Staying Put in Upton

I love Christmas. Not the commerical, 25-days-left-to-shop-muzak-carols-playing-much-too-early-in-the-mall-join-the-frenzy-don't-be-a-Scrooge, Christmas. I don't like the added stress of all the shopping and preparing. I like Christmas: a candle-lit Christmas eve service at church where I can contemplate, in the quiet darkness, the love of God so great that he sent his Son to be our Savior; a Christmas morning with my little family, opening presents and enjoying them, but enjoying one another's company even more; a larger family gathering some days later where chatter and homely food are featured. On Christmas eve I was thinking that even if every present disappeared, I would be content with what I have. I was thinking about how greatly blessed I am with a family that I love, and who love me, and a God who loves me more than I could ever contemplate. And Christmas has come in it's blaze of secular fury and remains in a quiet whisper.

Well, the weathermen forecast this storm, starting with a prediction for four inches and moving quickly into dire warnings of ten plus inches, with snowfall rates of up to three inches an hour. It all started at noon, and now, at eight post meridian, it continues - white and fluffy, pelting down onto the roads and yards and woods. Given the approach of Christmas, this snow is a welcome sight to some small part of each of us in New England, to whom Christmas is never the same unless it is white. And so, we may have our collective wish, although the Nor'easter forecast for Sunday may end up as rain. But if it ices or snows instead, it will be the end of numerous Christmas pageants and parties.

The cats stare anxiously out the windows, wondering if there will ever be a time when they can slip outside to take care of their most pressing business. But we humans, safely home via harrowing rides over slippery streets, sigh and snuggle a bit closer to the woodstove, glasses of wine in hand (or martinis - after all it IS Thursday night). Home never seems as cozy as when a storm rages outside.

And suddenly, in the darkness, there is a knock at the door. No, it is not a young, pregnant woman with her husband by her side looking for safe harbor, but rather, it is the UPS man, package in hand and head and shoulders covered in snow. He has parked his truck out on the street and trudged up all 400-plus feet of the too-treacherous-to-navigate driveway to deliver a couple of packages. I answer the door and exclaim "You poor thing, you!" And he responds "Yep, it's a bad night out there," and turns and wades back into the darkness. I think maybe I should call UPS tomorrow to tell them how dedicated some of their workers are. I guess I can forgive a smashed package or two...

For what reasons do we risk our precious lives? Saving small children, defending our country, eating delicious Middle Eastern food. Yesterday evening, Mother met me at my apartment and, after piling on layers of outerwear in various shades of black and grey, we set off down the street for a dinner at El Basha. To our dismay, there was no sidewalk and we were forced to trek slowly along the slick ice which currently coats the sloping area adjacent to the road. We finally came to the intersection of Route 9 and Lake Avenue, and successfully crossed. We were greeted by holiday-lit palm trees, a ceiling painted blue with fluffy white clouds, and attentive wait staff (because we were the only people there). After ordering some merlot and raising a glass to our dear Katie, we discussed relevant issues such as Memere’s hair color and our predispositions for assuming that people have good intentions. We supped on flavorful hummus, Greek salad, kibbee, stuffed grape leaves, and falafel. After topping it off with a moist yet flaky piece of baklava, we argued over who should pull the car around front. It seemed we needed to walk back. Strong women that we are, we waited in the cold for the walk sign to flash, crossed Route 9 once again, and chose to forgo the icy slopes in favor of the road itself since rush hour had subsided.

Ah, Thanksgiving Day! It is a holiday I very much enjoy - straightforward giving thanks and enjoying a sumptuous repast with those whom I love. And so it was this year at the House of Boiteau-Chagnon. The menu was drawn up far in advance. The shopping done well before the hungry masses hit the grocery store. The plump, all-natural turkey, 20 pounds in weight, readied for the careful roasting. With sister, sister-in-law, and daughter helpfully and graciously providing pies and vegetable side dishes, I had only to roast the turkey, craft the gravy, mash the potatoes, saute the Brussels sprouts, and whip up two lovely dressings, those being the traditional French Canadian pork dressing and a new recipe for cornbread stuffing.

Ed was in charge of tables and chairs. Sylvie and her sweetie MP ably set the table and helped me in the kitchen. MP mashes a mean potato. All went well and pretty much on time. Well, OK, everything was ready about an hour after I had planned, but guests were happily sipping various vintages and varieties of wine and nibbling on the relish tray prepared by the Grandmama. The food readied for serving, we called everyone to the table for a standing and hand-holding grace, whereupon Edward provided a reminiscent thanks, holding the wooden turkey that he and I made long ago (that has another story). People filed through the kitchen and loaded their plates to the groaning point, moving to the long table most beautifully set in the study, at which point they began milling about in confusion. Finally, Karen pointed out the fact that, while the table was set for 12, there were 14 of us. Ed and I rushed to grab two more place settings of mismatched dishes and flatware, and a couple of chairs, unruffled our feathers, and sat down to eat. For two weeks I had been counting heads and coming up with 12, very pleased with the fact that both my dishes and flatware are services for 12. Ah well. As I stated after the confusion died down - "Dang! I'm usually very good at math!"

The food was ample and most delicious. We finished the main course, took turns chatting with a very sleepy Katie (6 a.m. China time) on the phone, and finally launched into the pies: pumpkin, apple-pear-cherry, pecan, and apple-mince. It was lovely to see everyone (the Memere, the Grandmama, the Chagnons of Bow, the Sandberg-Chagnons of Maine, Sylvie of Worcester, MP of St. Louis, and James of Upton), and especially lovely to talk to Kate. It was a fine day. God is good!

The coordinators of the first year medical school curriculum calendar probably thought they were doing the students a favor by scheduling an anatomy exam directly following a three-day weekend. But I'd so much rather get it done with and then relax for the weekend, or start studying for my next biochemistry exam. And so, I'm tolerating a weekend filled with the arteries, nerves, and fossae of the head and neck by hanging out in Upton. I went walking with Mother, as extrapolated upon in the entry below, ate some delicious pot roast, and sat by the fireplace.

The Memere came to dinner last night. Blowing her nose, she declared, "I keep having all this air come out of my nose." I replied, "Yeah, I've been having that problem all my life." Mother glared at me, though later admitted that it was funny. As usual, I have grown taller and lost weight.

In order to reach today's goal of 16,262 steps or "step equivalents" I was still in need of about 6500 steps after walking down Mechanic Street this afternoon. So I rowed in the basement for a while. Now it's back to the cranial nerves.