You ain't foolin' no one, Mistah Puh-doo!

Today's "Subject on the Block" would be Perdue Farms and I would offer up a scathing example of commercial slight-of-hand, along with a rant about how our food is manufactured and how the animals that provide that food are treated.

However, I have a soft spot in my heart for Perdue because I connect their commercials with a warm memory from my past.

Some of you may recall one of the old, old Perdue Chicken commercials -- we're talking back when Frank Perdue was schilling for the company instead of his son Jim. This old commercial featured people reacting to the paragon that apparently was a Perdue chicken back then (they were certainly more...um...chicken-sized...).

One of the testimonials was an elderly woman, who threw up her hands and, in a universally recognizable New York accent, exclaimed, "God bless you, Mistah Puh-doo!"

My grandmother thought that was the funniest commercial she'd ever seen. If we had chicken for dinner, you could bank on my grandmother somehow working a "God bless you, Mistah Puh-doo!" into the conversation and then laughing like we hadn't heard this 253 times before.*

So, for old times sake I will limit my tirade against Perdue Farms to this:

You know that Perdue commercial where Jim Perdue brags that his chickens are not caged?

The fact is that only laying hens are caged. Perdue raises meat chickens who never were caged to begin with. He's not doing the chickens a favor -- he's spinning the treatment that already exists as an industry standard.

Meat chickens are crammed into long, poorly ventilated buildings where they are bred to have breasts so large they can barely stand and the ones that can stand trample the ones that can't. So the ones that can't live out their brief lives sitting in their own filth until they are thrown by those self-same broken legs into a truck to take them to slaughter.

Now Perdue is not the only company that does this -- all the large commercial poultry processors do the same thing; only they have the decency to not make holier-than-thou claims about it.

We are not stupid, Mistah Puh-doo!

*She also liked to get up in the morning, shuffle around and mutter, "Gotta go make the donuts..." like the old Dunkin' Donuts commercial. She would do it until everyone in the house had seen it. Do you know how many people were in our house sometimes? You'd see the performance eight or nine times if you were up early enough. Believe me -- it gets old...

The end of the world as we know it (...or at least, television...)

The great thing about the internet is you can hear about things on television and in the media without going through the agony of witnessing them first-hand.

For instance, I've never seen Two-And-A-Half Men, but I know I would have to be under court order to part with a penny of my money to listen to Charlie Sheen talk. So when the 5,100 attendees of Sheen's show in Detroit were outraged at the quality of entertainment they received, all I could think was, "You all deserved to lose your money."

Although this has answered a question that has been burning in my mind for awhile now: What kind of moronic, shallow pinheads keep moronic, shallow reality shows on the air and make inconsiderate, self-centered, self-important people of non-existent or waning talent into media darlings?

Now we know -- they were all gathered for a convention in a Detroit auditorium.

But they can't take the full brunt of the blame. Apparently the Rutgers University administration is peopled with the same moronic, shallow pinheads.

By way of disclaimer, I have seen approximately 10 minutes of Jersey Shore. Since it's filmed in my old stomping grounds of Seaside Heights, NJ, I thought I might catch a glimpse of some old memories. Instead, I saw a glorification of the same skeezes that caused me to press the suspicion button at my teller window whenever they walked into the Seaside branch of the bank I worked for back in the day.

So you all know the story by now: A Rutgers University student entertainment group, who receives funds garnered from a portion of tuition money, hired this Snooki person from Jersey Shore to appear at the school and paid her $32,000 -- $2,000 more than the University is paying Nobel-winning author Toni Morrison to speak at commencement.

If that doesn't cause every brain-functioning viewer to switch off their television, stop buying products advertised on these insipid shows and send little Finster anywhere but Rutgers, then you all deserve the society that is going to be choosing your nursing home.

University reps claim Snooki was chosen based on canvassing students for their preferences.

WORSE!

Yes, I know I go on and on about bad TV and I know there is a bit of the, "I think she doth protest too much" in what bothers me -- and I would agree. It bothers me that, in accepting such incredibly poor programming, our choices are narrowing along with our ability to handle any plot more complicated than the train-wreck lives served up by reality shows.

Obviously, the power-that-be behind television programming know that sensational and shocking plots will draw in more viewers. But, they also know that the more adrenaline-inducing scenarios they throw at the public, the more desensitized they become and the more adrenaline-inducing scenarios will be required to finally satisfy them (sorry- this is beginning to take on a definite sexual metephorical tone...). In other words, the more TV (and advertising) they can make you watch, the more TV (and advertising) they can make you watch.

Let's just say that on the mainstream level (and, truly, I know how pretentious the word "mainstream" is...), "subtlety" is dead; "nuance" is dead; artful allusion is dead.

The Kardashians, however, continue on.

Or, perhaps, because I have only seen approximately 10 minutes of any given reality show, something more goes on after I turn it off? Does a Jersey Shore Guido suddenly have a lucid moment at some point or does a Kardashian suddenly look up and ascertain where lies the true center of the universe?

I would say that's just about as likely as Charlie Sheen completing his 20-city tour.

