Christmas Eve!

Well, yesterday, I spent the morning in the kitchen. Mom had planned a massive turkey dinner, and these things take, among other things, planning and serfs to do things like bake brownies and peel potatoes. I just meekly went along with everything, as a) I love an amazing turkey dinner and b) getting in the way of the Madame when she's got a feast planned is about as foolhardy as telling Mussolini the trains WON'T run on time. She IS a Cancerian after all, and you KNOW what they're like in the kitchen. (I don't know what sign Mussolini was; something compatible with trains I shouldn't wonder...)

At any rate, it was fascinating to watch the Mad Genius in action. Mom did this sort of thing all the time when I was a kid, as there was always a crowd of relations to feed, but as time wore on, and people moved away and/or passed on, there wasn't the impetus to go all out, and so I remembered the hullabaloo, but not the actual work involved. Now to put it plainly, I certainly couldn't have managed it, not without six days of prepping, making a mess, and two nervous breakdowns to complete it all. The difference I think, is that my mother honestly loves cooking. She finds it relaxing, challenging, absorbing and really, it's a kind of work of art for her. She frets over it, fights with it, outwits it, and when it's all said and done, (and we're all sitting there at the table, thinking we've died and gone to gastronomic heaven) has mastered it completely. I've watched her play tennis, (she's an excellent tennis player) and her game is the same way. Fierce concentration, total control over what she's doing, wonderful intuition and she enjoys it all at the same time. Extraordinary to watch.

After that was done by noon, (all of my stuff anyway) I sat outside and finished my copy of Ishiguro's NEVER LET ME GO. Which was depressing to say the least. It was well written, but my God, why is speculative fiction (you're not allowed to call it Science Fiction anymore, I guess it's just too redolent of three eyed green aliens and slimy things to be taken seriously...) so endlessly depressing? And not necessarily so. I won't give away the story, (it's coming out as a movie, if it isn't already) but all I will say is, from what I understood of the story, they could have escaped. They just resignedly accepted their fate, and said, "Oh. Too bad." If that's Ishiguro's viewpoint on mankind, that we're all too lax and lazy, and too cowlike to care what happens to us, my God, what's the point of writing at all? Much less a story so complex and introspective and deep as this one is? Has the state of our collective consciousness gone so cynically far downhill, that hope, a mere chance for survival, (or even fighting for it) is seen as so absymally passe that it's laughable? It would appear so, according to this novel anyway. So yes, you'll say, THIS is what you read on Christmas Eve? I know, ludicrous, isn't it? Ah well, not every one can be a home run out of the park. On the plus side, I've read three books since I've been here, and I'm in the middle of the fourth. If I can finish six by Wednesday, we'll know I'm superhuman. Six books in eleven days, plus helicopter rides, walks along beaches, eating like a pig, and sleeping besides. Not bad.

Supper was a feast, one of those dinners you mention whenever you're served an inferior version of the same in years to come. "Remember that Christmas Eve supper Mom made, back in 2010? Now THAT was a turkey dinner!" Which of course, will probably only incense whoever's slaved at the gelatinous mess you're trying to consume at the time. Ergo, you'll probably want to file that tart remark under, THOUGHTS: INTERNAL USE ONLY, along with "What was she thinking with THAT dress? She looks like a truck stop collision!" or "His hair almost works, except that it keeps sliding off..." You know, choses comme ca.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so after supper, (and how we cleaned up afterwards, I don't remember, or maybe I didn't, I think I just crawled off to the living room sofa to die) we flaked out in the living room to watch George C. Scott in A Christmas Carol, which was alright, although George's accent kept fading in and out, which was a shame, because he looked the part, he was funny and moving in it, but either keep the English accent, or lose it. The ghosts were fine, but a little goofy looking, although Edward Woodward was the best of the lot. The ghost of Christmas Future, which is supposed to be REALLY freaking scary, just looked like a bunch of Isadora Duncan's old scarves wrapped around a lamp-post, with a very thin mannequin's hand periodically pointing blandly at something. Frankly, George was scarier.

Then I wrapped my presents, and spent some more time reading my new book HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS, (it's a French book, quite charming so far, it was big seller in Europe, although the English translation reads somewhat like the Madeline books, only for adults, or fey thirteen year old prodigies...) and went to sleep. I thought I heard the tread of reindeer hooves on the roof before I nodded off......