Resolutions

I happen to be one of those people who makes a New Year’s resolution each year. To be truthful, there’s usually a whole list of things that I’d like to accomplish during the year: lose 10 pounds, exercise more, master Spanish, visit my folks more often, and learn how to cook tasty low-fat meals. But I might as well just have this same list on my computer and print it out every year, since the same five resolutions always seem to make their way on there. I always have incredibly high hopes for myself. However, in my thirty-odd years of making resolutions, I have learned that if I really want to make a change, it’s best to tackle it one resolution at a time.

This year, in addition to my standard list, I’ve added meditation. I’ve been sort of dabbling with this notion for a while now, after having accidentally picked up a copy of David Lynch’s “Catching the Big Fish.” What I thought was a behind-the-scenes peek at the movie, actually turned out to be Lynch’s musings on the act of meditation. Mr. Lynch attributes the practice to helping him clarify his thoughts, temper his anger, and attain a level of calm during stressful periods; all things I can definitely benefit from given my hectic schedule!

I actually started checking into it more thoroughly last year... scanning YouTube for videos on how to meditate, checking out books from the library, even going so far as to sign up for a class... which was sadly cancelled due to lack of interest. But this year, I’ve decided to make it my goal and resolution: meditate every day. I’ve found a little book that is actually an eight week course in simple meditation, and I’m resolved to follow it from beginning to end.

Which brings me to the reason for writing this blog in the first place.

One of the issues I find with resolutions is that it’s easy to break them because no one is holding me accountable... except, of course, myself. I need a way to jump start my intentions should I start to lag...

It was my sister, Freda, who actually gave me the solution. Evidently, when she was a camp counselor, she would have the kids write letters to themselves, encouraging them to “check in” with the progress they were making in their lives to that point, and to rekindle the belief that they had begun over the summer. The kids would write the letters, seal them, self address them, and then Freda had the responsibility of sending them out six months later. Freda remembers doing this herself when she was a camper, and she said that it was awesome to receive this letter from yourself when you least expected it. She said that the effect it had on her was always a good one, giving her a little nudge or jolt when she needed it.

In any event, I can’t send things to myself. That won’t work. However, I think I’ve come up with a solution...

Every year, someone inevitably gives me a calendar for the holidays. This year I got three! So what I’ve decided to do is write six letters to myself, and attach them with a paper clip to the front page of each month. I suppose If I got one of those desk calendars I could do it once a week, bi-weekly, monthly, or whatever. In any event, I’m hoping that the effect will be the same as a letter received in the mail -- a little nudge in the ribs that will be just enough to rekindle my desire to achieve my goal. The letters will be short, sweet and to the point: “Are you keeping up with your resolution?”

Who knows... if it works for this one goal, then maybe I can start attacking the rest of my never-changing list one item at a time... that would be muy bueno!

Calendar image via My Essentia

10 things to do with leftover wrapping paper

Christmas in the Maletsky household is a big deal. Every year we all promise ourselves not to go overboard, and every year the number of presents spilling out from under the tree rivals anything you’d see on any episode of The Real Housewives. This may be due in part to my family’s penchant for wrapping everything: toothbrushes, shoe polish, mittens, socks, a pack of Nip Chee crackers... On Christmas Day in the Maletsky household, everything becomes a present!

One of our standard practices is to set up a recycle bin in a central location, and have everyone toss their crumpled, used paper into the bin for points. There have been some amazing shots over the years.

However, this year I’d like to offer up 10 ways to recycle your wrapping paper without putting it into the bin at all.

#1. Save really pretty paper to make craft projects like party poppers and other fun crafts (all of which you can find at Sophie’s World!).

#2. Cut into thin strips (or run non-crumpled pieces through a paper shredder) to use as basket grass at Easter.

