A Dog's Tale

The names are fictional, the story is true...

 

April 1973
           It was a typically damp, early spring night in western Oregon. Inside, the tavern was dry and warm. Country music blared from the jukebox, occasionally punctuated by the crack of pool balls or the clatter of beer bottles.
           A bartender hoisted an empty beer keg to his shoulder and stepped out the back door. He deposited the barrel next to several others, squinting briefly into the darkness. He went back inside, never sparing a glance at the pup huddled miserably next to the dumpster.
           This was the only life the pup knew. He had a vague recollection of being inside, fussed over. Unfortunately, when the novelty of having a 12-week-old puppy wore off, he was tied out back. At first, he had been able to crawl under the dumpster for shelter, but he soon grew too large. Occasionally, someone would toss him some kitchen scraps. He was much too thin, and always hungry.
           Gradually the noise from inside subsided to the clatter of clean up. Finally, only the dim glow of security lights remained. The pup was able to relax then, knowing he would have peace the rest of the night. He curled into a tight ball and tried to sleep.
           Meg was angry as she sat in the alley behind the tavern. The fact that anyone would treat a defenseless animal this way infuriated her. After years of working with the Animal Defenders League, she still couldn’t understand the mindset. A neighbor of the tavern owner had tried to intervene, even offered to buy the pup. When she was told to mind her own business, she called the A.D.L. That was where Meg came in: she would do whatever it took to rescue the dog.
           The sound of the car door did not disturb the miserable little creature, but the glow of the flashlight did. He jumped to his feet and cowered against the wall, whimpering.
           A soothing voice came out of the darkness. “It’s ok, little one. It’s ok.” The quick flash of a knife-blade severed his bonds, and a large, soft towel enveloped him as Meg lifted his emaciated body. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
            The pup found himself in the backseat of a station wagon that smelled faintly, but distinctly, of dog. He was still nervous, but the warmth was irresistible. He burrowed into the towel, the motion of the car rocking him to sleep.
           The woman drove home, smiling, now. In her heart, she knew she was doing what she did best: giving an abused animal a second chance at life.
            
           Meg Hart operated a small kennel with her husband and daughters. She was a 4-H leader, PTA mom, and ran dispatch for the rural fire district. But, her true passion was animals. Her home was always open to anyone in need, be it dog, cat, horse or human.
           That morning she inspected the pup closely for the first time. He was curled on a blanket in the corner, just as she had left him the night before, but he raised his head when she came in. Meg knelt on the floor and spoke quietly as she looked him over. The pup was an Australian Shepherd, about nine months old and quite obviously of good bloodlines. His mottled coat was matted and dirty, but his large brown eyes shone with intelligence. No longer afraid, he gently wagged his stumpy tail.
           With gentle hands, she felt him over for wounds or abnormalities, relieved when she found none. A vet-check would be in order, immunizations, and worming, but first, a flea bath. Even Meg had to admit that the dog stank. She carried him to the tub and set him in, expecting the pup to throw a fit. Surprisingly, he did not. After thirty minutes of shampoo, combing, cutting and blow-drying, he looked like a different animal. Thin as a rail, but that was easily fixed.
           She walked him out to the nearest run and opened the gate. “There you go, Buddy, nice and safe ‘til we find you a good home.”
           The dog looked up at her and grinned, the first expression Meg had seen from him. She laughed. “Well, you’re welcome! I’ll bring you some breakfast in a minute.”

