a new cast of ornamental characters. And I felt completely enamored and blessed by all the amazing things that have come my way this year, including Baum.

As strange as this Christmas tradition might be, I'm totally in love with it.

Lo.

S is for So Much More than Sweet

This week, Saveur posted a recipe for Dutch Letter Cookies - cookies that the recipe testers behind the magazine had made into the shape of an S. They titled the entry, S is for Sweet. 'Cute,' I thought.

But upon seeing the thumbnail image, I did a double take. 'Wait, I know what those are. And they're not Dutch. They should be crescent shaped, and filled with walnuts instead of almonds. They're Grandma's mini nut rolls!'

I flagged, tweeted, and pinned them, and kept returning to the photo and recipe all week, debating when I should make them, but in the shape of a C for Croatian.

Yesterday, was the day - I pulled out the recipe and made them. But despite my aforementioned claim that I would make them exactly like Grandma did, in the shape of little half moons, I couldn't resist the S-shape. It just seemed to work in a week where S stood for so much more than sweet - where S, could have had its very own Dr. Seuss' ABC's spin-off.  

To amuse myself, it would go something like this ...

S is for St. Nick, Santa, and Surprises
This week, I not only got a package from Saint Nick, I got a little something from Santa too. Remember how the real one was in Naperville the other day? Well, he came back and left a little something ironic on my door step. (Not joking.)

S is for the most Super, Stunning, and Smart Sister ever. 
Happy birthday big sis, and I really wish I could have been toasting champagne sparklers with you on Friday night.

S is for Seasonal, Sparkling Lights.
Last night, Peter, Claire, Trent and I strolled through Holiday Magic at the Brookfield Zoo. It was just as amazing as I had remembered, and along with the seasonal light display made even prettier by the first snow of the year, we got to see Lions, Tigers, Bears and Gorillas, oh my!

S is for Sixtieths, Sixty-year olds, and Snooze buttons
After Holiday Magic and dinner at Chew Chew in Riverside, we went to my father-in-laws 60th birthday party at a friend's house in LaGrange. The party started at 8:00 PM, and to my Early Riser persona's dismay, we left at 12:15 AM - the latest I had stayed up since the wedding I think. And the amazing part was, the party was STILL going. This group knows how to party - Singing James Brown bobble head, the twist and shout, viewings of the recently crowned champion Vizsla dog, wise and somewhat racy proverbs, endless Scotch, and very loud laughter party WAY better than I do. I brought the S is for my new last name cookies though. Needless to say, I hit the snooze button this morning.   

S is for Sentimental and Stipetich
Before I was an S - I was an F, but an F who actually had a little bit of S in her as well. My Grandma Barry's maiden name is Stipetich. And this week, I couldn't stop thinking about her. As you made have noticed from my Flickr photostream, each of my kitchen capers channeled her. Perhaps it was because I know she's having a hard time expressing her memories, and I wanted to help express them for her. Or perhaps, I was thinking, if I keep remembering, she'll remember with me. But regardless, I kept coming back to recipes that she probably learned from her Mom and Grandma, back when she was still a Stipetich.

I made the little crescent cookies that were always on her Christmas cookie platter. And I made stuffed pork chops, roasting them slow and low as she would have done.

And then I made my S's - but with a walnut filling, just like her mini nut rolls. They tasted like I remembered - and they took me back to 126 and Christmas dinners there and having not two or three, but five or six of her perfect little cookies. Which by the way, I now know must have been quite a labor of love.

Yes Saveur, S is for Sweet too - but for the sweet memories of cookies past that I will continue to resurrect and remake in Naperville, so by the time the family comes over for Christmas Eve dinner, I will have all the sweet memories on one plate for us to share. 

Lo.

Babysitters Club

My sister was an avid collector and reader of Babysitters Club books. She devoured just about every volume in the series and when finished, would add them to the line up on the shelf n sequential order from #1 to #60-something, alighting it with the books' bright array of colors.

Being the non-reader that I had chosen to be, I only made it as far as their covers. I did stare down #1 a couple times, debating whether or not it was worth using the precious time I had reserved for my imaginary friends to read it - after all, my sister had seen the benefit. But the internal deliberation didn't last long for I believed that the picture on the front told me everything that I needed to know.

Those tween girls with sassy names like Stacey and Kristi were extremely cool and I really, really wanted to be a babysitter, like them. 

