Besides baking, I enjoy making candy for the holidays. This link has always had a nice variety and the instructions are pretty easy to follow, too.
http://www.cdnbiz.net/xmas/candies.html
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Lots and lots of Christmas Cookie recipes!
I was looking around for recipes and came across this link. It features cookie recipes from around the world. Interested to hear from anyone who can weigh in on the authenticity of the recipes listed for various other countries. I'm going to go through this list on the link and copy off some of the interesting ones that aren't already in my file.
http://www.christmas-cookies.com/recipes/bycountry.php
http://www.christmas-cookies.com/recipes/bycountry.php
Quotes to lighten the mood!
"Last year I went fishing with Salvador Dali. He was using a
dotted line. He caught every other fish."
-- Steven Wright
-- Steven Wright
"A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men,
women, an occasional animal, and the common cold."
-- Ogden Nash
-- Ogden Nash
"Advertising is a valuable economic factor because it is the
cheapest way of selling goods, particularly if the goods are worthless."
-- Sinclair Lewis
-- Sinclair Lewis
What about abstinence - author unknown
I was holding a notice from my 13-year old son’s school announcing a meeting to preview the new course in sexuality. Parents could examine the curriculum and take part in an actual lesson presented exactly as it would be given to the students.
When I arrived at the school, I was surprised to discover only about a dozen parents there. As we waited for the presentation, I thumbed through page after page of instructions in the prevention of pregnancy or disease. I found abstinence mentioned only in passing. When the teacher arrived with the school nurse, she asked if there were any questions.
I asked why abstinence did not play a noticeable part in the material. What happened next was shocking. There was a great deal of laughter, and someone suggested that if I thought abstinence had any merit, I should go back to burying my head in the sand. The teacher and nurse said nothing as I drowned in a sea of embarrassment. My mind had gone blank, and I could think of nothing to say. The teacher explained to me that the job of the school was to teach "facts," and the home was responsible for moral training.
I sat in silence for the next 20 minutes as the course was explained. The other parents seemed to give their unqualified support to the materials. "Donuts at the back," announced the teacher during the break. "I’d like you to put on the name tags we have prepared - they’re right by the donuts - mingle with the other parents." Everyone moved to the back of the room. As I watched them affixing their name tags and shaking hands, I sat deep in thought. I was ashamed that I had not been able to convince them to include a serious discussion of abstinence in the materials. I uttered a silent prayer for guidance.
My thoughts were interrupted by the teacher’s hand on my shoulder. "Won’t you join the others, Mr. Layton?" The nurse smiled sweetly at me. "The donuts are good." "Thank you, no," I replied. "Well, then how about a name tag? I’m sure the others would like to meet you." "Somehow I doubt that," I replied. "Won’t you please join them?" she coaxed. Then I heard a still small voice whisper, "Don’t go." The instructions were unmistakable. "Don’t do!" "I’ll just wait here," I said.
When the class was called back to order, the teacher looked around the long table and thanked everyone for putting on name tags. She ignored me. Then she said, "Now we’re going to give you the same lesson we’ll be giving your children. Everyone please peel off your name tags." I watched in silence as the tags came off. "Now, then, on the back of one of the tags, I drew a tiny flower. Who has it please?" The gentleman across from me held it up. "Here it is!" "All right," she said. "The flower represents disease. Do you recall with whom you shook hands?" He pointed to a couple of people. "Very good," she replied. "The handshake in this case represents intimacy. So the two people you had contact with now have the disease." There was laughter and joking among the parents. The teacher continued, "And whom did the two of you shake hands with?" The point was well taken, and she explained how this lesson would show students how quickly disease is spread. "Since we all shook hands, we all have the disease."
It was then I head the still, small voice again. "Speak now," it said, "but be humble." I noted wryly the latter admonition, then rose from my chair. I apologized for any upset I might have caused earlier, congratulated the teacher on an excellent lesson that would impress the youth, and concluded by saying I had only one small point I wished to make. "Not all of us were infected," I said. "One of us abstained."
When I arrived at the school, I was surprised to discover only about a dozen parents there. As we waited for the presentation, I thumbed through page after page of instructions in the prevention of pregnancy or disease. I found abstinence mentioned only in passing. When the teacher arrived with the school nurse, she asked if there were any questions.
I asked why abstinence did not play a noticeable part in the material. What happened next was shocking. There was a great deal of laughter, and someone suggested that if I thought abstinence had any merit, I should go back to burying my head in the sand. The teacher and nurse said nothing as I drowned in a sea of embarrassment. My mind had gone blank, and I could think of nothing to say. The teacher explained to me that the job of the school was to teach "facts," and the home was responsible for moral training.
