Welcome to yet another bleary-eyed, fuzzy-headed Friday Open Thread with your bedraggled host-- Marko the Werelynx.
The usual disclaimers apply. This is a community open thread diary. It's being posted to the Street Prophets group but we've no membership requirements in the comments. All are welcome to join in, relax, have a cookie. You don't have to react to my blithering; it's an open thread. You can decorate the comments in your own style.
And no, "open thread" does not refer to the hole in my socks. Even retractable claws mean that this werelynx spends a lot of time darning socks. In my grumpier moods I've been known to damn them.
I shouldn't do puns.
And speaking of socks, did everyone remember to put out their stockings last night? You do know that this is Saint Nicholas Day don't you?
I didn't know until somebody told me. Can I tell you something under the balding ginger hairball? We're fresh out of mistletoe around here--
The Czechs have always known that Saint Nicholas doesn't hang around until Christmas. Although, the fat, jolly version is creeping in. It bothers some people to see the strange, westernized version of a saint who has always been pictured as being tall and slender. At least, that is-- when artists have drawn and painted the Saint and not the Santa.
As a kid growing up in the winter wonderland of Wisconsin, land o' deep-fat fried cheese curds, I was completely taken in by the impostor. But now, living in Europe, I've learned a few things that trouble my fuzzy, little head. I'd already known that the Santa Claus and the Saint Nick that I sang about in those Christmas carols were supposed to be the same person. I knew Nick's full name was Nicholas and that Claus is just a clipped nickname for the saint. Looking at the old paintings compared to the Coca Cola ads I begin to have more sympathy for Bloomberg's fight against the Big Gulp. Did you know that St. Nick was known for miracles performed during a time of famine? I don't know if any Czechs ever consider this in the struggle to fling Santa out [link to yodelling webgame-- 327.8] of their Christmas traditions. But it's bothering me this morning.
In the evening of December 5th, Saint Nicholas, accompanied by an angel and the Devil himself, visits the children of the Czech Republic-- checking to see whether children have been naughty or nice. That night, before bed, the kids will place a stocking (or in the case of my kids, an extra long sock) outside-- on a window ledge or balcony in the hope that they'll find it filled with treats and toys in the morning. Or perhaps nothing but a lump of coal-- for the sins of my family we usually find a potato tucked down past the peanuts, mandarin oranges, chocolates, candies and gingerbread. It's something of a point of pride to have been given the largest potato. Although theoretically, that's not supposed to be a good sign.
It has been a few years since we joined other families and reserved a couple of long tables at our favorite local restaurant on the eve before St. Nicholas' Day. A curiously missing parent and a couple of friends would visit our tables dressed for the occasion: Svatý Mikuláš, in his tall miter cap, flowing robes and beard and bearing his traditional shepherd's crook, a lovely anděl with a golden star on her forehead and that dirty, hairy troublemaker Čert, chains and tongue waggling, carrying an already bulging bag to carry off the wicked wee ones. The poor kiddies are put on the spot, forced to tell the Saint whether or not they've been good and recite a poem or sing a song to receive a small gift.
I look forward to this time of year-- except for the naughty devils (and other assorted delinquents) tossing firecrackers. There's usually several bands of enterprising young people walking through my neighborhood in their wonderful costumes, going to their previously arranged appointments with families that would also like their little children to experience a visit from Mikuláš. This year there wasn't much to see or even many firecrackers to interrupt the howling of the wind.
A few distant devils huddled together, lighting off firecrackers; the sound of which was so drowned and carried off by the wind that they might as well have been farting.
Not a saint or an angel in sight.
When my darling Favorite Female arrived safely by taxi from the airport after her flight from London had been delayed an hour due to the storm she told me that the taxi driver had said that he hadn't seen hardly any costumes all evening. We guessed that wind and miter caps, even wind and angel's wings, just aren't very compatible. Last night I suspect that even beards and bags stuffed full of naughty children were in danger of blowing away.
Hold onto your hats, halos and horns...
And this morning it's still whipping around out there pretty good. I hear from the news that there have been quite a few trees damaged and toppled although I guess the wind didn't quite reach proper hurricane speed. I hope the roads are clear. I'll be driving out in that wind later.
My lads awoke this morning and found their long socks stuffed with an assortment of treats, including a few that blew in from London.
By the time this diary posts I'll hopefully be someplace cozy and looking forward to tomorrow when we'll begin to bake our Christmas cookies. This weekend we're planning on baking the nuttier varieties made with walnuts and blanched almonds. Perhaps I'll manage to remember to convert our favorites to cups and teaspoons for you by next week-- although, who knows what I might be writing about next time.
It's a very introspective time of year for me. Family traditions lead to thoughts of those who gave us these traditions and are no longer here to taste the gingerbread and tell us that we're doing it all wrong. I remember helping my mother to roll out, and cut her favorite cookie dough, a recipe that she had found in a now battered Better Homes & Gardens cookbook that I suspect she received as a wedding gift. It's a pretty basic sugar cookie with some grated orange peel and added vanilla. It's a dough that needs to be rolled out and cut. We had a sort of secular selection of cookie cutters that never went further than camels and angels and stars to hinting of the birth of Christ.
There were two or three variations of reindeer, pointy tree and Santa though. Not a miter cap in sight. Czechs know all about Christmas Cookie Jesus. We had snowmen and holly leaves.
My mother would decorate the holly leaves with green frosting and those little cinnamon candies, "red hots" we called them, for three little berries by the stem.
Stealing pinches of the rich dough was a favorite perk of the job of making cookies. My younger son likes to help me cut out the cookies every year with those same cookie cutters. He's either sneakier than I was at stealing dough or is more patient than I was at his age, and perhaps prefers the finished product. I suspect the latter. I think my kids outclass me in many ways.
I made sure the cutters and the cookbook came with me after Mom died. I think about her a lot this time of year. Tastes, smells, sounds-- so much comes back to me that it can get in the way sometimes. All of it makes me wonder what my sons will take with them when they leave our little nest. What of this blend of Germanic-American and old world Czech traditions will they treasure and keep with them as they make their own nests? Looking back and looking forward when what I should be doing is looking at getting myself some lunch.
Well, this will be posted after my lunch, after my dinner and after my bedtime actually. After a long week of writing about my work and trying to sell some of it I think I'll give diary sitting a rest, and give me a rest.
Tomorrow there will be cookies to bake.