#3. Use either nice, full-sized pieces, or rip up an assortment of different pieces, and arrange on a piece of clear contact paper to make a collage. Seal the back with a second piece of contact paper, trim, and use as placemats for Christmas dinner. Don’t have contact paper? You can use clear packing tape (although it will probably take two people to do, since that tape is sticky and can be unyielding!).

#4. Use it to make clothes for paper dolls.

#5. Use it to cover cereal box picture frames. Open up the cereal box and trim to whatever size you like (5 ¾ x 7 ¾ inch works pretty well). Measure in an inch on every side and cut a 3 ¾ by 5 ¾ inch rectangular hole in the center. Cover the frame with an assortment of Christmas papers (use glue stick to hold in place). Tape a 4 x 6 family photo from Christmas on the back of the frame so that it shows through the center of the frame.

#6. Use all the various boxes from Christmas gifts to make a dollhouse. Use the wrapping paper for wallpaper.

#7. Cut the paper into 3 x 5 inch rectangles. Fold the 3-inch sides in 1 inch on each side to make a 1 inch wide, 5 inch long strip. Take the strips and staple the ends to make a circle. Link circles to make a paper chain for the tree or room decor.

#8. Use to wrap up any new ornaments or decor to be safely stored away for next year.

#9. Use as packing protection for items you are sending through the mail. Crumple up the paper to create a cushion for any breakable items, or to fill out the empty space in the box.

#10. Tape colored pieces to paper and label by color for younger children to teach colors, shapes, and so on. You could even do various languages. Staple the pages together to make a book.

Whatever you happen to do with your leftover wrapping paper, I hope you have a happy holiday and a wonderful New Year!

One hot elf

November 30th marks an annual ritual for me. It’s not a big thing like Black Friday, picking out a Christmas tree, ordering online presents, or even drinking my first eggnog of the season. No, it’s something a little more personal that I do every year in the quiet of my own home: the elf costume fitting.

You see, every December 1st I do a special Christmas tea in San Francisco that for me marks the beginning of the elfin season. From that date on, I will probably don the red-and-white striped tights at least a dozen more times, so November 30th is a day of trepidation and anticipation. As I unwrap the costume from its hermetically sealed dry cleaning bag, I think about what I’ve eaten over the past year, and become consumed by the tiniest fear: “Will it fit?”

I made the elf costume myself ten years ago from what I think may have been an ice skater’s costume. It’s made from a very thin, crimson-colored wool, lined with red silk, and it fits me like a glove. That’s the one thing that causes me to hold my breath (mostly so I can suck in my tummy!) when I try the dress on for the first time each year.

Now, you have to understand -- I am not a costume gal! Some folks love dressing up in petticoats and ruffles and fluff... but not me. I like things very simple, very loose, and very oversized -- the antithesis of the elf costume. But I have to admit that secretly, I love the elf costume. There’s something about the fabric and the cut that are actually comfortable. Maybe it’s just my love of the holiday season, and the costume symbolizes that to me somewhere in my psyche. Personally, I think there may be something a little magical about the dress, sort of like Frosty’s hat, that brings me to life.

It’s not always the kindest magic, though. Case in point, during an annual gingerbread party in Woodside, I was just on fire in my dress! Um... literally.

It was a fabulous event, with over fifty children engaged in sticky, sugar-infused creativity. I was making my rounds, greeting children, taking them to see Santa, making sure they had everything they needed. We were outside in a tent, which was a little chilly, so the client brought in big propane floor heaters. As I was standing in front of the heater, chatting with one of the younger guests, I felt my legs get warm... then a bit warmer... then downright hot. I took a few steps closer to the child, just as my Santa-clad helpers came past with bowls of peppermints and icing.

“Is something burning?” one of them asked out loud.

“I think it’s just the propane from the heaters,” replied the other.

I didn’t give their conversation a second thought; I was too busy trying to convince my young charge that the spatula was for spreading the icing on her house, not on her tongue.

However, at the end of the evening, as I removed my stalwart Christmas uniform, I noticed something along the hem of the marabou trim...

