The Temple

This winter it's been damn hard to find a decent clementine. My theory is that they (and we) are victims of their success. Fifteen years ago, when the charming wooden crates of these delightful fruits began to appear, it seemed impossible to get a bad one. From November to March, we feasted on perfectly tart, seedless little citrus gems. The Spanish beauties festooned our holiday tables and rounded out our brown bag lunches in their bright unassuming way.

Now? They come from Spain, they come from Morocco, they come from California, and they even come from South America in the summer time, but despite this bounty, their quality is spotty. Clever distributors have designed a bright orange mesh to sell them in, making it impossible to see the true color of the fruit, much less its size or the texture of the rind. Everybody loves clementines, but not many of us get what we hoped for once we open the package.

It's to the point where I ask anyone who has a decent looking specimen where it was obtained, and I confess to driving way out of my way just to find some good clementines.

Thankfully, there is another orange that is just as satisfying.  I remember my mother buying Temple oranges when I was a little girl. They were always cheaper than the smooth-skinned navals and Valencias, probably because they have A LOT of seeds, but to me they have always been superior-- easy to peel, always juicy, with a flawless balance of sweet and tart.

I don't feel that the Temple orange has received its proper due, but maybe that's a good thing. Their season is very short, so brief in fact that I forget about them from year to year until that day when I walk into the produce section and spy a stack.

Today, like that day every year, I clapped my hands and nearly skipped over to fill my plastic bag.

Shhhhh.

By the Shorts

We had a fun day today with my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew. It was our annual Oscar-nominated shorts marathon where we see both the animated and live action shows back to back. Even though I was a bit disappointed in the field this year-- I wanted to fall in love with something, but they were all just okay-- it was great company and an excellent shared experience seeing 10 good movies that we wouldn't otherwise.

And even better? We're going to the documentaries in a couple of weeks.

Prankster

One of the teachers on my team has made the decision to retire as of April 1. For someone to retire mid-year speaks to morale around here, but that's another blog post all together. Today she told the students of her departure.

She let them know class by class, but such big news spread quickly, at first through whispers. "Do you think she really meant it?" I overheard one kid ask another.

"Dude! No way!" his friend answered. "She's only joking. Look at the date-- it's April Fool's Day!"

Oh, Genie!

All week long my students have been pestering me about the Genie. When will we know whose wishes were granted they ask? I don't mind at all, in fact I'm really happy, because clearly they are engaged and invested in the assignment.

Five years ago when we first came up with this activity, the teacher that I collaborate with and I actually planned to read through each group and decide whose wish would be granted. We talked about assessment guidelines and criteria and thought long and hard about how to make it a fair and valuable lesson.

Finally on the day before we had promised the kids the Genie was going to reply, we hit upon the following solution:

The genie listened to each wish. When the last person was finished, he stood silently for a moment before he spoke.

"Very well," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "We must find happiness in our journey through life without always searching for it. True happiness is not having what you want, but rather wanting what you have. However, I sympathize with those who have lost what they value, and these wishes I will grant.

Tonight I'm wondering if the Genie would grant my wish, the desire to live a worry-free life. Did I ever have that? I'm going to have to say no.

Tales from the Science Fair

The Effect of Temperature on Growing Crystals

Me: So how did you measure the crystals? By weight? By length?
Student: I just took off the cover and looked at them.
Me, pointing at graph: So, what happened in this trial? It was a lot longer than the others.
Student: I have NO idea. Maybe I used less borax?
Me: So, what would you do differently if you ran this experiment again?
Student: I would kick my dad out of the apartment! He ruined everything!

The Speed of Rodents in a Maze

Heidi: So why did you pick hamsters and guinea pigs?
Student: Believe it or not, they are the most athletic of rodents!
Heidi: Do you have research that shows this?
Student: Mmmm. Yes?

Missing Something?

The all-school science fair is tomorrow, and so especially with the unexpected day off yesterday, you can imagine that our hallways were literally buzzing with sixth graders assembling their final presentation boards. Everywhere you looked, one of a hundred kids was typing, proofing, printing, reprinting, cutting, and gluing. Shreds of brightly colored paper littered the carpets of each classroom.

And so it was that of course I agreed when a small group of students asked if I would stay until the late bus to help them finish up. An inveterate procrastinator myself, I know what it's like to work right down to the deadline.

As they were cleaning up, I walked around to take a last look at their work. One student had been at it for hours. She had her title, all of her headings, and some cool illustrations. "Where's your graph and data table?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't have those," she said.

I was startled. "Well, where's your data? I'll help you make those," I offered.

She shrugged. "I don't have any."

"What!!??" My jaw literally dropped open. "But, your board says your project was The Effect of Music on Memory."

"That's right," she told me, "and I know from  personal experience that you only have to hear a song twice before you know most of the words."

"No, no, no," I cried. "You were supposed to do an experiment! We could have been working on that instead of this!" I swept my hand across the table in dismay.

"Why would we do that?" she asked. "The board is due tomorrow."

Wrong

My psychic sumpin sumpin must be on the fritz. I was sure the freezing rain this morning would give us a delayed opening at best, so you could have bought me with a quarter when I found out that schools were closed. Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasant surprise, but still a surprise.

Likewise, I just knew the book, Wonder by RJ Palacio was going to win the Newbery, but it turned out going to a book I sort of despised, The One and Only Ivan. (What can I say? It's about a gorilla in a two bit zoo. Sad stuff.)

