Annie Valentine

Early in December our son Harry asked Santa for a Cabbage Patch kid. A boy one with red hair, please.

At first I was a little surprised and apprehensive about my nine-year-old wanting a doll, but Cabbage Patch Kids aren’t really dolls, they’re companions. He’d been helping me choose them for his sisters and watching all the YouTube video births from the Cabbage Patch…it couldn’t be helped, he was totally sold. I decided to do a little looking just in case. Would you believe that within five minutes on ebay I found a circa 1985 boy cabbage patch kid, football player, redish hair, new in the box…$12.99.

Talk about your no-brainer.

Ten minutes later the deal was sealed and the Kid was on it’s way. A few days later I casually mentioned to my husband that Harrison wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid. I honestly wasn’t prepared for his reaction.

“What?! Absolutely not, my son is not going to have a doll! I hated those things when I was a kid and I will not allow him to have one.”

Oops.

I sat Harrison down a few days later. “So,” I said, “Are you still wanting a Cabbage Patch Kid?”

“Yes!” he said.

“Buddy, I’ve got to warn you. If you get a Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas your father is going to tease you for the next fifty years of your life for owning a doll. You’re nine, it’s not exactly cool. Are you really prepared to take that kind of torture?”

“Bring it!” he said with a smile.

I decided to let Santa be the bad guy and wrapped up the doll unbeknownst to Jason. I hid it in the living room that night and crossed my fingers that good old Dad wouldn’t kill me later.

The next morning after everything had been opened and the kids were settled into their gifts I called Harrison back to the living room, video camera in hand.

“Hey,” I said, “What’s that over there?” He looked by the fire place behind a plant and pulled out the Santa wrapped gift.

“I don’t know,” he said, “There’s no name on it.”

“Why don’t you open it and see?”

“What is that?” Jason asked with apprehension, “I thought we talked about this…”

“I don’t know, it looks like Santa left it.”

Harrison pulled out his new Swiss Army knife and carefully cut away the wrapping paper. Then he started to laugh. The kid giggled like a school girl (too much?) and said, “Dad, you’re going to hate Santa for this one!”

And then he met Lyle, his new best friend. Football helmet and all, it was the most masculine doll Santa could have mustered.

He carefully whisked the doll away to his room and placed him in the most coveted place, right on his pillow.

Later that day Kiyah, Harrison’s good friend, came over with her family for Christmas dinner. I had to show off Santa’s amazing Cabbage Patch find and asked Harry to retrieve Lyle from his room. The look on Kiyah’s face when she saw the doll was nothing short of shock and horror.

“I have no idea where this came from!” Harrison said laughingly, “Don’t ask me what Santa was thinking!” he smiled and gave me his doll to show my friends. I handed Lyle back, and trying to help him save face said, “Be careful with that Harrison, remember that it’s a collector’s item!”

Harrison took the Kid, carefully placed it over his shoulder and gently patted it’s backside in true parental fashion. “Oh, yeah,” he said to Kiyah, “He’s a collector’s item.” Then he kissed its head and carefully returned Lyle to his bunk bed.

That boy is going to be a great father some day.

Jason called me this afternoon from work to remind me that due to our January Santa Bill Recovery Phase, I needed to eat less and tighten up the budget this pay period or else.

So what did I do? Why, I did what any careful, frugal woman would do in my situation: I ran right out and bought myself a fish tank.

A month ago I was thinking and praying about Rex turning 8 this year. I feel like it’s important that he has a basic understanding of the Gospel before he gets baptized and I couldn’t think of how to make that happen. We read the scriptures every day but that kind of application goes right over his head. He’s got some cognitive learning difficulties in the memory and application part of his little brain so Gospel stuff is particularly difficult for him.

Then it came to me. We need a fish tank.

Not just any fish tank, but an Article of Faith Fish Tank. What better way to know the basic princples of the Gospel than to memorize them? Rex has been begging for some fish and since a fish tank comes with so many moveable parts, I decided we could spend some time this year earning the “13 parts” of a tank to get him ready for his Fish Tank Baptism (too much?).

This weekend Rex memorized the First Article of Faith, or in our house the Fish Tank Article (this will be followed up next week with #2, or the Rocks Article).

I’ve been looking through our local American classified ads for a cheap fish tank and found about a dozen that would fit the bill. But with Jason’s stern warning that I cut all spending until next week I decided to lay off and wait.

