Of Christmas Trees…

I was born in Oregon, where pine trees grow on trees.  Oh wait, that doesn’t quite work.  Well, anyway, pine trees are common there.

It made me quite spoiled. At Christmas, we went to a u-pick tree farm and were instantly surrounded by gorgeous trees and the unforgettable smell of pine hanging crisply in the air.

In Brazil, pine trees were almost as rare as white Christmases.

Eventually, I decided that we needed a tree of some kind.  Using a piece of Styrofoam I managed to cut a semblance of a pine tree that would slide into another half creating a lopsided white Christmas tree that didn’t fulfill our Oregonian expectations of what a Christmas tree should either look—or smell—like.

The next year I decided to try to create the same effect out of plywood.  I was making plans when my parents came home from the store with a fake pine tree causing a great deal of excitement.

It is, after all, hard to hang ornaments on a Styrofoam tree.

We took it out of the box and stacked the pipes before laying out the branches and sorting them according to size.  We put the metal ends of the branches into the holes on the green pipes and stood back to admire our work.

After years of not really having a tree at all there was something thrilling about seeing something that resembled a real tree.  It might lack the smell and be merely a collection of pipes, wire, and whatever it is they use to make the phony needles, but we were happy.

Thinking about real versus phony trees got me thinking about real versus phony Christmases.  In Brazil, Christmas didn’t feel real at first because we had none of the trappings with which we associated the holiday.  But the truth is that a real Christmas isn’t about fireplaces, snow, sleighs, or even real pine trees. 

It’s about celebrating our Lord’s birth.  He is the real Christmas.  The greatest gift.

I wish you a very blessed and merry Christmas, celebrating the real reason for the season.

Even if your tree is a lopsided one made of Styrofoam.

What is the weirdest Christmas you ever spent?

Did you find it made you more grateful for the true meaning of Christmas?

 

Of Ants…

Rules ants should observe. 

1.       Stay outside. 

2.       Be small.

3.       Stay outside. 

4.       Be shiny. 

5.       Work hard.

6.       Did I mention stay outside?

7.       Never bite.

8.       I mean, never, ever, ever bite.

The ants in Brazil do not conform to these rules.  I suppose the ants elsewhere might not either, but up until moving to Brazil I had spent all my meager ant-observing time in Oregon. 

Although Brazil is full of ants, three made the biggest impact.

Ant number one (pictured above) conformed to a few of the ant rules.  It was shiny, never bit me, and, I’m assuming, worked hard.  Unfortunately, it failed to observe rule number two.  I don’t suppose I can really blame the ant for being at least two inches long.  To be honest, I found the ants to be kind of sweet.  I could observe them and contemplate the verses in the Bible about ants, without regretting standing still long enough to do so.

And without straining my eyes since they were large enough to be seen from a helicopter.

The second ant, which made a biting impression, was the fire ant.  These nasty little things were small, shiny and did for the most part stay outside.  They broke rules number seven and eight.  Yes, I do realize rules number seven and eight are basically the same, but eight rules are far more impressive than seven.

If you accidentally stepped into the midst of a swarm of fire ants, you very quickly became aware of your mistake.  This happened quite often since fire ants were everywhere, doing who knows what while they waited for unsuspecting humans to fall into their trap.   I often imagined the little ant general insanely yelling for his troops to attack and bring down the giant.  They followed his lead with gusto and the ensuing pain sent us running for the nearest water faucet to wash them off and cool the burning bites. 

I have never been the type to kill a bug with my finger, but in the absence of a faucet I would grab the nasty insects off me and roll them into tiny squished balls.  Take that you nasty ant general!

The last ant to make my top three is the invader ant.

 Invader ants did not conform to the most basic of the rules laid down for ants.  So basic, it made my list of rules three times.  Three times, ants, and you still didn’t follow it.  In other words, they did not stay outside.

For reasons known only to their tiny insectoid minds, these ants would take it upon themselves to invade our porch, or a corner of our house, or our whole house.  Friends told us to welcome the invasion because the ants would carry away any other unwanted guests with them such as spiders, or centipedes. 

We weren’t too keen on having our house invaded, even if their tiny antish brains thought they were doing us a favor.  I’m sorry, but there is something about the thought of ants cutting a swath through my bed while I’m in it that cures me of seeing anything altruistic in their invasion.

No, I prefer my ants, biteless and outside.

Definitely, outside.

Of Cashews…

Cashews are one of my favorite nuts.  Like most people I knew they grew on trees but had no clue about the work that went into harvesting them, until the year my family decided to send them out as Christmas gifts.

Cashews grow as part of the Caju fruit.  The fruit can be used to make the juice, and although I like the nuts, I hate the juice.   

The nuts are covered with a thick, impenetrable shell.  The first step is to set the nuts on fire.  I do mean that literally.  Using a jury rigged metal pan, we placed the nuts over the fire and allowed them to catch on fire to burn off some of the acidic oil contained in the skins. 

We removed the now blackened nuts from the fire and set about breaking through the shells.  Since the shells have the impenetrability of a Kevlar vest lined with crocodile skin, this step was miserable.  Adding to the fun was the fact that the shells were full of an acid that would eat through your skin.

We pulled on gloves to protect our hands but found that the acid wasn’t picky and soon the gloves had holes eaten in them.  Hunched over make shift tables made of bricks, around a fire entirely too warm in the afternoon heat, we used hammers and brute strength to get the nuts out.  More often than not the nuts came out in pieces, and a whole nut was cause for celebration.

We had intended to make the nuts into Christmas present but there is nothing very festive about crumbs of nuts in a pretty bag tied with ribbon.

We improvised by deciding to make the nuts into brittle.  Other than the acid-burned hands, making cashews the old-fashioned way was an experience not to be looked down on.  It gave us a better appreciation of the work that goes into the things we take for granted.

And gratitude is worth the price of acid-burned fingers.