Author Archives: kzmclain

Friends: Meet our Remodel

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There are, of course, lots of good things about entertaining. There’s the ensuing laughter that comes with being with friends and family. The food is generally good and often are things that you only eat when you entertain or are entertained. Like Pigs in a Blanket. Can you imagine how odd it would be if Bill asked me what we were having for dinner and I told him little smoky links wrapped in crescent roll dough? But they are yummy, and often make an appearance at a cocktail party unless the Barefoot Contessa is hosting. In that case, you eat Tartare de Filet de Boueuf or Pissaladieres. Not a single little sausage in Ina Garten’s refrigerator. Poor Jeffrey. I wonder if sometimes he wishes he could just eat meatloaf with ketchup.

But at least for me, one of the good things about entertaining is that it requires me to clean the house. I’m not ashamed to admit I take a bit of prodding when it comes to homemaking — unless it’s cooking. My specialty? You guessed it. Pigs in a Blanket. I make them fancy by sprinkling on poppy seeds. I’m pretty sure then people think the party was catered…..

Bill and I invited our neighbors in last night to see the house remodel that he worked on all summer long and into the fall. Like me, they also listened to months of grinding and hammering and cutting because he had his work station set up on our front porch. We resembled the Beverly Hillbillies, and owed our neighbors some wine and Pigs in a Blanket.

By the way, I’m being a bit hard on myself. I also served Brie en Croute (which I can spell but can’t pronounce), hummus, and deviled eggs. That fancy thing that I can’t pronounce is actually just brie that is smeared with raspberry jam, covered in pecans, wrapped in store-bought puff pastry, and baked. Ina Garten doesn’t even make her own puff pastry.

My signature cocktail (having a signature drink is something I learned from my sister Jen who believes you can’t have a party without a signature drink) was prosecco with a splash of cranberry juice, garnished with a real cranberry. I spent the evening in silent prayer that no one would swallow the cranberry and require the Heimlich. My prayers were answered. But only because, contrary to Jen’s firm belief in a signature cocktail, my guests all drank wine.

But back to our remodeled house. Though we still have some things to do in the house – primarily painting and carpeting the bedrooms, which will happen next spring – we couldn’t be more pleased with the results. All of the pounding from May through October was worth it. I don’t have any BEFORE shots, but suffice it to say that 25 years ago, when I walked into this house, I loved it immediately; however, I told Bill that I wouldn’t be able to live with the carpeting or the paint color. It only took 25 years for the change to finally happen.

But here are some pictures of the final (ish) result…..

Prior to our remodel, the brick on the fireplace of our family room was a yellowish color and the carpet was an off-white that I hated about 15 minutes after it was installed. The rug was a gift from Bill’s brother Bruce.

The living room floor was covered in the carpeting that I said I would replace immediately. Finally, 25 years later. The sofa, chairs, and coffee table belonged to Bill’s mom, Wilma.

Bill installed wood floors in his office several years back, but they were a very light color. The floor was sanded and restained to match the other rooms.

The floors in the formal dining room were previously also hardwood of the same light color as Bill’s office and the kitchen.

The kitchen was the room about which I was most worried, having grown used to the light colored floors. I was delighted with how they turned out.

The stairway is perhaps my favorite area. Previously, they were carpeted in that same carmel-colored carpeting and the spindles were wooden. I love the fresh look of the metal spindles and the dark wood.

Bill did an immense amount of work, and it’s as good a job as any craftsman would have done. The job required removing the carpeting, removing the pressboard that lay underneath, installing plywood before finally nailing in the hardwood. He did that in two big rooms, the staircase, and the upstairs hallway. In addition, he removed circa 1970 wall paneling and put up drywall on one wall, and remove wallpaper from another wall. He painted our fireplace, installed canned lights in the family room, and redid the mantle.

And he has Parkinson’s disease. Go figure.

By the way, he had his semiannual appointment with his neurologist on Monday, and got another thumb’s up. Thank you God.

Sing Along

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One of my earliest church memories is listening to my dad sing in the St. Bonaventure Catholic Church choir. Mom and all of the kids would sit on the gospel side of the church (a habit I maintain to this day). In the early days, the choir was in the back of the church in the choir loft. At some point (likely after Vatican II), the choir was relocated to the front of the church – also on the gospel side – and I could watch him sing. I loved that.