I predict that I won't make any predictions for a while. What are the odds on that one?

Blast from the Past

We saw Argo today, and for once, I was glad I knew how a movie would all turn out. The film was still very suspenseful, but much less stressful. (Thank you, Genie!)

More than anything, though, I really liked seeing 1979 and 1980 again. The setting of the movie was like a visit from an old friend. Oh sure, the glasses were outrageous, and the hair styles were a bit regrettable, and the smoking? In the office! On the plane! Oh, I don't miss that at all, and of course the whole America Held Hostage thing was really no fun either.

But still, seeing all those things that were so very familiar then and are completely gone now, made me more than a little nostalgic for my own days of expat life, flying Swissair and riding in VW Vans, and of course, being 17 and knowing everything.

Alas, that was another century.

My Next Career

Not sure what, but despite the frigid temps this week, I do have my eye on a fancy ice cream maker. No doubt I could put my vegan skills to good work with that!

Hmmm.... It might be best to buy it while I have this career to pay for it.

Oi! Ten Thousand Years Will Give You such a Crick in the Neck

Every year when my students are writing fiction, I give them an assignment to test how well they know the character they have created. In a scenario completely separate from their own story, they are asked to imagine that their character is with a group of people on a beach when...

Someone finds an old bottle with a cork in it. They all gather around to see what's inside, but the glass is cloudy. Someone else suggests pulling the cork, and as they try to pry it out, the bottle drops, hits a rock, and smashes. The next thing they know, blue smoke is pouring out of the shattered bottle. The group stands there in amazement as the vapor takes a form-- it's a genie!

The genie takes a deep breath and then speaks in a raspy voice. "What a relief to be out of there." He stretches and looks around, smiling at them. Then he shakes his head, confused. "But-- where is my bottle?" He spies the fragments being washed out with the tide. "Oh no-- everything I own was in there! That bottle's been in my family for centuries." His smile has been replaced by a frown.

He turns to the group and speaks again, his voice growing stronger with each word. "In return for freeing me, you may each make one wish. However, since you destroyed my home, only one of you will have your wish granted. Wish wisely."

They have to write how their character reacts to this situation. The task is further complicated by the fact that the "group" on the beach actually consists of other students' characters, all making competing wishes.

It's always interesting to read what my students have their characters wish for. In the majority of cases, the fictional folks are barely disguised extensions of the kids in my class, which is to be expected.

Many wish for unlimited wishes, but as I overheard one of my students telling another, "That is the most shallow wish EVER." Lots of others wish for material things; a few nice kids always wish for the genie to have his bottle back.

Year after year I preside over their fantasies, asking questions and clarifying the task as necessary, but I never engage in any wishful thinking of my own. Today was an exception, though. I'm not sure why, but in a brief moment of quiet I considered my own desires, and I knew exactly what I wanted.

I would just wish my worries away. Who needs another wish than that?

Mind Over Matter

In my house, we're not allowed to say that we're sick. We can describe our symptoms, sure, but to take that extra step and actually define ourselves existentially as unhealthy or ill? No way! We are sooooo much more than that one, temporary, condition.

That said, I have a really, really bad sore throat. I hope I'm not coming down with something.

I Feel Your Pain

"I'd like to talk about sexual harassment for a few minutes," the counselor told my class today.

"Oh yeah!" one student blurted, "I did that last year."

There was a moment of silence before her peers jumped on her misstatement, and it was only seconds before she was in tears. It all happened so fast, that although the counselor and I addressed the issue as quickly as we could, she was inconsolable for a minute or two.

"Everyone says things they don't exactly mean," I told her and the class. "Why, just yesterday I was telling another teacher about an email everyone was talking about, but I was sure I didn't get. I said, I looked everywhere-- I checked my inbox, I checked my trash, and I checked my junk.

A few eyes widened. I nodded. "Yep," I confessed, "she reminded me never to check my junk at school."

What's Your Emergency?

The other night we pulled into our parking lot road weary and with several trips to unload. Lately it seems that the neighbors have increased their fleets of automobiles, and so even at our quiet end of the complex, parking is at a premium. As such, our space was across the lot from our home, giving us an extra thirty yards or so to tote our cargo.

When at first I cut the engine, I noticed a very still figure in the drivers seat of the car to my left. Not wanting to stare, but well aware of the oddness, I sneaked a peak each time I returned to the car for another load. It was our neighbor's vehicle, and the person inside, while well-bundled against the cold was clearly our neighbor, her head bowed to the steering wheel.

We made a bit of a ruckus as we unloaded; we called back and forth to each other, and the dog was with us, too, but she never moved or reacted in any way. Finally, I did what anyone else in my situation might do-- I made Heidi go knock on the window to see if everything was all right.

As Heidi approached the car, I lurked just inside our open door, ready to react to any emergency. She rapped several times. "Is everything all right?" I heard her ask.

Then there were muffled replies from within the car, and Heidi's voice, clear in the night, "Okay, we just wanted to make sure."

Later she repeated the conversation to me. "What? Did you think I was dead or something? I'm FINE! It was just too crazy in our house, so I came out here to meditate."

That must have been pretty crazy..

Old Dog, New Tricks

My fingers hurt a little from practicing my ukulele. Where's my treat?

What a Difference a Week Makes

We are all ready to show off our cushy new theater to our guests from out of town today, but things did not go quite as expected. As before, I booked the tickets online and chose our seats in advance. We were running a little late, but entered the theater just as the previews started. "Isn't this awesome," I whispered before stopping dead in my tracks. There were people in our seats.

