By 8:00 a.m. on Christmas morning, the trash is full, and empty boxes stuffed with wrapping paper, bows, gift bags, the colored tissue paper and those annoying twistie ties used to keep toys in place within their anti-theft (actually, anti-parent) packages wait in line next to our trash bin and recycling bin, as if to say, “I have served my purpose. I await my next mission and hope to become a beautiful greeting card one day.”

I look at the remains of so many gifts and I think; weeks of shopping, hours of wrapping, minutes to tear off and reveal the longed for gift…but the real job for me never ends…making sure my kids are, and stay, grateful for all they got and have.

Well, enough of that. I’d rather discuss food.

Becuase the fete accompli - my “I’m not a freak” test - still leaves me breathing sighs of relief two days later. I had fourteen people over for dinner at our home on Christmas, and the food was delicious, the kids behaved, the house was clean, but who cares? I didn’t get wound up, fall to pieces, yell at and alienate everyone in the house, or act like a martyr/the world was coming to an end.

I stepped into my own shoes, even though at the end of the night kissing the last guest goodbye I realized, I never bothered to put any shoes on. Good thing I had that pedicure on my birthday two weeks ago.

7:00 a.m.”Santa was here! Santa was here! Momma! Poppa!”
7:15 a.m. “It’s time. Get up. Videocamera charged?”
7:16 a.m. “Uh-huh. I’ll switch on the coffee.”
Don’t remember all of the gift opening, but I did get it on tape.
8:00 a.m. Smoke alarm goes off because the brown sugar coating on the bacon in the oven has begun to burn.
8:30 a.m. The cranberry relish and Coctel de camaron making commence. 
9:00 a.m. I start unloading the dishwasher and doing the dishes from breakfast. “I feel like I should start freaking out,” I say to hubby. “Why?” he asks. “Because that is what I have seen my mother, your mother, and my grandmother do when hosting the holiday dinner,” I reply. “Well…” hubby scratches his lower back. He must be scratching something in order to think. “Don’t,” he tells me. Could it be that easy, a simple decision not to freak out? We’ll see.
9:30 a.m. I shove butter under the skin of the turkey. Then coat with olive oil, sea salt, black pepper, dried marjoram, and poultry seasoning.
10:15 a.m. I sautee the mirepoix and mushrooms for the stuffing. 
10:45 a.m. Stuffing goes in the oven for the first time.
10:53 a.m. Break a saucer of my fine china. Opa! L’chaim! Sh!t! Oh well, the saucer should be relatively easy to replace.
11:00 a.m. - 11:45 a.m. Peeling 10 lbs. of potatoes. Parents come over with way too many gifts for the kids.
12:00 p.m. - Mom and Dad leave. OMG, three hours until people get here.
12:00 p.m. - 12:30 p.m. Simultaneously: hot rollers go into hair, face cleansed/toned/makeup-ed, clean bathrooms (pleased to see daughter #1 emptied trash cans as instructed).
12:30 p.m. Finished glaring at kids who look at room littered with paper, bows, toys, and cardboard who say “What mess? Us? Clean?”
12:40 p.m. House is miraculously presentable.
1:00 p.m. Deep breathing finished. Check turkey. Spend the next hour chilling drinks, re-arranging fridge, mashing and seasoning potatoes, calling friends.
2:00 p.m. Mom arrives to set the table. Lakers vs. Celtics turned on. I so don’t like basketball. 
2:30 p.m. Add heavy cream/egg mixture to stuffing, put it back in oven.
2:45 p.m. Set out hors d’oeuvres: Brie, Dubliner, Gruyere, smoked salmon, toast points, olive bread, olives. Surprised when Executive Sous Chef brother in law (who got here early to watch the game) likes the Tastefully Simple Warm from the Oven! savory cheese spread the most of anything. Touch up makeup, do dishes for tenth time, search trash bin, recycling bin, gift bags for USB cable to daughter #2’s camera. 
2:50 p.m. Start on brussels sprouts. Ask brother in law, do I really need to add bacon and onion? Collectively we decide no, as we have a vegetarian among among us.
3:00 p.m. Judgement time.
3:00 - 7:00 p.m. A big blur.
Let’s see, during this four hour time frame I busted out the platters received as wedding gifts, my fine china, the polished silver, realized I didn’t have enough serving spoons, dodged bullets and resisted bait, smiled a lot, declined offers of help, ate chocolate cheesecake and baklava while doing dishes, let my mother in law take over my kitchen post-dinner as steam rose from the sink, doted on my pregnant sister in law, yawned, did Patron shots, sneered at my husband who only ate his mother’s food without trying mine, and watched my children develop Wii addictions. 