He had a beautiful tenor voice, and though I never asked him the question (kids, ask your parents questions NOW), I suspect he really loved singing choral music. I say this because as I have reported before, in addition to singing in the church choir, he also belonged to a men’s choral group called the Apollo Club.

So, my love for choral music – and for singing choral music – came from my dad. There you go; another thing for which to be grateful to my father.

When my sister Bec was in college at the University of Nebraska, she took Choir as an elective choice, at least for one year, and maybe more. Her choir performed Handel’s Messiah at some point in the year, and I remember attending and being introduced for the very first time to that masterpiece. I decided right then and there that when I went to college, I was going to take Choir and perform Handel’s Messiah. I was in Choir at my high school, but let’s face it. Handel’s Messiah.

So when I did, indeed go to the University of Nebraska, I took Choir as an elective. As soon as I could, I began figuring out how I could be part of the chorale that sang that gorgeous music. I quickly learned that it required a tryout. Gulp.

I do not have a good voice. In the olden days, I could read music (thanks to my five years of piano lessons) and carry a reasonable tune. But I never even tried to fool myself into thinking that I had any singing talent. Nevertheless, I was determined to get on that chorale.

I don’t remember much about that tryout. I assume I must have had to sing something to the choir director, but I don’t remember what I sang. I only remember one thing: He asked me before I tried out what part I sang – soprano or alto. I, of course, had no idea; however, Bec sang alto. If it was what she sang, then I must also sing alto. Right?

So I performed whatever-it-was for him, and much to my surprise, I was accepted to the chorus. As I walked out of the room, he said to my back, “By the way, I don’t really think you sing alto, but we’ll go with that since that’s what you think you sing.”

Like I had any idea….

That semester – that class – was one of the best times of my life. And while the Hallelujah Chorus is magnificent, it’s not my favorite choral piece in the Messiah. That would be Worthy is the Lamb that Was Slain. Those opening notes bring tears to my eyes every single time.

Sunday, Bill and I went to Wellshire Presbyterian Church to worship at a special service that consisted mostly of choral music. Addie, Alastair, Dagny, and Maggie Faith all performed at least one number with one or another choral group. It was a joy to watch them sing.

What was also a joy was listening to the church’s regular choir perform some magnificent music. It’s hard to believe that a church choir could be so talented, but they really sounded beautiful. The church is blessed to have a gorgeous pipe organ with a worthy organist. That, along with the timpani drums and the magnificent voices, brought me chills.

And I went home and bought a ticket for a performance of Handel’s Messiah next Sunday at a nearby church. Yay me.

I’ll Live in the Moment in a Moment

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Baby Boomers will likely remember when the Beatles met the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and subsequently became involved in Transcendental Medication. It was 1967. I was 13, going on 14, and had been one of those kids who watched the Beatles perform on the Ed Sullivan show and my life was never the same. I purchased every one of their albums up to and until Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The music took a turn that made my 13-year-old self a bit uncomfortable. I listened to more Top 40 songs, like Happy Together by the Turtles and Carrie Anne by the Hollies.

I’m not reluctant to tell you now that in hindsight, a few of the songs on Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band are absolute classics that I really love. Furthermore, I got back on the Beatle bandwagon and purchased (and loved) the White Album in 1968.

But being a straight-laced Catholic schoolgirl, I was wary of the whole Transcendental Meditation thing. I knew people who practiced meditation, and they neither got struck down by God nor embraced by the devil. But I just continued to pray in the more traditional way.

In hindsight, my reluctance was probably at least in part because I couldn’t imagine sitting still and focusing on a single word for 20 minutes twice a day. Yoiks. I hurried through my daily prayers as it was. But I was intrigued nonetheless.

A few years later, the adult Kris learned that the Catholic Church had (and still has) something called centering prayer. Centering prayer is basically meditation in which your focus is a relationship with God. I’m not going to try and explain it, because the truth is, though I took a class and read some books on centering prayer, it never really worked for me. Because see above. I can’t focus on anything for 20 minutes. I tried. I selected my meditation word and tried sitting quietly, focusing on that word, waiting for God to talk to me. I’m sure he tried, but I wasn’t hearing him, because my mind would wander. I would be concentrating on my word, and then a work issue would creep into my thoughts. I would push that thought away and focus once again. Pretty soon, I was planning what to make for dinner. It felt like my efforts were futile.

