Blogtober 6 : An Autumn Memory

 

Cow moose and calf seen on our trip to the Yukon three years ago.

My husband used to hunt. He loved to go to the Willow River area where his grandparents had farmed. We would get up very early, pack a lunch and a thermos of hot tea and drive for an hour, arriving just as the first faint light touched the horizon. We parked the car and began walking along the remnants of an old corduroy road towards Sam's Field. Tim remembered the field as a productive piece of land, but now it was abandoned and beavers had overtaken it, creating a boggy place beloved to moose.         

Fog softened the landscape and the only sound was our feet tramping along the muddy path. Suddenly Tim motioned for me to be still. Across the field a moose materialized in the mist, ethereal yet solid. Surprisingly quiet for such a large creature, she picked her way across the field, raising spindly legs with a graceful delicacy that surprised me. We stood and watched her for several minutes. I was glad when Tim said the moose was female, thus protected from a hunter’s bullet.

We had no camera, yet the sight of the moose appearing in the early morning fog is a memory as clear as yesterday. It was a gift to us, one that we talk about together from time to time.            

Today was spent at home, doing a little housework and sewing. A walk in the sunshine was lovely. I scuffed through fallen leaves, dry and crisp, caught on the roadside. The forecast ahead is full of similar days. 

The dahlias seen here are blooming in Butchart Gardens, where I visited last week.  

Aren't they stunning? 

Just a note: When Tim was able to successfully hunt, we ate the moose meat. It has a slightly stronger taste and needs to be cooked low and slow. 

A Wander Through my Mind

 

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring - 

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;

Gerard Manley Hopkins

When I opened my bedroom curtains this morning the fat golden full moon looked at me directly, as if to say, "Wake up, sleepyhead!" Now I sit here at my computer looking out on a cloudy morning that will surely brighten. One fat robin, red breast highly visible, sits in the neighbour's blossoming plum tree. Daffodils are nearly finished, and hyacinths soon to follow. A dark-eyed junco perches on the deck railing. I see the tiniest buds of lilacs beginning to form. Hooray for spring flowers. 

I confess that Spring is not my favourite season. She's too capricious. On days when the sun shines warm, the wind blows chill. I welcome the change of seasons, and there is much to admire - emerging plants, the turtles sunning themselves on the log in the pond, blossoms galore, and the increasing light. On the flip side, one might wear a down jacket, a raincoat, and go sockless in sandals all in one week. Capricious!

"The world is full of peril and there are many dark places. But still, there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater."

J. R. R. Tolkien

I've been stuck for words lately. Feeling unmotivated. There are ideas bubbling up inside me that are looking for expression. I am learning to wait for them like bulbs forming roots before bursting into colour. I'm also leaning more and more into staying away from media that encourages short interactions, such as Instagram and Twitter, and instead enjoying the thoughtfulness of blogging. But have you experienced how addicting those short snippets of irrelevant information can be? I am taking back my time and hope that it will result in renewed motivation and creativity. 

"You will never change your life until you change something you do daily. The secret of your success is found in your daily routine."

Annie Dillard

This week is busy with wonderful things. We have a birthday to celebrate (Tim's), Good Friday to observe, and Easter dinner followed by an egg hunt in the garden (weather permitting). I sat down this morning and made a lovely long list of tasks that I will enjoy ticking off one by one. 

I'll leave you with one little Easter memory. We usually visited my grandparents' home on Easter and Grandma had a special large chocolate egg hidden for each grandchild. I was the eldest and no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find my egg. I found my sister and brother's eggs, and those of the cousins, but not my own. As I became more and more frustrated, my Grandma told me gently that since I was the eldest my egg was hidden in a more difficult place, and that I had done well in helping the younger children find their eggs. I don't remember where the egg was finally hiding, but I do remember Grandma's encouragement. 

Then there was the time I got stuck in the outhouse at my other grandmother's farm home while wearing my new Easter dress - a pale yellow linen dress with a hand-embroidered daisy on the shoulder. My mother made us new dresses every Easter and every Christmas. No matter how I loudly I hollered no one came to my rescue. They were all busy eating dinner and visiting indoors. I finally managed to pry the door open and escaped, thinking I had been gone for ever so long only to discover that no one had missed me. 

So that was two little Easter memories. Now it's time to tackle that list of tasks. Have a most wonderful day, and I'd love it if you shared any Easter or spring memories of your own. 

