I feel like I owe you a Christmas post. To assure you that we got the tree and put it up and strung (a little) popcorn and set up a couple nativities, etc. (Or maybe it’s to reassure myself that I’m on the right track?)

We’ve done it all—and parts of it have even been fun!—but what I really want to know is: HOW IN THE WORLD DOES ANYONE EVER KEEP THEIR HOUSE CLEAN?

I don’t know how anyone does it, period, but I really don’t know how you all cope with the mess and filth during the Christmas hoopla—I mean, holidays.

The glitz and glam make more mess, do they not? And the decorations are supposed to be up for at least several weeks, so you have to clean around all The Extra Pretty, right?

Seriously, people! Are you okay with this?

I read blogs and see magazines and all these people are doing such wonderful festive stuff and all I’m thinking about is the pine needles that are falling on the floor (and the mittens that fall in the tree’s water pan—why are there mittens in the tree’s water pan, willsomeonepleasetellme?) and that all the pretty votive candles eventually burn down and then need to be washed out before I can fill them with fresh votives but the little votive holders clutter up my sink for days because I hate washing them out and then my counter looks trashy.

So… I corral the five children in my charge—all under 10 years of age and two of them not mine—and make them work. They dust baseboards and chairs, wash dishes, desprout the potatoes, scrub sink and toilet, empty the compost, collect the trashes, all while I run around washing windows, dusting, and wiping down the stairs. It feels really good and I even call my husband to tell him he married a goddess.

But then the next day comes around and I spend the entire morning with the four children in my care—all under 12 years of ages and all of them mine—cleaning the house again. There are more windows to wash and picking up to do and organizing and vacuuming and a toilet to scrub and the kitchen floor to wash and empty canning jars to be taken to the basement and full ones to be lugged back up (and washed and shelved) and firewood to be hauled to the front porch and—

I am so sorry. This is probably boring you to tears. Heck, it’s boring me to tears. My point is: the house still feels messy and I feel defeated. All these blog-and-magazine people go waltzing through the holidays, red ribbons and twinkle lights and sanding sugar galore, and all I can think is: WHO IS CLEANING YOUR TOILETS! WHO IS DUSTING AROUND ALL THOSE KNICK-KNACKS AND WHO IS MOPPING UP THE STICKY SUGAR AND DON’T YOU EVER GET SICK OF IT AND FEEL LIKE SCREAMING?

I’m not really that shouty. I just start talking in all caps when I feel like my reality is totally different from everyone else’s. Perhaps they have better filters on and know not to talk about such boring stuff on their blogs. Perhaps they have cleaning ladies. Perhaps their houses are such screwball messes that they have to focus on the sparkly lights with uber concentration, because if they let themselves even notice the dust rhinos under the piano, the facade will crumble into a pile of dust, which is just one more thing to clean up.

P.S. I don’t have an open fire in my kitchen, in case you wondered. Those pictures are from our annual visit to a local Christmas tree farm where the kids get to hunt for the hidden candy cane tree, drink hot chocolate, and pick out a free ornament. Oh, and cut down a tree, too. It’s a jolly affair.

P.P.S. I love Christmas. Seriously. It doesn’t even stress me out.

P.P.P.S. Messes stress me out.

This same time, years previous: middle-of-the-night solstice party, lemon cheesecake tassies

*de-sprouting the potatoes (the five-year-old was quizzing the four-year-old in basic addition, no joke)
*using the inhaler for the first time: my husband is giving my (wheezing) daughter a demonstration. Also, I’m so thankful for medicine.
*beef broth: a quarter cow showed up on my porch in the form of ground beef and a huge box of frozen-together bones that my husband jumped up and down on in order to break them apart. I thought it might be fun to try to reconstruct the cow by hooking the bones together, but instead I’ve been steadily cooking them for hours, batch after batch—it makes the most marvelous, thick (think jello) broth.
*”I’m a Chinese-er, Mom!”: because that’s what you become when you eat your peppernuts with chopsticks
*watching this Ted.com talk
*messy art: (stifled sigh)
*rest time results: whatever will I do with this child!
*more rest time results: a paper-and-tape bridle and saddle for a favorite unicorn
*leeks: because they’re too beautiful not to photograph
*learning to make granola: she made it two days in a row. A couple more times and she’ll be the new granola expert, yay
*wood carving: inspiration credit goes to Christmas Story (cheesy, but the kids liked it well enough)
*we’re not perfect: but we did tone it down a little (after pausing to to laugh at them)
*the solar project continues! (photo credit: my oldest)

This same time, years previous: chocolate-dipped candied orange rinds, walnut balls

I’m at Panera. I’m writing (obviously), but, I’m pleased to say, it’s efficient writing. So often I procrastinate till I’m bored to death and only then do I begin to string words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs.