I mentioned this to a friend of mine who is a devout Catholic and yet seriously into centering prayer. She told me a wandering mind is very common in meditation. When your mind begins to wander, don’t get mad at yourself, she told me; just come back and refocus on your meditation word.

I gave up, and haven’t thought much about meditation since that time. But an online publication I get from my retirement association called The Dime had an article recently on something called Mindfulness. It’s the art of being rooted in the moment. It apparently is modeled after meditation, but just as I was about to delete the article (because meditation and me don’t play well together) I saw that the idea of Mindfulness is more about being in the moment than actual meditation. There is no need to sit in a yoga position and say ommmmm to simply live a moment at a time and notice the things around you.

I have been working on the notion of being in the moment a bit since reading that article, partly because it is consistent with the message of a bible study DVD that I recently watched from one of my favorite bloggers. But it’s hard. It’s really, really hard. I am one of those people who can drive from Point A to Point C and realize suddenly that I missed all of Point B along the way. I think, however, that Christmastime is a good time to really focus on this notion of Mindfulness. It’s way too easy to get caught up in the shopping and the wanting and needing and the desire to make one’s house perfect and ensure that every one of the grandkids is thrilled with their gifts, all the while making Christmas cookies and entertaining the neighbors.

One suggestion was to try to find five new things about your spouse or roommate. I’m working on it, but it’s a real challenge. You learn a lot about your spouse after 25 years of marriage…..

One thing I learned about myself as I wrote this post is that it’s really hard to type meditation instead of medication. Another sign of growing old, perhaps.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Oldie But Goodie

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I spent yesterday wrapping gifts, one of my least favorite Christmas jobs. I started putting them under the tree, and then remembered that tonight Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole are having a sleepoverwith us. I’m preeeeeetttty sure I can trust Cole to not open any gifts, but this photo — taken many years ago when Kaiya and Mylee opened up all of their gifts one morning before Christmas while their parents were still sleeping — made me recall that Christmas excitement sometimes gets the better of little ones…..

The guilt on their faces when they got caught. Oy vey. This photo will always make me laugh. Needless to say, I removed the gifts. Why tempt fate?

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: Girl in Disguise

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The Pinkerton Detective Agency was founded by Allan Pinkerton in 1850, and still exists in some form today. You will see or hear about Pinkerton agents in many movies or novels of the Old West, or stories about the Civil War. The Pinkerton Agency is credited with foiling an assassination attempt on President-Elect Abraham Lincoln’s life, who then hired agents to act as his security when he was elected president. This, of course, was before the days of the Secret Service.

But when you hear or read about these agents, they are mostly men. That’s because the first woman didn’t join the agency until 1856 when Allan Pinkerton hired Kate Warne. Girl in Disguise, by Greer Macallister , is a fictional account of this real-life detective.

Kate Warne is already a widow at age 23, and desperate for a job. She answers an advertisement for a detective at the Pinkerton Detective Agency despite her lack of experience. Thinking she was applying for a clerical position, Mr. Pinkerton is surprised to learn that she is answering the detective ad. At first reluctant, Pinkerton eventually agrees to hire Kate as his first female detective.

Kate’s first job is to procure information about a gambling ring by posing as a prostitute. She successfully completes the job, much to the surprise of her fellow male agents and Mr. Pinkerton himself. Eventually she gains the trusts of at least some of her fellow agents, and is given more difficult assignments. She becomes a master of disguise and manipulation. Eventually she becomes a spy for the Union Army during the Civil War.

Based on fact, it’s true the story has an appealing protagonist. Still, I was more and more disappointed as the book went on. While Warne’s story is certainly interesting, it just seemed like nothing really ever happened. The story slogged along when it doesn’t seem like it should have. Perhaps the author stuck too strongly to fact and needed to provide a bit more excitement, given that it is historical FICTION.

