It is the year of the dragon. The newscast tonight said there is an expected baby boom because it’s supposed to be good luck having a baby in the year of the dragon. I didn’t catch whether it’s good luck for the parents or the child. My daughter is a dragon. I guess that makes one of us lucky. Or both.

Okay, it’s pretty clear I did no research whatsoever. I’m just going to make stuff up. Hmmm….. what qualities does my daughter share with a dragon? Well if you get her annoyed, she may seem to breathe fire at you. Get her angry enough and she may actually do it. Then, again, I guess the same could be said for me and I’m a rooster. Yes, a rooster. Not a very flattering image but I suppose it’s better than a rat or a pig (my apologies to those of you who fall under either of those categories).

My husband is a dog. I’m not sure if dogs and roosters are supposed to get along. I know horses and roosters get along just fine. The reason I know this is because once we did a little tour of Belmont Park. There are roosters in the stables with the horses. I think horses like pets and they figured a rooster would make a fine pet for a horse. Either that or the rooster acts as the horse’s alarm clock.

I found this little chart online so everyone can see what year they were born in:

We don’t get a real Christmas tree anymore. It seems I’m allergic to them. It took a couple of Christmas seasons of feeling miserable to figure that one out. The fake one looks pretty good and, although I do miss the pine smell, it doesn’t make me sneeze. (One year I think I’ll try hanging the pine scented air fresheners to it.) In any case, the point is, the tree is fake.

Today I finally got around to vacuuming the floors. (Yes, I realize it’s been 3 days. I don’t want to hear any cracks about my housekeeping.) I didn’t expect to be vacuuming up fake pine needles. That stupid thing seemed to shed nearly as much as our first Christmas tree. Okay, I might be exaggerating just a wee bit.

Ah, our first tree… it’s a miracle we didn’t bring down the entire apartment in a blaze of fire. I guess we didn’t know much about buying Christmas trees back in those days. We put it up, decorated it with loads of ‘Our First Christmas’ ornaments and admired it. The gifts were placed under it.

As we sat in the living room, we began to hear sounds. At first we didn’t know what it was. Then we realized it was the sound of pine needles dropping onto the gifts. By the time we carried it out of the house after Christmas, there was barely a needle left.

I guess cleaning up a few fake pine needles is better than cleaning up an entire tree’s worth.

Other things that seem to have spawned offspring are gift bags and boxes. There must be hundreds of them scattered about the house. I know for an absolute fact that this house only had maybe 2 or 3 before the holidays. I know this because I needed gift bags and had run out. If only the darn gift-givers had not written someone’s name on the tag, we could have reused them. Unless… wait, maybe we can find someone with the same name!

The hamper also seems to be way fuller than usual. Well you didn’t expect me to do laundry during the holidays, did you? I was way too busy cooking and eating and entertaining.

And let’s not even discuss how much my credit card bill will have magically expanded from last month, nor bring up the higher electric bill we are likely to get what with all those Christmas lights.

But none of that is what caught my attention today. All of those things are pretty much expected. They all happen every year. No, what was different this year were the decorations. You see – we didn’t buy any new ones. Not a single one. Every last decoration that adorned our home for the past month came out of plastic bins that sit up in the attic for the rest of the year.

Hopefully I have made that last paragraph exceedingly clear. Again, let me emphasize – no new decorations.

How is it, then, that they will not fit back into the plastic bins from whence they came? Seriously, the decorations must have gotten larger or something. I cannot stuff them back into the plastic bins, even if step on them with my newly expanded poundage and to try and force them in. Thus, the only conclusion I can come to is: it’s magic.

For those you unfamiliar with this particular Mass, it starts out with the priests & deacons starting a fire in the entrance to the Church. A few days ago, I saw our parish’s Plant Manager carrying the uh… no clue what it’s called and I said, “Oh! It’s the fire thingie!” You’d think the mother of a seminarian would know the proper term for it.

When you go into the Church for the Easter Vigil, it’s dark. Mass started at 8 but we got there early. It was still light out but as it the time crept towards 8, you could see the light through the stained glass windows fade. It seemed like someone was outside hitting a dimmer switch.

It’s late so I’m tired and all over the place tonight. Remember a while back I said I was asked to write something about being the parent of a seminarian for a new website our diocese was preparing to launch? It’s now live. If anyone is interested in checking out the website, use the email link to contact me & I’ll send you the url.

Yes I did initially have that information here but it revealed way too much – our last name, our parish… I don’t want that stuff posted here for the entire world to see but I’d be happy to share it via email.