Friday Thoughts: On Walking to School

 

A bunny sits very still as I pass, hoping to escape notice

When I was 3-1/2 years old, and my sister just 13 months younger, my parents bought their first home. It was brand new, surrounded by other new homes along a not-yet-paved street, partially stuccoed, with wood siding painted in turquoise circling the house like a pretty ribbon.  Small by today's standards, it was a split level, with a living room and dining room with smooth hardwood floors, and a kitchen on the main floor. A short flight of stairs led upstairs to three bedrooms and a bathroom. Under the bedrooms was a full-height basement where my mother had her wringer washer, and later, automatic machines. The house was situated on a 1/3-acre lot which soon had green grass in the front and part of the back, with a large vegetable garden behind. 

Hawthorn now in bloom, perfuming the air

I started Grade One, not kindergarten, just before turning 5 years old. The school was half a mile from our home, and according to my mother, I insisted on walking without her from the very beginning. Like many children, my first grade teacher was my heroine, and could do nothing wrong. "Mrs. Cook says this," and "Mrs. Cook says that" must have been quite tiresome for my parents. 

When other children moved onto our street, we walked to school together summer and winter. My mother insisted that my sister and I wear dresses to school, even in the winter. Warm pants were worn underneath our dresses and removed in the cloakroom. 

A cluster of Camas Lilies in a Garry Oak meadow

For part of the way to and from school each day, we passed fields of asparagus. Asparagus spread and filled the roadsides with green stalks in the spring, and later, tall ferns. Oddly, no one picked the asparagus, and I wonder about that now. It wasn't as popular a vegetable for us as it is now. 

The variegated Weigela in front of the house puts on an extravagant show each May-June. The bees are very busy there just now. I prune the bush after the blooms fall off, and it grows back just as luxuriously the next spring. 

While walking one day this week, I met clusters of children en route to school, accompanied by parents. Others descended from cars or busses. Seeing them caused me to think about my own getting-to-school experiences. 

Did you walk or bus? Did your parents drive you to school? 

We have a few plans for this weekend, including dinner with friends. I'm providing dessert and have been pondering what to make. Whatever your plans, I hope they bring a smile to your face and joy to your heart.

An Unexpected Easter Story

Spring is bursting out here in spite of the unusually cold temperatures. Snow on the hills and at my daughters' houses not too far away. Sharp wind that drives right through to the skin. Glorious sunshine to temper the chill, and flowers that must bloom no matter what. 

Here I am at 8 or 9. Every year, for Christmas and Easter, my mother sewed new dresses for my sister and me. The outfit above was a tunic type top and a skirt, made from buttery yellow linen. Mom hand embroidered a sweet daisy on a stem on the top. 

The year we wore these dresses we drove from our home in the interior through the twisty Fraser Canyon and its tunnels, for Easter dinner at our grandparents' home. My paternal grandparents lived on a dairy farm. The house was not large, but we all crowded in around the table to enjoy a delicious dinner. There were likely 20 or more of us, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents. In the middle of dinner, I had to excuse myself from the table to "use the facilities". There was no indoor plumbing in the house and I had to go outside, down a short path, to the outhouse. My business finished I attempted to open the door latch to return to the house. I couldn't. I jiggled and pulled and pushed, but the latch was stuck. What was I to do? I hollered loudly, to no avail. The dinner table noise drowned out my cries. I thought that perhaps I could crawl under the door, for it didn't go all the way to the ground, but then I would ruin my pretty new dress. I hollered some more, but no one came. Finally, I jiggled, pushed, and pulled the latch some more. To my great relief, it opened. I returned to the dinner table to discover that everyone was so involved in visiting that I hadn't been missed at all.  

 Have you ever been stuck in an outhouse? It never happened again, but I've never forgotten this experience.

The Clematis Montana are draping themselves all over the fence these days, with a lovely delicate fragrance. They would probably be happy to drape themselves over any structure - even an outhouse. I'm grateful for indoor plumbing! 

Friday Five: Memories New and Old

 

While her mother looked at the cookbooks on the library shelves recently, Iris pulled out a little book with a pink cover. "We Love Madeleines" was the title and she insisted it go home with them. 

Several recent birthdays introduced her to CAKE (always said in full capitals). She loves looking at the little cakes in the library book. So today, Iris and Nana baked madeleines. We didn't use a recipe from the library book, but one from my French Patisserie book by Will Torrent. 