To blog or not to blog

This November I will have been blogging for six years. There have been a few months of dry spells here and there* but, if you were bored enough with life to go through each post from the beginning, you would have a pretty good idea of what goes on around here in Linguiniland, the whys and the hows and what everyone around here thinks about it.

Back in 2005 I had some misgivings about starting a blog. Oh, privacy didn't bother me much -- anyone can pick up a phone book and find out more about us than they'll glean from my blog. And I knew better than to treat Linguini on the Ceiling as an actual on-line journal or, worse, an on-line litany of my "feelings" and the state of my health.

I've been mulling over the reasons I blog since the day I started. Back then, it really was a great way to stop the "blogging in my brain." It became the outlet for the stories and observations I'd relate if, say, we were having lunch together.

But, every now and then I'd think, "This is really a self-absorbed sort of pass-time." That was a pretty good indication that whatever I was writing was inappropriate for this blog.

I will admit that in the time following our foreclosure and bankruptcy, some of the posts got a little raw and personal. That was a very deliberate decision on my part. While my family was going through all this agony, there were tens of thousands of other families going through the same thing; only no one had the least bit of compassion for these people whose lives were turned upside down. Instead everyone bought into the media short-cut of clumping the economy's victims under the banner of "spoiled, materialistic, over-spenders." It was lazy thinking and, I suppose, gave comfort to those it hadn't happened to: "That couldn't possibly happen to us because we are not like them." There is the illusion of safety in an "Us and Them" mentality -- and denial.

I have been particularly thinking along these lines the past few months and, at one point, even considered abandoning Linguini altogether. Afterall, Facebook gives an adequate snap shot of what's going on around here, if you're really interested. And there are very few people left with the focusing ability to read full paragraphs. But I just can't do it. Every now and then I hit common ground with someone who just happened by and that makes it all worth it. I've made some swell friends through this blog.

C.S. Lewis said, "We read to know we are not alone."

Sometimes we write for the same reason.

*I have no other explanation for my absence during the past few months other than to say I may not be as immune from Seasonal Affective Disorder as I've previously stated. But we have pushed through, thanks to the efforts of my family...and the entire collection of Jeeves and Wooster (thank you, Netflix).

In which I take a nap

A day like this only comes together by some serendipitous alignment of schedules. When they happen, I imagine myself like one of my Jack Russell Terriers when allowed the rare treat of lying on the bed -- they roll around and snuggle in with the pure, physical joy of it all.

Saturdays are half days for work usually followed by cleaning -- not my usual after-work cleaning where I make strange little deals with myself to get out of doing it all, as it should be done in a house with five dogs. No, Saturdays are everything days.

Thankfully, this is a tiny house and, once I pushed myself to get started, it didn't take nearly as long as I had built up in my mind.

And there I was, all alone in the house, having put in a good amount of work, a dusting of snow on the ground and my ABE order that I bought with the portion of my Christmas money that didn't go toward Dirtman's gift or bills. I hadn't opened it, since I figured it was my reward for getting my work done.

And so -- flannel jammies (the infamous FJ with the Popsicles on them that Heir1 considers my Oxymoron jammies), Elizabeth Goudge and...

...what for dinner?

Ohhhhhh....nothing aggressive. This was not the evening for culinary acrobatics. Something simple; mild; comforting -- macaroni and eggs.

I had a beloved aunt who did not know much about cooking. Whenever I went to visit, I cooked or we went out to eat. But during one visit, I came down rather rapidly with the flu and she made me "macaroni and eggs." It was the one dish she knew how to make.

Basically, you boil some sort of pasta (if the kids were still little, I'd have the perfect pasta on hand -- pastina -- which I used to smuggle out of New Jersey when visiting the self-same aunt; we can now get pastina here, but I didn't have it handy -- I used boring old elbow macaroni) but, when it's almost done, instead of draining all the water, you leave a little water in there, toss in some butter and salt; then, just as it's done, you slowly add a beaten egg or two, tossing the whole thing as you do.

And there it is.

The quintessential comfort food.

And so -- the oxymoronic flannel jammies, Elizabeth Goudge ("Pilgrims Inn," for the aficionados), macaroni and eggs, a comfy couch with fuzzy blanket and cuddly cat that makes no more noise than little beeps and rumbles. All I would have needed was Itzhak Perlman to be performing Vaughn-Williams' Lark Ascending in the corner to convince me I'd achieved the ultimate salvation of heaven.

There were no Israeli violinists performing early 20th century classical music, though, so I'm still among the living. But I did read a bit, nap a bit and dream a bit, all luxuries in my book. And that night I slept for an unprecedented nine and a half hours -- I haven't slept for that long since the days when my in-laws would be gracious enough to take my two toddlers for the weekend.

Heir 1 arrived home from staying with a friend at 12:30 in the morning. Heir 2 arrived home this afternoon. Two different genres of music compete with each other from their respective rooms, along with the sounds of video games and laughing friends. All the Linguinis are "in the house," so to speak.

And that's lovely too.

Whooooo are you?Who, who?Who, who?

I've lost track of who's who in Hollywood and, frankly, I'm mighty proud of it.

