(no subject)
It's a little early, but then again the retailers put the Christmas displays up on November 1st, so here's 780 words of x-mas cheer.
"Would you care to watch the dragons flame, Ray?" Fraser calls from my kitchen.
Okay, there it is, the weird Canadian type thing I've been waiting for. See, against my better judgment, I agreed to spend Christmas with Fraser, here in Chicago, instead of going to Tempe to visit my brother and his scrodlings, like my folks. It's been surreally normal and I've been waiting since last night for it to turn Canadian. I walk into the kitchen.
"What?"
"Snapdragons, Ray. They're a holiday tradition in my family." He's holding my one and only baking dish in his oven-mitted hand.
"They don't look like dragons, they look like drowned raisins, and they smell like my Uncle Onufry."
"That would be the rum, Ray."
"So okay, flame those dragons up." I stand back as he lights the dish on fire. After they burn out, he puts them in a bowl and offers some to me. They aren't too bad. They taste like little, spicy, burnt gumdrops. They are kind of addictive, actually. Maybe that's the rum too. We move to the couch since It's a Wonderful Life is about to start, again.
"So, got any other family traditions, Frase?" I ask, between mouthfuls.
"Well, it is a tradition for the maker of the snapdragons to demand payment for them."
"Okay, what's a dead, dried, soused, burnt grape go for these days?"
"Traditionally . . . er, one kiss each." I look at the half-empty bowl in my lap.
"I must have had at least twenty," I murmur to myself.
"Thirty-seven to be more precise." He's wearing an expression of pure innocence.
"So, I owe you thirty-seven kisses?"
"It's not required, Ray."
"Hey, traditions are important and I always pay my debts. I'm no bum," I say, working up my courage.
I scoot closer and put a hand on his shoulder. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears and I think my toes just went numb. I lean in. Fraser has this look that is half deer in headlights and half something else I don't recognize. I place the first kiss on his left cheek, pull back, look him in the eyes and then plant one on his right cheek, then another and another. Fraser clears his throat.
"You okay, Frase?" I ask against his skin, before I put kiss number five on the same cheek.
"Certainly, Ray," he whispers. I make my way down his cheek to his neck with kisses six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Then I can't help but bite, just a little. Fraser grunts and slides his arms around me, pulling me into his lap. I lick my way up to his ear and place kiss twelve just below it. Then I slide the tip of my nose across his face until our mouths are lined up and lay a quick and lucky number thirteen on those flawless lips.
Fourteen through twenty are rained across his much-neglected left cheek and I deposit twenty-one and twenty-two, one each, on his closed eyelids. Twenty-three goes in the middle of his forehead and twenty-four the tip of his nose. I rest my forehead against his and his eyes flutter open.
"Ray?"
"Just making sure we're okay here."
"No, we're not."
"We're not?"
"Of course not, you still own me thirteen kisses, Ray."
"Well, you know I'm good for them."
"From very recent personal experience."
That gets number twenty-five smack on that warm, smirking mouth. To tell the truth, I sort of lost count after that. Let's just say the debt was paid with interest.
How to make snapdragons.
On Christmas Eve, shake some raisins and sultanas into a saucer or shallow dish.
Liberally pour on some booze. Rum is favorite, but feel free to experiment.
Let the raisins soak overnight.
In the early afternoon, summon the kids into the kitchen to "watch the dragons flame."
Light the saucer.
Tell the kids to stop whining; their eyebrows will grow back eventually.
Transfer the mess of chewy, alcoholic, blackened chunks into a finger bowl, carry into living room and eat while watching TV.
Refuse to let the kids have any for being such babies over the third degree burns.
Note;
Scrodlings are apples that don't grow properly and end up rotting on the tree, but among my friends it has come to mean the same thing as rug-rat. Just seemed like the affectionately abusive way Ray would think of his nieces and nephews.
The kiss as a payment for snapdragons was completely made up by Fraser to get Ray into the sack and I couldn't think of how to work mistletoe into a recipe, seeing as it's poisonous and all.