This is what converted me was this recipe found on another blog, Bleeding Espresso:

They’re called by different names and there are a dozen different recipes so, since no one could concur with exactly how to make them, I made up my own recipe. The result – little pastry strips of heaven.

I will try not to eat them before Frank gets home from work tonight. I’m sure he’d like them if only he got a chance to taste one or two.

In case you are wondering what seminarians living in Rome cook for Mardi Gras, apparently it’s gumbo. Large quantities of it. We spoke to Steve on Sunday and he was complaining that his hands still smelled of garlic from 2 days before. (It seems he was in charge of chopping onion & garlic.)

I’d write some more but I have to go run inside to eat some more.

For the next few days, this blog is turning into a travel blog. I am taking all of you with us to Roma. And we are going to time travel, too, all the way back to Tuesday.

We arrived in Rome half an hour early. I didn’t expect Steve to be there yet but he checked the flight online and was there waiting for us. We then spent almost an hour waiting with him to make sure another priest arrived safely and found his ride.

As we were walking towards the airport exit some annoying man tried to get us one of those illegal cabs so we decided the hell with a taxi and took the train. Huge mistake. We had to take two trains and lug the heavy bags for what seemed like miles up and down stairs. It took us probably an hour and a half to get to the seminary from the airport.

Once we got to the seminary, things were better especially since we were no longer lugging luggage. Steve showed us a bit of the seminary. Their hall was decorated very elaborately with multiple Christmas trees, a train set and a Sponge Bob Santa.

He showed us photos and videos of his trip to Poland. While there, he toured salt mines. There was a chapel in there, a restaurant, and many statues of things made of salt – Pope John Paul, the nativity, gnomes. Many, many gnomes.

There were also pictures and video of the family he spent Christmas with, also the 2 little Polish girls putting on a show singing Christmas carols in English and Polish with Steve playing music for their show on a pink Barbie keyboard.

We walked along the Tiber River and he showed us the damage from the floods when the river rose early this month from all the rain. We walked by Castel Sant’Angelo where there was a man dressed like the statue of liberty just like by Battery Park in NY. How odd is that?

Will try to get online tomorrow with New Year’s Eve Roma style.

You can see a picture of them here. The recipe that goes with the photo, however, is not how we used to make them.

Strufoli are only made at Christmas time. In our family, it was one of the traditional Christmas cookies (although I’m not really sure you can call them ‘cookies’) and they were made every single year. It just wasn’t Christmas without them. I recall my grandmother making them also but they weren’t as good as ours.

For all the other cookies, mostly it was my mom who baked them. I’d help or I’d take over making some but my father never got involved in the cookie baking. Except for the strufoli. That was an annual tradition. Big Al & mom would make the strufoli together. Always.

A few years before my mom died, she was in the hospital for 4 months. It’s a long story but the short version is, she went in for surgery for a brain tumor, developed every complication under the sun, had several more brain surgeries plus assorted others & we didn’t think she’d ever come home. But, through some miracle, she did come home – right before Christmas.

After being in a hospital bed for 4 months, she needed to use a walker and she certainly wasn’t up to cooking or going out. We were, however, going to have Christmas. My siblings & I decorated the house before she arrived home. We were all ready to have Christmas with Mom, something we never thought we’d be doing only a month prior to that.

I don’t remember the details of who cooked what. My dad may have cooked Christmas dinner that year or we may have all brought something. Those details are gone into the black hole of my mind. What I do remember is my dad made strufoli.

After dinner, the desserts came out. All the cookies, the cakes, the pies and my father proudly put down the platter of strufoli because, after all, it wouldn’t be Christmas without them. I can’t remember who took the first one.

“What are those black things in there? Did you put something different in the dough?”

“No,” my dad said. “I made them the same as we always do.” We passed them around, examining them.

“Uh, Dad. These don’t look right. I think they’re bugs.”

My mom looks at them and agrees. “Didn’t you see there were bugs in the flour?”

Big Al replies, “I thought it was supposed to look that way.” He pops the strufoli into his mouth. “I think they taste better like this!”

Frank tries one, as well, because… well he’s just strange. “They taste fine to me!” And if that wasn’t bad enough, being married to someone who has no problem with eating bugs, it seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Stephen ate some, too. Theresa remembers one of my brothers eating them, too, but we can’t remember which one.

This year we’re having Christmas Eve over my father & his wife’s house. I’m thinking of making strufoli. I will, however, be checking the flour for insects.