I enjoyed myself. I crossed the bridge. It was simpler than I thought it would be, because all of that excess is the draining factor. I don’t need it. All of these years I have watched and learned and finally figured out, it’s okay to discard things that are not useful. I will be a weight on others if I allow myself to be weighted down. The hell with all of that.

Now the floors are clean, the counters Comet-ed, the trash men just picked up the last of the Xmas trash, my kids limbs hurt from playing Wii, and I think I understand things a little bit better than I did pre-Christmas.

Maybe I won’t forget. We’ll see.

“I’m not doing a tree this year, maybe just a small dinner,” said my mother-in-law. There has been a passing in my husband’s family so Christmas this year will be more…solemn.

“Even though I love Christmas,” she added. My mother-in-law sat on her couch and stared straight ahead. That silence is something I can usually handle. But I never even met the person she is missing. I don’t understand what my mother-in-law is feeling. I’m the daughter-in-law, Greek by marriage, the one who usually comes over to my mother-in-law’s on Christmas and eats three plates of her food, keeps her grandkids from breaking the Lladros, and watches her do her own dishes, barking at anyone in Greek who slows her kitchen clean up assembly line down.

“I can have Christmas dinner at our house,” I said, I bluffed, I practically whispered.

“I’ll let you know,” she kindly replied. I really didn’t think m-i-l would go fo it. Christmas is always at her house and though it was being toned down, tradition is more comforting than anything, especially for Greeks. And Jews. Oh, and Catholics, Italians, Protestants, Mexicans…before this blog gets too long, let me just say…everyone.

The comfort factor is why I believed my mother-in-law would decide to host Christmas dinner at her house, even if she took her time deciding about it. My offer - not the limited time kind - was made two weeks ago.

“I hear you’re having Christmas dinner at your house!” said my sister-in-law Angie four days ago.

If you have ever seen Animal House, John Belushi says “HOLY ****!” very loud, and makes it a four-syllable expression when the horse dies*. I said this louder than John Belushi but still honored the syllable exaggeration.

My husband looked at me upon hearing we were indeed hosting dinner at our home, a you should know by now kind of look.

Truth is, I think it’s my time. Honestly, I talked my husband into buying me the five-burner gas grill four years ago with the “But I’ll be hosting the holidays sooner rather than later” argument. Selfishly, I want my home to smell like roasted turkey and homemade crackling cranberries in simple syrup for once.

I think it’s time for me to grow up.

I want to take the burden from my mother-in-law, it’s the least I can do. She just lost her own Mom.

I want to show my own Mom that aisde from table-setting - a task I absolutely dread like dental work - I can totally pull this thing off (without Xanax or Vanilla Stoli at 10 a.m.) I need to prove to myself that I retained something from my former career in Catering and Event Planning. Also, this forces me to de-clutter. I really need to de-clutter.

It’s like my worth is up for proving, geesus how the holidays have a way of widdling things down, building them up and then just plain exposing them for what they were and always have been, pre-tinsel.

And as usual, my proof comes in the form of a springform pan, cookie sheet, roasting dish and heavy pots.

I was just bluffing. I said so many things I didn’t mean. I said so many things that had meaning.

Now that I’ve been called on it, I better get cooking.

* Michelle K, that was to you. Del Mar Fair 1996.

The night before our annual December Disneyland trip to celebrate Zoe’s birthday as well as mine, Zoe’s temperature was 100.3. It didn’t edge up to 100.4, which the pediatrician considers a fever, rather than a “low grade” temperature of 100.3 or less. Zoe took Zicam, two Airborne, and I told her that she had to decide she would wake up well, no fever, ready to Yo Ho, ready to be thrust sideways on Space Mountain, and not be denied her birthday rite.

The next morning, Wednesday, December 17th, Zoe’s 7th birthday, her temperature was 98.3. She has a strong will, that one. Another problem existed, however: it was pouring buckets, winds raged outside, and thundrestorms were predicted at Disneyland.

I stood in our kitchen, bacon popping in the microwave while I carefully placed a 7 candle within the folds of a warm, gooey-frosted cinnamon roll, ready to light the birthday candle when my husband asked me “Should we go?” Such a question - my husband was oblivious to my precise iententions or Zoe’s will - deserved a classic response to get our plan across to him.

“This isn’t a vacation, it’s a quest. A quest for fun. We’re all going to have so much — —- fun we’ll need plastic surgery to remove the smiles from our faces. I gotta be crazy, I’m on a pilgrimage to see a Mouse. God Bless Mickey Mouse!”

My husband just resigns to me when I go into movie quote-prompted insanity. If he decided it would be a bad idea not to travel 100+ miles north to Disneyland in the rain, if he decided to be conservative and take the “Zoe could get really sick” position, he would have to face more rants by me in addition to his 7 year old daughter who had already beat a virus or influenza, but could potentially suffer a broken heart unless he, her father, threw caution to the freezing wind.