           Two weeks passed while the young dog spent his time mostly sleeping and gaining weight. Feeling comfortable and safe, he blossomed. He started to show interest in his surroundings. His coat, a rich grey, dappled with black, a color called blue merle, took on a naturally healthy sheen. He had a grin and a wiggle of his stubby tail for anyone that stopped by.
           Meg had not tried to place him yet. She wanted him to be fit and healthy, and truth be told, was in no hurry to see him go. She chided herself for being silly. She tried not to bond with her rescued animals, but this one had captured her.
           On Friday, Meg received a call from Jerry Adler, the local vet. “Just a heads up,” he told her, “I’ve got Annie Marek’s Lucky in here with distemper. I thought you might want to let your 4-H club know.”
           That sent a chill down her spine. “Annie left him at home this week,” Meg remembered. “Do you think he’ll recover?”
           Dr. Adler wouldn’t commit one way of the other. Distemper was not an easy thing to cure. He hung up with a reminder to check all the immunization records.
           Meg thought back to what recent months had held for 11-year-old Annie. In February, her old dog, Shamrock had passed away. Several weeks later, the other family dog, Suzy, had been hit by a car. In mid March, Annie and her dad had gone to the Animal Shelter and adopted “Lucky”. Now, barely three weeks later, he had a life threatening illness. Meg knew that the dog had been immunized, but distemper can lay dormant for a long time. She was sure that he’d already been infected. She was not surprised when Annie phoned the next day, saying they’d had Lucky put to sleep. The girl was in tears, and Meg’s heart broke for her. There was not much to say. It was a lot for a young animal lover to bear, losing three pets in such a short time.
           The following week Meg took the Aussie for a final health screening. He’d already had his shots, as well as being wormed. Dr. Adler was impressed at the progress the young dog had made. He had gained enough weight to be nearly normal for his age, and had a newly acquired spring in his step. The vet pronounced him ready for a new home.  Meg thought she knew just the one.
           On Saturday, she called Annie. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” She asked. “I have a dog here that needs a foster home. Do you think your folks would mind if you did that for a while?”
           She proceeded to tell the girl’s parents about the Australian shepherd, and how it had come to be in her care. They agreed to come down and see the dog, and think about taking it in.
           As soon as girl and dog met, it was all over. Annie sat on the floor in the run and the dog immediately came to her. He sniffed her outstretched hand, then allowed her to scratch his ears. Within seconds, he was in her lap, nuzzling her neck. “What’s his name?” Annie asked, giggling.
           “I don’t know,” Meg admitted, “I’ve just been calling him ‘Buddy’.”
           Annie stood up, looking him over. “He has that beautiful silvery coat. I think I’ll call him Silver.”
           The dog perked up his ears and cocked his head to one side. Annie giggled again.
           “Are you sure you’re ready for another dog?” Mrs. Marek asked her daughter. “Do you really want to take this on already?”
           “Yes, Mom, I’m sure,” Annie answered, her face snuggled into the neck of her new dog. “You know how empty the house has been. And besides, Silver needs us.”
           Meg smiled. This would not be a foster home.
           The family drove the mile or so to the Marek’s farm. When they got out of the truck, Mr. Marek said “Go ahead, Annie, turn him loose.”
           She did. Silver didn’t know what to do. Freedom was new to him He smelled the truck tires, lifting his leg on one of them. Then he went into the grass, scaring a sleeping cat. He jumped, startled. He stretched and sniffed the air. He trotted forward, immediately breaking into a flat-out run. He circled the yard a full three times, finally coming to rest in the middle of the lawn. He flopped down, then and looked up, grinning, tongue lolling to one side. The young dog knew he had come home.

In loving memory of Chief Silver Comet (Silli),

and the real "Meg Hart", who prefers to remain anonymous.

The Beach House

            When I was in second grade, my parents and their best friends rented a cottage at the beach.  201The two families would spend spring vacation together in Lincoln City, Oregon.

            There were four kids, including myself. This was thrilling to me, as an only child. Built-in playmates! Amy, the oldest, was my age. Her brothers, Andy and Paul, were slightly younger. I couldn’t wait!

            We got to the cottage on a Saturday. The Johnson’s had arrived the night before. Amy ran out to meet me and show me around.

            Leaning slightly, the cottage was wind-worn and faded. The clapboard siding had not seen a paint brush in years. The place was great, it looked like you couldn’t hurt anything if you tried. There was a big, open, kitchen and living room downstairs, and several bedrooms upstairs. Tough clean and neat, the place definitely had an air of casualness. The furniture was old and comfortable and nothing matched. There was a tire swing in the backyard, and the beach was across the street. The kids’ bedroom had two sets of bunk beds. Amy and I called “dibs” on the top bunks.

            That night we had a bonfire on the beach. We ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and watched the sun go down over the Pacific. I remember dozing by the fire, lulled by the lapping of the waves.

            Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bunk to the smell bacon. After breakfast, we grabbed buckets and shovels and ran to the water. The day was foggy and cool, and the tide was way out. We were going clamming. With just a few tries, I got the hang of digging and flipping clams up onto the sand.

            I remember the smell of salt air and seaweed on the spray, and the cries of the gulls, swooping overhead. It was a magical morning, mysterious and still. We pretended the clams were treasure, and that a pirate might appear from the mist at any time.  We chased seagulls and played tag, and eventually brought the filled bucket of clams back to the house. There would be fritters or chowder for dinner that night.

            By midday, the fog always burned off and the sun came out. Amy and I would roll up our jeans and wade in the tide pools, playing with the sea anemones. The wet sand squished between my wiggling toes. I wanted to bring a starfish home, as a pet, but my father explained that it couldn’t live without saltwater. Reluctantly, I put it back where I found it, to continue its starfish life.

            One afternoon the four of us built a huge sandcastle, surrounded by a fence made of oyster shells. As we finished, we saw the tide had crept up, unnoticed. We dug moats to protect the castle, but quickly got overwhelmed. The water surged around our feet as we frantically scooped sand. In no time, we were soaked to the skin. When Paul fell, face first, into the rising water, we realized it was no use. Starting to shiver, we ran back to the cabin. In the morning there was nothing left to mark the spot but a few oyster shells from the fence.

            There was no television at the cottage, and none of us missed it. We were seldom inside, anyway. There was always something to do. On our last day, it rained. After a morning of board games and puzzles, and watching it pour, our parents decided to reward our patience. We all piled into the station wagon and drove to town.

            Lincoln City was a small, quiet town, home to fishermen and loggers. It was still a decade or more away from being discovered as prime vacation real estate. It drew its share of tourists, though, and did its best to offer things to entertain them.

            At the Aquarium, we fed sardines to seals in the front lobby. Crossing through the turnstile into the main gallery was enchanting. Dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the glow from the tanks, the effect was of an undersea cave. Maritime objects decorated the spaces between displays. We saw fish of every size, shape and color. The center of the room was sunken, a wide pool, filled with creatures native to the northwest. An octopus drifted by, changing color as it went, blending in with its surroundings. Sea cucumbers and Dungeness crabs shared space with rock cod and flounder. It looked like an underwater anthill, there was so much activity.

            When we were done with the tour, we made our way down the boardwalk. Andy and Paul wanted to ride the bumper cars. But when stood by the red line, they were not tall enough to ride alone. After just a tiny bit of pleading, our dads agreed to take all of us on the ride. Amy and I climbed in with my dad, while the boys got in with theirs. We giggled and squealed as the carts zipped around, bumping and whirling, in a crazy game.  Our moms stood by, laughing and waving. On the way back, we had purple snow cones.

That night, Amy and I sorted our collection of shells and other treasures we’d found while beach combing. We stayed awake late, whispering in the dark. I watched the full moon outside the window, and wished our vacation didn’t have to end.

            Although the adults talked about it, we never did get back to that cottage. A busy, happy summer came and went. The Johnsons moved away not long after school started, and Amy and I lost touch.

            I thought of my old friend the other day, when I found a photograph taken during that long ago vacation. Two eight-year-old girls wearing toothless grins and dragging a massive piece of driftwood, on their way to a new adventure. It all came back in a flash, after more than thirty years, the wonderful week at the crooked old house in Lincoln City. 

Lincoln City, Oregon sometime in the '60's - author unknown

Once Upon A Time, 30 years ago...

            During the recession of the early 1980's, we lived in Central Oregon. This was at a time when all the mills were beginning to shut down. As a result, much of the town was unemployed. Even those who didn't work directly for a mill were affected. Everyone we knew supplemented their food budget with gardens…and game. My husband, an experienced hunter and fisherman, made sure there was always meat on the table. We ate what many people might consider delicacies. Quail, pheasant, duck, elk, the list could go on. Roast wild goose or back-strap of venison was not unusual. Neither was freshly caught, fried bass or bluegill. Unfortunately, you can have too much of a good thing. At one point, I never wanted to see another trout, let alone eat one. Now, I enjoy it again…but it took a few years.