I am not a confrontational person, but this time I didn't really have a choice. I made my way to the center of the row and stood before the reclining couple. "I think you might have the wrong seat," I started, but the woman there would hear none of it.

"I'm sure they gave us these seats," she told me firmly.

"I have my tickets," I showed her the stubs in my palm. "Do you have yours?"

She squirmed defiantly. "I know these are our seats."

People were looking on in annoyance and the four other people in our group were standing in the aisle. I scanned the theater for empty seats but then realized that there was every chance that someone else had reserved them, and then we would be the interlopers; that could turn into vicious chain. We had to go to the manager.

Five minutes later several people were firmly moved and a few were actually removed. We settled into our seats to enjoy the show, but the reclining seats were cold comfort. Somehow, it just wasn't as fun as I'd pictured it.

For You

I don't want to brag, but generally our dog is pretty well behaved. Set aside pretty much any cat in the world (she just wants to love them) and a squirrel or two here and there and my mom (she loves my mom) and she's damn near perfect.

You can imagine my surprise then, when tonight as Heidi's mom was browning the ground beef for tacos, Isabel almost knocked her over.

She never bothers me in the kitchen, I thought. Then it hit me.

When she was a wee puppy and before we put her on a raw diet, she had a lot of, shall we say, digestive issues. One remedy for such conditions was a mixture of hamburger, rice, and pumpkin, and so I cooked up batch after batch of the stuff to keep our puppy happy and well.

Even today, nine years later, our senior dog smells ground beef frying and her inner puppy is sure it's for her. Somehow? That doesn't annoy me at all.

By Any Means

So we've been working on this writing samples ALL WEEK, and today by the end of class was the drop-dead deadline. Still, there was one particular student who early on had been moved to the desk RIGHT next to me, but even with constant encouragement and redirection had yet to write a single word of his final draft. Twenty minutes into the class period, we were reaching crisis stage, and I was grasping for motivational tools.

"Your mom is going to be REALLY mad," I whispered.

He fidgeted. "I know," he said, but it wasn't that convincing.

"She won't believe you didn't finish," I said, shaking my head. He was loving the sympathy. "I think I better get a video of you so she can see what happened."

His eyes widened as I pulled out my phone and started recording. "No, no," he pleaded.

I have him a what-can-I-do? shrug and kept the phone pointed straight at him.

He picked up his pencil desperately and began to write, and can you believe it? He finished the essay by the bell.

Overcast with a Chance of Sun

"You didn't explain that very well," the student standing by my desk told me.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I'll try to do better next time."

"I thought we were supposed to bring our drafts for you to check," she continued.

I nodded sympathetically. "Normally, you would," I replied, "but because this is kind of a test, I'm not commenting on drafts-- you have to revise on your own. I would be happy to answer any specific question, though."

She frowned and then brightened a bit. "Actually, I do have a pacific question," she said.

"What kind of question?" I asked.

"Pacific," she repeated.

"Well," I said, "I'm afraid if you have a Pacific question, I can only give you an Atlantic answer."

She giggled. "Oh forget it! I'm going to go fix my draft."

What Blah

More tales of quadruple teaching a lesson:

Today, I used the white board to record a student-generated list of writing tools we've used this year. During the last class of the day, a student raised her hand and repeated one of the ideas, verbatim, from the class before. I caught on right away. She could read the ghostly shadow of the erased writing. "Good one!" I said. "What else do you see?"

She reeled off another one, and we laughed. "Anything else?" I asked.

"What..." she started and then frowned and squinted. "Blah." She couldn't read the rest.

"What blah?" I repeated. "Very good!" And I wrote it down on the list.

The students who were paying attention giggled. (I'd like to say that it was all of them, but I teach sixth grade. I knew I'd have to circle back and pick up the stragglers another way.) "What blah!" one of the focused kids exclaimed. "I must have been absent that day!"

We joked about it for a minute or two and then went on to complete the list. The assignment was for them to write the first draft of an essay and then use the list to revise. A while later a student approached my desk. "I'm finished my draft," she said quietly.

"Did you use the list on the board to revise?" I asked.

"Yes," she confirmed, "and I have everything except what blah. I must have been absent that day."

Minty Fresh

I'm not sure how it came up at lunch today, but I found myself confessing that, when I was in kindergarten and first grade, I ate the paste. I think I must have assumed that everyone did that so I was a little surprised that I was the lone paste-eater. I felt it necessary to explain.

"Seriously? You never tried it?" I asked. "But, it was so delicious-- all sweet and minty. I wonder what kind of paste that was? I wonder what was in it?"

I thought back 45 years in time. "My teachers used to cut little squares of paper," I recalled, "and the paste came in these giant tubs, so they would take like a tongue depresser thing and scoop a glob onto each square and then student helpers would bring one to each of us," I continued. "We had to use our fingers to rub the paste in, so of course you could taste it, and it was good!"

For a second, I was my present adult teacher self standing in that long ago classroom. I considered the routine from a professional perspective as I tried to describe it to my colleagues. What did we do next? I tried to remember.

"Hmmm... Now that I think of it, I'm not sure how we were actually supposed to get the paste off our hands... did they send us to the bathroom? Did we have a sink in the room?" I shrugged. "Who knows? For me, that was never a problem!"

