Christmas at the in-laws
—in dedication to Grand Ma(rnier) and the Baby Jesus

I have begun my own holiday tradition of gossiping about Christmas at my brother’s in-laws.

No mistake! My brother’s in-laws are LOVELY. They are great characters…and great characters make for great stories. Especially at Christmastime, which happens to be my bubba’s mother-in-law’s most favorite time of the year. Gail is a sweet southern Georgia peach and she just LOVES loves LOVES her some Christmas! When I speak of her, I must use them ex-cla-mations! She listens to Christmas music in secret year round- it’s a fact! Her house is painted in red and green- that’s a fact too! Every other year, she buys more presents than the grandchildren have energy to open. Have you ever seen a child crying in exhaustion at having to open too many Christmas presents? It’s strangely cruel and pathetic and one of America’s best hush-hush secrets and it makes me freaking crazy to imagine such torture…and yet… As much as Gail loves Christmas, I love hearing my brother’s stories about a generous Christmas at the in-laws.

The standard Christmas Eve gift is a surprise set of matching pajamas for all. Mom, dad, daughters, their husbands, and the grandchildren are all in on this eerie Grizwald-esq tradition in which everybody’s GOTS to wear their Christmas pajamas Christmas morning without exception. My brother hates this part, but I revel in it. It’s gentle karma for all the humiliation he extolled on my other kid brother and me growing up. Now, as a grown adult, he’s forced into a lifetime of Christmas mornings in pajamas with Yoda and shit on them. It’s like a special present that I may have begged the baby Jesus for when I was a little girl, and now the miracle happens year after year.

Christmas day Gail’s jerk off brother shows up late every year, and graces the in-laws with a stunning portraiture of himself with wife and kids. Every year father-in-law is the first to snatch the present up from the under the tree and open it accompanied by obnoxious commentary. It usually begins with ‘I KNOW WHAT THIS IS…’ and then devolves into something uncomfortable for all in earshot. He shakes the box and declares something shitty like ‘I hope it’s like toilet paper for me to wipe my ass with!’ or else ‘I’ll bet it’s a pictures of the Munsters!’ or ‘Honey, get the trash can ready…’ Each year it’s different, it’s edgy, it’s a detail I beg my brother to give.

Honorable mention at our house goes to:
The big day ended with the dog-child getting the squirts from tamales- my mom finding piles most popular around the nativity scene with its tiny sheep lying sideways.
The baby Jesus’ (Christ-christ Baby!) thoughtful delivery of Grand Ma(rnier)
Tony’s game of ‘Break the Ice’ that did do just that.
Tour of AA flight academy flight simulators (“What exactly does happen if you wreck…?”)
My favorite gifts being those most dangerous; a kiln and a set of Japanese steel knives. Who would have thought the state would ever allow…?
Mother’s very scientific beef tenderloin with gorgonzola sauce

Traditional Cheese Enchiladas
3 tbs. flour
¼ cup butter
4 cups blended re-constituted red chiles
3 cloves garlic
2 tbs. cumin
1 tbs. salt
2 cups boiling water
3 tbs. dried tomato broth

1 lb. grated montery jack cheese
½ onion, finely chopped

20 corn tortillas

Removed stems and seeds from a half package of dried red chiles (About 20-25). Roast the open faced skins over medium heat (on grill, or cast iron). Place roasted skins in a hot water bath until soft (about 15-20 minutes). Chop re-hydrated chiles in a food processor or blender, add garlic, and then work the chiles and garlic through a sieve or colander. Set aside.

In a skillet, brown flour over medium heat, and then add butter to form a roux. Next add pureed chiles/garlic, cumin, and salt, and cook until thickened.
On the side combine boiling water and tomato broth.
Add broth to chile and spice mixture. Continue cooking until the sauce is thickened.

Microwave tortillas in a plastic bag until soft and malleable. Dip one tortilla at a time in chile sauce and set flat. Line grated cheese across the tortilla and dot with microwaved finely chopped onions. Roll the tortilla up and set with seam side down in a greased 9x11 baking dish. Once all tortillas have filled the pan side by side, cover the enchiladas with remaining chile sauce. Top off with grated cheese, cover with foil, and bake at 350 for 15 minutes. Uncover dish, and bake another 5 minutes.

...the spirit of Christmas

This Tuesday afternoon I went to the mall. I know, I know…no, I’m fine. Willowbend…in Frisco. Yeah way up north. So, I run into Franklin Covey to buy my brother’s Christmas present, and the shopgirls and I are talking about Christmas, our families, how freakishly cold Chicago gets. (My brother’s little dog-child lifted it’s leg to pee, and it froze up there- they had to carry her little freezing body home). The shopgirls and I hit it off- like best friends. It’s so sweet…and yet…this only re-enforces my current theory of having no life and able only to engage meaningful human interaction from those that facilitate my purchases. ‘Tis the season bah!

But I did see Santa, who is looking much more casual lately. He’s retired that nasty red suit with the matted white fur trim for something a bit more caz…like an evergreen reindeer-print Henley with suspenders. The line to see him was brutally long, and the little ones dressed up in velvet and ringlets mingled with others in jeans and chocolate stains. Those in the center of the line were starting to crash from the candy cane high of just seconds before; their mothers wiping the sticky off their faces with saliva dampened Kleenex. A few tikes trailing up the back were engaging in some weird competitive Christmas caroling, while their mothers stared off vacant trying to find their Zanex friendly coping ‘zone’ for the long wait ahead.

According Santa’s camera savy elf with the invite list, the very first bowl-cut kid in line was named Devon. The next-in-line jitters were torturing him onto kiddom infinity, as made obvious by his modified ‘pee-pee’ style dance. While the adults were busy analyzing the digital photo results of the previous star struck fledgling, he flagged Santa’s attention. When Santa waved back at him and asked him how he was, Devon broke out of the corral, body slammed the restraining gate, and darted for the old fart’s lap. Security wrestled him in mid-decent back to his rightful station behind the kiddy gate as he shouted ‘Santa! Santa said I could!!!’

Indeed, Santa is the boss of this whole affair, and it only seems right that due process can, and should be overridden with the wave of his hand, but I myself am only still figuring out the way this crazy world works.

I don’t know why I started crying right there. I stuffed the burning of my throat and blinked hard and fast, careful not to upset the mommies amongst me. Little Devon’s just so sincere and so pathetic that I can understand what drives a parent to spank. And drink too much. And move out to the suburbs to be amongst others of the same ilk. To watch countless others pose their empty hearts and pretend to laugh at lame elf jokes for the camera, when all you want is a little meaningful encounter with someone who is loyal and thinks that you’re awesome and is willing to hold you, dirty diaper and all, and listen to your wildest dreams.

I dedicate this post to the young and ripe Devon…even though you probably can’t even read, you little bastard.

Every time I pull up, the front door has always been open. I love that feeling. It says, ‘I know you’re coming, can’t wait to see you, I won’t let the door even stand in the way.’

The only thing better is to be mauled by a shaggy red ground-hugger and the big headed baby monster the minute I push open the kissed glass storm door.