            When we moved back to the Portland area, we kept living off the land as much as practical. We rented a little house on five acres, on the outer side of the West Hills. It had a neglected old orchard, filled with apple, plum, and pear trees, and a large garden space. By this time, we had three toddlers. They spent many hours in the garden with me, playing farmer with their own little plastic tools. They loved to snack on berries or pull carrots for their lunch. Tiny cherry tomatoes, sweet as candy, were consumed by the handful. We also raised rabbits, sheep, and chickens. Gathering eggs was part of the fun. There were times when we supplied the whole neighborhood with eggs. At some small level, the kids grew to understand that food didn't just come from the store. They all have fond memories of our days on the farm.

            There are two times each year when I find myself with tiny vegetables. The first is early summer, when I'm impatient to harvest something. Then again at the end of the season, when the garden is winding down. Too little of any one thing to use alone, but together they make a wonderful vegetable soup. I don't think I've made this the same way twice, it depends on what I have on hand, but it's always gotten good reviews from my family. It can easily be made vegetarian.

.

Baby Vegetable Soup

Serves 4 to 6

.

1 tbsp. butter

1 tbsp. olive oil
1 small onion, minced

1 carrot, thinly sliced

1 stalk celery, diced

1 small hot pepper, seeded and diced or 1 dried chili pepper (optional)

1 small sweet pepper, any variety, seeded and diced

1 clove garlic, minced

1 cup green and/or wax beans, cut into 1 inch pieces

1 quart chicken or vegetable broth

2 or 3 ripe tomatoes, diced or 1 can diced tomatoes in juice

3 or 4 baby red potatoes, quartered

1 or 2 small summer squash, sliced or cubed, depending on size

¼ cup chopped, assorted fresh herbs or 1 tbsp. dried (parsley, basil and marjoram)

Salt, pepper

.

Heat oil and butter in a stock pot to medium high. Saute onion until golden brown. Add carrots, celery, peppers and garlic and saute for a minute or two. Add tomatoes, beans and broth. Season with salt and pepper. Stir well. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Stir in potatoes and summer squash and cook 15-20 minutes longer or until vegetables are all tender. Stir in herbs and adjust seasonings.

The Hummingbird Lady

         The hummingbirds return to the Norhtwest every year on March 15th. My mother-in-law, Sally, taught me that. She also taught me how to make Swiss steak, tailor a blazer, and do bookkeeping the old-fashioned way, with a ledger. If I had a question about an old movie, odds were she would know the answer. She was my mentor, my surrogate mother, one of my best friends.            
         My fondest memories are of the times we spent alone together, working in her garden on Orcas. Mom held court in her garden, sitting on her campstool like a queen on a throne. (It was easier for her to reach the plants that way.) A pump-pot of coffee was always at her side. She would be wearing the faded Mariner’s jacket that had been Hal’s, her old hiking boots, and frayed jeans that were inches too short. Quite the contrast to the elegant woman she was in public. Sitting cross-legged amidst the lavender and crane’s bill geraniums, I’d pull weeds and listen to her stories. We’d talk and laugh, and not get as much done as we could.            
        Mom loved her critters, and kept most of her five acres virgin-wild. Her squirrel and bird feeders were always kept full, although she often complained about the mess they made. She delighted in the wildlife that visited her beach, martin, blue heron, even the occasional sea otter. Only the deer nearly drove her mad, eating her flowers.           
        Every year she would hang hummingbird feeders, four or five of the largest available. The tiny birds would swarm the deck, like a hive of iridescent bees. It’s hard to believe it’s been four years since Mom was taken from us, on March 15th. I like to believe that her soul had an escort of Hummingbirds to begin its journey. I think she would have liked that.