Clicking around the internet lately, trying to break up a particularly tedious task at work, I realized it was equally tedious trying to find someone I cared about in the entertainment field -- or even knew.

The most obvious reason for this, as far as I can tell, is the glut of "celebrities" who are famous because of reality programs; meaning, talentless. You can go into any select group of people and find a troublemaker, a drama queen and a gossip -- turn on the cameras and let the soap opera unfold. Snore. It helps if they just happen to be sluts willing to give each other Brazilian waxes on national television (...and if their last name starts with a "K" and their dead father made them really rich even by Hollywood standards so it gave the illusion they are somehow important -- and relevant -- to anything...).

Yet, I've come to accept this because the existence of the aforementioned freaks can pull even those in the depths of the deepest depression -- so deep that they actually watched programming featuring the aforementioned freaks for an entire 10 minutes -- out of their beds and back into the world with the hopes of balancing out the imbecile population who are succeeding in keeping the aforementioned freaks in the limelight. I apologize if you are one of those imbeciles -- okay, no I don't. But I figure, if you are one of those imbeciles, this is way too far for you to read anyway.

What is alarming, though, are the amount of "young actors" popping up all over the place, probably because there are now a gazillion cable channels and an equal amount of baby boomer babies to sit around and watch them. Is anyone else creeped out that they all look sort of the same? (I still think Keira Knightly, Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder are all the same person.)


Now that I think of it, why wouldn't they all look alike? In this day and age where trends and tastes are so closely monitored, of course you end up with what will please the most people. Hollywood has always had it's stable of "types." Types have their place, so you don't end up having to do character development for minor characters. Unfortunately, it's come down to there being nothing but "types" so the audience doesn't have to work their brains too hard or...focus.

I think that's why the reaction I have to my lost summer is guilt over having wasted so much time watching so much television; you know, that slightly guilty feeling you get when you promised yourself that, if you bought the pint of Starbuck's Coffee Ice Cream, you'd dole it out to yourself in sensible, half-cup portions over the course of four days and then end up scarfing the entire pint in one sitting. Because Starbuck's Coffee Ice Cream is expensive and, probably after the first half-cup, your tastebuds were so frozen they weren't really tasting the ice cream anyway -- yet you couldn't make yourself stop and basically wasted the rest of the pint. And this summer was wasted on something even more tasteless and unhealthy.

Oh, I know, I know: "Stop yammering on about the television, Sisiggy. Just turn it off and leave the rest of us alone."

And, honestly, I would -- if the trend wasn't creeping into other areas of my life. Movies (please, somebody, revoke Disney's license to make movies); Broadway (please, somebody, revoke Disney's license to make musicals); music (does everything have to sound like a revival of Riverdance?); and even food (let's ban the word "chocoholic," for instance. Yes, there are times only chocolate will do, four days out of the month in particular. But, other than that, there are so many other flavors and STOP ADDING CHOCOLATE TO THEM!).

So, while we think we have a variety of choices in all we do, the types of choices we have remind me of going to Golden Corral for a meal: It looks like there are all different kinds of things to eat, until you actually taste the food, at which point you realize all the savory stuff tastes about the same and all the sweet stuff tastes about the same and, really, by the looks of everything, it all should have tasted really good. Instead, though you are stuffed and bloated, you don't remember actually enjoying any of it.

I'm just afraid that pretty soon Golden Corral will be all there is because Golden Corrals make money for the franchise while making customers think they're getting a great deal -- and they are, if they're not picky about things like...well...taste.

Did you honestly expect anything but a food metaphor from me?

Waiting for the last ball to drop

I can't remember a year I didn't watch the ball drop in Times Square. But this is the first year it dawned on me that I could barely see the ball for the tower of advertising. In fact, the path the ball travels has been shortened so much by the advertising, they have a problem doing the countdown before it hits the bottom -- which really isn't the bottom or anywhere near it anymore.

Overall, ringing in the New Year on television has become an all-around depressing proposition. I was one who stuck with good ol' Guy Lombardo to the bitter end; none of that new-fangled Dick Clark's Rockin' in New Years Eve for me! My last memory of Guy Lombardo at the Waldorf Astoria is of watching the ancient couples, dressed to the nines, crammed on the dance floor. There was a bittersweetness about it that sort of summed of the idea of New Years Eve.

But Guy, the Royal Canadians and their audience weren't ... uncomfortable ... to watch -- just outdated and just a little goofy. With all due respect to Dick Clark's past accomplishments and his battle to overcome the debilitating effect of his stroke, even the brief time I saw him last night was painful (I was, after all, focusing my evening on the Marx Brothers over at TCM).

In the end, Dirtman encouraged me to switch over to NBC where the countdown was being emceed by people I didn't recognize, but who seemed to think, in the last minutes before the New Year, we wanted to hear about their irrelevant (to a national broadcast of an worldwide event) life stories.

Then they all counted backwards from ten while most of the screen was taken up by flashing lights trying to sell me Japanese electronics.

Next year, I'll just use my cell phone. Happy New Year, every one; may it be as commercial-free as possible...

