Top Ten Reasons I May Not Have Sent You a Christmas Card

10. Could have sworn you didn’t believe in mail.

9. Our relationship works best when things are awkward.

8. Thought you were murdered by John Wayne Gacy.

7. You’ve been complaining about all the clutter. You’re welcome.

6. It was my job to lick the envelopes this year, and I’m really not comfortable with sending you my DNA.

5. It was you or the guy at Starbucks, and I don’t have to worry about you spitting in my latte.

4. I love how imaginative you are, so I sent you a pretend one.

3. It’s all part of the restraining order.

2. Must have mixed up my Christmas card mailing list with my threatening fundraising chain letter list. You’ll probably hear from me in March.

1. Still haven’t forgiven you for not waking me up before you go, go.

Just Desserts – Tiger Butter

Silence means security, silence means approval
On Zenith, on the TV, tiger run around the tree,
Follow the leader, run and turn into butter

It’s like buttah. Growl.

Heather is in full-on baking mode, which means I’m in full-on eating mode. I’ve also been documenting this festival of food with photography, so I thought I might as well share at least the recipes. Adam doesn’t share food.

I’ll start simple with tiger butter. It turns out kind of like a peanut butter chocolate fudge. It’s really tasty, but it’s one of those treats I like in relatively small doses. Basically only a 1/4 lb. at a time.

Tiger butter

Melt 8 squares Almond bark, stir in 1cup peanut butter, spread across 9×13 pan lined with foil.

Melt 1/2 cup to 3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips. Drop melted chocolate by tablespoon over mixture in pan. Run knife in lines through mixture to swirl chocolate into mixture until desired pattern is achieved.

Refrigerate for several hours until completely solid. Cut into approximately 1×2-inch pieces, and enjoy.

Best Christmas Pageant Ever

By Barbara Robinson

So last Wednesday at 5:30 in the morning, my dad called my cell to tell me I’d be mad at him. That would be a self-fulfilling prophecy for just about any call received at 5:30 in the morning, but seeing as though that’s around the time I start to head for the exits of my homestead to thereupon rendezvous with my dad and the other members of our carpool, that’s not really the case for me . . . on weekdays.

He told me he was too sick to read the annual Christmas story at Moody that day. I found that disappointing, because this was to be my first opportunity in a few years to attend. But I wasn’t mad. Then he said he needed me to do it.

music stand in TG
As I rehearsed, I felt a bit confident, a lot nervous. About the right combo.

I wasn’t mad. But I was a bit intimidated. This is kind of my dad’s thing. He reads. He teaches oral interpretation. He taught me everything I know about oral interpretation. And this would have been no problem if he had also taught me everything he knows about oral interpretation. But that’s an awful lot to teach.

At this time every year, when the time for this performance arrives, an awful lot of people on campus talk about how much they love this tradition. It’s legendary. It’s stupendous. It’s everyone’s favorite. It’s not happening this year. Nope. In 2011 it was my turn to fill my dad’s role, which is pretty ridiculous. People call him the Voice of God. Compared to him, I’m the voice of Tebow. But whatever.

I did it. I read. I had fun. I especially loved being able to read alongside my brother Robbie and his guitar wizardry. If you should choose to listen, rest assured that you can hear his accompaniment well enough to distract you from my words.

My brother Robbie seriously owns on guitar, electric, acoustic, or classical.
The one. The only. Robbie.

Anyway. My dad introduced me, the students of Moody welcomed me kindly, and I stepped to the microphone on the stage of Torrey-Gray Auditorium and said this:

If you listen, thanks. If you don’t, you can thank yourself for saving a half hour of your life. As for me, I was extremely grateful for the opportunity and for everyone’s responses. I’m ready to hear my dad read again, though.


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