Traditions by Barbara Quinn

There are so many traditions that surround my family at this time of year. Since I was a child, I’ve been making an Italian pastry we affectionately call Ceci, otherwise known as Strufoli, a small fried doughnut doused in honey, but it’s not like any regular doughnut. Ceci translates as garbanzo bean and this pastry is small and round, the same shape as garbanzo beans, though unlike them it is fried and doused in honey. It’s a simple recipe, notable for its appearance in Italian bakeries at this time of year, mounded high on platters and doused in colored sprinkles.

Much of the joy of this treat is in its creation. I still use the recipe I wrote out when I was 8 or 9 years old. My mother smiled at me with my notebook watching her every move and putting it into my child’s scrawl. I wanted to remember it, wanted to remember to make it the way I saw her easily making it each year since I was born. The year I wrote out the recipe, she had to stop to measure the ingredients. She didn’t normally measure. Like most of her dishes, she’d learned to make the treat from her mother, and neither of them used any sort of measuring cup or spoon. But I stopped her each step of the way and she tolerated my inquisitiveness. I helped her make a well in the flour on a wooden board, and put in the egg, milk, oil, sugar, vanilla, then blended it all together with my hands, enjoying the squishy feeling as the dough formed. Once it was kneaded and shiny, we broke off pieces and rolled the dough into long snakes that we cut up. My father manned the kettle with its two inches of oil and soon the strufoli were golden and ready to be coated with honey.

After that year, my mother used my measurements. We hauled out the piece of paper and followed them. I still measure the ingredients with that recipe. My husband man's the kettle. The result is sublime.

And with the first bite, I taste childhood again.

The joy, the anticipation of the holiday. It’s all there in a bowl of freshly fried and honeyed strufoli.

For that I am grateful.

Have a merry…..

Joy in Valley Junction. by Patresa Hartman

I have five nieces and one nephew, and they are outrageous lunatics. I am so grateful for them and their ridiculousness that I can barely stand it. If they ever turn normal, I think the earth will turn sad sad sad. And so, every Christmas I try to find gifts that will encourage them to be weird. A great place to do this is at your local theater shop.

I discovered the treasures of a theater shop last Christmas when I wandered in grumpy and then lost myself in rock star wigs and glittery microphones. I bought a set for each, plus crazy Elton John glasses, and left the theater shop absolutely giddy and convinced I had found the secret to remaining joyful during stressful holidays. Yesterday, I returned to the theater shop and came out with top hats, moustaches, and magic wands. I giggled all the way down the street.

I learned something else yesterday...about shopping locally. Having worked earlier this year at a locally owned bookstore that had to close, I already understood the importance of supporting the little guys. But yesterday my body absorbed and noted a whole different energy in the small shops.

In Des Moines, we have the historic Valley Junction. I do not know why it's historic; but the signs say it is. It sits off railroad tracks by an old train depot in an old part of town. Small local businesses occupy a mixture of typical storefronts and old houses with large front porches. There are at least two antique stores on each block, a few coffee shops, a Mexican grocer, and three bead shops.

One of my favorites is the Fair World Gallery, which sells goods made by people in refugee camps all over the world. My nieces are receiving friendship beads made by a group of women who have moved to Des Moines from a Burundi refugee camp. Another favorite is a shop called Porch Light, where you can find a mix of new and antique household items. My coffee cup currently sits on a Hercules orange crate found in Porch Light's mix.

After a quiet and charming afternoon wandering through small, thoughtfully themed shops, I went to Target, and the mood shifted.

I like Target, typically. But I did not like it yesterday. Loud. Industrial. Crowded. I felt like a cog in a factory. I squinted through the flourescence, grabbed what I needed, waited in line with the other frowny pants, and then left as quickly as I could, hiking to my parking spot in the very back of a cornfield-sized lot.

The moral of this story is: I am grateful for the weirdness of my nieces and nephew, and I am grateful for the small shop owners who help me navigate Christmas shopping peacefully and joyfully.

Finding Peace by Angie Ledbetter

By doze id stopped up add I catt top steezing. I've ude up two boxes of tittue alweady. *honk*

Okay, enough of my sad talking-with-a-bad-cold voice. It's been years since I've been sick, so I guess it was bound to happen. I mean, I did get out for a bit (finally) to do some Christmas shopping, and the germs were probably all waiting to pounce on me. I'll live, and when I fully recover my senses, I know I'm going to appreciate being able to breathe, taste, smell and hear again.

Along with my little waltz with Mr. Cold, I've also had to face some mightily unpleasant personal stuff in the last few days. I'm not sharing details, just take it from me -- it was worse than a triple cold with a trip to the dentist on top. It hasn't been a pleasant few days.

In spite of all that, I went to my "happy place," which happens to be located within my favorite church. There I prayed earnestly for help with the issue, and also in thanksgiving for a prayer request answered for a friend. I closed my watery eyes, blew my nose quietly and let the sanctified environment seep into my inner temple of turmoil. Within mere minutes, a warm glowing peace descended. As cliched as it sounds even to me who experienced it, I knew all would be well. I knew. And I was/am grateful.

However you seek your peace, serenity and comfort in bad situations, may it never allude you.

Yes, Kathryn, there really is a Santy Claus by Kathryn Magendie

Days ago, I wrote a yog post about my Grinch’s heart. Who knew that these words really would be slipping from my fingers, when I wrote: “And perhaps by Christmas, somehow, someway, some magic will have happened...and I will write, ‘It happened...it really happened...’”