“What is that?” I thought irritably. It was going to be impossible to get the feathery edging dry-cleaned by the next day’s event. “Did I sit in chocolate or get splashed with mud?” As I held up the dress in the dim light of the client’s powder room, it hit me... The feathers were singed! Something had been on fire earlier! And that something was me!


My poor trim, now with brown singe marks!

When I showed my staff they just shook their heads and laughed. “Told you something was burning,” was all they said.

The next morning found me dutifully replacing the marabou by hand, so that I wouldn’t look like Santa had forced me down the chimney ahead of him. All was right and good again in a half hour, and my dress made it through the remainder of the events without the tell-tale scorch marks.

The season has officially ended now, and as I dropped my little companion off at the dry cleaners in preparation of storing her away for yet another year, I realized something: after what happened this year, I can honestly say, “I am one hot elf”!

Peanut crèche

Do you know what a crèche is? For those of you unfamiliar with a crèche, it’s a tiny representation of the birth of Christ in a stable. A crèche really only needs four elements: Mary, Joseph, a manger, and Jesus... but more often than not you will see a full set that consists of livestock (the donkey was always my favorite!), shepherds and sheep, an angel or two (usually one with a horn), and the three wise men (who may or may not come with assorted camels, servants, and piles of gifts). I remember when I was a child, one of the supermarkets was giving away a collectible set. Each week there would be another figure to buy (or to get free with a purchase over a certain amount). I loved that!

For my family, the crèche was a huge part of the Christmas celebration. My Pop had a beautiful crèche that he made himself. It had a two-story manger, made out of weathered and worn wood. There was a little light and real, tiny bales of straw inside. A couple of weeks before Christmas, my Grammy would retrieve the dusty box from the basement, and I was invited over to help her set it up. Her kitchen would smell like warm, spiced apple cider, and Christmas carols would be playing on the radio. We’d drink eggnog as she’d lovingly unwrap each piece and let me place it wherever I saw fit. We’d go through many versions, with some stagings showing the shepherds elbowing out the chicken or calf in order to get a closer look at the baby Jesus. (I always liked giving animals priority over the people!)

I myself had a tiny miniature crèche that I think I got from Woolworth’s for 99 cents. It was my own personal crèche, complete with a six-inch wooden manger that served not only as the backdrop for the scene, but as the storage place for all the pieces. I remember distinctly that my cow had a sort of club hoof, which caused him to fall over... I used to wedge him in the back between the manger and Mary to make sure he didn’t look like he’d fainted away at the appearance of the angels.

On my husband’s side, the crèche was equally huge -- literally. When my mother-in-law went through her ceramics phase, every child (there are four all together on my husband’s side) received their own massive collection of hand-painted pieces. No character was left out. I even think the innkeeper and a few nosy neighbors were included! Scott, being the reverent soul that he is, decided that our own crèche needed a little gussying up, and added assorted miniature football helmets for everyone... Jesus, of course, was an Eagles fan.



And so it was that many years ago, when I had much more time than I had means, I made three little peanut crèches. Those are exactly like they sound: a crèche with all the characters made out of peanuts. I remember sitting at my tiny kitchen table working on each one, and although I made three of each character at a time, no single set was the same. Each figure had its own personality.



I painted each peanut figure with acrylic paint, then sealed it with varnish. I glued on pipe cleaner arms before embellishing them with scraps of fabric and trim so that they could actually hold things, or get expressive in their movements. I remember cutting off the tips of an old pair of woolen gloves to make tiny beanie hats for the shepherds. I know, they probably didn’t have beanies like that back in the day... but hey, at least my peanuts’ heads were warm!



I think my favorite figure is the baby Jesus, who is made from a single peanut, painted light pink with a big smile and a tiny paper towel diaper. He just looks happy to be there, not somber and serious as depicted in most Catholic crèches. Next to the baby Jesus, the sheep are my favorites. I used a tiny strip of fuzzy carpet for each one, so they turned into these chubby, round balls of fluff that rival anything you’d see on Wallace and Gromit.