New Year's Day . . . and beyond

This is not among my favorite holidays. All that forced celebration is almost too maniacal; the pessimist in me knows that, in spite of the "New" moniker, we are also mourning a year that's gone.

I rarely hear anyone wrap up Dec. 31 by saying, "Wow! That was a great year!" It's always something along the line of "Good riddance!"

I won't belabor the fact that you have the same assurance of a fresh run of 365 new days on June 30 as you do on Dec. 31. We love milestones and that new challenge of remembering to change the number at the end of the date every time you write a check. And -- hey -- any excuse to run a 40 percent off sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

My mother used to make a big fuss over New Year's Eve and even New Year's Day. I think it was her attempt to extend the holiday season as much as possible and I wonder, in retrospect, if she didn't suffer a bit from Seasonal Affective Disorder -- I do remember her sighing sadly once and mentioning, "Now comes the post-holiday blues." I don't recall her ever acting depressed, but hers was a generation that wouldn't have "acted out" their feelings.

I will admit that January is sort of a blank time these days. There is nothing to anticipate -- even gardeners are relegated to merely perusing seed catalogs. We're not preparing for anything or anticipating anything but the end of it. Even beastly February at least features Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day white sales and mattress discounts, and Lent (okay, Lent is probably not an eagerly anticipated event and one that, when I was a Catholic schoolgirl, I never quite "got." I knew I had to give something up, so I usually chose something I didn't really like to begin with -- like liver...or kale). You have to travel to experience Mardi Gras and, frankly, every day in the South is Fat Tuesday.

January, though, is 31 days of a blank slate. To me, that's terrific. I have 31 days for which nothing is expected; 31 days where whatever I do is gravy. I can get in some groundwork for times when I will have an obligation...or not. Mostly, I can pick my project and my deadline. So much power!

I remember saying last year that 2009 had been so horrible, I was glad it was over. I was ready to say the same thing about 2010. But, ya know...even though both years held their terrors, they also held a certain beauty of painful, but necessary, growth and poignant moments that only gut-wrenching misery can manifest. I doubt I would have ever witnessed my children's strength and compassion or my brothers' fierce loyalty had this year not happened.

So, thank you, 2010, for what you brought. And I'll even welcome you, 2011 -- in my own, quiet way.

Cookbooks and Candy

My family knows me...

...and they like to eat.

After a brief 24-hour break from cooking so we could whittle back some of the Christmas leftovers, I couldn't wait to get back into the kitchen today to play with the new toys I got for Christmas.

Today it was the Cranberry Apple Cake from Ina Garten's book (or "In the Garden," if you're my brother...). I kind of owed this cake to Dirtman, since I'd put cranberries in the freezer to make for Thanksgiving and then promptly forgot them. Dirtman loves cranberries and the rest of us love apples, cinnamon and orange*. And...it's cake -- it won't see a new day.

This went together very easily -- perfect for a day I had three loads to hang on the clothes line to catch up on laundry. The wind gusts are pretty strong, which is good for drying clothes as long as you anchor them good and tight. I have nightmares of my bras flying about the neighborhood, causing traffic pile-ups.

*Yes, Heir 1, the cake is for us, not for the Dog People. (Heir 1 claims whenever I make something good, it's always for a kennel club function.)

Not for The Dog People

Just wait until next year...

Well, true to form, my ambitions for the holiday kick in about a month too late. Let's see...what was I doing a month ago? Oh, that's right -- apologizing for not properly preparing for Thanksgiving.

At least I've waited until three days before Christmas before berating myself for the stuff I didn't get done. There was I time when I began writing off this year's holiday on December 1.

Those were the days when I'd plan all sorts of handmade fabulousness, from a hand-sculpted Advent wreath to a set of matching hand knit sweaters for the entire family. I still hang on to a cross-stitch pattern for an Advent calendar in 22-ct. gauge (that's teeny-tiny) -- I still tell myself I'm going to get it done (keep in mind, the Heirs are now in their twenties -- not the age where they jump out of bed with excitement each morning to see a picture of sheep behind door number 14...).

All this planning usually happens the day after Christmas when I swear, "Next year will be better. I'll start now...today." I may even go so far as buying the supplies.

Then New Year's Eve comes and goes and I'm so over Christmas I have to leave the house while Dirtman deals with the dismal job of undoing and packing away all the glitter and glamor that seemed such a good idea at the time. By January 1, I want to think of nothing but the coming spring. Hand-sculpted Advent wreath? Plenty of time; right now I'm all about pastels and minimalist decor' accented with fresh flowers.

I know this, yet even now, as I'm typing this, I'm saying to myself, "Yeah, well, NEXT year really WILL be better. NEXT year I will be disciplined, organized and energetic."

I'm thinking hand-needlepoint Christmas stockings for Dirtman and the Heirs and hand-sewn cushions for all the dogs and cats...

For Dirtman

I've been waiting a long time to post this video. I found it way back in June and almost posted it then.

This is for Dirtman, in particular -- our resident bowl of mush. But, honestly (swear you won't tell anyone), I can't get through it without gritting my teeth and draping my arm somewhere, trying to look casual and blase'.

