Holiday Cookies 2016

My first clear memory of winter is connected to our house on West Main Street, in a picturesque village on the Oatka Creek in upstate New York. My mother hung wreaths of red, crinkled cellophane with a single tiny red bulb in the front windows. We had a fireplace and my mother and father helped me make a long chain of loops cut from colored construction paper to hang from the mantle. Mom made her Christmas butter cookies and I associate their warm, safe smell and luscious, enveloping taste exclusively with Christmas. We mixed white frosting with food coloring to get red and green and I got to frost a few cookies, and then sprinkle on the multi-colored decorations. I ate several before bed each night with a glass of milk and it was heaven. And of course, Santa had to have some on Christmas Eve so my mom and I would leave a little plate for him—and a carrot for the reindeer.

Mom’s Christmas Butter Cookies
Sift together three cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking powder and half of a teaspoon of salt. Then cream together one cup of butter and three quarters of a cup of sugar; stir in one unbeaten egg, two tablespoons of milk and one and a half teaspoons of fine vanilla extract and mix well. Add the dry ingredients a third at a time. Chill the dough for one hour. Roll the dough onto a floured surface with a floured rolling pin. Roll to one-eighth of an inch thickness. Use cookie cutters and place them on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake them five to eight minutes at 350*, watching carefully. Frost and decorate. Enjoy.

Holiday Treats 2014

My first clear memory of winter—probably around 1968 or so—is connected to our house on West Main Street. My mother hung wreaths of red, crinkled cellophane with a single tiny red bulb in the front windows. We had a fireplace and my mother and father helped me make a long chain out of colored construction paper to hang from the mantel. Mom made her Christmas butter cookies and I associate their warm, safe smell and luscious, enveloping taste exclusively with Christmas. We mixed white frosting with food coloring to get red and green and I got to frost a few cookies, and then sprinkle on the multi-colored decorations. I ate several before bed each night with a glass of milk and it was heaven. And of course, Santa had to have some on Christmas Eve so my mom and I would leave a little plate for him—and a carrot for the reindeer.

Mom’s Christmas Butter Cookies
Sift together three cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking powder and half of a teaspoon of salt. Then cream together one cup of butter and three quarters of a cup of sugar; stir in one unbeaten egg, two tablespoons of milk and one and a half teaspoons of fine vanilla extract and mix well. Add the dry ingredients a third at a time. Chill the dough for one hour. Roll the dough onto a floured surface with a floured rolling pin. Roll to one-eighth of an inch thickness. Use cookie cutters and place them on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake them five to eight minutes at 350*, watching carefully. Frost and decorate. Enjoy.

JEF

Christmas Eve, 1944 by Dean Harding McGarity

Here is my annual reposting of this lovely Christmas Eve story by author Dean Harding McGarity because it is so meaningful and evocative.

On Christmas Eve in 1944, the war in the Pacific Theater was raging. I said goodbye to my husband, Steven Turner, at the train station in Los Angeles, California. We had been married only a year. A photographer and chief petty officer in the Naval Air Forces, he was off to San Diego for his next assignment aboard an aircraft carrier.

Amid a horde of people—men in uniform and women crying, hugging and calling goodbyes—I stood, holding back tears and panic as he stepped on the train. He turned at the last minute and shouted above the din, “I’ll be home for Christmas, I promise.” “Promise,” I mouthed. Steven smiled his lovely honey smile and nodded.

I went back home to Vicksburg, Mississippi, and took up my job at the local welfare office. I lived with three other “war brides” in an old antebellum home presided over by a dear, elderly lady.

I waited for his letters, letters that often told of distant islands under a different sun, of Japanese suicide plans that missed their mark, of loneliness and longing.

The “brides” and I felt blessed to have one another, sharing our fears and loneliness, offering comforting words when letters didn’t arrive, keeping one another company at the movies or on long walks, keeping a radio vigil when news came of battles in far-off places.

Suddenly, the war was over—Japan had surrendered! We laughed and yelled and ran down the street, talking to strangers and even hugging them. Then we settled down to wait.

Time passed, and the letters came telling me about Japan and POW camps they flew over, dropping food and supplies. This was good work, I knew, but I wanted my husband home.

And then it was December and Christmas Eve. I stayed late at work, packing food baskets that would be distributed the next day to some of our clients. I returned to an empty house. The “brides” had gone to their homes for Christmas. I would go south tomorrow to have dinner with my family.

My landlady and I ate a solitary meal together, and she spoke of Christmas past, and I thought of Christmas last. Finally, sadly, I climbed the stairs and went to my room. Later, listening to the radio, I heard Bing Crosby singing "I’ll Be Home for Christmas." The music made me weep.

It was almost midnight and still I could not sleep. I moved over to the window seat and looked out at the street. The icy moon seemed to light up the world.