I had so much fun making those crèches. It circles me back to a belief that has been strongly growing within me for some time: it is not the expense of the gift, but the love put into it that makes it special and retain its value.

I made the crèches for my mom, my mother-in-law, and my little next-door neighbor Iris, who was two at the time. To this day, I receive an email every Thanksgiving from Iris’s mom Heather, telling me that the peanut crèche has made its appearance. I get a yearly update on how it’s survived the year in storage (Joseph has lost his base, and it appears that Jesus’s walnut shell bassinet has been misplaced -- but other than that the crèche seems to be holding up well). To date, no one’s crèche has been consumed by fuzzy friends or mold -- which I view as a good sign of the crèche’s lasting value. Either that, or the confirmation that the peanuts inside the shells have become totally petrified!

Gingerbread season

‘Tis the season... to make gingerbread houses.

I don’t know if it’s just a Bay Area thing, but almost every fundraiser, shelter celebration, and big corporate Christmas party seems to have one recurring activity: decorating gingerbread houses.

The other day I was talking to the owner of Creative International Pastries, a fabulous bakery in San Francisco where I get all my holiday cookies. He said that they will make over 12,000 gingerbread houses this season! 12,000! That’s a lot of dough... and I’m not just talking gingerbread... the houses take a lot of work to make, and they aren’t cheap! You should see those things when they’re being delivered. They drive up in a 16-foot truck, and when they throw open the roll top door, the smell can nearly knock you into a spice-induced coma!

Lately it seems that everyone is making gingerbread houses. Even my assistant Simone holds a gingerbread party each year, and has for five years now. She does an amazing job. She hand-makes the gingerbread houses ahead of time (I can only assume it takes her weeks to do), picks out all the candies, makes vats of icing in different colors and invites all her friends over to enjoy cocktails while they create.

What I love about this tradition is the way people configure their candies when they decorate their houses. It’s pretty incredible the way personalities reveal themselves through the candied walls and roofs of an 8 x 6 x 6-inch house. As my sister Freda said while showing me the pictures from Simone’s party, “You can tell who went to art school...”


The artist, with his picture-perfect house

However, after seeing these tiny, sugar-covered façades over and over and over again, I’m left with one question: what on earth does one do with the house when you’re done?


I mean, in the thirty-something events I will do this winter, I will run into the same kids about four or five times -- which means, that all over Pacific Heights and Cow Hollow, candy cane-gated gingerbread communities are springing up left and right.

I ran into one Mom four nights in a row. At the last event, she greeted me with a horrified look as her children merrily skipped past her into the craft room. “Please,” she pleaded as she grabbed my elf costume-clad arm, “Tell me there’s no gingerbread houses.” The sad, pitiful look in my eye confirmed her worst suspicions. I leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I could ‘accidentally’ drop the house as I’m packing it, if you like.” She looked at me conspiratorially. “Would you do that for me? Take the blame?” she said. “Sure,” I reassured her; better that the elf take the wrath than the poor exasperated mom. In the end, it was actually her kids who gave up the notion of taking the houses home. “We already have eight,” said the oldest. “We would have nine, but the dog ate one last night...” I looked at the mom, and she sadly shook her head. “Yep,” she confirmed. “And our carpets will never be the same.” She went on to explain that they had awoken that very morning to a demolition site of crumbs, smeared frosting, and slobbery candy. “It looked like a crime scene,” she stated flatly.

Apparently they found the dog spread-eagle on the floor, belly extended tight as a drum, whimpering in pain. “I walked that dog for two hours with no luck,” she went on, “and of course she decides to let it all go on the entryway stairs when we returned. Linda Blair has nothing on me.”

So with that horror story in mind, I again raise the question: what does one do with a gingerbread house?