In about seventh grade, despite my inability to achieve the chic look of the cover girls, I got my chance. I became eligible, according to some unwritten notion of maturity, as the back-up neighborhood babysitter for my sister. The only problem was, there were no babies on my block, just kids. So basically, I never did any baby watching. Instead, I played the role of paid friend to a kid who was three or four years younger than me. And honestly, I probably had more problems with this age group than I would  have had with babies

I had to deal with projectile vomiting - not spit up - I'm talking chunks; the fiercest kind of uncontrollable sibling fights that people would have lined up and paid to watch; kids who were way too old to continue having an affinity for going through life without pants; dogs trained to hate me, glare at me, and stalk me on my way to get myself a bowl of ice cream; parents who were late, later and latest; and kids that knew and used language that I hadn't even heard in the suite of PG-13 movies I wasn't supposed to watch. Sometimes, I wondered who was watching whom. Perhaps I should have read those books after all.

By the end of my sitting gig, I was always disheveled, frustrated, and certain that the next time the family called, I would pass the request to my sister.That is, unless there was a baby, 2 or under, involved. There never was. In fact, in all my years of babysitting, I never once got to watch a baby. I never even got to watch a 3 or 4 year-old.

That is, until last night.I finally got to babysit. And with it, I finally gained admittance into my own little babysitters club. Right now it only has two members - Peter and I - and we tag team any job. Last night, job #1, we watched our little godchild, while her mom and dad went to the movies.

And just as I had thought, babysitting was far easier than kid-sitting. There were no fights and no tears; she ate all of her dinner and nothing exploding out of either end; she stayed up a little later so she could dance to Glee with me, but when Peter said it was bedtime, she went right to bed; Roscoe didn't judge  me for loading another helping of spaghetti onto my plate after Ellie went to sleep; and her Mom and Dad were right on time. It was all that I had imagined it to be and more, and I was still in bed by 9:30 PM. (Phew.)

Now, I'm left thinking that volume #1 needs a sequel. Perhaps Lyla will take us up on it ... 

Lo

St. Nick

I guess when you put out the good shoes, you get the good stuff.

Happy St. Nicholas Day, especially to the original Mr. and Mrs. St. Nick! Missing the good old days ...

Lo.

A Fish Called Salmon

Seemingly, in 1993, households across America suddenly discovered the taste, health benefits, and availability of salmon. Children and families who had previously defined fish entrees by their canned tuna foundation, were delighted to unveil the wonders of this beautiful pink fish. Two households that joined the mass salmon migration were mine and Peter's.

When I was in fifth grade, my family became salmon aficionados. About once a week, my dad would brush  it with either his honey-mustard or lemon-dill sauce, grill it and serve it alongside couscous, sugar snap peas, and Breadworks rustic sourdough. I loved it and asked for it again and again, celebrating the fact that it had replaced my Dad's go-to fish dinner, fish with a coat of tan. (As little brother so boldly said, 'woof.')   

As fortune would have it, that same year I hit another culinary milestone. As my family gained admittance to the Pittsburgh Golf Club, I gained a golden ticket into the world of old-school, hoity-toity food culture - a wonderful world of vichyssoise and lobster bisque with Sherry; hollowed tomatoes filled with creamed spinach and servings of asparagus held together with carrot rings; table side bread service and little finger bowls of lemon-scented water; tiny gooey macaroons whose size allowed more than my three cookie limit; and the creme de la creme - salmon, seasoned, buttered, wrapped in puff pastry, and roasted till perfection - salmon wellington.The most epic entree - the most cataclysmic discovery of my petite palette - that I could have possibly imagined in fifth grade.

About 500 miles west of the corner table where I was devouring my new favorite food, in the village of LaGrange, Illinois, an eighth grader named Peter was sitting down to a salmon dinner of his own, the fourth that month. Concurrently, his family was having their own salmon bonanza. And while my love for salmon was reaching new heights with the inclusion of puff pastry, Peter's hatred was reaching new lows. Something in the repetition ruined the appeal. Or perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't caught it himself that made it undesirable. Or maybe it was just its color, pink, a girl color. But whatever the reason, he developed into the 'Sam I Am' of Salmon.

I, the salmon lover, married a salmon hater. And rarely, if ever, am I allowed to put it on the menu. I've tried a variety of recipes, but the reaction is always underwhelming, so I've basically given up.