Oh, no. Now if anyone wandered onto my blog, they will think I am being non inclusive and they won’t ever come back here again. Bahahahahaha!!!! My evil plan is working. I have evicted all the Christmas hating fanatics from my blog. Hmmm… come to think of it, I don’t think I have any of those people reading my blog so I guess I didn’t lose anyone this time around.

Getting back to the grand lighting. Yes, we did it just like in Rockefeller Center. All the lights were draped around the tree and then we had a count down. No, wait. There was an episode first. Theresa informed me that the star was crooked.

“Not to worry!” I exclaimed. “I will fix it!” I climbed up on the step stool and took hold of the crooked star. It then exploded in my hands. Well it didn’t exactly explode but that sounds so much more dramatic than simply saying it fell apart. “Oops. I don’t think it was supposed to do that.”

“Lucky thing I got it all on video,” Theresa informs me. No doubt she’ll be uploading it to Facebook, the evil child. That’s what I get for letting her use my camera.

I managed to fix the star because there was no way I was going to head out to the store to buy a new one. If I need to scotch tape a damn flashlight to it, we’d be using that star.

After carefully putting the crooked star back, I jumped down. “Okay, now count down!” I ordered Frank & Theresa. They just looked at me. “Hey, I’m not lighting the tree without a proper count down.” Reluctantly, they started counting down. At the proper moment, I hit the switch and then clapped wildly. They joined in, swayed by my enthusiasm. All this and I didn’t even drink any alcoholic beverages while all this was going on. Somehow I didn’t think it would be wise to drink spiked eggnog while climbing on step stools.

• Liebfraumilch wine
• Sauerbraten
• Potato Pancakes
• Spaetzle
• Apple Strudel

What nationality are we pretending to be and what holiday are we celebrating?

I believe in celebrating anything that sounds like fun and involves good food and drink. We also have 2 different German beers. So anyone coming over to join us? Dinner is at 6.

Last night we went to the Easter Vigil, which I always love. I enjoyed that Mass so much that I didn’t even feel sad looking at Stephen, thinking this is his last vigil at our Church. It’s entertaining watching my son up there because he’s always looking around, making sure everyone is doing what they’re supposed to be doing – like checking the book that the altar server has to see that it’s on the correct page. It just amuses me.

The Easter bunny made a stop to our house. You’d think that with having kids in their twenties (or almost in their twenties) that he’d skip our house but nope. He was here:

We’re off to dinner at Luigi’s in a few minutes. We may get a guest or 2 stopping by later for dessert but, if not, we’ll just be forced to eat this all ourselves:

In other, less hectic years, I’ve always cooked some sort of Cajun dinner for the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday. About 20 years ago, Frank had gone on a business trip to New Orleans and brought me back a cookbook by that Prudhomme guy. There are some real good things in this cookbook but none of them will be made tonight for dinner. I will have to make up for that next year.

I’m not sure non-Catholic people know this but on Ash Wednesday, we’re supposed to fast. It’s nothing like Yom Kippur where you can’t eat anything at all from sundown to sundown (or, at least, that’s what I was told). We’re supposed to have a small meal for breakfast & lunch and then just 1 large meal at dinner. Oh, and no meat and no snacks in between meals.

Now here’s the weird thing – normally I don’t really eat in between meals. Well unless we’re in that PMS phase, in which case I’ll eat anything that isn’t nailed down. But normally, I just don’t. However, on Ash Wednesday, I am always ravenous. It’s like the idea of not being able to eat is making me want to eat.

Then there are the TV commercials. Of course every single commercial tomorrow ill be about food. Personally I think all food commercials should be banned from TV on that day.

Yeah, that’s it. A ban. I think I’ll start this huge Internet petition to ban food commercials on Ash Wednesday. Just as soon as I find some chocolate…

It seems that in Italy, La Befana goes around leaving candy for the good children and coal for the bad children. Now while that sounds very similar to Santa Claus, she doesn’t dress in red, ride in a sleigh and have a white beard. She traditionally looks like a Halloween witch with a broom.

According to the legend, the 3 kings stopped by to ask her for directions to baby Jesus. She put them up for the night and they went off the next day, asking if she wanted to join them. She said no, she has to clean. (Hmmm…. sounds kinda like my mother but sure isn’t anything I’d ever say. “What, a chance to go out?? I’m there!)

Later, she regretted her decision and went off trying to find the 3 kings and baby Jesus. She left candy for the good children because ya never know, one of them might be Him. Families leave out a glass of vino for La Befana.

From what I was reading, celebrating this holiday means eating. No surprise there, with it being an Italian tradition. Why didn’t our family celebrate this? I have decided to adopt this tradition so next year, there will be a 3 Kings Day feast.