In the 60s, when my brother-in-law Tom was a teen, he made an exact duplicate of the gingerbread house that graced the cover of the red Betty Crocker Cookbook. This is how he described his process: “I did make it from scratch, not the kits you can buy today that my grandkids do every year. Construction was tough and I believe [had] a little cheating with a cardboard frame holding it all together. Vanilla wafers on icing for the roof, shredded coconut tossed around liberally, gum drops also, predating gummy candies. I also remember bricks, either on walls or walkway, using the wafer thins. We did spray it with a sealant rather than eating [it], but what was used is not known.” After Tom coated his masterpiece in sealant, he kept it for years as a decoration.

But what about the houses being made at these parties? Do people actually eat them? Do children pass the house around after dinner, picking off the M&M roofing tiles or Reese’s peanut butter cup windows, leaving the Good and Plenty walkway for poor old Dad? Doesn’t the candy get stale and nasty over a period of time? Are you meant to consume the gingerbread itself, or are you better off eating the cardboard it’s mounted on? Do parents secretly dispense of these sugar-laden structures late at night in the garbage disposal? Or gather them together and throw them in some neighbor’s dumpster in the dark of night, praying that their children won’t notice the void on the mantelpiece?

I would love to know the answer to these questions. As it stands, it’s a mystery to me, right up there with what happens to the fruitcake...

Dear Technology...

I feel like I must start this entry with a huge apology. So, here goes: to anyone who has asked me to become part of their “Google circle,” join their “LinkedIn network,” accept a poke, cheesesteak, work of art, or fluffy bunny from a Facebook friend... I’m sorry! I just can’t handle it!

There, I’ve said it. And I do mean it -- I just don’t have the time to diddle around with all this new technology. Although I find it mesmerizing and engaging, I just don’t have the patience it takes to learn how to use all these sites correctly. I think part of the problem is that I feel compelled by my very nature to respond to and accept everything that anyone sends me. But when I try to do so, I realize it’s not that easy, and it’ll send me into a vortex of anxiety about clicking the wrong thing, pushing the wrong buttons, accidentally giving away information... Case in point: on Facebook if you want to give me a little Philly Pretzel icon, that’s very nice... But why does it seem to take an MBA to accept it? Last time I tried I got so frustrated that now I ignore these gift notifications... Sorry, guys.

There’s this amazing site, Pinterest, where you can make a virtual bulletin board of all the things you find and like on the web! How cool is that? I signed up because a really helpful employee at Williams-Sonoma told me about it. It looks wonderful... but I can’t quite figure out how to find my virtual pushpins, let alone get the articles and items I want to pin up there on my board.

I also signed up for Yelp the other day, so that I could write a nice review for a vendor who really went out of his way to make an event of mine spectacular, and now I have all these people asking me to be Yelp friends -- who knew Yelp even had friends!...

It’s getting to the point where I need an assistant to handle all of my computer “connections.” [And she’s got one! -- Simone] I know, I know. It’s a result of my age: my mind isn’t configured in such a way that it readily grasps the virtual world as well as a six-year-old’s is. I’m not saying that facetiously! A dear friend of mine has a six-year-old who can manage her iPad with the grace of an Olympic skater. To watch her fingers fly over the virtual keyboard is a thing of beauty! I, on the other hand, couldn’t even figure out how to turn the pages of the pre-installed Winnie the Pooh book without being shown. I kept tapping poor Eeyore’s head and inadvertently flipping myself back to the beginning of the book... Sigh... And don’t even get me started on downloading photos...

I think the problem is that I’m a visual learner. Sit down with me, show me what to do, and I’m off and running. Walk me through the basics and I’m golden. But don’t expect me to open up a site and just instinctively figure out how it works! I can’t virtually intuit things... it’s just not in my matrix! Thank God I’m smart enough to surround myself with people who do!