I sat in silence for the next 20 minutes as the course was explained. The other parents seemed to give their unqualified support to the materials. "Donuts at the back," announced the teacher during the break. "I’d like you to put on the name tags we have prepared - they’re right by the donuts - mingle with the other parents." Everyone moved to the back of the room. As I watched them affixing their name tags and shaking hands, I sat deep in thought. I was ashamed that I had not been able to convince them to include a serious discussion of abstinence in the materials. I uttered a silent prayer for guidance.
My thoughts were interrupted by the teacher’s hand on my shoulder. "Won’t you join the others, Mr. Layton?" The nurse smiled sweetly at me. "The donuts are good." "Thank you, no," I replied. "Well, then how about a name tag? I’m sure the others would like to meet you." "Somehow I doubt that," I replied. "Won’t you please join them?" she coaxed. Then I heard a still small voice whisper, "Don’t go." The instructions were unmistakable. "Don’t do!" "I’ll just wait here," I said.
When the class was called back to order, the teacher looked around the long table and thanked everyone for putting on name tags. She ignored me. Then she said, "Now we’re going to give you the same lesson we’ll be giving your children. Everyone please peel off your name tags." I watched in silence as the tags came off. "Now, then, on the back of one of the tags, I drew a tiny flower. Who has it please?" The gentleman across from me held it up. "Here it is!" "All right," she said. "The flower represents disease. Do you recall with whom you shook hands?" He pointed to a couple of people. "Very good," she replied. "The handshake in this case represents intimacy. So the two people you had contact with now have the disease." There was laughter and joking among the parents. The teacher continued, "And whom did the two of you shake hands with?" The point was well taken, and she explained how this lesson would show students how quickly disease is spread. "Since we all shook hands, we all have the disease."
It was then I head the still, small voice again. "Speak now," it said, "but be humble." I noted wryly the latter admonition, then rose from my chair. I apologized for any upset I might have caused earlier, congratulated the teacher on an excellent lesson that would impress the youth, and concluded by saying I had only one small point I wished to make. "Not all of us were infected," I said. "One of us abstained."
Hunger will always exist
My mother was born and raised in Germany. She had many stories to share with us but this is one that sticks vividly in my memory.
We can all easily recall times when we have been really hungry. As a child, sometimes it seemed forever until dinner was finally set on the table. I realize now that my mother was probably hungry, too, yet completed her preparations for dinner without snacking since she expected us to wait. Although my mother knew we wanted food, she also realized it was only a matter of minutes before she could provide it for us. We never had to miss a meal because there was no food in the house. Our hunger was a very short-term agony.
World War I ended in 1918. My mother was born in Germany in 1925, seven years later. That war was over but the effects were felt by many, almost all the way up to World War II. My grandfather was shot in the lung during World War I and spent the remainder of the war in a French prisoner of war camp. By the time he returned home to Germany, the damage was irrevocable and he died before he knew his first-born, my mother, was a girl.
Being a widow with a baby in post World War I Germany was no easy task. Food was scarce for those who couldn’t work and life was a constant struggle for my grandmother and mother. They knew hunger but always found enough to get them through another day. My mother told me once that spoiled cabbage and old potatoes wasn’t always just wartime fare. My grandmother never snacked while she prepared their meals because there was usually only enough for the meal, no more.
One day, when she was a child, my mother was in the nearby forest area. In a clearing, she saw three people in the distance. They were crouched down to the ground and moving along in this awkward position. When my mother drew nearer, she was shocked to see the people were dressed very poorly. And even more appalled to find that they were bent close to the ground, scrabbling up grass and eating it!
My mother ran for home and told her mother what she had seen. My grandmother immediately put together what food they had and they went back. The people where still there but hunger and exceedingly lean times had made them wary. Hunger had reduced them to an almost-animal state as they stared at the proffered food yet kept their distance. It was a while before they could be coaxed to take the food. When they did, they immediately hurried away, lest they lose this sudden windfall. My mother never saw them again.
I imagine the food my grandmother gave away that day, was probably all she had in the house. My mother, however, never made mention of going hungry herself that evening. She learned that hunger had degrees and they hadn’t reached a danger point.
When I feel the minute pangs of hunger that we all ‘suffer’ from time to time, I think back on this story. We are all blessed to have hunger pangs as it should remind us to be even more thankful when we sit down and say our thanks to God before we eat.
