Merry Christmas to all

The stockings are definitely hung by the chimney with care, but St. Nicholas isn’t anywhere particularly near. It’s Christmas Eve and there’s wrapping to be done. Let the panic begin.

Oh, I say that but I have to admit — it’s been a wonderful holiday season, from shopping with Tras, to decorating with the children, to lunches out with coworkers and lunches in with coworkers. I’m not even going to think about all the weight I may or may not have gained until January 2. It’s on my calendar.

Perhaps the most magical moment of all, this season, was the annual Christmas pageant presented by preschoolers. I began hearing “Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer” shortly after Halloween, in preparation for the lovely concert you see below. Their rendition was flawless.

Can you spot the nose pick? It just wouldn’t be Christmas without one.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, all ye blog readers. May all your dreams come true.

Haul out the holly

When I was a sophomore in high school, I appeared in the classic musical Mame, and in a high school which cranked out a musical every spring, it was a show-stopper. I will never know, objectively, just how high the level of talent and how rich the level of entertainment this production provided, but now, more than 30 years hence, I can say unequivocally that it was the best thing staged at Carroll County High School in April 1979.

Do you know the story? A young boy is orphaned in the 1920s and sent to live with his only living relative, a “spinster” in New York. What he finds in Auntie Mame is a bohemian free spirit. The show contains a number of barn-burner numbers including, of course, the venerable title song “Mame” itself, along with “Open a New Window” and “That’s How Young I Feel.” We sang and we danced our little hearts out.

As the 1920s draw to a close and the stock market inevitably crashes, Mame’s lifestyle is brought to a screeching halt. Penniless, but not friendless, she implores everyone to buck up. And though the calendar reads early fall, the chorus launches into a song that you’re bound to recognize, “We Need a Little Christmas.”

Haul out the holly;
Put up the tree before my spirit falls again.
Fill up the stocking,
I may be rushing things, but deck the halls again now.
For we need a little Christmas
Right this very minute,
Candles in the window,
Carols at the spinet.
Yes, we need a little Christmas
Right this very minute.
It hasn’t snowed a single flurry,
But Santa, dear, we’re in a hurry!

OK see, it’s not Christmas, but she needs a little bit of holly to pull her out of the doldrums. Tinsel and light, singing happy songs. Everyone’s poor but hey! you can still have the Christmas spirit!

It is NOT a Christmas carol.

This rant falls upon deaf ears. Well, mostly the ears are non-existent, since the fuming generally occurs in my own head as I’m driving along in the car, or held captive in some office or store where holiday tunes are pouring forth into the atmosphere a mile a minute. “Damn it, that’s a show tune from Mame and I sang it when I was 15 years old on stage! Oh, sure, I was in the chorus, but I SANG and I DANCED and it was incredible and …”

All right, I might get a little carried away in daydreams of my show-business non-start, but the fact remains that this song has no business being played on the radio during Christmas as though it were some sort of legitimate Christmas song on the order of “Silent Night,” “White Christmas,” “Sleigh Ride,” or “O Come All Ye Faithful,” just to mention a few of my own personal favorites.

So climb down the chimney;
Put up the brightest string of lights I’ve ever seen.
Slice up the fruitcake;
It’s time we hung some tinsel on that evergreen bough.
For I’ve grown a little leaner,
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older,
And I need a little angel
Sitting on my shoulder,
Need a little Christmas now.

See? Not Christmas. It is evoking the Christmas spirit during the non-holiday time of the year.

Whew.  I feel better.

That said, these past couple of weeks we’ve been hauling out the holly and trying to hang some tinsel on that evergreen bough, but funnily enough, life gets in the way a little too often. Light-stringer extraordinaire Claire, though augmented by BFF Aren several weeks ago, was felled by an early season bug of some sort, and our 12-foot tree remained sadly half-lit for more than a week. A few false starts at decorating left the tree somewhat bottom heavy as Trassie laid on the homemade decorations within his level of reach.

But wonderfully it all came to a conclusion this weekend when not one but two trees were assembled, decorated and lit, and candles were indeed placed in the windows, though, lacking a spinet, our carols were sung to the accompaniment of whatever was playing on satellite radio at any given moment.

But lo! how a rose e’re blooming! The Nativity scene is in place and we here at Chez Soileau are ready to welcome the celebration of the birth of Christ with all the solemnity and dignity you might expect from an outfit such as ours, where we

… need a little music,
Need a little laughter,
Need a little singing
Ringing through the rafter,
And we need a little snappy
“Happy ever after,”
Need a little Christmas now.

OK, maybe it qualifies a little bit as a Christmas song, of sorts. I long ago admitted it into my heart, where show tunes dwell for all eternity, heavy on the George M. Cohan and edelweiss. There are a few things I upon which I insist on precision, and the properly turned out Christmas carol is one of them. So sing “We Need a Little Christmas” at Christmas, if you must, when the world is perfectly lousy with it — but remember, if you can, the message of the song, which I prefer to believe is that with a little imagination, you can evoke the season all year long.


We’re a pair

There’s something essential about me that’s frankly no mystery to anyone who’s been around me more than five minutes: I love shoes.

Now, to give myself credit, I don’t foist my shoe-love on unsuspecting strangers (much), or bring them up when the conversation is centered around world peace or reforming health care — although, come to think of it, give me a minute and I’m sure I can find a connection.

But pretty much, yeah, I enjoy shoes; talking about shoes; wearing shoes; dream-shopping for the perfect shoe for friends, acquaintances and co-workers; selling shoes I don’t want on eBay; giving away shoes that it turns out I couldn’t wear and it would cost more than I paid to send them back. Etc., etc.

And if I like shoes, it doesn’t take much imagination to realize that I adore boots. For boots are the absolute apex of shoedom. If shoes are fabulous, then boots are stratospheric.