Oh how well they turned out! It was hard to finish lunch knowing that the CAKE was waiting. We each ate one and shared one, then sent some home for after dinner, and saved a couple for Grandpa. 

This week marks our 44th wedding anniversary. We met in junior high school and were friends long before we courted. Back in those days, we had professional studio photos taken. They were expensive, but worth it. 

I loved my bouquet, and the long veil I wore. When our youngest daughter married, I removed the daisy trim from the veil and hand-beaded the edge with little gold and silver beads. I'm glad it was used again. 

Here we are with our best man and matron of honour. It was the era of brown tuxedos and huge bowties, and floppy hats. It reflects the fashion of the time and I'm quite happy that it does. 

Marriage is full of ups and downs, hard times and good times. I'm so glad that we are still best friends. When disagreements come, we can discuss and come to a compromise. There is no one I'd rather share my life with, and I thank God for my husband every day. 

In spite of the dry, dry weather, Queen Anne's Lace and wild Sweet Peas flourish. I picked this little bouquet for the boat last weekend and it lasted a long time. In my garden zinnias and dahlias are blooming. 

This weekend we are going camping with the family. There's been a fair bit of texting/calling/e-mailing back and forth as we arrange the next few days. I'm looking forward to it so much. 

Happy Weekend!

Making Christmas - No Place Like Home

 

Late Sunday afternoon Tim and I walked down Oak Bay Avenue, a part of town that has old-world charm and lots of Christmas lights. This is a wordy post, so maybe get a cup of tea and a cookie to nibble on as you read.

As a child, Christmas always involved lots and lots of family - aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins galore. It was merry bedlam. There was a huge dinner, carol singing, presents, and bags of nuts and candies containing a single mandarin orange from Japan handed out by my grandparents (on both sides). 

When I was 13 we moved further away and trips to visit extended family were much fewer and far between. However, one or two of my mother's sisters and their families also lived in the northern interior of BC and we celebrated Christmas with them. After dinner, the adults visited and we cousins played. For a number of years we organized (I was probably very bossy) a little nativity play and performed it for our parents. Christmas was more than a one-day affair. We alternated Christmas Eve at one home and Christmas Day at another. Delicious food, lots of laughter, and a lovely sense of satisfaction to end the day. 

With minor adjustments, these traditions carried on after I married. Tim and I alternated Christmas Day and Christmas Eve with his family and mine. 

In 1981 we moved to a small jungle town in Ecuador. The climate and culture were all very strange to us, and to me particularly. Nothing felt familiar. It was Christmas pared down to bare bones. On Christmas Eve Tim and I sat in front of our ugly little tree and we both cried. We cuddled our 8-week old daughter and wept with loneliness. And I vowed then that the next year would be different. 

I learned that I couldn't rely on the culture around me to evoke the meaning I wanted from Christmas. As a child and young bride, I relied on my parents and extended family to prepare and lead our Christmas celebrations, and they in turn were guided by society and by our faith traditions. 

The next year was different. I took the time to prepare my heart and my home. Our home was the centre of our celebration of Christ's birth. Advent calendars, reading the Christmas story from the Bible or from children's story books, lots of music, baking, and a big dinner to which we always invited lots of people became our family traditions. 

And Christmas was good. It was beautiful and fun. But always, there was, in my heart, a turning towards home, towards my parents and siblings gathered so far away. As I dressed for the day, thoughts of home filled my mind and a few tears fell. I learned to acknowledge the grief even as it eased over the years. And then, hair combed, make-up applied, I tucked away the sadness, and went out to celebrate Christmas with my beautiful children and husband and had a perfectly wonderful day. 

This year is going to be unlike any other Christmas. Our Provincial Health Officer has said that we are restricted to our own households and we are not to gather in an effort to flatten the curve of coronavirus. It is hard to imagine. The news doesn't surprise me, for cases have been much higher recently. Once again, I will acknowledge the sadness and grieve a little over not being able to be with our parents, children and grandchildren. Tim and I are talking about how we will make the day special for just the two of us. It will be a good day. There will likely be gift deliveries and Zoom calls. And through it all, we will remember the reason for our celebration - the birth of the Christ Child. 

We'll be at home a lot. On Saturday we decorated with lots of twinkle lights on the mantels and piano, and around the kitchen windows. The tree lights reflect in the window and across the room onto the glass of a large picture. Home is a good place to be. 