I liked that I learned about a real-life person with whom I was unfamiliar, especially one who clearly broke ground for women. But I am unable to wholeheartedly recommend this book as the pace just never picked up and held my attention.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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It’s Not Just for Dessert Anymore
Last Sunday after Mass we stopped for breakfast at Steak ‘n Shake Restaurant, which is right next door to the church. It’s quick and inexpensive – darnright cheap, in fact – and isn’t half bad. Anyway, we began looking at our menus, and suddenly I saw the placard on the table which read Breakfast Shakes – Solving the breakfast problem. First of all, I didn’t really realize that breakfast was such a problem. Maybe it isn’t for me because I’m retired. Perhaps working people begin stressing about the problem of breakfast the night before. Maybe it even keeps some people awake. But Steak ‘n Shake has your back. You can have cereal and milk all in one beverage. Oh, and don’t forget the ice cream. Because you see, it’s a breakfast milk shake: milk, Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal, and ice cream. Breakfast of champions…..

It frankly didn’t even sound remotely good to me. However, the peppermint shake with chocolate chips did. I will return sometime before the holidays are over and the peppermint shakes are gone until next year.

Binge
I rarely binge-watch a television program. That isn’t to say that I won’t sit down and watch several programs in a row in the afternoon while I’m crocheting. But I usually like to hop around. But the other day, I sat down to watch Season 3 of Broadchurch, the gripping Netflix mystery that takes place in a little seaside town in England. Each season, there is one mystery that the two detectives solve over the course of eight episodes. This season it was a violent rape of one of the citizens of the small town. I literally sat on my chair and watched all eight episodes in a row. I simply had to find out who was guilty of the crime. As in Seasons 1 and 2, the solution was a total surprise. I won’t give it away, but I recommend this program. Just make sure you have enough time in your day!

It Isn’t Ugly; It’s Just Seasonal
I got a telephone call the other day from Adelaide. Nana, she said, Sunday is our annual Ugly Christmas Sweater Day with our youth group. Can Alastair and Dagny and I borrow one of your Christmas sweaters? You might remember that they borrowed sweaters last year for the same purpose. I agreed, managing not to be insulted by the request. The truth is, I went through a period where I bought a new Christmas sweater every year, and the more garish it was, the better I liked it. So the two girls came over later and selected their sweaters, choosing one of my sweaters for their brother. They returned them on Tuesday, and proudly informed me that Dagny won the prize for the ugliest sweater. I admit I teared up; maybe it was from pride but maybe it was from embarrassment.

Open For Business
One of the new pieces of furniture I bought for our family room was a coffee table. Our old table didn’t work with the new colors. I selected one that not only had storage on the bottom, but opened up to be a table. I envisioned times when I would work at my computer while watching television. In fact, it’s Cole who broke it in earlier this week, using it as his lunch table as he watched Boss Baby……

Ciao.

It Only Sounds Like a Dirty Word

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The week following Thanksgiving, I was having lunch with a friend at our favorite Chinese restaurant. As we poked our chopsticks into the sesame chicken, I asked her if she had a good Thanksgiving. She said her Thanksgiving had been nice, not the least because she had a total of two – count ‘em – two complete Thanksgiving dinners. The first dinner was good, she admitted, but the second, ahhhh, the second.

She spatchcocked the turkey, my friend told me with reverence.

It’s an understatement to say that I was impressed. I was certainly impressed that the woman had spatchcocked a turkey. But I was mostly impressed that I knew what the word spatchcocked meant.

I frankly don’t know exactly how I knew what it meant. Perhaps it’s having watched Food Network since its very beginning when Emeril Lagasse was getting applause from his studio audience every time he added more garlic or wine to whatever dish he was making (and perhaps spatchcocking). What I do know for certain is that I didn’t learn the term from my mother, who never spatchcocked a thing in her life. She may or may not have butterflied a chicken, but I believe she died without having ever heard the word spatchcock.

Not to wander too far from the point of this blog post (on the off-chance there is, in fact, a point), I looked up the word to see if I could learn its etymology. Here is what Wikipedia says about the word’s origin:

The word comes from “dispatch cock”, that is, a fowl that is dispatched quickly, and is first attested in 1785.

So there.

But as I read on in the article, Wikipedia suggested I also see blood eagle. Foolishly, I clicked on the link (as I often do on Wikipedia which then takes me off into a link-clicking route that may end up explaining the history of crochet stitches). It seems blood eagle is a type of human execution in which the victim lies prone on a table, his/her ribs are severed from the spine with a sharp tool, and the lungs are pulled through the opening to create a pair of “wings.” I’m telling you, those ancient Brits knew how to torture.