And so you can imagine my thrill when I discovered that my husband was cowboy before country was cool. And that a pair of Old Gringo boots are on the way to his feet come Christmas morn.

It’s like this: hearken back, if you will, to the 1970s. It was before Urban Cowboy, but my dear husband wore cowboy boots, leather vests, and a cowboy hat atop his long loopy locks (I have photographic evidence). When it became apparent that I, his wife, harbored not-secret lust for shit-kickers, he couldn’t have been happier.

And then Old Gringo came into our lives. And let us place credit where credit is due: squarely upon blogging sensation Pioneer Woman who, when asked by one of her loyal readers her favorite brand of boot, she unhesitatingly answered, “Old Gringo. There is no substitute.”

The truth came out later, when I told her via email that all-consuming lust had bloomed in my heart after a quick perusal of their website. “Aren’t they great?” she said, admitting she personally didn’t own any. “If I started I’d be afraid I’d never stop.”

Oh Ree Drummond, truer words have never been spoken.

The Soileaus are now an Old Gringo family. My boots are so gorgeous I wept when they arrived, for they are festooned with darling swallows. Now, if the name of this website has been somewhat of a mystery to you lo these several months of its existence, I shall now reveal all: “Soileau” is pronounced “swallow,” like the bird, so “NouveauSoileau” kinda-sorta rhymes.

Still with me?

Since becoming a swallow, er, Soileau, I have been wont to collect items with lovely swallows upon them: earrings and the like. Since I’m also a sucker for pretty much anything to do with birds in general, this works out well. Hummingbirds and swallows: I’m totally there.

So when I found these boots I knew it was all over, baby. I printed out a picture of them and, ask anybody I work with, put them on my bulletin board so that I might gaze longingly and lustfully at them any time I happened to glance up from the keyboard.

And now, as Christmas approaches and sales they are a poppin’ the absolutely gorgeous pair of Old Gringos Tras has been monitoring for a reduction in price (the mighty hunter-shopper, remember) have been ordered and are on their way east. I don’t think anybody else in three states contiguous knows anything about Old Gringo, so the pair of us are assured that our happy feet are going to be decking the halls like no other cowboy/cowgirl combination. This suits me fine, because if there’s one thing I love more than boots, it might be simply the quality of being unique.

Nobody has toes as long and pointed as I, which is, of course, perfect for this time of year. A mischievous 5-year-old (not mine!) recently commented, with a glance at the ends of my cockroach-killing, long, pointed boots, “You’re wearing elf shoes!”

I can handle that.

A giant plate of awesome

What’s that I saw outside my window pane this morning? Why, could it be SNOW? In December? In Kentucky? An event this momentous could only signal one of two things — either the coming apocalypse, or I should just put up my Christmas tree, for pete’s sake.

I guess I’ll go with #2 — but I intend to be prepared for #1 just in case.

So this afternoon my daughter, Claire, like any self-respecting 14- (soon to be 15)-year-old, was, as always, in the presence of one or more of her BFFs. Muhahaha, I say. More free labor for the festivities. So in honor of The First Snowfall of the Winter, I employed these two minions for the production and presentation of some tree-trimming worthy holiday oatmeal cookies.

But oatmeal, much as I love the stuff, by itself is rather tame. I consulted the cabinet. I found chocolate chips, butterscotch morsels and, be still my heart, Heath toffee chips.

I’m also a shade fanatic on the subject of flour, and frequently construct Belgian waffles and yeast breads in my bread machine with oat flour. So, I’ve got the stuff on hand. If you decide to make these, you can omit the oat flour and go solely with all-white wheat flour, but nobody’s gonna tell you that you just made a giant plate of awesome.

OK, so nobody told me that either, but when the first cookie sheet came out of the oven, I had never seen such open hungry mouths this side of a robin’s nest. I had the bad judgment to go start a load of laundry while they were cooling on the rack and came back to exactly no more cookies, apart from those still baking in the oven.

These I guarded with a flamethrower.Back — BACK I SAY! Keep your distance, family and friends, these cookies are for AFTER DINNER.

We rotated Free Help when Claire’s friend Aren left shortly before dinner (with a ziplock baggie with some cookie booty inside) and Christopher’s friend Nathan arrived. After dinner we did indeed consume said cookies and don’t they look luscious?

Shut up. I only ate one. OK, more than one. I didn’t eat three (at one time). I made them for the family. I’m good like that.

Right now, after dinner, there are about four or five of the beauties left. They’ll most likely be devoured sometime in the next couple of hours, while we’re putting up the tree(s) [I have two]. That’s a harrowing tale in itself; the main tree is 12 feet tall and takes around four hours to assemble.

Fortunately, as I said, I have minions, and as I write Christopher and Nathan are lugging the boxes containing the tree, ornaments, lights and other Christmas paraphernalia from the attic downstairs. Ah. I love minions.

Cue up the Christmas music. Put the treadmill on High Alert. I’m ready to start the holiday.

~ ~ ~

Wanna make the cookies? Here’s the recipe.

A Giant Plate of Awesome Oatmeal Cookies

3/4 cup margarine or butter
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup oat flour
1 tablespoon wheat germ
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups rolled oats
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup toffee chips
1/4 cup butterscotch morsels

In a mixing bowl beat margarine or butter with an electric mixer on medium to high speed for 30 seconds. Add the all-purpose flour, the brown sugar, sugar, egg, baking powder, vanilla, and baking soda. Beat till thoroughly combined. Beat in oat flour and wheat germ. Stir in oats. Stir in candy pieces.

Drop by rounded teaspoons 2 inches apart onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake in a 375-degree oven 12 to 15 minutes or till edges are golden. Cool cookies on a wire rack. Makes about 48.