A car turned the corner and came slowly down the street. It was a taxi, which stopped in front of my house. Curious, I leaned against the window. A tall figure emerged from the back. The driver came around the car and shook his hand. Suddenly, I knew.
Miraculously, I knew.

Forgetting my feet were bare, I ran down the stairs, out the front door and down the sidewalk, not even feeling the freezing concrete beneath my feet. He turned, opened his arms and picked me up. I was laughing and crying. He asked the cabbie, “Will you please bring my bag into the house? This lady has begun to go barefoot in freezing weather.”

Then he whispered to me, “I promised, remember?”
And the year we’d spent apart vanished like a fleck of foam.

—Dean Harding McGarity
Duncanville, Texas

Author Dean Harding McGarity with her husband, Steven, Christmas 1945

I received a lovely note here at "Oh, By The Way" from Ms. McGarity on my original posting of her story and photo (here). Thank you Ms. McGarity, for sharing your touching story with us. If you liked this story, perhaps you would like her book COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, available from Amazon here.

National Cookie Day is today, December 4th!

I am sure it is no accident that National Cookie Day takes place on December 4th, to take advantage of the tradition of holiday cookies!

Here are some images of cookies, a few of which I know I have posted previously, but I feel they must be presented again on this auspicious day.

My first clear memory of winter is connected to our house on West Main Street. My mother hung wreaths of red, crinkled cellophane with a single tiny red bulb in the front windows. We had a fireplace and my mother and father helped me make a long chain out of colored construction paper to hang from the mantle. Mom made her Christmas butter cookies and I associate their warm, safe smell and luscious, enveloping taste exclusively with Christmas. We mixed white frosting with food coloring to get red and green and I got to frost a few cookies, and then sprinkle on the multi-colored decorations. I ate several before bed each night with a glass of milk and it was heaven. And of course, Santa had to have some on Christmas Eve so my mom and I would leave a little plate for him—and a carrot for the reindeer.

Mom’s Christmas Butter Cookies
Sift together three cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking powder and half of a teaspoon of salt. Then cream together one cup of butter and three quarters of a cup of sugar; stir in one unbeaten egg, two tablespoons of milk and one and a half teaspoons of fine vanilla extract and mix well. Add the dry ingredients a third at a time. Chill the dough for one hour. Roll the dough onto a floured surface with a floured rolling pin. Roll to one-eighth of an inch thickness. Use cookie cutters and place them on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake them five to eight minutes at 350*, watching carefully. Frost and decorate. Enjoy.

The Weekly Reader and Scholastic Books

After kindergarten in 1970 came first grade, a time in fashion history when the dominant color in everyone’s wardrobe was plaid. I was assigned a classroom in the newer section at the rear of the school that looked onto the playground and across to my house. My teacher was Mrs. S and although she looked like she had just sucked the contents of an entire lemon, she was wonderful, kind, and fun. I liked first grade just as much as kindergarten, maybe even more because we got the Weekly Reader. Now, in the middle of this Weekly Reader was an order form from Scholastic Books for what seemed like an endless list of titles, each with a tiny paragraph description and an even more tantalizing rendering of its cover. We would check off all the books we wanted, carry the order form home and then bug, beg, and harass our parents into sending us back on the appointed day with a check for the proper amount. My mom always set a dollar limit—it was unusual for me to order more than six or seven dollars worth of books but one time I brought a check for thirteen dollars to school. Then there were some kids in the class who never brought their checks. I guess their families couldn’t afford books. I always felt bad for them; what did they read? Finally the day would come when the box would appear holding all of our precious little paperbacks. It felt like a miniature Christmas or birthday as we all tore into the box to find our books. I ordered "Rama the Gypsy Cat” because there was a drawing of a black cat with a pierced ear on the cover. I owned “The Cricket in Times Square” and “No Flying in the House,” both of which made me cry. I have since re-read them and they both describe children in scenes of loss. (Why do people do that to little kids? Walt Disney must have loved doing it because there are always scenes like Bambi’s mother getting killed or Dumbo being taken away from his mother. That had to have preyed on children’s fears of being taken away from or being abandoned by their own mothers.) But my favorite was “Tikki Tikki Tembo.” It was a story about two brothers in China (I am sure the illustrations with their beautiful, washed-out, water color palette and Asian sensibility made me appreciate an Asian aesthetic) playing near a well. One fell in and the other had to run and get help. But he had to tell his elders who fell in and unfortunately, his brother’s name was a long one: “Tikki Tikki Tembo No Sa Rembo Perri Berri Ruchi Pick Berri Pembo.” That name is seared into my brain. My mind connects this with a rhyme I learned around this time but I don’t know from where. I still remember it very well. “One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other. A deaf policeman heard the noise, and came to arrest those two dead boys. If you don’t think my story is true, ask the blind man, he saw it too.”
--JEF

Christmas Eve, 1944 by Dean Harding McGarity

On Christmas Eve in 1944, the war in the Pacific Theater was raging. I said goodbye to my husband, Steven Turner, at the train station in Los Angeles, California. We had been married only a year. A photographer and chief petty officer in the Naval Air Forces, he was off to San Diego for his next assignment aboard an aircraft carrier.

