As the New Year creeps around the globe and the Rock Star tunes up his multitude of guitars in preparation for their gig this evening, I thought that writing a blog about the holidays would be a safe and cathartic exercise.

However, I find that at this moment in time, I am just too lazy. My good intentions are buried under a heap of turkey, pies and chocolate. So I will just say that I shall return in the New Year (for me, only 10 hours away) full of wit and minus the pies.

When midnight finds you, greet it with enthusiasm.

Anyone who has ever tried to do any kind of business around Christmas will know that it is the apex of foolishness to think that anyone is going to answer their phone past the 21st. (Unless you work retail, in which case you’re probably looking around for a power drill to engage in a primitive form of trephanning to let out the evil spirits right about now.) So, in the spirit of all of those who we’ve been trying to contact for the last few days, we’ve given up and are going to the pub.

I do hope that everyone has a suitably cheerful holiday full of good things to eat too much of, good drink to drink to much of and good friends, who you can never have too much of.

Merry Christmas to all who stop here for a spell, wherever you may be.

Today, my husband informs me that he would like to kill absolutely everything.

Following on from our general dissatisfaction with world events in general, The Rock Star is coping with work related traumas that, on their own, would not amount to much hassle, but when combined together, form a large ball of new media misery which he is trying desperately to roll off of his lower extremities.

Please send him chocolate in the post before he decides to put his head in the canal.

The romance of ice skating is ingrained into every girlchild from the time they are old enough to watch the Olympics and deeply covet the grace, beauty and sparkly costumes of those fortunate enough to make balancing on a pair of razor blades look like jogging through the park.

The reality of ice skating is undignified, hard on the backside and avoiding gaggles of teenage girls who couldn’t possibly remain upright without 16 of their closest friends to hang on to.

I’m actually not too bad at ice skating. Papapotamus took me occasionally when I was little and while I often caused pile-ups on the rink, I think I do it more naturally now than say, The Rock Star, who, being 6′2″, has further to fall.

This is the picture he would want me to post. Out of love and respect, I shall NOT post the one with his arms flailing every which way. It just wouldn’t be sporting.

The Rock Star insisted on this as Quote of the Week. Christmas is a time of joy and giving; for making peace with one’s fellow men. Supposedly.

The Rock Star and I weren’t having a particularly good Monday. We’d been discussing, on our way to Tesco, the lack of good news of late. The US House of Representitives has just approved oil drilling in the ANWR. Big business seems to be able to get away with anything. So does big government. No one seems to have any respect for anything anymore. We were both feeling distinctly unfluffy when we walked into the store to find a mass of carolers warbling “O Little Town of Bethlehem”, each in their own personal key. They were raising money for some charity or another, but unfortunately chose two teenage girls as collectors who’s strategy was to chase after shoppers and yell, “Give us money!”

Me: If you rattle that tin in my face again, you little slag, I swear to god I’ll smack you.

The Rock Star: Erm, Merry Christmas.

The Rock Star and I hadn’t really intended to see The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Neither of us were fans of the book as children; in fact, I don’t think the Rock Star has ever picked it up. I was 8 or 9 or so when a girl whom I often played with loaned it to me, saying that it was “a book about Jesus.” I’ve never liked being told what a book was about before I read it and never really got into the series after reading the first one..

We ended up seeing it last night with The Girl, who’s back from drama school for holidays. We like seeing The Girl, because she’s the only person over here that we hang out with regularly that isn’t a complete headcase. She’s a refreshing presence in the EastEnder-character filled world of our acquaintances. At any rate, the three of us ended up sitting though Lewis’s best loved classic, now make flesh on celluloid. (Again.)

It’s been a VERY long time since I read the book. It’s also been a very long time since I was unfortunate enough to be the victim of the BBC mini-series, (Anyone who saw this, no matter how much they loved it, was ready to stab the girl playing Lucy in the head within the first 5 minutes of the first episode.) but the girl I used to play with was right. It is kind of about Jesus.

This isn’t really a problem unless you’re bothered by a pedantical fantasy romp, which I wasn’t. Lewis obviously meant the story and all of those that followed to be one long allegory, which undoubtedly must have chapped the ass of his humanist friend, Professor Tolkein. The film definitely didn’t skimp on the symbolism, although it can be congratulated for being a fairly faithful interpretation of the work. (What chaps my own PERSONAL ass is the fact that the upcoming film interpretation of His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman has been stripped of ALL of its religious symbolism simply because it is anti-church. It’s all about the Christian Dollar.) Although I did find it strange of Lewis to introduce Santa Claus into the middle of the affair; not only that, but Santa brings the children things with which to stab the hell out of other living creatures with. When was the last time you found a 9 foot sword under YOUR tree?

The movie’s main selling point is its rather spectacular effects that integrated VERY seamlessly into the action of the film. Like the latest Harry Potter offering, you didn’t spend time going, “Oh nice effect,” but rather, “COOL! She’s got POLAR BEARS pulling her chariot!” Making a film in which 80% of the characters didn’t exist in real time must have taken some getting used to for the actual, living 20% of those involved in the film, but I have to admit, it was impressive. The acting itself was pretty much what you could expect from 4 child actors of various ages. The oldest, who played Peter, is obviously destined for many roles in his future as hustlers with faces like a Caravaggio painting. The adults also acquitted themselves fairly admirably; Tilda Swinton’s Witch was gloriously evil. James McAvoy didn’t quite get the fussbudget nature of Mr. Tumnus right, but spends the film shirtless, so can be forgiven for most things.