That is, until I thought back to fifth grade. And puff pastry. And my introduction to the divine. Last night, I tried to sneak salmon into puff pastry and serve it for dinner.

But ... on the way to the Seafood counter at Whole Foods, Peter sniffed out my sneaky plan, and made me call an audible. A couple minutes later, I was adding a stop to the meat counter to my grocery getting duties. And we were not only having salmon wellington for dinner, we were having beef wellington as well.

So, it's back to drawing board. And I'm thinking that getting the smoker involved is my last hope.

Lo.

Santa and his Elves

This week, one of my coworkers told me that the elf on the shelf was back. I didn't know what she was talking about, so I asked her to elaborate. She told me that every year their family's very own elf comes all the way from the North Pole, perches himself on the mantel in their house, and acts as the eyes and ears of Santa in Western Springs, ultimately giving the big guy the 'yea' or 'nay' on whether or not her children have been nice this year.

I was intrigued. We never had an elf on our shelf. Really? 
It's a little toy. Here. 
(Best idea, product and marketing campaign ever.) Ooooooh ... Do your kids believe it? 
My ten year-old is the biggest believer.
(I loved hearing that.) 

The other people listening to the conversation scoffed at the elf's manipulative undertones - bewitching your children with messages like, 'the elf on the shelf is watching you. What you say, what you do,' to force good behavior - kind of creepy. I on the other hand, was totally bewitched myself. In fact, I wanted to go out and buy one. For me. Because I too, am still a believer despite what happened in fourth grade.

Just before entering the Holiday Bazaar in 1991, I had emotionally defended Santa Clause in a sea of non-believing St. Edmund students about ready to do their trinket shopping. After we were unleashed in the cafeteria that, for a limited time only, was converted into a PTA sponsored boutique, my friend, Caroline, the wisest of my classmates, pulled me aside. 

I asked her, Don’t you believe?

She sighed and said, I believe in Saint Nicolas and the spirit of Christmas.

She was telling me what the others were, in a softer way. 

That Christmas I stayed awake a little longer, hoping to hear him.

No bells.

No sleigh landing on the roof.

No reindeer commands.

On Christmas morning, I looked for the tell-tale signs, hoping to see him.

The carrots on the plate were gone, but the bag of carrots in the refrigerator was full again.

The 'from Santa' looked like my Dad’s handwriting.

My sister got a hairdryer, which was not on her list.

After Christmas dinner, I listened to the Aunt’s doing dishes.

So does Adam still believe?

What did you get the kids?

Evan’s list was so difficult this year!

Before going to bed I asked my sister and roommate, someone that was wiser than even Caroline, the big question - does he exist?

And I got an answer:

He’s doesn't, but don’t tell Adam.

From then on, the ever maturing grown up inside of me kept my belief at bay. Apparently, it was foolish to believe such stories. So for fear of ridicule, I just stopped talking about him. And soon enough, so did my family.

But this Friday night, after Peter and I went out for some sushi, we were strolling along the illuminated River Walk, and saw him. 

The real him in Naperville.

He was closing up his little visitor's center for the night, ready to go home. I wanted to ask him a question or two, but I figured Mrs. Claus had dinner on the table and didn't want it to get cold. So I just stared. And just as magically as he got from the North Pole to Naperville and back again on Friday, he answered my questions without even asking.

He exists.
And ... he needs me to be one of his elves.  

So yesterday, my first day on the job, I set out to be a very good elf. I started working on presents for good little girls and I cleaned the whole house for a good little boy. I spread 10 miles of Christmas cheer on a run around Naperville. Then I made a very good little girl clap when I appeared at lunch. I spent the afternoon making a red and green feast for my family, and I even made those Swiss sandwich cookies again, but marked them as only an elf can do - with a little wishing star. And I put together a magical little movie about the best wedding ever for my guests to watch.

I took my job very seriously. And I loved every minute of it.

So, all you ten, eleven, and twelve year-olds out there. I know you are looking for something and someone to doubt. But I'm telling you, don't jump to a conclusion too quickly. As someone who saw Santa on Friday, and who has asked to be an elf, I've got the truth.

Tweens, be careful what you say, there aren't only elves watching from shelves, there is one who runs around Naperville every morning, reporting good and bad behavior to the big guy up North.

Lo.