But back to spatchcocking, which is simply another word for butterflying. In other words, you use your kitchen shears or poultry shears and cut out the backbone of some kind of poultry, thereby allowing the bird to lie flat and roast or grill more quickly. The result is a crispier skin.

And, my friends, with chicken, it’s all about the skin.

My mother used to make Cornish game hens. She did not spatchcock them. Instead, she stuffed them with wild rice, slathered them with butter, sprinkled on salt and pepper, and roasted them in the oven. They were heavenly.

One day a year or so ago, I invited Addie, Alastair, Dagny, and Maggie Faith to dinner. I was serving Cornish game hens.  They were thrilled at the prospect. As excited as they were for dinner, they were equally disappointed when instead of little tiny hens lying on their plate, there were spatchcocked hens. Cut in half, no less. They would have been more impressed with KFC.

Ever since that lunch in which I was reminded about spatchcocking, I have been itching to get my hands on something to spatchcock. So last night, I made Cornish game hens, and as you can see, I got my chance…..

 

 

I mixed up about a half stick of butter with a couple of cloves of minced garlic, 1 t. chopped fresh rosemary, and 1 t. dried thyme (which came from my summer garden). I didn’t have any lemons, but lemon zest would have been good too. I salted and peppered the hens on both sides. I then put some of the butter under the skin, and (like my mother) slathered the remaining butter all over. I roasted them at 375 degrees for about an hour. I let them sit for about 10 minutes to rest……

Yum.

For kicks, you could drink a shot of Fireball Whiskey every time you read the word spatchcock in this blog post.

If My Name Was Whiskey

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When you got off work at five
I’d be the first thing on your mind every time.
And if I wasn’t where you thought I’d be
You’d drive around ’til you found me
If it took all night.
You’d press me to your lips
Say you never felt like this
And I’d be all you’d need
And you’d get drunk on me.
If my name was Whiskey
Maybe right now you’d miss me. – a recent country song by Michael James Ryan Busbee,Carly Pearce, Shane McAnally, sung by Carly Pearce

My whiskey drinking education program is continuing on track, perhaps even ahead of schedule. I must confess that I may never work my way up to Scotch, because I’m sort of stuck on Crown Royal. It just tastes good to me. Even better – at least so far – than Bourbon. Bourbon drinkers, don’t hate.

But speaking of Bourbon, I have a bit of a story to tell. I’m reading the newest book in one of my favorite mystery series – the Harry Bosch mysteries by Michael Donnelly. Donnelly has two regular series – one features former L.A. police detective Harry Bosch, who is now retired and volunteers on cold cases, and the other is Mickey Haller, who is a defense attorney. Somewhere along the line of these two books, the two aforementioned gentlemen find out they are half-brothers. As such, Donnelly often has an interaction between the two in one or another of his books.

In this particular book, called Two Kinds of Truth, Harry’s former partner stops to visit him in Harry’s home high above the city on Mulholland Drive in L.A.. Harry invites him in but tells him he has no beer; in fact, the only thing he has is an unopened bottle of Bourbon. Jerry is astounded when Harry brings out a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon. The bottle was a gift from an appreciative client, and Harry knows nothing about Bourbon, so he is unaware of its value.

Jerry proceeds to explain that the Bourbon Harry is pouring is extremely valuable. In fact, at one point, Harry has the bottle sitting on the railing of his balcony where a strong breeze could send it to its death. Jerry grabs the bottle and places it on the table.

Fast forward to the next chapter when Harry once again meets up with his half-brother Mickey. After conducting their business, Harry tells Mickey that he recalls when the two of them were each given the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, and Mickey offered Harry $100 for his bottle, an offer Harry refused on principle. I know now that you were screwing me, Harry tells his brother.

Because I’m now experimenting with whiskey, I paid more attention to that whole passage. How could any whiskey be that valuable, I wondered. I also wondered if Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon was a real thing. It is…..

Fast forward again to this past Sunday. Following Mass and a subsequent breakfast, Bill and I went to our favorite liquor store to pick up a few things – some wine, some beer, etc. Much to our surprise, though it was only a little after 10 in the morning, there was literally a crowd of people milling around the front section of the store. Something was happening…..