“Why did you tell me that thing about Jesus?” said the Girl, as we walked out, “that’s all I could think about.”

I try not to read politically oriented blogs on a regular basis. Mainly because most of them piss me off. I’m a common sense kind of girl, myself, raised on a diet of shades of grey; black and white rants tend to put me right off.

That’s why I felt obliged to write to this particular syndicated individual about his views on the reason Harold Pinter won the Nobel Prize. (Scroll to the bottom of the page for the “article”. )

Joe Scarborough is a former congressman, which surprised me, because his writing style definitely said 12- year- old- son- of- local- businessman- who- has- “opinions” to me. That someone who was so inept at expressing themselves was allowed to make decisions for an entire section of a STATE is reason enough to make you lose faith in American Democracy altogether.

His entire argument was based on the following 3 precepts and should have been titled,

“Why I Hate Harold Pinter by Joseph Scarborough, Age 12”

1) Because he said mean things about America.
2) Because he’s not an American.
3) Because America Rulz. So there. Plus, Jimmy Carter loves Communists so much he should marry them. Especially North Koreans.

I’m not a big fan of figures in the entertainment industry using their moment in the spotlight to further political agendas, whether they be Republican, Democrat OR Communist. A headline appeared on MSNBC today saying, “Viggo Mortenson blasts President Bush” which I’m sure was of HUGE concern to the administration. Sean Penn goes on a field trip. Bono sez, “Can’t we all just get along?” Not that I in any way want to take away from the good work that some fortunate people have done thanks to their wealth and status. Sometimes I just wish they’d stop running for President.

This is neither here nor there, though. Even if I believed that Harold Pinter was completely and totally wrong (I don’t) and had his head jammed up his pretentious backside (I do) there is something to be said for the art of debate. The art of debate does not include name-calling. The art of debate is NOT laden with toxic sarcasm. The way Scarborough chooses to express his malcontent is disturbingly juvenile.

The United States of America is the root of all that is evil in this world, according to Pinter. Never mind the fact that my country has spent the last century liberating the world from Hitler’s Germany, Stalin’s Soviet Union, Milosevic’s Serbia and Hussein’s Iraq.

Ah, the old, “We saved your asses back in the war” argument.

The fallback of a true statesman.

“WHERE ARE MY HOVERBOOTS AND JET CAR??” cried the Rock Star plaintively.

“Don’t get greedy,” I said, “you’ve only just got a running robot.”

Someday, when they’re growing us in pink, goo filled pods, I expect we’ll look back on this day quite differently.

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For those of you who kindly asked after my pie, here is your answer.

I must be philosophical. Into every life some rain must fall. And alternately onto every floor a pie must do the same. This accounts for most of the damage. I can just hear my grandmother in the great beyond shaking her head and saying, “Schushlich.” (clumsy) You wouldn’t think molasses would dry slippery, but it does. I am beginning to think that I have a Dutch spirit hanging around that might need to be threatened with a hex sign of some sort. (Totally unrealated PA Dutch trivia: It is believed that cows gain the power of speech on the night before Christmas Eve and that anyone born on Christmas Day will be able to understand them. I like the idea of talking to cows, although I’m not sure they’d have a whole lot to say.)

As for the rather more gooey nature of the experiment, I think perhaps our oven runs slightly hotter than it should, causeing the top of the pie to crisp too fast and the innards to remain liquid. I have just enough ingredients to make one more attempt at a lower temperature.

To be fair, this was the closest I’ve come to succeeding over here so far. It was actually very tasty, although not particularly pleasing to the eye.

The fight goes on.

Those of you who know this book know that it is the basis for many love handles and heart attacks. You will ALSO know that it is NOT TO BE QUESTIONED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Many fist fights between old ladies have started when questions as to the quality of the recipes contained herein have arisen. I, however, to the disgrace of all of my Pennsylvania Dutch ancestors, HAVE A BLOODY QUESTION.

Not that I wish to impune the advice of Mrs. Ernest C Detwiler and her fellow culinary artists. It is, in fact, with the editors of the 1992 spiral edition of The Mennonite Cookbook that I would like to have a word with about ruining my good name in the Shoo Fly Pie Baking department.

Just FYI editors…THERE IS NO FLIPPING EGG. I DON’T KNOW WHO THREW IN THE EGG BETWEEN 1950-SOMETHING AND 1992, BUT THERE IS MOST DEFINITELY NO EGG IN SHOOFLY PIE. AND THERE IS 1/4 CUP OF SHORTENING, NOT TWO TABLESPOONS. WITHOUT THE SHORTENING, I’VE PRETTY MUCH BEEN BAKING A MIXTURE OF FLOUR + MOLASSES WHICH = GLUE. THIS RECIPE ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY DOES NOT WORK. YOU CRETINS.

This would certainly acount for the less than cake-like appearance of my last two attempts in this field of baking.

Think of me this evening as I bake my triumphal pie.