I’ve had half a dozen people offer me their fish tanks at give-away prices so I wasn’t worried about finding one eventually. But for whatever reason I ended up driving to a girl’s house on my way home from piano lessons with my last $40 of grocery money so I could buy Rex his Fish Tank. As I pulled in all I could think was how much I’m going to be hating that fish tank by next Wednesday.

I knocked on the door and it opened.

“Oh!” she said. Did she look familiar? She pointed at me, “I know you.”

“You do…” I said.

“I know you from Church,” she said.

“Of course!” I’ve been out of the Ramstein ward for months but felt confident we’d met at least once. We followed her into the living room where her big fish tank was set up. For the next ten minutes we talked fish. Catfish, guppies, gold fish, mollies (named for Jason’s old girlfriend, an ugly fish we will never own because it would probably die of unknown causes while Rex was away at school), this girl knew everything about fish.

“The tank is upstairs if you want to follow me,” she said.

We headed up to her bedroom. “It’s been sitting on a sticky pad to keep it still, I’ll just loosen it  up and it’s all yours!”

Now the Ramstein ward is very, very large. It’s probably the largest active congregation I’ve ever attended and with the rapid fire turnover it’s very easy to lose people in the shuffle. As we visited I wondered where this girl fell in the religion department. Active? Less active? Not active? Please leave me alone already?

She reached around the fish tank to gently rock it free as we visited. It wouldn’t budge. For five minutes she tried to move that tank with zero luck.

Since we were obviously going to be there for a while trying to unstick the tank I decided, why not? Can’t hurt to ask. “So how’s the church situation?” And just like that the floodgates opened. We talked about God and her husband who is not a member of our church. We talked about trying to go every Sunday alone and how good she felt being there, that even though it was hard to get there taking the sacrament was worth it. She said she missed Heavenly Father in her life. Those are tender words to hear from someone and I loved her for sharing them with me.

Then I learned that her man had deployed for a year two Octobers ago and she’d ended up staying here for emergency foot surgery. The Relief Society had no idea she was still in the country, they thought she went back to stay with family during his deployment then moved from Germany last fall. No one knew she was here. No one saw her slip into the back of the chapel on Sundays or slip out before the meeting had ended. Only her Heavenly Father, and I felt the gentle hands of the Shepherd bringing her back.

And just as our conversation about life and religion was winding down her husband got home and the angels decided to let go of the fish tank and it popped right off of there.

I tried calling the Relief Society President of the Ramstein ward on my way home to give her this girl’s information but the line was busy. Vowing to do it later I put the phone in my back pocket and unloaded the car, starting dinner.

About half an hour after arriving home I was standing at the stove cooking when my phone rang. I picked it out of my pocket and saw the RS President’s name on the caller ID. Thinking she had called me back I put the phone to my ear.

But she hadn’t called me back. Apparently I had called her, or my butt had called her or most likely, the angels had called her. Someone wanted to make sure I did not let that lovely girl go unnoticed for one more hour.

Our stake theme this year is “Finding the One.” Tonight I understood exactly why the one is so important.

I have four children. Now I admit whole heartedly that if it wasn’t for my broken back and all the kidney problems during pregnancy I would probably have at least two more. Not because I can handle them but because I love babies.

I like children. I love babies. Sweet, snuggly, carryable babies who don’t say anything and think gazing into your eyes while you feed them is a good way to spend an afternoon. They’re great for keeping warm at football games and provide a built in escape from boring social situations. “You know, the baby, we have to go!”

Little Georgia recently turned two and it has been a painful process for me. I managed to keep her from walking until she was almost 20 months. This only worked because she’s naturally obedient (the first of four). I’d come into a room and there she’d be, all pulled up at the edge of the couch like she was intending to do something about it. “Uh oh!” I’d yell, “Sit down baby, you’re just a little baby, you’re too little to walk! Crawl to Mama, good girl, Gigi, you’re just a baby!”

Sick, isn’t it?

I find myself using the “you’re just a baby” phrase to excuse her from just about everything. Last month when I came downstairs and found my brand new tube of lipstick smeared all over the wall, complete with pink handprints up two flights of stairs, I couldn’t seem to drum up any anger. She came around the corner and looked at me with those sweet little baby eyes and all I could do was pick her up. “Oh, Baby, did you do that?”

“Uh huh,” she said, one little chubby finger in her mouth.

“Sweetheart, you can’t draw on walls! Only on paper! This is bad!”

“Sorry, Mama!” she said, burying her curly little head on my shoulder.

“Where do we draw, Georgia?”