Stumbling Blocks

I gave an assignment to my classes today that I thought would be a quick review of something they learned in 5th grade, but a few minutes into it with the first group made me reconsider. They did not seem to grasp the directions and when they did, the task took them much longer than I planned for.

One of the benefits of teaching four sections of the same thing is the opportunity to tweak a lesson that needs it right away. The next class went a little better, but it was still not as smooth as I hoped. The third time I started with a little confession about how the day was not going the way I imagined it. "Maybe this is just a hard activity," I warned the class in a tone that was more challenge than admission of defeat. I made the directions very explicit and gave examples.

"That doesn't seem too hard," a student commented.

"I know, right?" I said. "Now show me how it's done!" I ended my pep talk with a little fist pump and then noticed a student raising his hand.

"I think I know what might take so long," he said. I looked at him expectantly. "You forgot to give us the worksheet."

Oops.

I Have Seen the Future

When I heard that the smallish movie theater I used to go to all the time had been renovated and switched over to reserve seating only, I made little note of the fact. Later someone mentioned that not only were the seats by reservation, they were luxury recliners, too. That piqued my interest, but it wasn't until this morning, when we met a friend there to see Zero Dark Thirty, that I fully realized the implications.

Oh. My. Gosh. Wide, roomy, adjustable auto-recline, and foot rests? The movies may never be the same.

21st Century Pioneer Woman

With a dramatic bang and a tiny wisp of smoke, my electric range quit working last night. Fortunately, dinner was ready.

This is actually the third stove we've owned in the 14 years we've lived here. When the elements kept burning out on the original 1985 model, we replaced it with a cool black ceramic top number. It was awesome until that day when the oven shorted out, blowing the entire circuitry on it. The repairman assured me that although the part was on back order, it would be there in a couple of weeks.

Two weeks without a stove seemed crazy. The first thing we bought was an electric kettle to boil water for coffee. We already had a crock pot and a combination deep-fryer and general electric pot. Our microwave is also a convection oven, and so we did nicely. When they called to tell us that it might be another week or so, I got an induction burner.

By now it was early November, and Thanksgiving was on the way. During one of my pointed calls, someone finally broke the news to me that my range was going to be out of commission for the entire holiday season. I reeled for a moment and then went into catering on site mode, channeling the mindset I had given up a decade ago.

For Thanksgiving, I farmed out the turkey and made all my other sides with the versatile little appliances I had. (I don't think I've roasted a turkey since.) At Christmas I did all my baking in the convection. It took a little longer, but it was fine. We ate normal meals and had guests over. Stove? Pffffft.

Thinking back on that time now, five years later, I have to say that being stoveless really wasn't too much more than an inconvenience, in fact I kind of enjoyed the challenge of it all. At last, though, in March, I broke down and bought a newer, better range. A few months later, they delivered the errant part. That kind of made me mad, but I was enjoying the new stove too much to let it bother me for long.

Until last night. Oh, I've put a call in to my new, reliable repair guy, and I have high hopes that he will be able to make a quick and simple fix, but he's so old-fashioned that he doesn't work on weekends, which is okay with me.

We'll make do.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

The Tolerance Club sponsored our monthly movie today. Last time we showed The Miracle Worker and the library was pretty packed, so we asked for permission to branch out into the theater. The movie was The Hammer, rated PG-13, and so we required our middle schoolers to get a permission slip signed by a parent.

As usual, the TC kids made posters and we ran a trailer on the morning announcements promising a snack and a couple hours of community and service to any student interested in watching this true story of Matt Hamill, born deaf, who against all odds becomes a national NCAA wrestling champ.

This afternoon, the assistant principal and I waited in the lobby as the bell rang, ready to collect permission slip "tickets" and usher the students into the theatre. At first it was a trickle, a few kids came right after their last class, eager to see the movie. Soon, the lobby was full, and when we started letting them in, it was literally only a matter of minutes before we ran out of snacks. As I dashed back to our team room to scrounge up some spare treats, I passed a line of students that ran past the main office and well down the hallway.

Later, when the lights were back up and the late buses had pulled off into a rainy Friday afternoon, we counted up how many permission slips there were and then added in the last minute phone calls home that we had approved. Our house was over 200, meaning that close to 30% of our student body had come to the movie.

Wow.

Golden Statue Playbook

The announcement this morning of the Oscar nominees for the year added a little zest to our day. I was particularly pleased that the acting in Silver Linings Playbook was so recognized; it was easily my favorite film of the year I've seen so far.

I also felt quite vindicated that I pushed for all of us to see Beasts of the Southern Wild back in July. I'm quite sure I remember insisting that it would be nominated come Oscar time... the fried alligator on the floating brothel scene was magical.

A few summers ago we took all the boys to see A Winter's Bone.  (Same story: I had read a few things about it and guessed that it might be recognized by the academy, and it was, and so I am boasting about my remarkable prescience.) Back then, Jennifer Lawrence was nominated, as was the movie. Neither was victorious, but this time around? My money's on Katniss.

Scrooge

We still have our Christmas tree up. I was going to pack it all away last Sunday, the actual twelfth day of Christmas, but with all our holiday travels it still seemed a little too soon to say good-bye to the bright lights and ornaments. The tree itself still looks pretty fresh-- ten days in a cool house without the lights on must be quite preservative.

I always listen with interest to those who explain how glad they are to put everything away and get back to a more normal routine after all the hubbub of the hectic holidays. I understand their point, but that view is not mine. I'm more of a romantic along the lines of Charles Dickens, via his changed-hearted villain:

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

But don't worry, the tree is coming down.