What amazes me is how long this commercial is. With the 15-second commercials flashing in front of us, an ad this long is almost an info-mercial.

So, make sure you are at maximum tissuage or can easily blame your watering eyes on allergies.

Merry Christmas, Sparkey. I saved the best for you.



*Oh, God...I just realized (I haven't seen this commercial since the 80s) the little boy's name is "Charley," the name of my oldest son. Forget everything I said about looking cool and blase'.

Razzleberry Dressing

Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol was not our favorite version of the Dickens classic, but it was requisite and quoted extensively.

Mr. Magoo in his natural state was ...well ... very politically incorrect. Basically, it was a cartoon making fun of an almost-blind old man. To make things worse, Mr. Magoo had a Chinese houseboy named Charley, complete with buck teeth, pigtail and "l" and "r" speech confusion ("Mistah Ma-gloo!")*.

There is no Charley in Magoo's Christmas Carol (not even in the "set up" song, "Great to be Back on Broadway"). And there is very little of Magoo's vision problems -- mistaking a coat rack for a visitor and, of course, the butcher's belly for the giant turkey Scrooge sends to the Cratchitts ("bwoot, bwoot").

So, Merry Christmas, John Boy and Dark Garden. May it be filled with razzleberry dressing.



*This led to a particular embarrassing moment for my mother. I had adopted "Charley's" version of saying "hello" and used it for everyone: "Heh-roh!" We moved to Maryland during this time period and I needed to change pediatricians. My mother was mortified when I greeted my new doctor -- Dr. Yim, a Chinese-American -- with a hearty "Heh-roh!"

A brief respite from being dragged down Memory Lane

By now everyone has seen the flash mob Hallelujah Chorus, so I'm not going to imbed it here. Follow the link if you haven't seen it.

Oh, and make sure you are at maximum tissuage*.

A few things that struck me after watching it a (ahem) few times. I wonder how many people we see singing aren't the ones who practiced for the event. I, myself, could have sung any of the parts, having worked out a simplified, four-part version for kazoo that was to be performed one Christmas Eve a very VERY long time ago that never came to pass because of the refusal on the part of Dark Garden some people not to practice and the inability to find someone to play bass kazoo.

Anyway, this time of year, every church tries to whip its choir into shape enough to wow the Christmas Eve crowd with a passable version of the Handel classic and, thereby, inspire the once-a-year folks to sign on for the duration. So I figure there had to be a few church choir members in the food court crowd who, upon seeing the spontaneous outbreak of a piece they knew, stood and joined the singing.

Then there is the standing thing. I've seen a lot of comments on the internet about how rude it was that so many people didn't stand. Standing during the Hallelujah Chorus is a tradition, not a sacred rite. If this had occurred at my local mall, the lack of standing would have been the same. Most men don't around here don't bother to remove their hats during the Star Spangled Banner either.

It made me laugh to see the people in the background actually fleeing the area, as if they were terrified they'd be charged for listening to Handel without having to choke up a "love offering."

What did touch me, though, were the parents with children. I got a little weepy watching parents make some gesture or sign to their children telling them to pay attention -- "this is special; this is a moment." Watch how many parents reach out and touch their children in some way; they're so aware that this mundane shopping day suddenly became a gift that would never leave either memories.

I have to admit, if this were to occur in our local mall, while Dirtman and I would enjoy the performance, just about every other Linguini would be heading for the door. John Boy would be afraid a sing-along was about to break out. Dark Garden would balk at the idea of sacred music being inflicted upon him while he was doing a chore he hated in the first place. As for the Small Assorted Cratchits (which is what we call the Heirs and the Twins this time of year), duct tape over their mouths might be be wisest course of action.

In stark contrast to the organized and grand version of this perennial classic that is sweeping the web, I offer this older, more rustic version by the Roches (whose Christmas performance in Northern Virginia I swear I will attend one day when I grow up). It's not quite as full-bodied as a mall full of singers, but mesmerizing by its own merit.



*"Tissuage is a word because I say it is.

Those holiday specials were...ummm...special

Here is my dilema: There are certain things I love but I'm not sure I love them for what they are or for the memory they induce.

For instance: There is a song in my Playlist by Julius LaRosa called "Eh, Cumpare." Bluntly, Placido Domingo will not be performing it anytime soon at the Met. It's a campy song, but I love it. I love it because I have a very specific memory from when I was five or six of that song coming on and my mother, grandmother and two aunts singing and miming along and laughing so hard they couldn't breath. I'm pretty sure there had to be Old Fashioneds and Martinis preceding the performance (for everyone but my mother, who didn't drink but had no problem acting like she had). From then on whenever that song was played, the entire Linguini assembly would begin singing and miming and laughing. (This was obviously not only a Linguini thing -- if you watch Godfather III, they have a similar -- though certainly more organized -- reaction to the song).

So, for what it's worth, growing up I absolutely loved Christmas specials. Not just the ones for kids, though. During the Christmas season, I was permitted to stay up past my 8 o'clock bedtime (that's right -- through my sophomore year in high school I had to go to bed at 8 o'clock...) and see all the Christmas shows that ran throughout December; and everyone had one -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Red Skelton (who ran the same one every year -- Greer Garson; I loved it), Dean Martin, Andy Williams, and any other celebrity who had a "variety show" (TV Guide designation) on the air at the time.

