christmas laughter

This year, I had a very quiet merry Christmas with my parents, who flew in from Detroit. It was just the three of us in my D.C. apartment — relaxing, playing Scrabble, listening to music and chatting.

With the threat of snow — some forecasts said 6 to 10 inches — I went overboard and spent $200 on groceries — including Williams-Sonoma sticky buns, fixings for an omelet, soups, olives and cheese and crackers, wine and a dinner of an arugula salad with Manchego, apples and cranberries as well as salmon, asparagus and sweet potatoes. Let’s just say I’ll have food for myself for a long, long time.

After breakfast, we opened presents. Now, here’s a disclaimer: I got my mom a kid’s-sized Snuggie cause that’s what she wanted. The kid’s size fits children “up to 5 feet.” My mom is 5 feet tall. I was tempted to get her a kid’s pattern — like Winnie the Pooh — but decided on just plain blue. But as I paid for it, I shook my head: “I can’t believe I’m getting my mom a Snuggie.”

But watching her put on that Snuggie was one of the funniest moment of the weekend. My mom makes me laugh all of the time — she may be the funniest woman I know. But this — wow. She put on the Snuggie and said, her voice cracking with laughter, “Have you seen the commercials?” By the time she had that Snuggie on, she had tears in her eyes. Here, she wants you to see the footies that come with it.

Merry Christmas, mom and dad. I already miss you.

the dishes of my life

When I was at my parents’ house in the Detroit suburbs over Thanksgiving, I had an intense moment of nostalgia when I pulled out two cone-shaped plastic bowls — one orange and one black — that my parents still use. I remember eating ice cream out of them as a little girl, curled up in our plush beige recliner watching a movie. It’s amazing that a simple dish can transport you to your childhood in an instant.

I feel the same about this set (below) of white serving dishes that my mom loves. And the leftovers she put in them: Mexican chicken and rice with salsa and four cheeses. Grilled chicken, wild rice and broccoli. These meals — along with her delicious wide-noodle homemade chicken noodle soup — will always remind me of her. Just like Sunday evening grilled tuna with honey barbecue sauce and Christmas morning omelets and Pillsbury cinnamon rolls will always remind me of my dad.

And how thankful I am for both of them that I never wanted for food.

spirituality is a journey

I went to 5 p.m. Episcopal mass last night at Christ Church Cranbrook, less than a mile from my parent’s house in the suburbs of Detroit. It was the first time I’ve been to a service in more than three years.

The stone church on the private high school’s campus, stunning with its extraordinary high ceilings and long stained glass windows, was packed with hundreds of people including little boys in Christmas sweaters and girls in red dresses and white tights. We sat in the last pew, about 50 yards away from the pulpit, while some families stood in the back holding their children and looking on thoughtfully. The high mass was mostly sung with traditional Christmas songs — “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “Away in a Manger”– and the singing was joyous.

The priest invited all people “no matter where you are in your spiritual journey” to take communion. I walked my mom up the long aisle who clung to my arm and used her cane to steady her balance. I felt serene and welcome in this church, not only because I knew the prayers and ritual by heart, but also because although I was with my family, I felt anonymous. The last time I felt so relaxed during a mass was at a Christmas eve service in Salzburg, Austria in 1998, the year my brother was teaching English in Tamsweg.

I’ve been a bit frightened of church because I have felt like it can be too cultist, too ritualistic. I don’t want to be recruited; I don’t want to be told how to think. I don’t like extremes and I get frustrated with how there is no separation, it seems, between church and state. And I, most importantly, don’t want to practice the religion I was brought up simply because it is easy.

I was baptized Episcopalian when I was 10, confirmed when I was 13. I identify with the church because it is open to women and gay people becoming priests and the church interprets the bible. Since I lived in Hong Kong in 2001, I’ve wanted to learn more about Buddhism and Taoism and other polytheistic religions. I find solace through yoga. And I love the way bestselling authors Ann Lamott (“Traveling Mercies”) and Elizabeth Gilbert (“Eat, Pray, Love”) approach spirituality — with humor and openness and lack of judgment.

I’m of the mindset religion and spirituality are intensely personal. Since John died, I’ve spent hours thinking about where he is, why he left so soon and why we’re here. I’m sure I’ll spend many more hours contemplating it. That’s why the way I heard spirituality described last night — as a journey — resonated with me in a way that has never resonated before.

flint family gathering

I saw my dad’s family last night for the first time, many of them, in 12 years. The five of us (my mom, dad, brother and sister-in-law) piled into my dad’s Pontiac and drove about an hour from the suburbs of Detroit to my aunt Nora’s house in Owosso, Mich. Along the way, we passed farms and large tracks of empty land. On one lawn, there was an 18-wheeler outlined with colored Christmas lights. My dad said “You don’t see that very often.” We played 20 questions and the alphabet game like we used to do when I was 10 years old and drove to Flint for Easter and Christmas.

My dad is the second of seven siblings (four brothers and two sisters), and his family lives in downtown Flint, Mich. where he grew up. He was the only one to go to college, live abroad (in Germany) and leave his hometown. My uncles are all married with children; my aunts are married with no children. A couple of my uncles deliver beer for a living (my cousin P. delivers Miller, so he rivals my uncle B. who delivers Bud). My dad is now an executive at the biggest hospital in Michigan based on in-patient beds.

When we arrived at Aunt Nora’s, three hours late because my brother, sister-in-law and I had flown from D.C. that afternoon, we gave everyone hugs, but it felt slightly awkward. We ate ham, macaroni and cheese, green beans and brussel sprouts. I drank a red Faygo. There was a chocolate fountain bubbling with creamy milk chocolate to put over lady fingers.

In the basement, my cousins played pool and darts in a cloud of smoke while a couple of my uncles took jaeger bombs. My cousin Stacy, who’s a sophomore at Michigan State University, sat on the stairwell and told my dad and me how she hates it and commutes twice a week from Flint. I could tell my dad was worried she might not finish school and tried to encourage her in a subtle way. She said she would if my dad runs a 5K with me in two years after he gets reconstructive knee surgery, which he needs after tearing both of his ACL ligaments years ago.

I spent much of the evening making faces at my 17-year-old cousin’s one-year-old baby Mihela. She’s learning to walk; she grasped her little hands around each of my pointer fingers and I walked her in her bouncing red lace dress around the house.

It was fun to chat with all of my dad’s brothers, they look so much like him. It was nice to reconnect with family and hear them bicker while laughing like siblings everywhere do. My aunt Nora told the story about how my dad threw her off the porch when she was seven or eight years old and accidentally broke her collarbone. She said it was because he wanted to watch American Bandstand and she wanted to watch cartoons, and he shook his head and said, “No, no, no.”