Linking to Sandi's No Place Like Home. 

When Memories Rise

 

Days alternate between sunshine and cloud, and just a few faint drizzles of rain this week. The pattern of the week varies little - at school by 8:00 where it's go, go, go until I walk out around 3:30, a little surprised at the world outside. I've stopped listening to the radio going to and from school, instead, I sing out loud. Old hymns, children's songs, whatever comes into my head. It's lovely and calming, and I don't feel like I've missed a thing. 

Less and less blooms grace the garden these days, but last weekend I made a wee bedside bouquet with a few pansies and snapdragons. 

A sudden drop in temperature meant a change to winter bedding - a duvet and blanket, with a light quilt at the end of the bed ready to pull up should one of us feel chilly in the night. Now the temperatures have moderated and we throw off the duvet, even with the window open. 

This week is my birthday. Do you find that on special days during the year, memories rise and you indulge in a little nostalgia? I've been thinking about the birthday parties my mother put on when I was young. One year, a party wasn't mentioned - I must have been 10 or 11. I left for school feeling a little let down, and even worse, when I arrived at school, my three best friends whispered secrets and rather ignored me. I felt sad and rejected. After school, I trudged home and practiced piano. My mother was preparing a special dinner for the family for my birthday. When the doorbell rang, she asked me to answer it and there stood my three school friends with big smiles on their faces. "Happy birthday," they cried out. I was very surprised, but I remember still feeling a little miffed for a few moments. Soon, however, that passed, and we had a wonderful time together. 

My mother frequently iced cakes with a 7-minute frosting that she beat on the stove to billowy soft and sweet peaks, almost like marshmallow. And candles. Always candles to blow out after the singing of Happy Birthday. Wonderful memories. 

Margie wanted to see my new Rockport rainboots - here they are. They are great for walking, even when it's not raining. 

During a rainy day last week, I watched the black-eyed juncos on the feeder. The rain didn't seem to bother them at all as they vied for space with house finches and a couple of goldfinches. No rainboots needed here!

On these quickly darkening evenings the string of lights on the mantel creates a cozy glow. I cut a few branches from the lilac bushes as I've been admiring their leaves from my kitchen window. How pretty they are. 

Tomorrow after school I'm going to have tea with my daughters for a little birthday celebration. Then, a quiet evening at home. I'm so looking forward to this weekend, especially the extra hour as we move the clocks back. I have no plans and that's quite a lovely thing. 

How about you? Any plans? 

Five on Friday: Abundance, Nostalgia, Beginnings

 

In many ways, September seems more like the start of a new year than January. We grow up beginning a new school year in September, with new clothes, freshly sharpened pencils, and a stack of clean notebooks to fill with knowledge. As a parent, that rhythm continued through elementary and high school and university. And of course, as a teacher this rhythm defines my years. Now I've come to my last semester of teaching - I will finish at the end of January. But I think that September will always hold that sense of new beginnings. Does it still hold true for you?

We are experiencing very warm weather just now, sunny and golden, with cool nights. Smoke from the state of Washington has drifted north and covers our skies, colouring our sunsets with intense orange and red. Tim and I eat dinner outside on the patio, enjoying the sunshine for as long as we can. 

Every couple of days I pick a small bowlful of raspberries and another of blackberries. Our neighbour planted thornless blackberries (they still have thorns) and they grow luxuriantly over the fence into our garden where we are encouraged to pick whatever we can. Berries and peaches make a fine accompaniment to morning yogurt and granola. 

After a very slow and rocky start we are enjoying bountiful tomatoes. This weekend I plan to make salsa, and perhaps some tomato sauce. There will be roasted tomatoes tucked away in the freezer - perfect for a quick soup. 

Try to Remember the Kind of September, sung here by Josh Groban, evokes memories of my Grade 12 high school year. The lyrics are written in the front pages of my yearbook. That September, a group of eight young men, fellow students, decided to take one last canoeing trip before cold weather set in. They mistakenly put into the river above a log jam and were caught by the turbulent water and debris. All of them died. Our class was a large one (800 students), and I didn't know these boys well, but I remember the pall of unspeakable tragedy that covered the school. I pulled out my yearbook this afternoon and looked once again at their photos, and thought of the grief of parents and family and friends. September is when I remember them. 