"Would you care to watch the dragons flame, Ray?" Fraser calls from my kitchen.
Okay, there it is, the weird Canadian type thing I've been waiting for. See, against my better judgment, I agreed to spend Christmas with Fraser, here in Chicago, instead of going to Tempe to visit my brother and his scrodlings, like my folks. It's been surreally normal and I've been waiting since last night for it to turn Canadian. I walk into the kitchen.
"What?"
"Snapdragons, Ray. They're a holiday tradition in my family." He's holding my one and only baking dish in his oven-mitted hand.
"They don't look like dragons, they look like drowned raisins, and they smell like my Uncle Onufry."
"That would be the rum, Ray."
"So okay, flame those dragons up." I stand back as he lights the dish on fire. After they burn out, he puts them in a bowl and offers some to me. They aren't too bad. They taste like little, spicy, burnt gumdrops. They are kind of addictive, actually. Maybe that's the rum too. We move to the couch since It's a Wonderful Life is about to start, again.
"So, got any other family traditions, Frase?" I ask, between mouthfuls.
"Well, it is a tradition for the maker of the snapdragons to demand payment for them."
"Okay, what's a dead, dried, soused, burnt grape go for these days?"
"Traditionally . . . er, one kiss each." I look at the half-empty bowl in my lap.
"I must have had at least twenty," I murmur to myself.
"Thirty-seven to be more precise." He's wearing an expression of pure innocence.
"So, I owe you thirty-seven kisses?"
"It's not required, Ray."
"Hey, traditions are important and I always pay my debts. I'm no bum," I say, working up my courage.
I scoot closer and put a hand on his shoulder. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears and I think my toes just went numb. I lean in. Fraser has this look that is half deer in headlights and half something else I don't recognize. I place the first kiss on his left cheek, pull back, look him in the eyes and then plant one on his right cheek, then another and another. Fraser clears his throat.
"You okay, Frase?" I ask against his skin, before I put kiss number five on the same cheek.
"Certainly, Ray," he whispers. I make my way down his cheek to his neck with kisses six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Then I can't help but bite, just a little. Fraser grunts and slides his arms around me, pulling me into his lap. I lick my way up to his ear and place kiss twelve just below it. Then I slide the tip of my nose across his face until our mouths are lined up and lay a quick and lucky number thirteen on those flawless lips.
Fourteen through twenty are rained across his much-neglected left cheek and I deposit twenty-one and twenty-two, one each, on his closed eyelids. Twenty-three goes in the middle of his forehead and twenty-four the tip of his nose. I rest my forehead against his and his eyes flutter open.
"Ray?"
"Just making sure we're okay here."
"No, we're not."
"We're not?"
"Of course not, you still own me thirteen kisses, Ray."
"Well, you know I'm good for them."
"From very recent personal experience."
That gets number twenty-five smack on that warm, smirking mouth. To tell the truth, I sort of lost count after that. Let's just say the debt was paid with interest.
How to make snapdragons.
On Christmas Eve, shake some raisins and sultanas into a saucer or shallow dish.
Liberally pour on some booze. Rum is favorite, but feel free to experiment.
Let the raisins soak overnight.
In the early afternoon, summon the kids into the kitchen to "watch the dragons flame."
Light the saucer.
Tell the kids to stop whining; their eyebrows will grow back eventually.
Transfer the mess of chewy, alcoholic, blackened chunks into a finger bowl, carry into living room and eat while watching TV.
Refuse to let the kids have any for being such babies over the third degree burns.
Note;
Scrodlings are apples that don't grow properly and end up rotting on the tree, but among my friends it has come to mean the same thing as rug-rat. Just seemed like the affectionately abusive way Ray would think of his nieces and nephews.
The kiss as a payment for snapdragons was completely made up by Fraser to get Ray into the sack and I couldn't think of how to work mistletoe into a recipe, seeing as it's poisonous and all.