Today, however, is different. Today I’m working extra hard because I have a lot to write down, plus I’m feeling a little guilty since I left my husband at home with the four kids and a 300-pound tank to get into the basement and mountains of laundry to hang up in the bitter cold.

He told me to go, though. He said it’s easier for him to do his projects and take care of the kids when I’m gone. He said something about how he hates having to “protect me” when I write at home. The phrase “high maintenance” may have escaped his lips. Humph.

It’s one week and one day till Christmas (like you don’t already know that), and I’m feeling resigned and relaxed and like who gives a big whoop anyway. The tree is up and the kids spend lots of time rearranging the ornaments and dropping them and I don’t really care anymore. Heck, I didn’t even touch the tree except to cut off some boughs for an arrangement: green bits o’ Christmas tree stuck in a milk pitcher along with some violently poke-y red berries I stole from a roadside ditch, fa-la-la, ouch-crap.

I’m sounding more scroogy than I actually am. I throw lots of flour and sugar around in my spare time, and when I venture out, I say Merry Christmas in best holly-jolly fashion. We’re happily ticking off the things on our Christmas to-do list (our next read aloud is The Best Christmas Pageant Ever—have you read it?), and the kids are contented, so all is well.

Peppernuts: they’re my latest obsession.

I read about them on my sister-in-law’s sister’s blog and promptly whipped up a batch. The kids went bonkers for them, which surprised me because I have a vague memory of little turned up noses the last time I made the spicy cookies.

While baking them, I ate a ludicrous amount—my self-control was no match for their tiny peppery selves. Besides, I had to sample each batch to make sure they were the correct hardness. It’s part of the job.

When I finished the baking, my peppernut belly and I went for a walk and then off to a church council dinner where my earlier gluttony prevented me from eating as much as I would’ve liked, and where, when I confessed my reason for not sampling both kinds of soups, I unintentionally sparked a vigorous debate.

Everyone had a strong opinion about the hard cookies. Some professed complete adoration while others couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. One man said, “I think the reason I like them is because they’re not really that good,” (huh?), and when one member of the group admitted complete ignorance to this food, she was attacked by both parties, the peppernut haters waving their arms dismissively and pooh-poohing all the hoopla while the peppernut lovers rolled their eyes and wailed protestations.

Someone, I do believe it was a hater (can my memory be messing with me?), made mention of one member of the congregation who made excellent peppernuts. They have a wonderful bite, she said. (Are the haters bluffing?) So back home, I fired off an email to The Maker of Excellent Peppernuts, begging her recipe. I got it this morning (it varies only slightly from mine), plus a promise of a peppernut sampling party at church tomorrow, yay!

I’m going to go ahead and share the recipe I made this week even though I might not be done experimenting. I can always update with adaptations and variations later, I figure. Besides, according to my family, this recipe is already a winner.

Peppernuts
Adapted from Queenie’s recipe

I swapped in a cup of spelt flour and a cup of whole wheat for part of the white flour—delicious. Next time I’ll increase the whole grains to at least four cups.

1 ½ cups butter
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
1 cup golden syrup (I used King)
1/3 cup sour milk (I used plain yogurt with milk)
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoons salt
1 ½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/4 teaspoons cardamon
1 1/4 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon each nutmeg, ground cloves, ginger
7 cups flour (part whole wheat)

Beat together the butters and sugars. Add the syrup and sour milk. Beat in the remaining ingredients, but only part of the flour. When everything is well-mixed, exchange your beaters for a large wooden spoon, and—because the mixture will be quite thick—stir in the remaining flour by hand.

Shape the dough into skinny ropes, the size of your pinky finger (assuming you’re not a giant) and cut into quarter-inch pieces. Place the peppernuts on an ungreased baking sheet (they will puff only a little, so you can place them fairly close), and bake at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes, or until golden brown. (They are supposed to be crunchy, so let a few cool to room temperature and then sample to make sure they are hard all the way through. Adjust your oven time accordingly.)

Cool to room temperature before storing in an airtight container or freezing.

Yield: I’m not sure—we ate so many of them while baking! (But I think at least 1 gallon, and maybe 1 ½ gallons.)

This same time, years previous: my baby, scholarly stuff