*****
Old Style Alphabet Soup

1 or 2 meaty beef soup bones

1 tbsp tomato paste

1 whole clove garlic, peeled

1 large whole chili pepper

¾ cup diced celery

¾ cup sliced carrots

¾ cup diced onion

1 cup frozen mixed vegetables, thawed

8 cups beef broth, homemade or canned

1 large bay leaf

Salt, pepper and onion powder

A handful of alphabet pasta

Heat a little oil in a heavy Dutch oven to medium-high. Carefully place bones, fattiest side down in the oil. Season with salt, pepper and onion powder.Stir in the tomato paste. Brown well, turning the bones frequently.  Toss in the garlic and chili. Pour the broth over the bones, scraping to loosen the brown bits.

Add a bay leaf and ½ cup each or the carrots, celery and onions. Lower heat to simmer. Cover and simmer 2 hours or longer, until meat is falling from bones. When the meat is thoroughly cooked, remove from heat.

 

Strain into a chilled bowl, reserving the liquid. Chill the strained broth completely. This will allow the excess fat to rise to the top and harden. You can then easily de-fat your soup by simply lifting it off. 

When the bones are cool enough to handle, discard the bay leaf, garlic clove, chili and vegetables. Remove the meat and cut into bite size pieces.

Reheat the de-fatted broth. Stir in the meat and remaining vegetables. Add a little extra broth or water, if needed. Bring back almost to a boil. Lower heat and simmer until vegetables are cooked, about 20 minutes. 

Stir in the pasta. Cook another 10 minutes until the alphabets are cooked. Adjust seasonings as needed.  

My Favorite Things About Orcas Island

      We all know there's no place like home, but every place has something we DON'T like, be it the traffic, the noise, or the price of gas. Today, instead of fussing about anything, I decided to focus on the positive, and list the things I LIKE, and miss, about the island. Fellow Orcasians, feel free to ad to the list! These are in no particular order, just as they came into my head.

The checkers at the Market know my name, and I know theirs.

The view as you drive into Deer Harbor.

The Olga Christmas tree.

Buck Bay shellfish and Judd Cove oysters.

Fourth of July in Eastsound.

"Our" resident herd of deer.

The drive from Eastsound to Olga.

Viking football.

The view across Obstruction Pass to Anacortes.

Christmas lights in Eastsound.

Trumpeter swans visiting Cascade Lake in December.

Crow Valley in the morning, under a blanket of fog.


Crow Valley



Supper for Super Bowl

This started out as a way to kill time before and during the Super Bowl. I could hang out in the kitchen, and slice and dice and shred cheese while my husband and his friends watched the big game. Then an unexpected thing happened. Our sons got older, and started to play football, so I was motivated to learn more about the game. Watching our Orcas Vikings, I actually became a football fan.

It wasn’t a chore, after that, to start watching the Seahawks, and other pro teams, along with the guys. When Super Bowl came, I wanted to watch the game. By that time, however, I had established a ritual. The dinner had become one of the highlights of the day. The logical answer was to make the pizza a couple of hours before game time, then pop it in the oven at half-time and eat during the third quarter.

A good crust is the foundation of any pizza. A home oven was never designed to bake pizza. It just can’t get hot enough. There are plenty of good refrigerated pizza crusts, and even boxed mixes, that work very well. I even used biscuit mix once, when I was out of yeast. But a good, basic yeast dough is still the best way to go. If you have a bread machine with a pizza setting, use it. Just follow their directions.

Super Bowl Pizza    A once-a-year treat
Makes one 14” medium crust pizza

1 packet active dry yeast, quick rising
1 cup warm water (105° to 115° F)
½ tsp. salt
2 tsp. olive oil
2½ to 3½ cups all purpose flour

OR 
1 - 12” to 14” ready made pizza crust

In a large bowl, dissolve yeast in warm water. Add salt, olive oil and 2½ cups flour. Mix well. Turn onto floured board. Knead, adding remaining flour until dough feels elastic. Place in greased bowl, turning to grease top. Cover; let rise in warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. Punch down. Let rest about 10 minutes. Brush pizza pan with olive oil and sprinkle with cornmeal. Press dough across bottom of pan, forming a collar around edge to hold toppings. Toppings:1 - 14 oz. can pizza sauce
1½ cup shredded mozzarella
¼ lb. pepperoni
¼ lb. salami
¼ lb. Canadian bacon
½ lb. Italian sausage, hot or mild
¼ cup diced onion
¼ cup diced bell pepper
½ lb. sliced mushrooms
1 - 3oz. can sliced olives

Brown sausage and drain well. Sauté onion and pepper in a little olive oil until soft. Spread sauce across crust. Layer all topping ingredients, finishing with cheese on top. This can be done a couple of hours ahead. (Your crust may continue to rise if it’s made ahead and not refrigerated.)