If you know me -- and I mean know my in your real, day-to-day life -- then you know that I answer my emails as soon as I get them. I correspond and send data with the speed of Mighty Mouse swooping in to save Pearl Pureheart. I’m happy to email ideas to folks, answer questions, provide connections... Just don’t ask me to join yet another social network that I can’t figure out how to manage! If you want to chat, then call me, email me, meet me for coffee, for goodness sake!

It does make me wonder, though: if people spend all their time “connected,” when do they ever get any real work done?

I have the perfect gift -- all I need is the bow!

I finally had my first weekend off in a long time, and I’ve been having a wonderful time catching up on a lot of things that I haven’t had time to do: go to the gym, take a bike ride, hike, watch TV... Since the holidays are upon us, it seems that every other commercial is about giving someone a car for Christmas, which leaves me with a couple questions...

1. Do people really buy people cars for Christmas?

And more importantly...

2. Where does one get one of those big bows?

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’ll explain...

The commercials usually start in some clever way, with someone handing a beloved a small box which turns out to contain a set of keys, or a music box that plays the theme song for the car company, or the recipient being led blindfolded into a perfect snowy morn... They always end in the same place: the driveway, where a sparkling brand-new car sits... always with a giant bow on top.

Now, I may not know the answer to question number 1; I have absolutely no idea if people really buy each other cars for Christmas... and I’m not sure I know what that means, either. Does it mean they purchase the car outright? Or did they just fork up the down payment, and maybe the first monthly installment? Do they pay for the insurance? What if it’s the wrong color? Or the wrong vehicle? Is there a 30 day return period if the recipient doesn’t like it? I mean really -- a car is a very personal choice! I’m not sure I would want someone buying me one as a present. And seriously, what happens if you end up breaking up with the person who gave you the car? Do you have to give it back? What if you’ve sort of dinged it up already? You know, spilled a Coke on the upholstery, trashed the trunk with your camping gear, ground mud into the floor mats...? Are you expected to detail the car before you give it back?

The answer to question number 2 was much easier than I thought it would be, thanks to the Internet. Evidently it’s very easy to find those over sized bows -- just go to a site like www.carbows.com. It seems to me that if you are buying a car for someone from a dealership that they ought to throw the bow in for free, don’t you think? In fact, it could be their selling feature: “Buy this beautiful $45,000 car for your loved one, and we’ll throw in a free bow so that you can look just like our commercial!” But I guess that’s not how the car dealers see it. I suppose they are in the market to sell cars, not bows... In any event, E-How can also show you how to make a homemade bow.

All of this does lead me to my last question, which is this: let’s just say you are the recipient of said car gift... how does one ever find a way to say thank you?

I just want everyone to know that I am perfectly happy with Bessie, and if anyone has any notions of replacing her, and placing a big old yellow ribbon on top of the new one, they had better rethink their plans. No one is scrapping Bessie!

Phobias

I consider myself a pretty brave person. There aren’t too many things that frighten me. I love horror movies and suspense, I actually think snakes, spiders, and lizards are cool (with the possible exception of those really big millipedes you see in the Indiana Jones movies), I think heights are amazing, fire is beautiful when respected, and I love the solitude the darkness can bring...

However, there is one word -- one tiny, little four-letter word -- that sends me into a fit of panic, and causes my body to instantly manifest numerous phantom symptoms. In all my years, I never encountered the thing this word signifies until I started my business. As a child, I never even knew the word existed. It was only upon moving to the Bay Area and working with children that the phobia first reared its ugly head. You have no idea you have one of these until it grabs you in its claws... or in this case, its minuscule, bloodsucking mandibles.

If you don’t have children of your own, this four-letter word may not even register a blip on your radar screen. But in my world, it’s the foulest four-letter word a person can mutter... LICE!

It happens at least once or twice a season. A mother will whisper in my ear at an event, “Sophie, make an announcement that girls should not share the dress-up wigs and hats... there has been an outbreak of lice at the school...”