“On paper!” she said, giving me a big apologetic hug and snuggling in. Tell me, how am I supposed to resist a child who is that naturally penitent and anxious to please? “Oh, it’s okay sweetheart. You’re just a baby!” Then I gave her a sucker and watched Barney with her. Obviously it had been a traumatic experience and I wanted to be sure there were no lasting effects.

And she just keeps getting older. The Terrible Tantrums have recently started but in her case they’re mild to non-existent. Earlier this week she was fitting on the floor about something and working herself into a good cry when I came around the corner.

“Georgia!” I said, “You stop that right now! We don’t kick walls like that!” She heaved her little self off the floor amid the sobbing and said, “Sorry, Mama! I wat a Baba!” We might or might not be slightly attached to her bottles. I keep telling myself that once we lose them all to couches and corners I will move her into the more appropriate sippy cups. Someday. But she’s just a baby, what’s the hurry?

Yesterday she was upstairs working in the play area when June (5) came in. “Georgia!” June said, “What are you doing?” June had spent a great deal of time coloring a picture from one of her books to hang on the fridge. She had left her paper and markers on the table to run downstairs. By the time she came back up, the damage was done.

“Georgia, no!” she said, “What did you do to my picture? Mom, she drew all over it and ruined it! Now I have to start all over!” I watched as June stomped over and yanked the ruined picture from her sister. “Bad girl!”

Georgia looked appalled at the accusation. She put both hands on her hips and yelled, “I just a baby!”

I think that phase has officially ended.

We recently left our big old Church congregation in Ramstein to join up with the much much smaller Baumholder branch here in Germany.

When we walked in that first Sunday a few months back and sat down I was painfully aware of the silence. No prelude, no organ, no nothing. Realizing that no one was jumping up to play the ominous piano sitting in the corner, I heaved myself out of the chair and made the short walk to the bench to pinch hit. I’ve been playing for sacrament and primary meetings ever since.

Since mormons do not have paid clergy we rely solely on members to fill the bucket list of to do’s. It goes without saying that before I knew what hit me they asked if I would serve as Branch Music Chairman/Resident Note Know It All. Who knew all those piano lessons would finally pay off? It only took 20 years.

Last month I realized that this meant I would have to plan the Sunday Christmas Program. I’ve never been in a ward that didn’t have some version of a functioning choir, by December 1st most wards are shoulder deep in Christmas music and narrative preparations.

What was I going to do? I haven’t been in the ward long enough to know where our musical strengths are and with my stake calling I’ve been gone two out of the last five Sundays. I would have to simplify. Instead of trying to arrange a montage of scattered duets and instrumentals I felt like it might be best to simply have the little congregation act as our ward choir. Everyone loves to sing Christmas songs, it sounded like my most viable option.

Using stories and poems from present and past December Ensigns interspersed with some New Testament narration I patched together a relatively simple Christmas program with three narrators (2 adults 1 kid) that would keep the congregation singing and hopefully invite a nice Christmas spirit to the meeting. And in response to my terrible piano skills I asked our Stake Music Chairman (an absolutely brilliant pianist with an equally brilliant flautist for a daughter) to come up and accompany us and perhaps add a special musical number. He’s got magic in his fingers and we needed a little magic.

When I stood to lead our little group in the opening and sacrament hymns this morning I felt my heart drop a little. It was an odd mingling of voices and everyone had their noses buried in their hymnals. Isn’t it interesting how often we stare at words most of us know by heart? If only we would look up when we sing, I’m certain the Heavens are interested in every voice and every note.

The program started and we got through “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” with more lift than I expected. But when I stood to lead “Away in a Manger” and brought the congregation in, I almost lost my ability to sing completely.

Our spindly group of mismatched voices transformed itself into a choir that quite literally took my breath away. It was as if every empty seat was filled with an angel voice and the Spirit rang through as we sang that lovely old hymn–my favorite Christmas hymn–in rich harmony.

I can’t explain it but I wish you could have been there. I wish you could have listened as the narrators told stories about Shepherds and the Christmas Cane, as we listened to words from Elder Holland recalling his first Christmas away from home. And in between each lovely bit of prose my sweet choir sang songs of praise and worship to our Savior.

It was awesome and it was humbling. The Lord loves talent but I think he loves the heart that’s willing to sing untrained praises even more. How grateful I am to attend meetings with such a stalwart group of Christian men and women who love God and love Jesus Christ.

Merry Christmas, dear friends!

