Advent. Santa Lucia and much more

I have been so busy, what with creating presents, wrapping presents and mailing presents. All that is now behind me, my little home is decorated and if I get a shot of energy, I may bake some cookies. 

I am well. I can prove it. For on the 15th I saw my doctor for our semi-annual get together and that's what he told me. I would like to lose 20 lbs and I would like a little more grace. But how can you complain when most of the motors that keep me alive are humming along correctly.

Ariel sent a comment today, even though I have not blogged for ages. I started responding to her, and then thought I could instead write a blog and answer her comment at the same time. I don't want want to lose all my friends out there in this new world.

She mentioned that she grandmother used to eat burnt toast. We never had toast for breakfast. It was oatmeal daily forever and ever. My little brother hated oatmeal and refused to eat it. He would have to sit at the table till his plate was clean. When my mother had to get us older ones off for school, she would leave the dining room and often the plate was empty when she returned. We had a large, massive corner chest. It was larger in it's lower section than the upper one. The front of the lower part reached almost to the floor. There was a small opening with curved edges. Too small for a mop or a broom to fit under there. One day the dining room had to be painted. Two burly men came to help move the chest out of the corner. They could not budge it. It had to be taken apart. The upper section was heavy but the lower part was doubly so. When it was finally moved, Lo and Behold, there were many many piles of oatmeal left by my brother. Some had green hair growing on them. My brothers small  hand with his spoon could fit under the small opening.

But I began speaking of burnt toast. We like Ariel had no toaster. In the living room we had a fire place. Not open like we have here now. It was a box like thing and in the winter a fire burned all day long. If the fire had been refilled and was burning near the opening at the top, we would sometimes be allowed to stick a long fork in a slice of bread, open the little door at the top and then to hold the slice of bread above the fire. The bread had to be a certain distance from the fire or it would burn. There wasn't much space to waste. Many slices were not secured  correctly and if they fell into the fire, that child was out of luck for we never got another slice. The older children were much more clever and the younger ones would cry. It smelled so good from the bread toasting. But, oh how hot it was on the hand holding the fork. Agony!

The above happened only in the afternoon if it was too cold to play out doors. Or in the evening when it was too early to go to bed and too late to be out doors. If I remember correctly, we never got butter or jam for the toast. No finger marks in the living room.