What these informers don’t realize is by uttering that one little word, they have thrown me into a vortex of paranoia. Immediately my scalp begins to itch, my neck begins to twitch, and my mind start thinking of ways to dispose of the $300 worth of hats and wigs that I have brought to the party. I start planning my route home to include a local pharmacy where I can pick up some RID, and I try to keep my head high and away as a child hugs me goodbye. It’s horrific.

I’ve since learned that my phobia actually has a name: Pediculophobia! (As I look at it now, I realize that by replacing the “P” with an “R” makes the word Rediculophobia - which is probably more likely in my case). I am serious though -- I immediately douse my head with lice medication the minute I get home, and for the next week will use a shampoo called “Lice Shield.” I will bring bright lights into the bathroom, and can be found perched on the sink like a raven, fingers entwined in hair, searching my scalp for any signs of nits. Of course, this is next to impossible to do by oneself, so I usually end up grabbing my long-suffering husband Scott and forcing him to groom me like an orangutan.

If you’re rolling your eyes, I’ll remind you of the panic and icky feelings that were present last year when it was discovered that many of our country’s top hotels were playing host to bed bugs...

I sometimes think I should seek help for my phobia, but since the outbreaks usually occur only once or twice a year, I think I can manage. However, if you see me wearing a Saran Wrap headpiece at your next party... you might want to pick up some RID on the way home.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Every year there is one event that gets me prepared for the start of the Christmas season. In fact, I’m afraid that should this event ever come to an end for my little company, Christmas just won’t feel the same!

That event is the Embarcadero Center’s Tree Lighting Ceremony. It happens the Friday before Thanksgiving, and for some reason it’s just the perfect event to start the holiday season. It’s a huge event, spread out between the Center’s four buildings. My company provides crafts, carnival games, face painting, balloon twisting, cookie decorating, and trivia contests. (Whew!) Other vendors provide petting zoos, strolling carolers, and visits with Santa. It’s an all and all carnival of winter activities with over 500 people taking part.


Freda’s favorite is Hobo the Monkey, who is now sadly retired

The kids and adults have so much fun tromping from booth to booth, making ornaments, tasting little treats, winning prizes, that I can’t help but fall into the holiday spirit.

There are always a few stories that we take away from our adventures at the Embarcadero. Like this year, when it started raining and our cookie-decorating tent turned into a giant funnel, dousing my entire team in a waterfall. Thankfully I had one of my seasoned workers, Jane, running the tent. She was able to quickly assess the situation, call for backup, and make the necessary adjustments to make the station work. I think I owe the cookie team hazard pay... or at least a warm pair of socks each...


Our T.P. Tube Maraca booth, which thankfully did not get flooded!

I guess I’m just one of those traditionalists. It probably started with my grandparents when I was a child. Every Thanksgiving, we would plan the new Christmas puppet show. My uncle would write the script and we’d sit around and have read-throughs while my Pop figured out how to make the tape machine work. We had one of those big reel-to-reel doohickeys and a little plastic microphone that we’d pass from person to person. My Pop usually played the bad guy with his deep, baritone voice, and my role was usually pretty small, like that of a mouse or lost child. I remember that it was the start of a month of activity that would lead up to Christmas. This is why I think the Embarcadero kindles that same sort of feeling in me. It’s the launching pad, the jumping-off point for what I know the whirlwind of the Christmas season.

Personally, I think it’s fun to have family traditions, whether it’s trekking the family out to find the perfect tree, unpacking all the dusty boxes of decorations and ornaments, making a gingerbread house, attending a holiday bazaar or tea, taking the family to the mall and having them reconvene at a certain time for pizza with hidden packages and presents in tow, making Christmas cookies as a family, or even just watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “A Christmas Story” -- traditions that create memories...

In my mind, that’s what Christmas is all about: coming together as a family to create memories that will last a lifetime. It doesn’t matter how many presents are under the tree -- it’s all about the beloved old handmade paper plate angel that adorns the top!