I see clips of them now and part of me cringes. The writing was horrible, the "special effects" were embarrassing (and not even done ironically) and the music was canned. But -- what was it? I couldn't look away.

Well, of course it was that I was warm and comfy on the sofa surrounded by relatives (oh brother, was I surrounded by relatives...), safe, secure and convinced that this whole "living" thing was a breeze. And, of course, there were cookies.

To this day, I hear Bing Crosby sing and my whole stress level drops.

And, so, for those of you who have forgotten how wonderfully horrible they were or for those who have not experienced the "specialness" of the 1960s Christmas Special:





Or, of course, you could just go to Branson...

How many more sleeps 'til Christmas?

It's pretty safe to say that every Linguini can quote most of Dickens' A Christmas Carol from memory. Bits and pieces of it creep into our lexicon this time of year, but each line has it's own particular source depending on the situation, speaker and gravity of what we are really trying to say.

John Boy, Dark Garden and I grew up with six versions: two records (one featuring no less than Laurence Olivier), the 1951 movie with Alastair Sim and the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, the musical version from the 70s and the rather bizarre version starring Mr. Magoo (more on that at a later date). Dark Garden was quite young when the musical movie came out and he probably has the fondest memories of that -- seeing it at Radio City Music Hall at Christmas time was our reward that year for good report cards in the first semester (I wore my very fashionable maxi-coat that was gray and John Boy said made me look like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan's Heroes -- but I digress...).

Since then, there has been a flood of Christmas Carols (and I'm not counting every sitcom's obligatory Christmas episode that always seems to be a really stupid variation) and each with it's own merit. We have our personal favorites of course, though I like different ones for different reasons -- sometimes just for one line.

It stands to reason that a little of this would rub off on the Heirs and I wondered which of version they would take to heart. I figured the musical version if just for Albert Finney's muttered one-liners or maybe even the Patrick Stewart version because it's Capt. Picard from Star Trek.

But, no. This is the Heirs' favorite version of the Christmas Carol. I have fond memories of the two of them cuddled around me while we watched this.

I never cried over commercials until...

Christmas commercials don't make me cry anymore. I doubt they make anyone cry. They're loud and crass or, worse, deliberately and heavy-handedly sentimental. Jewelry commercials are the worst and don't get me started on car commercials that even hint that a car is an appropriate Christmas present.

I was never a weepy person. Oh, the opening of Lassie always had me swallowing hard, but that was about it. I had a friend who always exited gooey movies in tears and I'd be rolling my eyes.

Then life happened -- I had kids and troubles and turmoil and that all changed. Now I cry over everything. Heir 2 can't leave for college or come home from college that I'm not I'm blubbering in the driveway. I just have to hear a dog whimper and I tear up. I even found myself crying while watching Charlie Chaplin and Jackie Coogan in The Kid.

When I was a teenager, though, I was a rock; except when this commercial came on. I was fine until the veeeeeeeery end -- the kid's reaction...you'll see what I mean.





See? See? Am I right?

With apologies to modern animation...

I get sucked into a sentimental vortex during the Christmas season, so you will have to bear with me while I drag family members kicking and screaming down memory lane.

Happily, just in case you thought that some childhood holiday trauma memories have been permanently lost with the decay of time, there is always some kindred victim soul who managed to preserve it for you.

And so we have today's first offering. Thanks to YouTube, my brothers and I are seeing this for the first time in color.

When I found it and watched it, I was surprised at how much of this cartoon was ingrained in my head -- we used to do Grampy's "Hmmm.....hmmmm.....hmmm....I got it!" all the time (when we were little, I mean -- it would be silly to do it now...). And that song; I'd forgotten where it had come from.

For those of you who don't remember, Grampy used to show up in Betty Boop cartoons.

The Long and Winding Road

I travel it twice a day, five -- sometimes six -- times a week and I've been doing it for a year and a half. You'd think I'd be numb to it by now.

The road between my house and the farm where I work is so phenomenally beautiful you would think it was deliberately laid out just for aesthetic purposes; like someone directed, "Put the mountain here and that little foothill there, a broken down barn right on the road, sprinkle a few sheep there and there and -- oh -- have that light come in from the east at just this angle to light up this, but not that...and a cow -- there must be a cow!"

Actually, it is never the same day to day or even hour to hour. The seasons change, the weather changes, the light changes and even the residents initiate change. Yet there is consistency also. The housing boom and subsequent bust had very little affect on this road -- there is only one vast empty field accessed through an elaborate stone archway festooned with now-tattered flags announcing, "Homes!" "Lots for Sale!" The sign with contact information has been knocked over and broken in the ditch for over a year now.

Naturally there is other evidence of the housing crisis cropping up here and there; but there is an overall stability also that speaks of a privilege peculiar to this part of the country -- properties are not sold, so much as passed down to relatives. There is a lack of foreclosures along this road because few of them carried mortgages.