In the true spirit of Let’s Overdo It This Christmas my girlfriend and I started a little service/charity thingy earlier in the fall. We started planning it last Christmas and somehow got our act together in time for this Christmas season. We call it The Mrs. Claus Affair and it’s geared toward making sure the wives of deployed service members have something to open on Christmas morning.

See, it’s not that these women are too poor to buy a gift or that their husbands aren’t thinking of them, it’s that our service men and women who deploy usually work insane hours and their shopping opportunities are sadly limited. I have one girlfriend with five kids who took her kids to the store right before Christmas, showed them what to buy her then tried not to watch as they put it in the cart. It was a very sad Christmas for her. Add to that the fact that most of us here in Germany are an ocean away from family and you get a really tough Christmas season for some of these sweet moms.

So we decided to do a little fund raising (Christmas card mini-session photo shoot with my awesome photography girlfriends Geneva and Sharma) and started our own home grown project. We made enough money to properly spoil about 20 girls and have been taking nominations the past few weeks. We plan to drop off personalized gifts to go under the tree–to be opened on Christmas morning.

Today was Shopping Day 3. Honestly, this whole thing has been one more project I probably didn’t need on my plate. Both Rebecca and I have been so busy it’s been a last minute scramble to make sure all our ducks were accounted for and we were ready to roll by this coming weekend.

Two months ago I ran into a mom during June’s dance class and found out her husband was deployed. She’s pregnant with her fourth kid and in her frazzled state it was clear that she’s spent. She didn’t have her phone number handy (few people here take the time memorize their 426 digit numbers) but took mine and promised to text me her contact information. It never came and I’ve been thinking about her ever since. Yesterday I tried to find her last name to see if we could still add her to the list but everything came up blank.

As Rebecca and I wound our way through the aisles at the BX trying to put together unique and delightful packages for the girls on our list I saw a familiar red head turn a corner a few rows up. It’s no surprise that there she was, my mystery mom, standing right in my path. I made a B-line for her and tried to invent some nonsensical reason to get her street address but ended up blurting out, “Can I have your address? I like to know where people live.” Cause that’s not at all creepy.

Knowing very little about her I wasn’t sure what category to put her in (sporty, homey, chic, granola, etc.) but we added her to the list and moved on with our shopping. As we finished up the last of the homey girls–there was some major outside inspiration happening while we shopped–we decided to get super cozy throws, Yankee Candles, some nice (exchangeable) slippers and chocolate. We started to head for the wrapping paper and I realized that would be the perfect little set of gifts for a pregnant woman during Germany’s coldest season.

“Wait,” I said, “I’ve got to go back and get this set for our extra mom, it’s perfect.” I left Rebecca and retraced my steps, reaching for the soft gray throw we had chosen for the other three women. But I found myself reaching past it and grabbing the red blanket instead. The moment my fingers touched it I knew that this woman was placed in my path today for a reason. No matter how alone she feels right now, this girl has angels on her side and they were going to make sure she was taken care of. I don’t know if I heard it or felt it but the impression was loud and clear–“Get her the red one, she needs something cheerful right now.”

I was overcome with the feeling that Heavenly Father loves this woman. She has not been forgotten.

It made this whole busy Mrs. Claus business absolutely worth it. I’ve had some great moments this Christmas where I felt my family draw together and felt the influence of the Savior, but this one seals the deal. Jesus Christ remembers the lonely. The angel didn’t invite the village mayor to visit our Lord in the stable, he invited the poor and lonely shepherds.

I will take more time this next week to look for the forgotten this Christmas, the people who need a loaf of bread or an unexpected hug. Today reminded me why we have Christmas and it’s not too late for me to do a little bit more for someone else.

‘Tis the season to tell your fourth-grader that Santa is a big fat fake.

Or not.

Harrison is such a loyal follower. He was born to believe in Santa Clause, claims to have seen the sleigh and Rudolph, routinely hears hoofs clacking around on Christmas Eve and takes his Christmas list and seasonal behavior very, very seriously.

But he’s in the fourth grade. Nine and ten-year-olds are brutal, especially when it comes to personal beliefs. For the first time his friends are questioning everything from presidential candidates to the Big Man Upstairs. We had no idea what a toll it was taking on our sensitive child’s self-esteem.

Last week was particularly hard. For days he stomped around the house pushing his siblings and being blatantly disobedient to just about every request and directive from Dad and Mom. On Sunday after church he threw a fit about having to hang up his church clothes and I knew it was time; something had to give or we were calling the Zoo to see if they had any cages available.

I sat down on the bed and watched him kick things in his room around.