Bake at 450° for 15 to 20 minutes. Let rest 5 minutes before slicing.
 

Creamy Salad Dressings

            About the time my youngest got into high school, I gave up buying bottled salad dressing, for two reasons. First, as a family, we ate so much salad that we were always running out. Secondly, and most important, we were finding it harder and harder to find dressings that we found palatable. Most were either too vinegary, or too gelatinous. And, they're expensive!
            We all prefer creamy dressings to vinaigrettes, so I started experimenting with different combinations, using mayonnaise or sour cream as a base. The idea was to use ingredients that were always on hand, hence, never run out of salad dressing again! It proved to be so easy, that I’m embarrassed it took me so long to figure out. I usually make dressing “by eye”, and just enough for a meal. For simplicity, though, I put measurements in here. 

Basic Ranch 
Yields about 1½ cups

1 cup mayonnaise

¼ cup sour cream

¼ cup milk

¼ tsp. onion powder

¼ tsp. black pepper

Dash garlic powder
Parsley, marjoram, sweet basil, savory, etc.

 Whisk together mayo and sour cream. Add pepper, onion and garlic powders, whisking until well blended. Taste as you go. Stir in herbs, to taste. (Parsley, marjoram and basil are friendly. You can use them quite liberally and they won’t overpower your food. Be sparing with thyme or oregano, however. A little goes a long way.) Thin with small amounts of milk until desired consistency is reached. Chill for at least 15 minutes.

Creamy Blue Cheese       A kid friendly blue 

Make Ranch dressing, above, using parsley only.

Fold in 3 oz. crumbled blue cheese.

Run in blender or food processor for a minute, if you want a smoother texture

Refrigerate for at least an hour to develop flavor.

Thousand Island                 Great French fry dip, sandwich spread…

Stir to combine:

1 cup ranch dressing

½ cup sweet relish, well drained

1 tbsp. ketchup

¼ tsp. black pepper

Blue Island                     My husband’s favorite

Make Thousand Island dressing, above.

Fold in ½ cup coarsely-crumbled Buttermilk Blue cheese

Regular blue cheese can be used, but the buttermilk blue is wonderfully mild, yet intense. The longer it chills, the better the flavor.

Simple Cheesecake

          It's supposed to get cold again this week, following a couple of unseasonably warm days. I really don't mind very much. I kind of enjoy the cold, as long as it's dry. Either way, winter weather always puts me in the mood to bake. Last weekend my sweet tooth started missing the holiday goodies. Being rather late in the evening, I took stock of the pantry and proceeded accordingly. I had all the fixin's to make one of my husbands favorites: cheesecake.
          This is a very simple and relatively fast recipe. I had no ready-made pie crust, but I did have a pack of graham crackers. I did something I hadn’t done in years: I made one from scratch. I needed to look up the recipe in good old Betty Crocker, it had been so long. I was really glad for my Cuisinart when it came to turning the crackers into crumbs. I only had half a bag of chocolate chips, and soft cream cheese, not a brick. Even so, the cake turned out just fine. The only difference I noticed was that the chips sunk through the softer batter and created a chocolate layer at the bottom. 

Chocolate Chip Cream Cheesecake
Heat oven to 350°

2 - 8oz. packages cream cheese, softened (light is ok)

½ cup sugar

½ tsp. vanilla

2 eggs, slightly beaten

½ cup chocolate chips

1 graham cracker or chocolate cookie pie crust

Mix cream cheese, sugar and vanilla on medium speed of electric mixer. Add eggs and beat until well blended. Stir in the chocolate chips. Pour into crust.  Bake at  350° for 40 minutes. Cool completely before slicing.

You can substitute peanut butter chips or white chocolate chips, if you prefer. For a double chocolate cake, add a tablespoon of chocolate syrup in with the sugar and omit the vanilla.