So it is comforting to know that there is a rhythm on this road that I can count on; the plowing in spring; the foraging trails of deer during the winter that on any other road would be a catastrophe; sheep shearing; calving; and even skunk mating season that results in a minefield of putrid-smelling roadkill.

It isn't all boring regularity, though. There are those bizarre little minor events not important enough to remember to relate at the dinner table, but that are funny in their rural, bucolic context. For instance, there are several poultry farms near here and one day someone must have left their turkey pen open. Driving into town to make a bank deposit I saw about a dozen turkeys on the side of the road, apparently conferring with each other over which direction to take. On my way back, maybe 20 minutes later, they were still there. I decided they were waiting for a bus.*

I'm rather proprietary about life along this road, as if my mere presence ensures that life will continue. If a tree falls along Back Road will it make a noise if Sisiggy isn't driving by to hear it? I think not. I am convinced that on my days off the little man who takes a walk everyday just to the end of his vast property and back stays indoors and the lady who walks her Beagle just ties him up in the backyard and sleeps in.

On a sharp curve is a huge, tidy farm with sheep and cattle. Many times when I drive by in the early morning the owner (at least I assume he is) is on his front lawn with his cup of coffee, surveying his good work. Two border collies sit obediently at his feet, awaiting their orders. I wave to him and his return wave is practically a salute. There is no sign of a female presence on the property; no flowers appear on the porch in the spring, nor any other decorative indication that one season is any different from another. The only vehicle in the driveway is the immaculate early-model farm truck. The outside of the house if devoid of a single bush or border and the white paint is renewed regularly. He is in control of his land; a tight, iron-grip of control.

I have decided I like this man but, like the ex-wife I've conjured for him, doubt anyone could ever live with him. By now he's convinced himself he likes it better this way and, were he a talker -- which he is not -- he would tell you so in a firm tone that would prevent your disagreement.

I have built stories like this for each of the houses I pass. The ramshackle farmhouse where a little old lady regularly hangs out her laundry, rain or shine; she's a little addled, but she makes due with regular visits from old friends. There is the young family who live next to a tiny country store; I'm positive the oldest boys is recruited to make regular trips next door for milk and, in my mind, he's always barefoot and in need of a haircut. I've made up an entire medical history for the little man who walks to the end of his property each day.

Even the mountains have a story and I try to picture what this valley looked like when those mountains were as big and craggy as the Rockies and here I am, a tiny speck driving through in my little Subaru Anachronism.

My very favorite thing is finding old road beds and trying to conjure what this area looked like before this nice, convenient road cut off the maze of small country lanes. You can still see the shadows of the old paths, especially when you come across a very old house that has been modified so that its back is now its front.

I get a little annoyed when I meet up with another vehicle on what I consider "my road," especially when they pull behind me and want me to drive over the limit because they're in a hurry. Their heads usually have that sideways tilt, letting me know they're on their cell phone because, you know, it's been an entire three minutes since they dropped off little Finster and his his status may have changed. (What is it with people who can no longer drive without a cell phone attached to their ear? Are their families that inept?)

Sometimes...more times than I like to admit...my drive is the best part of the day...unless, of course, there's something good on TCM...

*Don't worry -- since I was unable to determine which farm the turkeys were from, I called the sheriff's department, which had already been informed (several times over) of the wayward turkeys and were dealing with the problem at that very moment. I considered heading back to the site to watch the turkey round-up, but decided to leave the sheriff's department with their dignity intact.

Back to plate-spinning

Today is my last day home after a welcomed break for the holiday. Four days off and I've found my old rhythm of housekeeping and homemaking. In four days organization has begun to return along with all my old enthusiasms.

It's called Being Rested. The past four nights I did not go to bed trying to fit the puzzle pieces of who has to be where and what car will take them and how it will all work around letting out dogs and making sure we all have the proper clothing clean and ready to wear.

Instead, for four glorious nights I knew in the morning would be coffee, then a quick lick around the house, and then the easy dance between hanging out laundry and writing and knitting and cooking and sewing.

The little glitches in the day that normally bring the whole opera to a screeching and tragic halt -- for instance, Dirtman being called into work early -- mean nothing more than perhaps flipping a chore or two. Suddenly words I haven't uttered in a very long time come out of my mouth: "No big deal!" Almost...cheerful.

Tomorrow the circus goes back on the road and I will begin my fabulous plate act, running from spinning plate to spinning plate, making sure they stay moving so they don't fall and break.

I can never think beyond the plates while they're spinning, though. They are useless, but urgent and, frankly, I have to be thankful for the opportunity to perform. Rent must be paid, the lights must stay on, Linguinis must be fed.

But, until Christmas, the plates are all there is.

Thanks for ... the turkey...

It is The Day After Thanksgiving and Dark Garden sends us an e-mail complimenting Dirtman and me on the food we’d had the day before. Because it is The Day after Thanksgiving, I don’t open it until the Day After the Day After Thanksgiving.

The Day After Thanksgiving is the day I stay in bed recuperating from The Week Before Thanksgiving. (Long-time Linguini readers know this involves Turner Classic Movies and a heating pad).

So I get the e-mail and, I have to admit, I’m surprised. I was not particularly impressed with this year’s menu.