The Point

We've had a student who has been out since before Thanksgiving with a nasty infection. Thankfully, she returned today ready and willing to jump right in and try to pick up where she left off. Always a brash kind of a personality, she took me a bit by surprise when, after watching one of the class's favorite StoryCorps animations, she raised her hand. "What was the point of that?" she sniffed dismissively.

Fortunately, her classmates were able to explain the meaning of the SC motto:  

Every voice matters.

Listening Skills

Every year, I teach a unit on memoir, and this time I've incorporated some Storycorps materials into the short pieces my sixth graders analyze. For years I've listened to the edited versions of these recorded conversations every Friday morning on NPR. Many, many times I am moved to tears, but it wasn't until I drove past the mobile recording trailer every day for a month that I thought of using them in my classroom.

The Storycorps folks, in addition to archiving all of the interviews at the Library of Congress, have some great education materials on their website, as well as some animated versions of a several of their more popular interviews.

In my class we go from transcript to audio recording to animation. One of the students' favorite pieces is a son's remembrance of his father who worked up to sixteen hours a day as a school custodian to support their family of 13. The anecdote he relates, while very accessible to the students, also contains some old-fashioned versions of things they have contemporary inklings of, specifically store credit and bottle deposits.

We have had some interesting conversations about those issues, but none have been as lively as when, in order to help them relate to how hard that guy was working, I mentioned the possibility of a longer school day or year. The shock of such a suggestion must have damaged their ears because a couple of class periods later? Someone was circulating a petition to stop it.

An Updated Classic

Yes, the chicken is poached in advance with shallots and fresh herbs, and yes, the biscuits are whole wheat. Yes, I'm serving fresh green beans, and yes, the mashed potatoes are vegan, and they have a little sweet potato as well. There is also a vegan version of the main, simmering on the stove, but YES!

We are having chicken with white gravy, mashed potatoes, and biscuits.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

OLW 2013

Over at Two Writing Teachers Ruth and Stacey have been choosing One Little Word for the last several years. The idea is to find a single word that expresses something you will work toward in the coming year.

I think it's a neat concept, and this is the sixth year that I've asked my students to do this, too. The assignment is for them to choose a word and then write a paragraph explaining why they want more of this in their lives.

Here are the choices so far for this year:

achieve
accomplish
appreciate
artistic
awesomeness
baking
balanced
baseball
basketball
believe
beyond
change
cheerful
confident
creative
dedicate
equestrian
exercise
faith
focus (x5!)
green
gymnastics
healthy
kind
life
listen
love
music
organize
paintball
purple
random
respect
rich
snowboard
soccer
socialize
softball
sports
starcraft
strong
study
succeed
think
try
write

Such a list kind of reconfirms your faith in the future, doesn't it?

I Have this Friend...

Last night there was a knock on our door at about 8 PM. It was our neighbor and her daughter, who also happens to be a student at our school. They had a question about auditions for the school musical, Annie, and while I couldn't answer it right away, I promised I would find out first thing in the morning and let the student know.

On my way in the building today, I saw a group of girls who I had heard talking about the play, so I stopped to get a little info from them.

"Good morning," I said cheerfully. "Can you guys tell me what you have to do to try out for Annie?"

They seemed a little surprised by the question and were quiet for a moment until one of them said,"You're not seriously thinking of trying out with your ukulele, are you?"

OLW Preview

As in years past, I've asked my students to find a single word that expresses something they will work toward in this coming year. The lesson today introduced the concept and gave them the chance to consider their options; tomorrow they will post their "One Little Word" on our class's electronic discussion board.

As a way of illustrating this idea to the kids, I told them I got a ukulele for Christmas, and so I was considering the words music, play, and even ukulele to focus on this year. There were mixed reactions to this news, not all of them productive to the assignment. Some students begged me to bring it in tomorrow, others were not so warm.

"Ukulele!" someone said. "Really?"

"Sure," I answered. "Why not? Music adds joy to our lives."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. I smiled.

"In fact, as soon as I can, I plan to start singing all of the directions for every assignment," I teased her.

She looked stricken. "Why? We've been good."

Top Five Phrases of the Day

5. No new documentation necessary

4. Teacher-friendly work in progress

3. One little word

2. Committed to providing a common experience

and the number one phrase of the day...

Spontaneous tendon rupture!

Resolved

I'm not one to make resolutions, but if I were, mine would be to worry less, particularly about things I can't or can't seem to control. Which is why I read with interest the article today in the Health section of the NY Times. Just in time for the new year an exhaustive study has been released that suggests that the link between weight gain and poor health has been overstated.

One less thing to fret about.

Clean Slate

We spent today doing chores and running errands, but I couldn't be happier with the end results:

Clean house
Clean fridge
Clean car
Clean clothes

What a terrific way to ring in the new year!

Vintage

The other day I was cooking with Heidi's mom, Louise, in her kitchen, and I asked her if she had any Italian seasoning. She proudly pulled out her built-in spice rack. "They are alphabetized," she told me, and in no time handed me a jar of McCormick's.

Let me say first, that I do not have Italian seasoning in my own spice cupboard, but I often buy it on vacation for cooking in rental houses, because it nicely takes the place of several herbs in many dishes. It is an excellent all-round go-to herb mix, which is why I requested it in an unfamiliar kitchen.