I have an abundance of reading material these days. I'm still not ready for anything too demanding and have thoroughly enjoyed immersing myself once again into the English village of Fairacre where Miss Read teaches. The Dutch House was a hold from the library before it shut down last spring. It has reopened in a limited fashion. We can now order books online to pick up in a cordoned off area of the library and that makes me very happy. The two books at the top are ones I gave to one of our granddaughters for her birthday in June. They are about a young girl who wants to become a food critic and are filled with humour and engaging characters. Fun to read and then discuss them with Sadie. 

Another little person will be joining our family in a few months and I've started a fun sea-themed quilt. Can you make out the green whales on the navy fabric? We are all absolutely thrilled that our Vancouver family will be moving to the Island in a few weeks and the baby will be born here, a sibling for Iris. 

 

My first day of full classes was today. I was knackered by the end of it. Because of the pandemic there are new procedures and an entirely new schedule. My senior Spanish class meets for 2.5 hours every day for 10 weeks. That's first thing in the morning, followed by two shorter classes of Grade 9 and 10 Spanish. The Junior students run on a different schedule than the senior ones and we have no bells. I've set alarms on my phone to remind me when classes change. It was so good to see the students again and to interact with them in person. We do not need to wear masks in the classroom unless I am circulating around. I can keep a good distance from the students from the front of the room, necessary because I teach across grades. Each grade is a "learning group" - a large bubble that can interact freely. We will see how it all pans out, but we sanitize regularly and have extra cleaning staff. 

Last night I baked Date Loaf. One to eat now and one for the freezer. I cut a thick slice and enjoyed it with butter for a snack. I like Date Loaf better than Banana Loaf. Tim does, too. 

This has been a rather wordy post and I'll stop now. Thank you all for your lovely comments on my posts. I value the blogging community and enjoy my interactions with you all. I hope that your September is filled with loveliness. 

Remembering Summer

We had our first skiff of snow last night. The grandchildren are excited for more in the forecast, as am I. We'll see. Very often these weather warnings are greatly exaggerated. It is dark and chilly out there, with a wind that nips at ears and nose, although nothing like the effects in the middle of the continent. 

We had our local families over for lunch after church to celebrate a little boy turning 5 soon. The girls made tissue paper parachutes and jumped off of things so the parachutes would puff up. Very creative. 

After they left I sat by the fire doing some hand stitching on my quilt and my mind cast back to last summer's boating adventures. And so I thought I'd tell you of one of the most interesting people we met on our travels in the rather remote Broughton Island Archipelago. 

Tim and Bill Proctor sitting in front of the museum Bill created.

Billy Proctor is a legend in these islands, and along the coast. Bill was born in 1934 so he's the same age as my father. Bill lived his entire life on the coast and has worked as a hand-logger, a fisherman, a boat repairman, and more. He tells the story of how he hated school and ran straight away into the woods when his mother ordered correspondence materials for him. He returned home later that day, but his repugnance towards school was so strong that his mother packaged up the materials and sent them back. You can read more of his early life in an article published in our local paper. He loves the land and the sea. 

We were tied up to the dock at Echo Bay Marina where we enjoyed hot showers, a small grocery store, filling our fresh water tanks, and a fish and chip dinner. Echo Bay was once a thriving coastal community with a school building, fishermen and their families, and loggers. As time passed, the area has become less populated and there are only poignant reminders of the lives once lived there. Empty cabins and beached derelict boats hint at the tales. A trail from Echo Bay leads to the place where Bill and his wife built a home. There is an enclosed garden where a bush of yellow flowers blooms profusely and I wonder if it was Bill's wife who planted them. 

On one of his rare visits to larger centres, Billy visited a museum. He is a collector, a beachcomber, and realized that he had more stuff than the museum. He returned home and built a museum to house the many artifacts he's found over the years. 
He also built a hand-logger's cabin, seen above. This cabin was typical of loggers' cabins in years past, built from one large cedar tree in about a week. Just one room, with a wood stove, a bed, and a place for snowshoes, rain gear, and other tools. Tea was a staple, strong and bracing, steeped in teapot, not bags dunked into mugs.  

The stuff Billy collected ranges from old trading beads, seen above, to logging equipment, flint stones from pre-literate times, newspapers, school effects, and more. It's an eclectic collection that strongly reflects the remote coastal life. 

I loved the blue bottles on the windowsill, and throughout the rest of our trip I kept my eyes open for trading beads and blue bottles, but alas, I found none.