The turkey was, as always, very good. Dirtman usually takes care of the turkey with minimal input from me; so, other than resolving each year that Someone Else should carve (someone who is neither Dirtman nor I), the turkey was perfect.

Everything else – meh.

In all fairness, this is the first year I’ve done an all-out Thanksgiving in this house. We had a tiny celebration here the first year and the next year we were at Dark Garden’s house. The kitchen here is very tiny and I’ve had to give away most of my cookware because it didn’t fit in the oven or on the stove. (Ironically, for the first time in my 23 years of marriage, Dirtman was able to find the turkey roaster on Thanksgiving -- but it won't fit into the oven).

I came to realize, though, that in most of the world, huge kitchens with multiple ovens are not seen outside a commercial establishment. If the rest of the world can have their family over for a big meal, well then a good ol’ Yankee girl can certainly do just as well…

…sort of…

…so the praline topping on the sweet potatoes wasn’t crunchy enough…

…and the dressing was too bready (DG would complain about the apples, but he was the only one alarmed at fruit in his stuffing; and maybe John Boy, who doesn’t like vegetables in his cake either…)…

If my job was not away from home (ah, for the good ‘ol days of working from home…), I probably could have solved these problems by doing a whole lot ahead of time. Hindsight being 20/20, I know now what I could have done to prevent side-dish backup.

Did I mention the microwave broke the day before Thanksgiving? No?

So, all-in-all, I think I deserved my TCM and heating pad day – I also spent the day explaining to two 20-somethings how one goes about heating up Thanksgiving leftovers without a microwave…

NOTE: In actuality, the highlight of the day was not the meal at all, but the game of Balderdash that followed (which was actually two games of Balderdash, since Heir 2 made us all go around again until it was after midnight and we were all so tired we couldn't write anymore).

Move on, already...

It's tempting to jump on the "Ah-Hah! See -- it was the bank's fault all along" bandwagon making the rounds this month among foreclosure victims (for lack of a better word).

I have to admit that I've spent an inordinate amount of time giggling at the vacuous expressions on mortgage-provider employees as they try to explain how they came to sign off on thousands of foreclosures barely having the vaguest idea of what a mortgage is.

For those of us who lost everything during the past few years, we're just happy that, for once, we're not being blamed. And if it means throwing those poor slobs under the bus, I've got to admit for a brief moment it meant relief.

Honestly, though, I know it's not those dazed, confused souls trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as they try to justify signing documents stating they work in states they've never been to or witnessed signatures of people they didn't know. But let's face it, we've all had it out for the financial community in general ever since Bear Stearns went belly up. Bernie Madoff had us lighting torches and marching through the village.

For people like me, it's been good to have the banks around to absorb some of the smug self-righteousness of those who are surviving this financial climate. If I had a nickle for every person, pundit or writer that used the phrase, "living in houses they couldn't afford based on money they hadn't yet earned," I would still be a homeowner. Other than that being the ultimate in arrogant statements, I've found that to be the case in most households -- even ones that are not facing foreclosure.

Which is why I've stopped gloating over this current mortgage crisis. Yes, there was and is rampant greed in the financial world that caused varying degrees of malfeasance. But...

...but...

BIG HONKIN' BUT... that still doesn't excuse our national obsession with buying, wanting, lusting after and judging by Stuff. Focusing on the financial world's contributions to our economic woes may be satisfying, but it gets us nowhere. I heard the fashionable response when someone makes dire economic predictions based on what's happening now is to slough off the whole economic downturn on "a dip in the cycle;" in other words, no need to worry -- this is just what happens sometimes and we'll be back to business as usual again in no time.

Well, yeah...that's why it's cyclical; it's also known as insanity -- doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

We all know that the world was slightly insane, right? And Financial Experts (credentials, please!) claim the key to getting the economy running again is to get money into the hands of the consumer so they can buy more Stuff. And it's probably true -- it really will get us back to where we were, again and again and again.

I am not so naive to think this event was going to change the economic tide of the universe. But there may be out there...and you know who you are...people who recognize this financial upheaval for the gift it is -- albeit a very, very hard gift to accept. It's like getting a big, humongous girdle for Christmas from a really skinny friend and when you look at it you swear it's way too big but then it turns out that it not only fits you, but also makes you look really, really terrific -- you hate to admit that it's a perfect fit and that you needed it all along, but there's no getting around the fact that you need it because you are too damn bloated.

That kind of gift.

Someday I will write of my Journey to the Center of the Socio-economic Earth Sector, where my only armor was my race and my willingness to grovel, neither of which I'm particularly proud. That's for another day.

The point is, I'm glad I know now what I didn't know in my insulated middle class existence. And that's what I think of when I see people grasping at straws to stay in the homes they can't possibly maintain the payments on or refusing to accept that they are in over their heads and are, instead, victims of the hapless banking system.

I want to tell them, Let it go. Admit it: unethical and illegal banking practices aside, you were drowning. Accept it, learn from it and, for your own sake, move on.

Then, maybe, the things will go back to the way it was for everyone; and, for some of us, it will be even better.