When Louise handed me the bottle, my eyes widened. The label design transported me back at least 30 years, and when I flipped it over the price stamped on the bottom was 33¢. I held it silently in my hand for a few moments. "How long have you had this?" I asked her.

She could not say, and seeing as there was less than a pinch left in the bottom, I suggested an alternative, but I made a request. "Can I have this container?" and when she looked at me funny, I blurted, "It's vintage!"

We laughed, but the truth is, I know how that happens. They have lived in that house for almost 35 years, and the longer you live, the older your stuff gets.

To be honest? I like my old things a lot. Why just this evening, when we finally made it home after nine days away, 2 eight hour drives, and 2 seven-hundred mile flights, after lugging in all our stuff, I opened a bottle of wine with my favorite cork screw.

That efficient little gadget has been with me since the restaurant I waited tables for when I was in college forced me to buy it. The beach-front seafood establishment docked my first paycheck $2.50 so that I would always be properly equipped in the event that any customer might order some wine.

I can't say that I used it much that summer, but it sure has come in handy over the last thirty years.

Our Best with Thee Do Go

Sad news today when we heard that Heidi's aunt died this morning. She was 78 and in hospice, so it was not unexpected, but it is a loss to the family, Heidi's dad especially. This evening as we sat around their kitchen table in Buffalo, I looked up her memorial notice on the funeral home website. It was nice enough, but as one who hardly knew her, I was struck that there was no mention of the life she led other than listing those she left behind.

"Tell me about Marilyn," I said. "What was the best thing about her?"

"She loved to laugh," Heidi started, and they spent the next little while recalling her quirks and foibles as well as her merits. As I said, I didn't know her, but it seemed like a good way to be remembered.

Grammar Saves Lives

A few days ago, my brother, Bill, googled us all. One of my hits is always the Rate Your Teachers website. "I'm a little disturbed your class isn't considered harder," Bill joked, "especially considering my sons both took it." We also laughed at the grammar and spelling mistakes of those students who praised me as an excellent teacher.

It's true that grammar for grammar's sake is not my focus, but I do love those cases where conventions make a big difference, and they are the texts I use as my lessons. Fortunately, I had an example at hand.

Consider the difference between the following sentences:

Let's eat Grandma.

Let's eat, Grandma.

Since Grandma was sitting right there, we got a good laugh out of that one. Today, Annabelle and Richard supplied a good exercise in pronoun reference. They were playing with their kitten when Annabelle raised her voice to complain. "Mom! Richard stuck his butt in my face!"

We were shocked. It seemed very out of character. How did he do that? we asked.

"Not Richard's butt," Annabelle told us, "the kitten's, and it was really stinky!"

Lesson learned.

Chef Cuckoo

One of my stocking stuffers this year was a simple little game in a small tin can. Consisting of 12 challenge cards and 48 ingredient cards the object is to choose three of the six ingredients in your hand to create a dish that fits the challenge. One player is the judge and evaluates each offering without knowing which player's it is.

With challenges such as best and worst pizza, sandwich, pasta, salad, soup, and omelet, all of us, including my five year old niece and seven year old nephew were able to play the game. The trick is knowing not only your ingredients, but also the judge' s tastes. It's also tough sometimes to maintain anonymity-- it's really tempting to explain how you might prepare a peanut butter, onion, and avocado sandwich so it's not quite as gross as it sounds.

By last night, my brother had played enough and with such success that in addition to the title of Iron Chef Cuckoo, he declared himself permanent judge and did away with the standard task cards. Instead we concocted the perfect amuse bouche, martini, and cookie.

The ridiculous combinations were hilarious and we all laughed a lot, but the sting of losing was still a little hard to shake sometimes. "I can't believe Annabelle didn't pick my pasta yesterday," Richard said this morning. "I put all her favorite things in it!"

Body Art

I don't know what it is about me, but I kind of abhor a tattoo. Maybe it's because when I was a child, tattoos were mostly faded blue hearts and anchors on the sagging biceps of men in graying t-shirts sucking on unfiltered cigarettes at the church carnival.

Over the years of course, tats have become quite main stream, and yet, I remain a little repulsed. To be honest, though, I was never a kid who liked to write on myself, not even to remember or to be zapped, and so the thought of a permanent mark on my skin is out of the question.

Imagine my surprise then, when my mother produced a package of glitter tattoos for the family at Christmas. Oh, the peer pressure was intense, and Treat proved to be a gifted artist in that particular medium, but even the sparkle of peace signs, dragon flies, suns and stars adorning the limbs of those I love could not convince me to be so marked.

God Bless Us, Every One

Traveling on Christmas Day is always an interesting experience. Many people are wearing new clothes with fresh creases straight from the gift box, like the gent in the orange jeans or the kid in the spotless Air Jordans. Some are dressed especially for this day with holiday sweaters and antlers and Santa caps and even one guy in red and green footie pajamas. "Do you think he had shoes to wear outside?" I asked Heidi. "It is raining."

Most travelers seem happy--perhaps  looking forward to reunions with family or vacations in the islands or on the slopes-- and so do most of the folks working, hopefully for holiday pay. Sometimes it seems odd to spend Christmas, a day usually so focused on family, with strangers, but other times it seems like that might be just the point.

Twelve Drummers Drumming

The other day in the car we heard someone reading O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi on the radio. Even though the prose is very purple and the outcome well-known, I listened with a sort of morbid fascination all the way up to the part where Jim leans back on the couch, puts his hands behind his head, and says, "Dell, let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs."