“So,” I started, “What’s up? Rough week at school?”

“No!” he yelled at me, “I’m just stupid!” Not really the response I was expecting but very, very telling.

“Ah,” I said, “Stupid. So why do you think you’re stupid?”

“Because!” long pause during which I sat and picked at my nails. He slumped down in his chair and finally looked at me. “It’s just…no one believes anything that I believe and they say I’m stupid!”

These seemed like very big issues for someone who is four feet tall. “Really? Like what?”

“Like everything. All my friends voted for someone different than me, and most of them don’t even believe in God. And…they all say that Santa Claus isn’t real!”

And there it was. The quintessential fourth grade question and man’s first step on the road to universal truth. My son sat there with his head in his hands, wracked with the torment of the unknown.

“What do you think about Santa Claus?” I asked.

“I don’t know! I mean, I know he’s real…at least I think he’s real. I used to know he was real…” Oh the agony! My mind was racing a million miles a minute. It would be so easy to just tell him, right there right then that the entire thing is a big hoax and he’s old enough to know the truth. What could it hurt? He’s going to be ten, isn’t it time? I held my breath thinking.

Every year at my family’s big Christmas party, Santa Claus (played by the world’s scariest and therefore most unexpected uncle) stops by and brings all the grandkids gifts. And every year like clockwork someone figures out that it’s Uncle Bruce. They all respond differently to the He’s Not Real information. I remember about ten years ago when then nine-year-old Dustin was told the horrible awful truth on Christmas Eve. I’ve never seen a kid take it so hard, he sat at the top of the stairs the rest of the night mumbling to himself, “I can’t believe they lied to me! They lied! I’ll never trust them again, they’re all liars!” Every kid handles it differently.

After hearing Harrison out with his Santa woes (apparently the other stuff was mild in comparison) and fighting the urge to bring him into the light I checked myself from blurting out the truth and instead asked him what he wanted. “So help me out here. Are you asking me if there’s a Santa Claus? Because if you want to know I will tell you.”

The silence in the room was tangible and I swear I saw sweat bead up on the bridge of his nose. Would he ask? Did he really want to give up the dream? Was he ready to be part of the Bigger Set and in on the secret? I should just tell him, he’s almost ten, in today’s world–

“No. I’m not asking.”

He’s been in a good mood ever since. Looks like Santa will be making a pit stop after all.

I really love Christmas. Everything about this time of year makes me want to sing and bake and eat and cry (mostly about living so far from the people I want to sing and bake and eat and cry with). This year I want to do more than play the part of a devout Christmas music junkie, I want to flood our life with so much Good Will fodder that next year my kids will be looking forward to a whole lot more than Santa. I want them to laugh and cry and eat and know that in our house, Christmas is all about Jesus and that means love.

I will state here and now that in order to make my Christmas Dreams come true my house has taken a serious turn for the worse. Yesterday I called Jason crying because there is no way I can do everything. I decided at Thanksgiving that I would focus on Christmas and sacrifice my housework if push came to shove. It has and let me tell you, my kids are loving the season but I’m having a hard time letting go of the little things.

I wrote a week or two ago about my grand Advent count down plans (Action Cards included) and quickly killed myself off to get them up and ready before Dec. 1st . Here is the result. With four children I needed something that would hold enough candy for each kid every day plus an appropriate Action Card. I’m not out to build a manger, just give my kids things to remind them that Christmas is about way more than gifts.

My grandmother died about ten years ago and being the youngest and least important granddaughter I really didn’t get anything but a little end table. A few years ago one of my older sisters took pity on me and gave me a big bag of quilting scraps my grandma and great Aunt Edith had kept since the 30’s and 40’s. I’ve been hauling them around trying to decide what to use them for and I think I came up with the perfect thing: paired with my own pile of leftover projects I managed to sew 24 simple bags (5 hours after all the hot glue work) to hold our Advent treats and Action Cards. I can use it year after year and I kind of love it. After six days of Christmas cheer it appears my kids love it too.

Honestly, it’s amazing how easy it was to come up with really simple ways to remind my kids what Christmas is about. We’ve got a few more detailed activities in there, like hot cocoa under the stars which was a huge hit despite the rain, but it’s mostly really simple stuff.

But paired with June’s birthday events this week (home parties, school parties, decorating and sewing and crafting and KILL ME NOW etc.) plus the play on the weekend and all the other christmas prep work insanity flashing around me, I woke up this morning and just…couldn’t get out of bed. Harry and I had our mid-week play rehearsal last night and weren’t home until ten, and I haven’t sat down since last Thursday, so I closed my eyes and slept until 8:30. Rex had a doctor’s appointment at 11:00 and I really did mean to get Harrison to school. It just didn’t happen.

