Many thanks to those of you who participated in our little Kiva experiment this past year. Some did so anonymously, a few joined team Copacetic Connections where we doubled our original investment.

Gary and I recently invested the same $25 for the third time. It's been an interesting experience, opening our eyes to a broader worldview.

Nothing conveys the heartfelt warm wishes of the season quite like those letters that berate people to keep the Christ in Christmas by remembering the Reason for the Season.

I don’t think they’re referring to the winter solstice.

Does this backlash stem from a reaction to the commercialization of Christmas? A deepseated resentment that the holiday has been lifted or marginalized? Or maybe it has something to do with the changes that resulted from the political correctness movement—-the ‘holiday’ party/concert, instead of the ‘Christmas’ party/concert?

I attended Catholic grade school for five years (which often meant attending mass six days a week). I’m well aware of the history and significance of Christmas, and that it’s not just so people can give you stuff. I performed in many Christmas concerts where we sang both Christmas songs and holiday carols, and yet, the only concert that sticks in my mind is one from the early grades where members of my class wore red and green bell costumes (bright, shiny, colorful, and likely very, very comical). We must have had a secular teacher that year.

I later attended a Catholic University which made a point of being ecumenical, respecting all faiths without diminishing its own.

I welcome good wishes, the positive energy of the holiday season, the increased awareness to the needs of others, the opportunity to thank people for the friendship and support they have shown throughout the year. I’m not going to take offense if someone wishes me the all inclusive 'Happy Holidays' instead of the more ethnocentric 'Merry Christmas' because I’m aware that the underlying intent is one of good will.

Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward All.

This time of year I always enjoy losing myself in a good saga. I’d been wanting to read Kate Morton’s THE HOUSE AT RIVERTON for awhile but needed to time it right with the library so I could enjoy all 473 pages without a looming due date.

Morton is an Australian author and this, her debut novel, became a best-seller in a number of countries but may have slipped under the radar in the U.S.

The novel opens with protagonist Grace Bradley, age ninety-eight, reflecting on a much earlier time in her life when she lived and worked as a servant at Riverton House. The novel weaves back and forth as it offers readers a revealing glimpse into the inner workings of the house and the lifestyles of the British aristocracy, the cultural shift that resulted from World War I, and how a particular sequence of events plays out in Grace’s life. It’s a well written story with a satisfying ending.

I'm still waiting for Kathryn Stockett's popular novel, THE HELP, to become available, but if you'd rather explore the past in another British manor house, don't miss Diane Setterfield's THE THIRTEENTH TALE.

“My ring is gone.” My husband stared at me as he uttered these words and it took me a few seconds to fully comprehend what he was saying.

His wedding ring was missing.

The irony here is that he’d recently had the ring re-sized. After several years of the ring sliding about loosely on his finger and occasionally sailing across the room, the ring now fit. (He had a broken finger when we got married, and he’s lost some weight since then.)

He’d just returned from covering some of the plants outside in preparation for a chilly night, so we both slipped on jackets, grabbed flashlights and began poking around the bushes, shining our lights on the ground, more than a little concerned about what we might find glimmering back at us (the night life of the wildlife in the area).

We decided to postpone the search until daylight, which seemed like an even better idea when he found the ring on the bathroom rug.

Emeril said it was ‘Easy.’ 15 minutes prep time. 15 minutes inactive prep time.

That inactive prep time must have been the 15 minutes that I used to read 8 emails and respond to 3, the rest of the two or so hours, I was in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to prepare the meal without the entire thing bursting into flames.

The recipe looked easy, deceptively so. There was minor cutting and chopping, and probably a tad too much garlic, but when I discovered that I didn’t actually have the oven turned on for the first 20 minutes (when I thought I was roasting the garlic), I felt that slightly panicky feeling that perhaps I was in over my head.

With apologies to vegans and vegetarians (look away), I had a lovely free range, organic chicken, which I rinsed and seasoned and drizzled and, wait a minute, you want me to rub the chicken inside and out AFTER you’ve already told me to place the lemon rinds and bay leaves inside? (And, okay, in my over-zealous state I had tied the legs together, probably unnecessary, but I was just so thrilled to have found some string).

Right around this point I decided to have a Cosmopolitan--heavy on the vodka, light on the lime, Cointreau, and cranberry juice.

I was already running late and I could tell I had a humdinger of a headache building. Maybe the Cosmo would take the edge off.

I got everything in the oven and thought I could go tend to other matters—45 minutes of yoga, a shower, work on a newsletter. I had only just begun tracking down some info for the newsletter when the smoke alarm went off.

I flipped on the exhaust fan, opened the front door, and removed a rack in the oven to cook the meal on the lower rack. Then I fixed myself another drink.

The meal turned out well. I’m always pleased if something I prepare is edible, so the bar isn’t set very high. My husband said it was good; it tasted just like a rotisserie chicken. So I was thinking, ‘why bother?’

The meal was A LOT of work, but I think that may have been due to my inexperience. The veggies were a little on the salty side and overcooked and that seemed like a waste. Should I have been basting the bird? The gravy never did reduce to a sauce and my husband didn’t touch it, as if fearing the fat content or the prospect of encountering even more garlic.

Would I prepare this meal again? Maybe, but probably not.

Only one thing stood between us and our culinary endeavors: a can opener so sleek in design that we couldn’t figure out how to use it.

What we had:
- two women with advanced degrees,
- a limited time frame,
- four cans (two beans, two corn),
- and one Pampered Chef can opener.

I busied myself with other tasks, sauteeing onions, chopping green peppers. My sister was the one with the greater technical aptitude, she was our best bet in figuring out how to use the can opener.

She lined up the implement, cranked and turned, succeeding only in denting the metal rim on a can of corn.

I tried my hand at it. Same outcome.

The results: two dented cans.

We searched for can opener alternatives, finding only a bottle opener which carved a nice little triangle in the lid of the can. Not going to work.

Steeling her determination, something she is very, very good at, she once again applied the newfangled can opener to the side of a can, cranked, then pried the lid from the can.

Success!

I tried it on another can, finally catching on: the can opener cuts the side of the can, right beneath the metal lip. I'm not sure I fully grasp the benefit of the design, there's still a sharp edge, but it's not on the lid.

Still, I learned something new.

Clearly I've got to get out more.

I’d always suspected the BEWARE OF DOG sign on the gate might be more a reflection of the human than the dog. There had been an aggressive dog there when we first moved to the neighborhood, lots of fierce barking on the other side of a high wall when we’d pass by, but all I’d seen in recent years was a seemingly docile yellow lab walking on a leash held by a grouchy human.

I’d always felt a little sorry for the dog, right up until the point where he tried to attack my small dog when we walked past their home.

The lab and the human were in their open garage when we walked by. I could tell by the lab’s unfettered approach that he was about to issue a lesson: my yard, back off. But I kept moving when I probably should have stopped.

While the other human rebuked his dog by shouting and waving his arm like he was going to give him a solid whack, I scooped up my little dog and hustled around the corner.

I’ve never seen a mean lab, rambunctious, okay, but generally they’re mellow in disposition; I blame the human.

Three blocks later I realized I’d drop a little bag of dog ‘business’ at some point. I’m hoping it was in their driveway, but I wasn’t about to go back and check.