Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, McDonnell Douglas MD520N

There are so many ridiculous myths around Christmas.  Toys made by elves?  Please.  Flying reindeer?  Pull the other one.  For Santa to physically access chimneys to slide down and deliver presents he'd need some kind of aircraft that could both hover and self-propel at decent speeds.  Namely: a helicopter.

My suspicions were proved correct when we attended the annual Santa Fly-In at College Park Aviation Museum.  The place was packed with families enjoying every kind of holiday activity, from bauble-making to Christmas tattoos, all as we feverishly awaited the arrival of the bearded one himself.

Then a shout went up and we ran to the windows to see a helicopter swoop in, like that scene in Apocalypse Now.  It was a McDonnell Douglas MD520N no less, a police helicopter with the unmistakable man in red in the back window.  Had St. Nick been nicked (for repeated breaking and entering)?  No - the local constabulary were just making sure he arrived safe and sound, and soon Father Christmas was ushered upstairs and ready to be photographed with screaming children on his knee.

We decided it probably wasn't worth waiting around for Pete's inevitable refusal, and not owning air transportation it was a slow crawl home around the beltway for us.  Pete slept, probably exhausted from the mental effort of reconciling Hanukkah at daycare, advent at church, Christmas songs on the radio, and Santa in a helicopter.  America: the melting pot.  Happy holidays!

It was Hannah's first visit, and my 50th-ish.

Usually Pete and I are the only two people here.  Today we were joined by around 300 more.

But that did mean there was a bear in a flying helmet and goggles!

Waiting expectantly.

And he wasn't alone.

Wait!  Is that...could it be...?

Santa!

Just like the arrival of the Pope, sort of.

Christmas is in the building.

Even Wilbur Wright got into the spirit.

Naughty or nice?

Virgin and child.

Is that a look of holiday fatigue on the young boy's face already?  Time to sing a few more carols, methinks!

It's a small world

Life is a circular experience: seasons change, Christmas comes around again, and every few days I take a boisterous toddler to our local park.  Luckily Brookside Gardens is a little more varied than my life, and right now in their tropical house you can observe the full variety of existence by looking down at their gigantic model railway.

The railway is an annual event itself, and takes over the whole greenhouse with a massive diorama that includes many local features.  There are also several fantastical elements that spice it up, including the tropical swimming hole and a diverse population that has Spider-Man rubbing shoulders with Big Bird while Yoda keeps a watchful eye on the Seven Dwarfs.

Circumscribing the scene is Thomas the Tank Engine and his friend Percy who cross and re-cross each others' paths in an endless tour of this miniature utopia.  Pete was utterly captivated of course, in that way that only small boys and trains can be, and I surveyed all from above, watching my small person looking at the even smaller people, and wondering: how many times will I repeat this trip in the next few weeks?



All human life is here (and entry is free!)

This is the tropical house, but the model builders are overly optimistic.

The petting zoo.  Hazardous.

And here's a model of the glass house that we're in right now!  If I turn around and look up, will I see a giant staring down and photographing me?  Existential panic ensues! 

I've got a setting on my camera that's meant to make scenes look like a model.  What happens if I use it when I'm taking a picture of an actual model?  Um...this.

Pete surveys his domain.

A small taste of Somerset.

Snow White once woke up feeling grumpy, so she rolled over and felt happy instead.

The model of Glen Echo Park is more impressive than Glen Echo Park.

So Betty, what first attracted you to multi-millionaire The Fat Controller?

And look!  They've even got the Davies family in there!  I think I need to change my style to be closer to my model.

'Tis the season (already)

The great thing about having Thanksgiving in late November is that it holds Christmas at bay.  No carols in Woolworths mid-September on this side of the pond!  But then inevitably, mere hours after the deep-fried turkey has congealed in your stomach, Yuletide decorations appear with a vengeance and the festive season explodes like badly-wired fairy lights.  Vince's hangover had hardly begun on Black Friday morning and he'd already found a Christmas station on the radio, subjecting us to Bing Crosby, Maria Carey, and the rest of the usual suspects.

We fully embraced this of course at an hour of bauble and wreath making before church this Sunday.  Even Pete - the least art-and-crafty child I've ever met - got interested in wrapping candles in coloured ribbons.

After that we needed to stock up on home decorations, and there's nowhere better than at a thrift store (apart from stores that sell new stuff that actually works).  I have learned lessons from years past so did plug things in and test them before handing over my $5.

Now the house is all aglow with pretty lights inside and out, and there's a snowglobe that plays "The Holly And The Ivy" sitting on the dining room table.  And it's not even December yet!  Imagine how many great things I can find at thrift stores in the next four weeks of advent!

Psychedelic baubles.  You pour the paint in and swirl it around inside.  Clever.

Who exactly were the crafts for, Hannah?

My favourite thrift store find of the day.  Perhaps some kind of anti-global warming protest ornament?  For $2.99 I left it on the shelf for another lucky thrifter to discover.

Oh the weather outside is frightful etc.

That burning smell could be the fire, or could be...

Thankful again in 2015

It's Thanksgiving, that time of year when everyone celebrates that the British arrived in this country and, after 50% of them died, were helped by the local Native Americans.  That all worked out better for one group than the other, but hindsight never stopped a giant turkey feast.

The Muckers - annual hosts of Thanksgiving since we all lived in Berkeley - organised the festivities again, although it was a smaller and less international gathering than that time 38 of us squeezed into their front room.  But I don't think there was any less food, given that we had two turkeys this year.  One was oven baked, but a second was deep fried in the way the pilgrims would have cooked it all those centuries past.