I felt it was my duty to broaden their educational experience and decided to teach them the fine art of playing hookie–complete with Happy Meals and a spontaneous trip to the movie theater.

But first, Rex’s appointment. The psychologist brought him out after his assessment and sat down with me, all four kids running circles around us in an attempt to get her attention.

“Well,” she said, “I have to tell you something.”

I braced myself for something really horrible. Here we were, breaking the law and me with my act half-baked (as usual) and I knew it was going to be something really awful. Oh, the stories Rex could tell on me.

“You,” she said, “Are a really good mom.” I looked behind me really fast to see who she was talking to. It couldn’t be me, wasn’t I just telling Jason yesterday that I should be fired?

“Rex was telling me all about your Christmas activities, and about his sister’s birthday party, and the stories you’ve been reading to him every night…thank you. Thank you for being such a good mom. I’ve met with a few kids today that had me feeling really sad. I needed this.”

I don’t think I ever needed to hear anything so badly in my whole dumb life.

I’m here to tell you that even though Level 10 Christmas might seem messy and over the top to many of us, even though the kids spill their hot cocoa all over the kitchen on their way out to the bonfire leaving a sticky, hot mess behind, and even though one of them regularly spends Christmas Story Time with her nose in the corner, it is, actually, totally worth it.

18 days and counting. Bring. It. On.

It’s Christmastime and I would be lying if I said we didn’t miss our families. We will have turkey for Christmas with all the fixings but let’s face it, the birds are more tender in America. According to my mother this is because they “let them walk around too much” over here in Germany.

I know what you’re thinking, but one little comment from her and German chicken has never tasted the same. Ever since her first encounter with cooked white meat I judge everything fowl, fact or fiction.

This is a pattern I’ve seen repeat itself over and over in my adult life. My mother makes some casual semi-superstitious statement or unassuming observation about the world at large and even though there is plenty of evidence to debunk it, even though my college educated brain screams that the hypothetical must be proven fact before actions are taken, I find myself occasionally drinking Barley Green and avoiding anything sold on TV.

Ten years ago my sister bought herself a pasta maker and pulled it out to show my mom her proud purchase. After her detailed explanation and happy dance, my mom smiled at her. “That’s great honey, I’m sure you’re going to have fun with it. But wow, it’s going to be a nightmare to clean.”

And that was the last time my sister ever looked at her pasta maker.

I have a girlfriend who told me a few months back that she no longer uses her BBQ, instead she cooks just about everything on a cast iron skillet. “I’ve been using it for the past few years,” she pitched,”It’s really well seasoned and makes everything taste amazing!” This plug was enough incentive for me to rifle through the camping supplies for my own cast iron ware–anything to improve my kitchen skills.

I’ve been faithfully using my skillet for the past few months and have been loving the results. When my mother came to visit last month I proudly pulled it out as she went to fry her eggs. “Here,” I said, “Use this. You won’t believe how good everything tastes, I’ve been seasoning it all summer.”

She gave me a dubious look. “You know that can’t really happen, right?”

“What do you mean it can’t happen?” I asked.

“You can’t actually season a skillet, it’s just something people say. I used to use one until I realized it doesn’t actually work.”

WHAT???

“No!” I boldly declared. “Trust me, it makes perfect scientific sense. The build up of drippings mixed with the coating of fat…” she shook her head at me and gave me that sorry-kid-you’ve-been-duped look. “Mother,” I said resorting to her Full Name, “Everybody knows that Smitty’s burgers taste better because they’ve been using the same old dirty skillet for the past 300 years, you can’t recreate that flavor in a teflon frying pan. It’s seasoned! Just…check the internet!”

She smiled and hugged me with that whatever-you-say-dear-but-we-both-know-I’m-right embrace children hate so much. I stomped around and persisted with my skillet skills for her entire two week visit.

They’ve been gone for over a month now and guess how many times I’ve cooked in my cast iron? Seasoned or not, the thing has lost all it’s flavor.

Mother-27, Science-0.

This article published this week in our Kaiserslautern American with all the ideas my brain could come up with (and a few I stole from my girlfriends plus a plug for the play). It’s always good to head into December with a plan of action.

There’s also the one about German Christmas traditions and the one about my girlfriend Kimberly who’s man is deployed.

Happy Holiday Planning!