“Well, let’s get on the road then,” he said. Good man.

Driving up to Disneyland, the rain did not let up once. The carpool lane seemed to open up and stay clear, and we made the trip in two hours, despite over-turned trucks, accidents, and this Artcic storm that pounded Southern California.

Getting the snapshots for our new annual passes was quick (it’s never been quick). Autograph books were purchased, beanies and mittens too, and we headed down Main Street to start the day with Pirates. We always either start or end our Disney trips with Pirates of the Caribbean.

Poppa pushed the stroller, Alex adjusted his jackets, and Zoe said to me “You’re like my sister, Momma, we’re so much alike,” as we walked on to POTC, no line. I hope you feel that way in ten years, baby girl.

I videotaped the entire ride with the lens cover on, giddy as I was. We exited the ride and I realized this, laughed at myself rather than feel overly disappointed, and we all ate clam chowder in sourdough bowls - the best clam chowder any of us ever had - in New Orleans Square while the air temperature began to drop (it was only 11 a.m.) below 45 degrees. In SoCal, we consider this very cold.

“It was so busy yesterday, you guys are lucky to be here today, even though it’s raining,” said the woman at the cafe counter.

I think so too.

So few people were there, smaller lines I have never seen at the Happiest Place on Earth, that we went on every ride we wished, time our only constriction. Haunted Mansion, Winnie the Pooh, Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, Peter Pan, Finding Nemo, Indiana Jones, Space Mountain, It’s a Small World…and then we obeyed a family tradition and got the kid’s silhouettes done.

I talked at length with the silhouette artist who has been scissoring art of people’s profiles for 34 years at Disneyland. “You must have done mine when I was her age,” I pointed at Zoe. My first silhouette still hangs in my Mom’s house, Dorothy Hamill haircut giving away the time period when it was done. Full circle, and it isn’t funny. Full circle, three of them, like a Mickey head.

I looked at the finished silhouette, and could not believe what I saw. Alex looked like a little boy with whispy hair. Melia looked like a toddler with ringlets. But Zoe looked like…a woman.

I couldn’t breathe, and suddenly I wanted to stay at Disneyland forever, where time seems to stand still, the outer world doesn’t reach me, I am happy as if I have just been injected with concentrated joy, and my babies will stay by my side forever. Safe in Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, or Adventureland.

“We have dinner reservations in 45 minutes, honey,” said hubby. Damn him, always bringing my feet back down to the ground. However, if we missed this dinner - Dining with the Princesses at Ariel’s Grotto - this perfect day would end sorta ugly.

Disney’s Caliornia Adventure Park closed at 6 that evening due to the rain they is what told us as we entered through the gate across from Disneyland. Alex and Zoe wanted to ride The Orange - hoisted swings that go round and round within the giant fruit - and miraculously, it was not closed. They rode twice with Poppa, I checked voice mail, Melia asked about Ariel.

The Princess Dinner, food mediocre but photo opportunities invaluable, did not take long, and although we sped through dinner, the last ride we wanted to go on, Monsters Inc., was closed.

“We’ll come back soon, guys, ” I said to the kids, who looked tired, were soaked to their socks and through their beanies, and were satisfied to go home and have a reason to come back soon.

On the tram, traveling to the car, a pink-cheeked Melia said to us all, “I miss Ariel, Momma. I miss her so much…” I did my best to explain when we would return to Ariel here, how Ariel stays here at Disneyland and doesn’t leave, and remember, they’re building an Ariel ride. Time is a relative subject when you are not 3 years old. I just had to wait out that look on her face, the tired eyes, the desire to stay at the Happiest Place on Earth, from underneath the raincoat inherited from her brother that squeezed her curls forward. I rocked her back and forth and hummed Disney songs.

Zoe sunk into her seat on the tram, and sighed. The look on her face was more satisfied, her long hair hung wet at the ends from under the pink beanie, and she nestled into her father who looked understandably shellshocked.

“Did you have a good birthday, baby?” I asked Zoe. 

“It was the greatest day of my life,” she said. Profile of a woman, still my baby. Will it always be that way?…Wait, turn this tram around! Go back! Go back!

I can fight the rain, take the wind, and help to defeat a fever, but I am no match for time, which I knew, so I remained silent.

I took one last picture  - the meantal, emotional, parental kind - to keep it in my mind. My heart at that point was like one of the snow globes they sell on Main Street, with three little silhouettes mounted within.

Within ten minutes, all three kids were asleep in the car.

We did it.