We picked up our few things, and as I paid for them, I asked our cashier what the heck was going on. A whiskey lottery, he told us. He went on to say that there were a few brands of whiskey – very valuable brands – that would be sold by lottery to a lucky buyer or two or three.

There are a few brands of Bourbon that are made in very small batches, and they are worth several thousand dollars, he told us. Like PAPPY VAN WINKLE BOURBON.

Whaaaaat? Just think, only a mere month ago, I wouldn’t even have known what he was talking about. Now, here was I, a whiskey connoisseur, ready to step up to the lottery drawing.

Naw, that’s not true. I am totally and entirely unwilling to pay thousands of dollars for a bottle of swill, no matter how good it is. Do you realize how many bottles of Tanqueray gin I could buy for that price?

Still, I’m finding this whiskey culture to be interesting, that’s for sure.

Cheers…..

On the First Day of Christmas….

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There are many things I like about the weeks before Christmas. Christmas lights. Christmas music. An excuse to bake cookies. And eat them.

Not the least, however, is that we hear a lot from Isaiah, the fellow who most accurately prophesized the coming of the Lord and Savior some eight centuries before little Jesus was born in a manger in Bethlehem.

We hear it in some of the carols – e.g. O Come, O Come Emmanuel, sung beautifully by Pentatonix…..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGF5KJCf08Q

Of course, those of us who love Handel’s Messiah hear much of Isaiah’s words in the first part of the oratorio written way back in 1741. For unto us a child is born; every valley shall be exalted; and the glory of the Lord shines upon us.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counseller, The mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. Isaiah 9:6

Purely by accident, I assure you, I was appropriately dressed for the first Sunday of Advent yesterday…..

I was wearing purple, the traditional color of Advent. You might recall that the Advent wreath has three purple candles and one pink candle. The truth is, in our hurry to get to church on time, I grabbed the first clean sweater in my closet, which happened to be lavender. When we took our seat in church, I noticed the family in front of us was wearing purple – Mom and daughter in purple sweaters, Dad in a purple dress shirt. Real men wear purple. Nearly every member of the women’s choir was wearing purple. The priest and deacon were both wearing purple vestments.  I felt smug, a feeling that probably shouldn’t be felt at Mass, and something of which the Prophet Isaiah would not approve.

My sister Jen – who attended a biblical scholar program conducted by the Denver Catholic Archdiocese (so there all you non-Catholics who think Catholics don’t read the bible) – loves to quote the Prophet Isaiah, as she finds great comfort in his words. As for me, I love that he so accurately prophesized the life of Christ, from his birth to his violent death and resurrection.

Isaiah wrote at a time – one of many, I’m afraid – when God’s chosen people had turned away once again, lost in despair. Doesn’t that sound familiar? So many of God’s people have turned away from Him today, wallowing in despair and convinced that the difficult times we are experiencing are evidence that God does not exist. Even I, on occasion, wonder if God has forsaken me.

There is none who calls upon your name, who rouses himself to cling to you; for you have hidden your face from us and have delivered us up to our guilt. – Isaiah 64:6

Sounds like Isaiah has given up on God, and yet, he goes on to say…

Yey, O Lord, you are our father; we are the clay and you the potter: we are all the work of your hands. – Isaiah 64:7

God made us all in his image and likeness. We are the work of his own hands. That thought makes me stop in my tracks and consider that how I experience the Lord in my life is more than wearing purple on the appropriate day, accidental or not.

Advent is the time of preparing the way for the coming of the Lord. I must remind myself throughout these weeks before Christmas to keep my eye on the baby born in Bethlehem whose most important job, ultimately, was to die and be resurrected to save us all.

But he had a lot to do before that happened.

Saturday Smile: Home for the Holidays

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When I was younger and had more energy (though less time), I went all-out with my holiday decorations. Two big Christmas trees, a mantle exploding with greenery and lights, Christmas linens and pillows and dishes and cups.

While it’s true that my holiday decorating is a bit tamer, I must tell you that when I turn on my Christmas lights at night, light my candles and the fireplace, and watch my favorite holiday movies and Christmas specials, I am very happy. So my Christmas decorations are what made me smile this week, and will continue to make me smile until ol’ Santa pays his visit.

 

 

 

 

Have a great weekend.