Two people not named Instant Penis Enhancement or Great Fake Swiss Watch Replicas responded to my blog yesterday. This makes me very happy, especially since both have great blogs that I rarely read because I’m just not a blog reader.  When I’m online I’m too busy checking out my bids on EBay or playing Scramble or perusing my Amazon ratings, important things like that. Okay, I do always read Richard Gilbert’s excellent Narrative; it’s the less read of the two Narrative literary blogs, though the other is more of a magazine, and lately annoying because of its unhappy combination of stories and poems by Revered Authors of Our Time and stupid word games and puzzles.

I did have (am having) a quiet Christmas. I’m sick with the flu, which means that Marty and I did not make the three and a half hour trip to visit his parents in Darien, nor to my cousin’s house in Western Springs (both suburbs of Chicago.) We stayed in and I managed to make a very garlicky cheese and spinach dish while listening to Christmas Renaissance music.  Marty went out and got me a ponsietta. Poinsietta? Ponsetta? Poinsieta. Fuck. Poinsetia. Poinsettia. Bingo! This among other gifts, but I loved the P-flower because Marty has a not-so-great history with flowers. When we first started dating, he came by with two dozen beautiful roses, white and red. I oohed and aahed—they were lovely—until he broke the spell by saying, with very obvious pride, “And better yet, they were on sale.” Once for my birthday Marty got me a bunch of blue carnations. I’m picky about flowers; blue carnations are not on my list of favorites. Another time, when I asked him to get some flowers for our landlord—an eighty-year old who’d just lost a girlfriend—Marty came back with dried flowers, the kind you find in Pier One, faded to a remnant of their former glory, often with a spiky little ball that looks like a landmine towering over the rest of the withered blooms.

This time, he got it right. I’m not particularly fond of poinsettias, but yesterday I needed a bright little poinsettia to brighten my mood. Just as this morning I needed (and got) some delicious Marty-made pancakes.

I was in our local Wal-Mart shopping for dried mushrooms because I’d like to make some Lithuanian borscht for my husband for Christmas Eve. Of course, the Wal-Mart doesn’t carry dried mushrooms.  And there were no fresh beets.  I was feeling very sorry for myself—for living in a town that doesn’t sell fresh beets—when I came upon the cranberries. Yes, they were fresh, and looked lovely.  My mother used to make the best kisielius, or Lithuanian cranberry pudding. It was never too sweet. My mother is gone, and so is her special recipe, which probably was not a recipe at all, but her improvised way of making kisielius. She was that kind of cook. She knew the basics, and then just added her own ingredients and kind of watched over the stove or oven. I stood there in the produce aisle of our Wal-Mart and started crying.  I miss my mother so much this time of year.

Luckily, County Market had fresh beets. I then went to Walgreens to buy some drugs. Unfortunately, the Salvation Army man was out there in front of the store singing carols. It’s the same guy from last year and the year before. He thinks he has a good voice. His favorite carols are The Little Drummer Boy and Hark the Herald Angels Sing.  He won’t stop singing. He has a very loud voice–you can hear him from the Starbucks. I know he means well, but I think someone should say something, like “You’re ruining your voice,” or something diplomatic like that.  I then drove home and saw that someone had put out a nativity scene that included Santa Claus and Rudolph.  They were a bit behind the manger, but still clearly in the picture.

I think what I really want is a quiet Christmas. Midnight Mass and sleeping late and pancakes for breakfast.  And then maybe a walk in the snow, listening to the birds.