When I was a kid and my parents took me to Disneyland, I considered the journey home the last ride of the day. I stretched out in the backseat of the Ford station wagon, seeing freeway lights stream into the rear windows, and fell asleep, remembering the parades or rides or Tom Sawyer Island. I wanted that journey to go on and on. I felt disappointment when I heard my father use the blinkers, felt the car come to a stop at the freeway’s offramp, knowing we were almost home.

I didn’t want the journey to end. I feel the same way now. And for this day, I fought the elements and variables and won. That gives me all I need to start the next journey with the necessary spirit…that, and knowing I - we - get to come back.

My cousins and I had Simon wars in the living room of their little house on Saticoy Street in Van Nuys, California during many rainy winters.

I learned how to ride a bike - and crashed into several Cypress trees but recovered miraculously unscathed - on my yellow Huffy dirt bike when we lived by the (now Qualcomm) Stadium when I was a kid, on Sunday afternoons when I could hear people cheering for former San Diego Chargers Dan Fouts and Kellen Winslow (Sr.) under Coach Don Coryell.

My fifth grade teacher Mr. Epler, a stoic, myopic man who always wore the same white-ish, short-sleeved button-down shirt with an ink stain on the right pocket insisted that I didn’t read the entire Bulfinch’s Mythology I did a book report on. I read most of it, my parents read me some, but it was devoured cover to cover. Even as a fifth grader I was enraged at the academic injustice of Mr. Epler; I went beyond Judy Blume and Island of the Blue Dolphins (both of which I loved) and ventured into classic literature and mythology, unafraid, and hungry for history, worldly knowledge, and intrigue. But all the teacher cared about was the overly ambitious and seemingly unrealistic page count he didn’t believe I was capable of conquering, and gave me my first bad grade. Teachers shouldn’t squash children’s natural interests, they should nurture them. And teachers should never, under any circumstances, tell a child (in any direct or indirect way) that they aren’t capable of something. Anything.

I still have Bulfinch’s Mythology. The pages are yellowed, some of the Index pages have been torn out by my kids. But I reference that book the way doctors look to their PDR’s, and I have since Christmas of 1981; to read up on Prince Hector of Troy, Andromeda, or Glastonbury Tor. In fact, I still have pages bookmarked with 27 year old red and gold holiday ribbon. Bulfinch’s Mythology was the first place where I discovered that mystery, fable, fact and imagination can all share the same world. I still live in it.
 
But my favorite present of all was my E-Z Bake Oven. I unwrapped it in that house by the Stadium Christmas Day while my father yelled at the referees in some football game, while my Mom “slaved away” in the kitchen, and I had it set up - though I hated reading instructions even then - within minutes. I mixed together the contents of a paper envelope and water (maybe an egg too, I can’t remember) and poured chocolate cake batter into a small, round E-Z Bake Oven Cake Pan (it was no bigger than a biscuit cutter), and pressed a “Cook” button, or something, with the biggest smile I’d had on my face in my youngish life.

That E-Z Bake Oven was more productive than Simon, more instructive than a bike, and more interactive than a hard cover book. Looking back it makes sense. As a foodie now, my favorite gift of all time was a kiddie oven. Back then, I was just following what made me happy and felt like endless fun.

I just bought Zoe, my almost 7 year old daughter, her first E-Z Bake Oven. I also bought her the pastry decorating set to go with it. I can’t wait to see her face when she opens it Christmas morning, I hope she loves hers as much as I loved mine. I am sure that the E-Z Bake Oven cake mixes have improved, I am sure the technology is more advanced than the 70s. But the thrill of watching the lightbulbs inside the E-Z Bake Oven turn on, the pride involved in letting family members taste cakes that YOU AND ONLY YOU MADE WITH NO HELP!, the beginning of an identity or at the very least self-sufficiency that yields yummy results…those are timeless things. Zoe is always at my side in the kitchen, especially when I bake. She won’t be exactly like me (all current evidence to the contrary), but I think I have made a sound, albeit sentimental choice with a gift I believe will make her bubbly with joy. The E-Z Bake Oven, I am hoping, will be a memorable Christmas present that will begin something in her life she can be proud of (and maybe keep her from getting take-out every night when she’s on her own in the big big world).

Zoe doesn’t know how her Mom will delight in this giving two-fold, and it doesn’t matter. Zoe won’t understand (until she is a Mom) why I jumped up and down in aisle M21 of Target last Friday when I clutched the E-Z Bake Oven in my arms, envisioning the pinkness in her cheeks pushed up by her 7 year old smile. Zoe will, as sure as I know my own self, take to her own baking while her father watches a football game on Christmas Day. Just like Christmases past.

Bake me a cake as past as you can, Zoe-baby. Momma knows you can do it without even trying. (And thank goodness you could care less about reading Momma’s blog).