In our family, we have our own Christmas legend with an ironic twist. It involves my grandfather, a shotgun, and a tuxedo. One year the only gift my grandfather wanted was a shotgun. His older brother, Herb, wanted a tuxedo to wear to the cotillion he was attending with his girl, Elsie.

Both boys got their wishes, and Herb hung his tux on the door to keep it wrinkle free until the party. My great-grandfather sat down with his younger son and told him that the shotgun was not toy. It was never to be loaded or aimed in the house, and if that rule should ever be broken, my grandfather would lose it forever.

What boy could resist lifting such a weapon to his shoulder and squinting down the barrel in firing position? Not my grandfather. When his father was out of the room, he did just that, and unaware that it was loaded, he was stunned when he pulled the trigger and unloaded two shells of shot right into Herb's tuxedo, cutting the pants off at the knees.

Yet another foolish child who most unwisely sacrificed the greatest treasures of the house.

Eleven Pipers Piping

When we were very young my father's office was in Philadelphia and one evening in December was always set aside for us to drive into the city from our suburban south Jersey home to meet him after work and tour the department store windows on Market Street. Gimbels, Wannamakers, Strawbridge and Clothier, and Lits filled their windows with amazing holiday scenes populated by animated dolls who skated and caroled and danced and wrote letters to Santa and opened their tiny packages under their miniature trees.

Afterward, we would go into Lits and ride the escalator upstairs to the Christmas section where they had an entire colonial village with even more spectacle and animation, and the red velvet ropes lining the way led right to the main event, a visit with Santa. A shy child, I never really liked having to talk to such an intimidating soul, but an obedient child as well, I always did it anyway. I felt better with my brother and sister by my side-- I don't think they really liked it either and so feeling protective of them gave me something to focus on other than my own discomfort.

One year, just beyond Santa, they had a shopping area for kids only. The idea was that we could buy gifts to surprise our parents. The place was stocked with inexpensive little things that any generic mom or dad might like. To my memory, this was my first independent shopping experience and I remember struggling with wanting to get things that I liked rather than things I thought my dad might like. I ended up buying him a cool yellow mini-flashlight that I really, really liked.

I don't remember what I bought my mom, but I do know what my little sister chose. It was an upright black and white vinyl fish stuffed with sawdust. About 8 inches tall, it had big red lips and was a dead ringer for Charlie Tuna without the beret and glasses. The minute she saw it, my sister was sure that our mom would love it, and nothing my brother or I could say would convince her otherwise. At four, she already had a shopping mind of her own.

Maybe she was right. That fish sat on my mom's dresser, right next to the Infant of Prague, for years. I wonder what those two talked about, anyway.

Ten Lords a-Leaping

Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat.

Once when I asked my nephew if he wanted some cool new t-shirts and nice soft pants for Christmas, he shook his head firmly. "No thanks," he said, "We do fine." He was only six at the time, but I knew just what he meant. There are two kinds of people in the world-- those who like getting clothes as gifts and the rest of us. This year, my youngest nephew, Richard, is in the no thank you club, too, although his sister joins Heidi and most of the other adults in the whoopee! I got clothes faction.

Please to put a penny in the old man's hat.

Along with the inevitable clothes, books and music have always been popular gifts in our family. Although it is nearly impossible to disguise those packages, ( I still love holding them up and loudly proclaiming the contents, "Book!" or "CD!" or years ago, "Record!" To which the proper reply is always, "Maybe... but you don't know which one!") they are always among my favorites.

If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do.

The first record I ever got for Christmas was By the Time I Get to Phoenix by Glen Campbell, when I was six. Although I liked the title track, it was his version of Homeward Bound that captured my imagination; I played the grooves off of that thing and learned the word "mediocrity" to boot.

If you haven't got a ha'penny, then God bless you!

And it was at Christmas that I learned from one of my high school roommates that one should always pay a penny for any gift that cuts, because giving or receiving something sharp may sever your friendship. It might be a silly superstition, but who wants to take such a chance? A penny seems a small price to pay to keep those you love close.

Nine Ladies Dancing

Of my fifty Christmases so far, not many of them have been white. Oh sure, the numbers have gone up since I've been celebrating the season in Buffalo, but even that doesn't make snow a sure thing. In fact, my most recent white Christmas was in Atlanta. A couple of years ago we were all there for that once in a hundred year event. Of course, Heidi and I almost didn't make it, but when we did it was merry indeed. The next day I even went out to play in the snow in my pajamas with Richard and Annabelle.

This year is looking pretty good, too, if tonight's weather is any indication. We've been driving through exquisite squalls of swirling fat flakes for the last three hours. It slows us down, but the temperature has cooperated by holding above thirty-two so the roads are merely wet, and the Christmas lights look especially beautiful in the storm.

O, we'll get there, and when we do there will be hugs and Friday fish fry, but until then the journey is just fine.

Eight Maids a-Milking

How can we talk about Christmas and not talk about food? Our traditional meal is roast beef, served with mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, but over time we've mixed up the other sides with what I'd say were mixed results, although I don't miss the peas at all. One year we all agreed to prepare a single course. After the crab stuffed avocados, we were stuffed, too. Fortunately our meal is just as delicious when served as leftovers.

Growing up we had our big meal on Christmas Eve, but the family switched over when Heidi and I started going to her parents that night. It was an emotional change, but I think my people made out pretty well. I was always really jealous of their tales of Judy's Italian seafood feast.