Graham Cracker Crust

1½ cups graham cracker crumbs

2 tbsp. sugar

5 tbsp. melted butter

Combine crumbs and sugar in the bottom of a pie pan. Stir in melted butter until completely moistened. Press crumbs against bottom and sides of pan to make a crust. 

Happy New Year!

This punch was invented one July day on Sauvie Island, while camped on the banks of the Gilbert River. So to remind us that winter doesn't last forever, here's a little taste of summer.  Pineapple spears and little umbrellas optional. Also great for the New Years Eve punch bowl.

Mud Beach Special
1 - 12oz can guava-mango juice concentrate                

1 - 2 liter bottle of sparkling water, 7-Up, or club soda

1 - 12oz. can of ginger ale

1 pint spiced rum (optional) 

Mix juice concentrate with sparkling water and ginger ale.
Add rum, if desired.  Serve over ice in chilled glasses.

Megan's Magic - a Christmas Story

            Ever since she could remember, ten-year-old Megan had wanted a horse. Growing up in rural Oregon. it was only natural. She was surrounded by horses, had ridden many times with the other kids in the neighborhood, she had even become friends with the ponies next door. However, she had never had a horse to call her own.

            One crisp, cold Christmas Eve, Megan was doing what she usually did: playing outside on her father’s small farm. Her adventures led her to the barn, where she found a litter of new baby rabbits in one of the hutches. She loved the barn. It was always cozy, smelling of alfalfa, molasses, and the friendly scent of warm cows. One of the barn cats yawned and stretched its way out of the nest it had built in the straw. It came over and rubbed its face against the girl’s leg. She scratched its head for a minute, then smiling, stepped back out into the cold dusk. Going around the corner to the chicken coop, she paused at the neighbor’s fence to feed a handful of grain to the ponies that waited for her. They were two aging geldings, black and white pintos, whose riders had long since grown up and gone off to college. They led a blissful life of retirement. “Merry Christmas, boys,” Megan said. “I’ve got to go get the eggs now, but I’ll bring you a treat tomorrow!”

            As Megan emerged from the hen house with her bucket full of fresh brown eggs, she heard her mother’s voice calling from the house. “Coming!” She yelled.

            “Where have you been?” Mom asked when Megan stumbled, breathless through the kitchen door.

            “Just outside.” Megan answered, “Here are the eggs.”

            “Hurry up and get changed,” her mother said, taking the bucket. “We’re going to be late for Grandma’s. And take a shower!” she called to her disappearing daughter.

            Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house was a family tradition from time out of mind. Several generations would gather in the old farmhouse, which had been in the O’Brian family for nearly a hundred years. Megan always liked to spend time there, especially when all the aunts, uncles and cousins were present.

            They arrived in time for dinner, in spite of mother’s concern. Megan was a little squirmy in her frilly, girly-girl Christmas dress. She would have been much more comfortable in her Levis and a flannel shirt, but mom insisted.

            The house was brimming with Christmas cheer. The aroma of a ham baking and Wassail on the stovetop. The sounds of laughter, coming from the kitchen where the adults always seemed to gather. But the center of it all was the huge, sparkling, tinsel-covered tree that Grandpa had cut from the back field.

            Megan heard her cousin, Jill, call from the den. All the cousins were playing Monopoly, and she went to join them. The game went on until grandma rang the bell for supper.

            The center island in the kitchen groaned with food, to be served buffet style. Once everyone was seated, Grandpa said grace, and then it was okay to eat. Everything was delicious, as it always was at Grandma’s house.

            After dinner, the whole family gathered in the living room, around the Christmas tree. Dad and Uncle Jim took out guitars and Aunt Judy sat at the piano. In the midst of the singing came the sound all the kids had been waiting for a jingle-jingle from outside. The younger ones, Megan included, rushed to the window, while those who were more “grown-up” grinned and kept their seats, not wanting to admit that they, too, really believed in Santa Claus. In a minute, the jingling had moved to the front door, and a highly anticipated knock followed. Grandma, as she did every year, grumbled as she went to the door, “Now who could be coming to call on Christmas Eve?”