Back at Echo Bay, tiny flowers, yellow and white, dot the field where children once played in the school yard. How pretty they are. Can you imagine children sitting in the sunshine making daisy chains? I can. Thinking of them, and thinking of that time last summer has warmed me.

Linking to Mosaic Monday, hosted by Angie of Letting Go of the Bay Leaf. 

Christmas Traditions: Decorating

Christmas decorating begins slowly here. The nativity set and Advent calendar appear first, followed by a wreath on the door, and bits and pieces here and there. I'm fond of bringing nature indoors and that means, for us, a real tree. Sometimes we go to a pop-up Christmas tree shop a little ways out of town, but this year, time being short, we found fresh-smelling, narrow tree at our local grocery store. 

Tim stood the tree in its stand as soon as we got home, first cutting off an inch or two of the trunk and giving it a good drink. After some minor rearranging of furniture the tree stands in front of the window. Lights first, never my task. I shudder to think of doing that. 

We've collected and received ornaments over the years and there is little theme to our tree. It's fun to reminisce about ornaments as we hang them on the tree. Today we were at our son's home and on the tree there I recognized many ornaments I'd made over the years, or purchased. We gave one to each child every year. I often made one for our tree, too, so that it wouldn't be so bare when the children left home. 

Tim and I both agreed that decorating the tree isn't quite as much fun without the children here, but they are grown up and decorating trees for themselves and their families. We put on Christmas music and had a good time, after all. 

And the finished tree, smiling brightly. 

I like bowls of greenery - we have a holly bush with fat red berries that I clip, and cedar and rosemary from the garden. Pine cones sit in clusters here and there. 

The house looks so cozy and welcoming with the lights on the tree and mantel and other surfaces. Our weather has been so dull and dreary lately with dark skies and much rain. Any light is welcome. 

Over the years there have been a few tree mishaps. The year Tim and I were engaged, my parents' tree started smoking and was on the point of bursting into flames before Tim dragged it out the door. It was too close to the fireplace. 

One year, in Ecuador, we decorated the tree and the next morning found it taking a rest on the sofa. Tim stood it up again, and it stood well all day. The next morning we found it once again lounging on the sofa. Tim made sure that it wouldn't happen again. It didn't. It's made a good story. 

Another event this weekend was the celebration of our eldest granddaughter's 8th birthday. It's hard to fathom where the years have gone.

One more week until Christmas. Classes finish on Friday, the 21st, at noon. So very late.

Linking with Mosaic Monday, hosted by Angie of Letting Go of the Bay Leaf.   

Christmas Tradition: Baking

Is baking a Christmas tradition for you? Baking Christmas cookies is a big part of my childhood Christmas memories. Crisp sugar cookies, buttery almond crescents, hearty oatmeal date cookies, and more are some of my mom's baking staples for this season. 

Baking began towards the middle of December in the evenings and on Saturdays. Often the sugar cookies were cut and baked, then frozen until we could spend time decorating them. Bells, camels, and trees are the shapes I remember most. When we go to my parents' place over Christmas, we're almost certain to be served a plate of beautiful sugar cookies. 

My mom and her sister Marty used to try new recipes, as well as the old favourites. One year they made tiny fruits from almond paste mixed with jello powder, I think. The jello provided both colour and flavour to the marzipan. They were pretty, but fiddly, and I don't think they were ever made again. 

Today I made Rugelach, a recipe given to me by my sister. I prepared the dough a few days ago, and chilled it. Today has been dark and grey, with intermittent drizzle: a good day for filling the house with warm buttery smells. 

Another year, my mom tried a new recipe for Frying Pan Cookies. The name was very uninspired and turned out to be a sticky confection of dates and Rice Krispies. That was another recipe that never made it to the good list. 

Today I made some Chocolate Date Nut balls - no Rice Krispies in these, and I think they are pretty good. There is no added sugar and they whipped up quickly in the food processor. No flour, either, so they are gluten free.

Decorating the house is another tradition. I've been puttering away at it. The tree will go up next weekend as we like a real tree and we like it to last at least to New Year's. The nativity is set on the china hutch and I switched to red and white dishes on the upper shelves. A beaded garland drapes over the light fixture above the dining room table, hung with tin stars.

What are your traditions for Christmas? Do you bake the same things, and/or do you try new recipes? 

Linking with Mosaic Monday, hosted by Angie of Letting Go of the Bay Leaf.