We can all easily recall times when we have been really hungry. As a child, sometimes it seemed forever until dinner was finally set on the table. I realize now that my mother was probably hungry, too, yet completed her preparations for dinner without snacking since she expected us to wait. Although my mother knew we wanted food, she also realized it was only a matter of minutes before she could provide it for us. We never had to miss a meal because there was no food in the house. Our hunger was a very short-term agony.
World War I ended in 1918. My mother was born in Germany in 1925, seven years later. That war was over but the effects were felt by many, almost all the way up to World War II. My grandfather was shot in the lung during World War I and spent the remainder of the war in a French prisoner of war camp. By the time he returned home to Germany, the damage was irrevocable and he died before he knew his first-born, my mother, was a girl.
Being a widow with a baby in post World War I Germany was no easy task. Food was scarce for those who couldn’t work and life was a constant struggle for my grandmother and mother. They knew hunger but always found enough to get them through another day. My mother told me once that spoiled cabbage and old potatoes wasn’t always just wartime fare. My grandmother never snacked while she prepared their meals because there was usually only enough for the meal, no more.
One day, when she was a child, my mother was in the nearby forest area. In a clearing, she saw three people in the distance. They were crouched down to the ground and moving along in this awkward position. When my mother drew nearer, she was shocked to see the people were dressed very poorly. And even more appalled to find that they were bent close to the ground, scrabbling up grass and eating it!
My mother ran for home and told her mother what she had seen. My grandmother immediately put together what food they had and they went back. The people where still there but hunger and exceedingly lean times had made them wary. Hunger had reduced them to an almost-animal state as they stared at the proffered food yet kept their distance. It was a while before they could be coaxed to take the food. When they did, they immediately hurried away, lest they lose this sudden windfall. My mother never saw them again.
I imagine the food my grandmother gave away that day, was probably all she had in the house. My mother, however, never made mention of going hungry herself that evening. She learned that hunger had degrees and they hadn’t reached a danger point.
When I feel the minute pangs of hunger that we all ‘suffer’ from time to time, I think back on this story. We are all blessed to have hunger pangs as it should remind us to be even more thankful when we sit down and say our thanks to God before we eat.
Wise reminder from Thomas a Kempis
Be meek and bear adversity
In Jesus' Sacred Name;
There's danger in prosperity,
It brings a scorching flame.
~Thomas a Kempis
In Jesus' Sacred Name;
There's danger in prosperity,
It brings a scorching flame.
~Thomas a Kempis
You might be Catholic if . . .
This was found on the Internet: You might be Catholic if . . .
You speak English as a second language (after Latin)
Your response to even the slightest, teeniest little difficulty is, "I’ll say a Novena."
You know all the words to "Tantum Ergo" and "O Salutaris" (without sneaking a look in the back of the missalette)
When your house burns down, your car gets totaled, you lose your job, and you end up in traction in the hospital, you say, "Let’s Offer It Up."
At least one of your Rosaries has turned gold.
When you retire, you plan to enter a Dominican monastery.
You can remember the Baltimore Catechism.
You’re too young to remember the Baltimore Catechism, but you’ve got it memorized anyway.
Your idea of a really swinging time is a May Crowning Procession.
When you go to bed at night, you leave room on your pillow for your Guardian Angel.
You speak English as a second language (after Latin)
Your response to even the slightest, teeniest little difficulty is, "I’ll say a Novena."
You know all the words to "Tantum Ergo" and "O Salutaris" (without sneaking a look in the back of the missalette)
When your house burns down, your car gets totaled, you lose your job, and you end up in traction in the hospital, you say, "Let’s Offer It Up."
At least one of your Rosaries has turned gold.
When you retire, you plan to enter a Dominican monastery.
You can remember the Baltimore Catechism.
You’re too young to remember the Baltimore Catechism, but you’ve got it memorized anyway.
Your idea of a really swinging time is a May Crowning Procession.
When you go to bed at night, you leave room on your pillow for your Guardian Angel.
Remembering the Dignity and Outward Stability of Attending Mass . . .
When I was a child, I always knew for sure we were going to Mass. My mother would be carrying her well-worn missal and her hymnal. I would be given my age-appropriate prayer book and we would go to Mass. A part of my coming of age in the Catholic Church came about when I was old enough to have a daily and Sunday missal and my own hymnal. Although, as a child, I liked to try and participate by imitation what was going on, I now had in my hands the means to keep up and pray along with the rest of the congregation.