For my Christmas miracle seems to have arrived. No unwrapping pretty paper. No big red bow. But, amazing all the same. My good friend said, “Ha! Told you your Christmas magic would happen; but it isn’t magic, it’s the Baby Jesus! Told you I’d send out word.” I laughed. I said, “Baby Jesus, huh?” Last night I went outside to an almost silent, beautiful starry night. There were so many stars I could never count them in this lifetime or the next. The creek was rushing as it should from our recent rains (another gift?), and the air was crisp but not too cold. I stared up at the sky and said, “Thank you…” I thought, “How do I know where gifts come from? Who am I to question the source?” We search for answers, and sometimes those answers just will not be forthcoming. Sometimes the mysteries of the universe are just that.

And here, days before Christmas, I have a gift I have wanted for so long. One that I’ve worked so hard for. One that I have dreamed about and wished for and called out to the universe (and my friend has called out to Baby Jesus). What is the gift, you may be asking? I was going to say the gift is a publisher offering me a contract for my Virginia Kate novel—that is what all this is about and I am stunned with happiness and in love with Bellebooks; but then I realized suddenly that though that is the gift, the miracle comes from the feelings brought forth by the gift. Everything lined up just as it was supposed to for this to happen. What I did in the moments and days I did them was exactly what I was supposed to do—and it’s not just a “hindsight is 20-20” moment. It’s as if Santy Claus (or my friend’s Baby Jesus) is twinkling his eye right now, having set into motion the very things needed to bring me right where I am right now. Four days until Christmas. And I am feeling the spirit. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Hark how the bells,
sweet silver bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away

Christmas is here,
bringing good cheer,
to young and old,
meek and the bold,
ding dong ding
that is their song
with joyful ring
all caroling…

Comfort and Joy by Barbara Quinn

Tidings of Comfort and Joy. That line from the old Christmas carol, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, has a lot to be said for it. This time of year has me reflecting on the meaning of those words.

I want to bring glad tidings of comfort and joy. How can I do that?

I can hug the ones I love. I like hugs. They tend to make me feel better, make me feel all warm and soft inside. Who can't benefit from a hug? I’m going to make a special effort to hug for a beat longer when I greet my friends and relatives this season.

I will try to notice people, really see them. What color are their eyes? The rush rush of the season makes it easy to try to get through a task instead of embracing it, makes it easy to not see a sales clerk, a soldier home on leave, a waitress, a cashier. I can easily wish them season's greetings, the best of the season, and mean it. Perhaps for an instant that will bring them joy.

Where do I find comfort? Certainly in the arms of my loved ones. Sometimes in a piece of rich dark chocolate. But I find it in many other places and it is out there ready and waiting for even the most desperate of us. I have found comfort in the words of a good book, in the touch of a friend, in the roof over my head, and the food on my table. I have found it in my belief that the future can hold goodness and light and that can carry me through the darkness.

I count myself lucky to have known the joy of comforting a small child, and of sharing good times with family and friends.

I am grateful for simple things that give me joy and peace such as for the fact that even after over 35 years my husband is my partner, and he is willing to be leaned on. Joy is that little lighthearted feeling that spreads through my chest, so fleeting but so real I want to grab it and hold it forever. But like dance, it must be experienced, and cannot be captured. It can be found in a job well done, in a smile well-sent, in a dance of the spirit.

May you comfort someone in need, and may you in turn be comforted when you are in need. May your joys be many. May you dance.

Comfort and joy. To you.

Safe Travels. by Patresa Hartman

Ice fell on Iowa last night. It's the fitted bed sheet under a blanket of lovely white snow. Corporate Des Moines has issued a two-hour delay for profit making. It takes quite an event for Corporate Anywhere to voluntarily delay profit making. Already, the mood of downtown has lifted.

Yet, the newspaper was right on time. And I am sure the mail will arrive right on time. I don't know what the hiring process looks like for mail and paper delivery, but it must include a very rigorous physical assessment -- testing candidates' ability to withstand rotating sheets of wind and hail and rain and ice. I am grateful for their willingness to risk life and limb to deliver my Christmas cards and crossword puzzles. Thank you, Delivery Soldiers.

I hear the neighbors' snowblower and know that whomever loses a childish game of rock, paper, scissors, either my husband or I will join. But I am grateful for that snowblower. Until this year, we have been Shovel City. My father donated his old John Deere blower, which is large and bulky and makes my forearms ache after I have finished the whole driveway. But I'll take sore forearms after 30 minutes of snowblowing over the complete body decay that occurs after two hours of shoveling. Thanks, Dad.

I am softening toward this Iowa weather. I used to say I hated the winter, that I belonged someplace warm and unfrozen year round, but I am changing my mind. Storms of snow and ice unite our communities. When weather becomes the story, we have full conversations with total strangers. We gather around windows like children to watch the sky spill its white; we wish each other safe travels when we leave. I like this. It makes me feel connected; and it brings out the kindness in people. For that, I am grateful.

Bad Chore Ahead by Angie Ledbetter

I have dental phobia brought on by years of dentists not believing I am anesthesia resistant. Even after 14 shots once, I could still feel the heart-stopping pain of drill biting into nerve. The same thing happened with the epidurals I was given during the births of my three children. Not one of them worked, so it was natural childbirth for me.

Having finally found a dentist who believes me, and who has concocted a cocktail of three different medications to numb my mouth for at least 20 minutes, I am eternally grateful.

Today while I sit sweating and shaking in the dentist's chair for a regular check-up, I'll call up all my reserves to keep myself calm. Among the most prominent weapons in my arsenal will be listing and re-listing the many things for which I am grateful. And when it's all over and I'm back in my car on the way home, I will truly feel gratitude for my good dentist and that the dreaded appointment is over.