            “Merry Christmas!” exclaimed the red-suited figure, his presence filling the crowded room. “Are there any good children here tonight?”

            The kids all rushed in at once, nearly bowling over the jolly visitor, who truth be told, held a striking resemblance to Uncle Joe wearing a false beard. Starting with the youngest, they took their turn sitting on Santa’s lap and expressing their wishes. There are no skeptics on the night before Christmas. Megan fell somewhere near the middle of the bunch. When it was her turn, she felt a little shy. She knew that things at the farm had been somewhat lean, as her father would say, and that gifts were not what the holiday was all about. Even so, maybe Santa could do something.

             “Well, Megan,” Santa smiled, (he always knew the names of all the kids) “Have you been behaving yourself this year?”

            “I think so,” she replied. “I’ve been remembering to do my chores without being told, most of the time.”

            “Wonderful, wonderful! Now what would you like for Christmas this year?”

            “Well, some new cowboy boots, a watercolor set, a copy of ‘My Friend Flicka’ and…” she hesitated, “and…maybe…a horse.” She finished almost in a whisper, as though speaking her wish would make it disappear.

            “My, my, that’s quite a list.” Santa grinned. “That’s a pretty tall order. I don’t know about that last one. It would take a really special kind of magic, but I’ll see what I can do about the rest.”

            Megan gave him a big hug, (he smelled very much like Uncle Joe) and scampered back across the room. She didn’t really have much hope, but at least now, it was on the record. She had never told anyone before.

            The rest of the evening went fast. Shortly after Santa left, Uncle Joe joined them, complaining as he always did, that those darn cows took longer to feed every year. Grandpa settled into his favorite chair, and a hush came over the room. He lit his pipe, cleared his throat, and began, “’T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house…..”

            Megan was warm, content and sleepy, when dad deposited her in her room at home. She dropped the velveteen dress at the foot of her bed, crawled under the covers and dreamed of horses.

            She woke to a gentle snow falling against her window, and the sounds of breakfast cooking in the kitchen below. Remembering that it was Christmas, she bounded out of bed and into her jeans in one motion. She grabbed a warm sweatshirt and rushed down the stairs.

            Mom was frying pancakes and Dad was sitting at the table with his morning coffee. “Good morning sleepyhead,” Dad grinned over his newspaper, “What took you so long? It’s almost ..7:30..!”

            “Morning Mom, morning Dad,” she bubbled. “Merry Christmas! Is breakfast almost ready?” She knew no gifts would be opened until after they had eaten, and cleaned up.

            “Almost,” said Mom, “but I need you to do me a favor, before we sit down. Please go out and check on that batch of bunnies. It got really cold last night, and I’d like you to put some extra straw in their hutch.”

            Megan pulled on boots and a jacket and ran outside. She raced through the door into the barn and skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open. There, in a previously unused box stall stood the most beautiful horse that Megan had ever seen. She was a smallish mare, barely larger than a pony, and a golden palomino in color. On her halter was a big, red bow, with a card attached to it. Megan approached softly, as she had been taught, and stroked the velvety muzzle.

            “Well, what do you know about that?” Dad’s voice came from behind.

            Megan turned; she had not heard her parents come in behind her. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?” she breathed. “Where did she come from?”

            “There’s something hanging from that bow,” Mom pointed out, smiling, “Why don’t you see what it says?”

            Removing the card, Megan read aloud, “Merry Christmas, Megan. My name is Magic. Santa said you would take good care of me. I’ve come to live with you.”

            The girl burrowed her face into the warm neck. “Hello, Magic. This has been the best Christmas ever.”

****
The story is fictional, but Grandma’s recipe is a very real part of our family Christmases. Although I personally prefer the non-alcoholic version, you can add a shot of spiced rum to each cup, if desired..
Wassail 

6 cups apple cider

6 cups cran-raspberry juice

1 orange, thinly sliced

1 tsp. whole cloves

2 cinnamon sticks

Combine all in a large saucepan. Heat to a simmer. The longer the spices steep, the richer the flavor will be. Serve hot with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

(A Crock-pot set on low works really well, keeping the wassail hot all day)