There was something genuine about holding on to those chunky books. The missal contained all the necessary prayers, epistles and Gospels for every occasion. I would prepare for Mass on the drive by organizing my ribbon bookmarks in the correct Mass for the day. I would scan the readings so as to be prepared for better absorption when the priest read them at Mass. And I would sort my holy cards that had places of honor in my missal. There was a certain sameness that was anything but boring in getting ready for Mass. The Mass seemed to stay with me past the hour of Mass. It was like taking a bit of the mystery and drama back home by way of my prayer book.
My hymnal was also evidence of the continuation of the Church. It was slightly bigger than my missal and contained many memories in addition to the music and lyrics. I hear people complain today that we used to sing the same old songs over and over again back then. I don’t, however, remember ever being bored. Sometimes my heart would beat a littler faster as a well-known favorite would begin. Some songs reminded me of other Masses that had commemorated special holy days, weddings and funerals. And most everyone could and did join in to sing together because the music was a familiar friend and they knew the words.
Today we celebrate Mass in a world of leaflet missals, open to much change since they are periodically disposed of when new ones come in to take their place. From what I have seen, the dog-eared, paperback books of today are more abused than actually used, because they are on their way out almost as soon as they arrive. Inanimate objects, like prayer books, don’t give spirituality but they can be a source of it when used. Depth doesn’t seem possible when the important parts of the readings are mainly in the hands of the lector and your booklet merely indicates that a reading is due at this point in the Mass. You need a spiritual and physical grasp sometimes in order to fully participate in the Sacrifice of the Mass.
We have plenty of variety in our music now. In fact, it seems that every Mass features a tuneless number that is entirely new and practically impossible to sing. The choir stands out in front of the sanctuary, providing a distraction to those of us who can’t figure out exactly what they are singing anyway. And when you can understand the words, they are usually accompanied by a guitar and tambourine, again successfully diverting our attention. The music and words, if provided, are on loose sheets of paper that will be found scattered under pews for several Sundays to come.
The saddest part of it all, are the empty-handed people who come pouring out of Mass. The paperback booklets stay in the pew and the music refuses to linger in our minds or hearts. I can’t judge what each and every person carries away from Mass. The outward sign seems somewhat barren. A missal in the hand just seems to be worth so much more than two leaflet missals left behind in the pew.
There was something genuine about holding on to those chunky books. The missal contained all the necessary prayers, epistles and Gospels for every occasion. I would prepare for Mass on the drive by organizing my ribbon bookmarks in the correct Mass for the day. I would scan the readings so as to be prepared for better absorption when the priest read them at Mass. And I would sort my holy cards that had places of honor in my missal. There was a certain sameness that was anything but boring in getting ready for Mass. The Mass seemed to stay with me past the hour of Mass. It was like taking a bit of the mystery and drama back home by way of my prayer book.
My hymnal was also evidence of the continuation of the Church. It was slightly bigger than my missal and contained many memories in addition to the music and lyrics. I hear people complain today that we used to sing the same old songs over and over again back then. I don’t, however, remember ever being bored. Sometimes my heart would beat a littler faster as a well-known favorite would begin. Some songs reminded me of other Masses that had commemorated special holy days, weddings and funerals. And most everyone could and did join in to sing together because the music was a familiar friend and they knew the words.
Today we celebrate Mass in a world of leaflet missals, open to much change since they are periodically disposed of when new ones come in to take their place. From what I have seen, the dog-eared, paperback books of today are more abused than actually used, because they are on their way out almost as soon as they arrive. Inanimate objects, like prayer books, don’t give spirituality but they can be a source of it when used. Depth doesn’t seem possible when the important parts of the readings are mainly in the hands of the lector and your booklet merely indicates that a reading is due at this point in the Mass. You need a spiritual and physical grasp sometimes in order to fully participate in the Sacrifice of the Mass.
We have plenty of variety in our music now. In fact, it seems that every Mass features a tuneless number that is entirely new and practically impossible to sing. The choir stands out in front of the sanctuary, providing a distraction to those of us who can’t figure out exactly what they are singing anyway. And when you can understand the words, they are usually accompanied by a guitar and tambourine, again successfully diverting our attention. The music and words, if provided, are on loose sheets of paper that will be found scattered under pews for several Sundays to come.
The saddest part of it all, are the empty-handed people who come pouring out of Mass. The paperback booklets stay in the pew and the music refuses to linger in our minds or hearts. I can’t judge what each and every person carries away from Mass. The outward sign seems somewhat barren. A missal in the hand just seems to be worth so much more than two leaflet missals left behind in the pew.
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