The past few years we have had the main event on Boxing Day, the 26th. After several happy experiences with Chinese take out, we reserve Christmas as a no cooking day-- one of the very few on my annual calendar.

And I'm not a huge dessert fan, so another thing about this holiday that I particularly love is the tradition of putting a variety of small sweets on the table after your meal. In our family we always have clementines, good chocolates, and a mix of homemade cookies, and I always feel like I can have a perfect bite of some delicious something and be satisfied without being over-full.

Of course the opposite is true about wine. In that category, I'm of the philosophy to keep it coming until the last person switches to water or toddles off to bed.

Cheers!

Seven Swans a-Swimmin'

During the years my family lived in Saudi Arabia, the days following Christmas were often spent on the beach. Despite the desert climate it was far from hot at that time of year, but the weather was mild enough that we could drive our Chevy Impala off the road and across crunchy sand flats to a stretch of coastline so deserted we might call it all our own for the afternoon.

The first order of business was to collect driftwood to fuel a bonfire, and then we would roll up our jeans and wade into the shallow water of the Arabian Gulf. The bottom was smooth sand so fine that you could feel the shellfish that had dug in there with your toes, making it possible to fill a bucket with perfect little clams in no time. A few minutes on the fire and a dip in melted butter bestowed a feast festooned with salt and smoke and fine enough for any holiday celebration.

Six Geese a-Layin'

When I was a senior in college I lived in a brand-new three-bedroom campus apartment with five other women. Now I think of them as girls, but that's what we called ourselves then. When December rolled around that year, we were all as busy as ever with exams, but we were all also aware that the end of our college time was near.

Life in that apartment was not always copacetic, but the six of us agreed to get together for a holiday meal the last Saturday before we left for break. To this day, I have no idea where the goose came from, although I do remember that, to a girl, we thought it was an excellent menu idea. I was in a Dickens seminar at the time, and the thought of roast goose for Christmas stirred my heart.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), I had the GREs that day, and so the task of cooking our ever-so-traditional entree fell upon a roommate. In those days before the internet, trapped in a tiny rural town as we were, her research was impressive. She found a recipe that looked very promising despite all of the footnoted warnings.

As it turns out, a goose is quite a fatty bird, which makes a lot of sense. Fat floats and it keeps one warm in harsh northern winters such as ours was. Too bad fat also burns. As I walked into the courtyard on my way home from my exam, I saw all of our neighbors shivering in the cold.

Who knew a teeny little kitchen fire might upset so many?

Five Golden Rings

Ba dump bump bumb...

In addition to Christmas music, I am also a fan of Christmas TV. As a child, I loved Rudolph, the Grinch, and Charlie Brown, and watching them was an annual treat. I have to confess that I could never really get into Frosty. That one came out when I was six, and has always seemed a little come lately to me.

Years later, with the advent of the VCR, the novelty of seeing those shows only once a year was replaced with the novelty of being able to see them whenever we wanted. We still only watched them around Christmas, though. We also had to sacrifice quality for convenience. Who can forget the time we popped that homemade VHS in and settled back with my 3-year-old nephew to enjoy some holiday specials. "Oh my, Dod!" he exclaimed, hands covering his mouth in horror. "The no is pink!" And it was, too.

Even today, watching recordings of my old favorites (and yes, I have sprung for professional quality DVDs), I kind of miss the commercials from when I was a kid. Remember Santa sledding down the hill on an electric razor to the tune of Jingle Bells? I do. Even more unforgettable was the slogan: Merry Christmas from Noelco. And of course, A Charlie Brown Christmas was always brought to you by Dolly Madison Cakes and Pies.

This year I tuned into the network broadcast of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer just the other night. With the older nephews grown, and the younger niece and nephew in Atlanta, it's been a few years since I've seen it. I had it on in the kitchen as I cooked, and despite knowing all the songs and dialog by heart, I just wasn't enjoying it. The pressure for Herbie and Rudolph to conform was really making me uncomfortable, even though I knew how it ended.

At one point Heidi came in. "Why are you watching that?" she asked.

"I like it," I said. "But I don't like it right now. I just don't understand why--"

"Why Santa is such an asshole?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I think that's it."

Four Calling Birds

Let it never be said that I do not like Christmas music. Six solid weeks of seasonal songs cannot harden my heart toward the holiday hits. In fact, I possess quite an extensive collection of carols myself, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Today I amused myself by sorting my holiday playlist by title. It turns out my number one Christmas song (at least in respect to versions owned) is Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. I have 14 different recordings of that particular tune. Is it any surprise then, that I judge all new holiday albums by that song? Rod Stewart? Sorry. She and Him? Yes.

Of course, this morning I promptly played all 14 in alphabetical order by artist and made Heidi choose her favorite. Andy Williams was up first, and he was her strong preference from the start. Linda Ronstadt and Diana Krall were contenders, but for Heidi, Andy hung on to the last, even beating out her childhood favorites, Steve and Edie.

My favorite though was Judy Garland, no contest. Her version was also the shortest, and I'm with her-- there is absolutely no need to draw that song out. Once you hit ...if the fates allow, you have sung it all. Coincidentally, my number two was also the second shortest; John Denver and the Muppets do a terrific rendition of that old chestnut.

Surprisingly? My number one Christmas artists weren't in the running at all. When we were growing up, our go to Christmas album was Christmas with Conniff, which for me will always be the quintessential sound of the season. Somehow, Have Yourself did not make it onto the album.

It must have been bumped for Christmas Bride... as it should have been.