Amid a horde of people—men in uniform and women crying, hugging and calling goodbyes—I stood, holding back tears and panic as he stepped on the train. He turned at the last minute and shouted above the din, “I’ll be home for Christmas, I promise.” “Promise,” I mouthed. Steven smiled his lovely honey smile and nodded.

I went back home to Vicksburg, Mississippi, and took up my job at the local welfare office. I lived with three other “war brides” in an old antebellum home presided over by a dear, elderly lady.

I waited for his letters, letters that often told of distant islands under a different sun, of Japanese suicide plans that missed their mark, of loneliness and longing.

The “brides” and I felt blessed to have one another, sharing our fears and loneliness, offering comforting words when letters didn’t arrive, keeping one another company at the movies or on long walks, keeping a radio vigil when news came of battles in far-off places.

Suddenly, the war was over—Japan had surrendered! We laughed and yelled and ran down the street, talking to strangers and even hugging them. Then we settled down to wait.

Time passed, and the letters came telling me about Japan and POW camps they flew over, dropping food and supplies. This was good work, I knew, but I wanted my husband home.

And then it was December and Christmas Eve. I stayed late at work, packing food baskets that would be distributed the next day to some of our clients. I returned to an empty house. The “brides” had gone to their homes for Christmas. I would go south tomorrow to have dinner with my family.

My landlady and I ate a solitary meal together, and she spoke of Christmas past, and I thought of Christmas last. Finally, sadly, I climbed the stairs and went to my room. Later, listening to the radio, I heard Bing Crosby singing "I’ll Be Home for Christmas." The music made me weep.

It was almost midnight and still I could not sleep. I moved over to the window seat and looked out at the street. The icy moon seemed to light up the world.

A car turned the corner and came slowly down the street. It was a taxi, which stopped in front of my house. Curious, I leaned against the window. A tall figure emerged from the back. The driver came around the car and shook his hand. Suddenly, I knew.
Miraculously, I knew.

Forgetting my feet were bare, I ran down the stairs, out the front door and down the sidewalk, not even feeling the freezing concrete beneath my feet. He turned, opened his arms and picked me up. I was laughing and crying. He asked the cabbie, “Will you please bring my bag into the house? This lady has begun to go barefoot in freezing weather.”

Then he whispered to me, “I promised, remember?”
And the year we’d spent apart vanished like a fleck of foam.

—Dean Harding McGarity
Duncanville, Texas

Author Dean Harding McGarity with her husband, Steven, Christmas 1945

I received a lovely note here at "Oh, By The Way" from Ms. McGarity on my original posting of her story and photo (here). Thank you Ms. McGarity, for sharing your touching story with us. If you liked this story, perhaps you would like her book COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, available from Amazon here.

Holiday Cookies and Treats

My first clear memory of winter is connected to our house on West Main Street, in a picturesque village on the Oatka Creek in upstate New York. My mother hung wreaths of red, crinkled cellophane with a single tiny red bulb in the front windows. We had a fireplace and my mother and father helped me make a long chain of loops cut from colored construction paper to hang from the mantle. Mom made her Christmas butter cookies and I associate their warm, safe smell and luscious, enveloping taste exclusively with Christmas. We mixed white frosting with food coloring to get red and green and I got to frost a few cookies, and then sprinkle on the multi-colored decorations. I ate several before bed each night with a glass of milk and it was heaven. And of course, Santa had to have some on Christmas Eve so my mom and I would leave a little plate for him—and a carrot for the reindeer.

Mom’s Christmas Butter Cookies
Sift together three cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking powder and half of a teaspoon of salt. Then cream together one cup of butter and three quarters of a cup of sugar; stir in one unbeaten egg, two tablespoons of milk and one and a half teaspoons of fine vanilla extract and mix well. Add the dry ingredients a third at a time. Chill the dough for one hour. Roll the dough onto a floured surface with a floured rolling pin. Roll to one-eighth of an inch thickness. Use cookie cutters and place them on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake them five to eight minutes at 350*, watching carefully. Frost and decorate. Enjoy.

I saw this recently and thought that it would be fun to start a new tradition where, in addition to cookies for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer, the elves could get in on the treat action and have some tiny donuts (made from Cheerios!)! I also really like the ornament cupcake and the snowglobe cookies (they look like they might be dipped Oreos!) below.