The party started at 1.30pm, and when Vince finally switched off the American football game ten hours later the requisite amount of meat, vegetables and pudding had been consumed, and the beer pumpkin was empty.  What was I most thankful for this year?  That we could stay overnight and I didn't have to drive home.  I was less thankful when Pete woke up at 5am and demanded pancakes - he obviously understands the true meaning of the holiday.

The hostess welcomes us with a small bottle of Champagne.

The host cooks up the bacon-wrapped shrimp.  Just a little nibble before the main course.

I found these finger food plates in a thrift store.  I think they were new, but they were a big hit regardless.



Jeroen, a fellow European, schools the Yanks in how to really cook a turkey.

The healthiest way.

There was even entertainment for the kids.  It was like Disneyland.

Here's Christine pouring some more drinks.  There's a theme here.

Too many cooks?

No, because this was the result.

An American family.

All the major food groups.

The feast, out on the deck.

JJ started a card school.  Watch your wallets.

Everyone left satisfied.  Or is this the next candidate for the deep-fryer...?

Act of gourd

The Internet is full of amazing things - kittens, that video of a panda sneezing - so I was unsurprised to come across a picture of a beer cooling and serving device made out of a pumpkin.  It was a Halloween project by someone called The Tipsy Bartender, but being thrifty I waited for the post-Halloween pumpkin sales ($5 any size!) and then pounced for Thanksgiving.

Carrying around a 60lb pumpkin is hard, but carving it is somewhat harder.  Luckily I had a suitable assistant in Pete and soon we had a hollowed and carved squash of unfeasible proportions, with room for 22 bottles of beer.

The final touch was the cooling system: dry ice.  It turns out you can just buy the stuff from our local beer shop, although there are various kill-joy warnings on the pack like "never put dry ice in your mouth".  Whatever.

We transported the various elements down to the Muckers and I set up while Thanksgiving lunch was cooking, feeling like a real scientist as I handled the smoking ice with oven gloves.  The end result was not entirely unlike the picture I'd seen online all those weeks ago.  Even Vince said he was impressed, and that's when I know I've achieved something.

The first cut is the deepest.

Peter Peter pumpkin diver.

And that's why it's always best to buy tinned pumpkin.

Hannah finally got bored of hearing about how great my pumpkin was.

The empty vessel.

Adding the frozen CO2.

Adding some water for that smoking effect.  Note my defensive pose and general fear in proximity to anything that could be described as scientific.

The end result!  I've never had as many compliments about something I created (apart from Pete).

Return To Sender

What's the cheapest way to get out to see us for a short stay?  Post, of course!  A five-month holiday to the East Coast and a return flight with chauffeur service to your door will set you back a mere £10.76, as a parcel from my sister recently discovered.

I've documented my love of the US Postal Service on many occasions.  True, they have a lovely museum in DC, but the famous stuffed dog displayed there gives better customer service than most employees.  I could tell you many a tale of the unbelievable waiting times, eye-watering prices and surly staff, but you'd think I was exaggerating and that would undermine the credibility of my entire blog.

So a few months ago I received a note saying the postman had tried to deliver a parcel (he hadn't - he'd just delivered the note saying he'd tried to deliver a parcel).  It said I had to visit the local P.O. to pick it up.  I girded my loins and made sure Pete was asleep in his buggy before I went in, praying that his 45-minute nap would be long enough to complete this simple transaction.

I knew what this parcel was: my birthday present from my sister, addressed to 'The Davies Family'.  Now, when you collect a parcel, usually there's a fair bit of shouting from the people at the desk until a mysterious door opens and someone shuffles out, snatches your slip, disappears, has a cuppa and a smoke out the back, and then finally returns to thrust a dilapidated box into your hand.  So imagine my surprise when, within seconds, the clerk bent down and produced a box from Target addressed to Hannah Davies, full of things she'd ordered a few days before.

"No, that's not it," I told the lady.  "The parcel I'm after is addressed to The Davies Family."

"This is the parcel," she informed me.

"But," I said,  "the note says it's addressed to The Davies Family."

I waved the delivery note as though hoping to ward off the demons of lunacy.  The note was taken from my grasp.

"Is your name Davies?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well this says Davies."

"Yes...but..."  I tried to explain that the delivery note didn't match the parcel, mainly because what was written on the delivery note didn't match what was written on the parcel.  The room began to spin, perhaps a white rabbit hopped by complaining he was late.  Eventually my tormentor, or customer service assistant if you prefer, raised herself with much sighing and disappeared through that door at the back, giving me a fleeting glimpse of mounds of desperate packages in the hangar-like warehouse.  Somewhere in there was my package.

No it wasn't, she said, on returning from her cup of tea and a smoke.  The Target box was the only package for our address.  I returned home and sat on the sofa rocking and muttering to myself, trying to find my happy place.

Except that she was LYING!  Because today my sister called to say that the package that wasn't there has arrived back in Britain.  Not only that, there are stickers on it saying it has been sitting in our post office, down the road, for FIVE MONTHS.  "Unclaimed!" accused the note attached, dated 18th November, despite the fact I've been down multiple times to claim other packages that the postman never delivers, only leaves notes saying he tried to deliver them.

But when all is said and done, the distance traveled works out as 7,348 miles at 0.0015 pence per mile.  Cheap by anybody's standards so pack yourself well, mark the box "Do Not Bend", and post yourself to Maryland.  Of course, you'll have to spend five months living in our local post office, but I hear they're very generous with cups of tea and cigarettes.

Photo credit: Emily Davies, Frome, UK