Barack 'n Rolling

Obama has widened to a 7-point lead over Hillary Clinton in Iowa, according to the latest poll released tonight (yes, I was pounding the refresh button waiting for the results), three days away from the Caucuses.

If Barack wins Iowa, he'll likely win New Hampshire (where, last I knew, he was leading too), and if he wins N.H., he'll definitely win South Carolina, and if he wins S.C., he'll effectively be the Democratic nominee.

If he is nominated, the pundits will say it's because of his freshness, his judgment and character, his ability to unite the nation and give the U.S. a fresh face on the world stage, and his proven ability to attract not only Independents but Republicans to create the first landslide election in 25 years... All that is true, but I know the real reason: Iowa's own Brandon "Superman" Routh was campaigning for Barack today.

But in all seriousness, the fact that a Barack Hussein Obama has such a fair shot at the presidency makes me proud. The United States is supposed to be a country where we don't care about the color of your skin, or what your name is, or who your father was. But of course we always have cared about those things very much, to our detriment. If we are now beginning to look past those things, you could argue that Barack's candidacy has already begun to transform the country.

Santa's Elves

Throughout my life, Santa has sent three elves to our house to keep an eye on me and my brother. Spencer, Theodore and Gentleheart arrive overnight, a few weeks before Christmas. Each night they move around to another place in the house perching on shelves, windowsills, clocks, mirrors, the top of the fridge. Once each elf choses his new location, they turn back into inanimate figurines. They watch us and report back to Santa about whether or not we are being good.

One year, the elves left tiny candy cane crumbs on the top of the clock. They left an apology, typed on the typewriter I received as a present that year, and signed in pencil. They even left their teeny tiny pencil behind.

Another year, Gentleheart was hiding in the basket of garlic and onions on the top of the fridge, and when my mom opened it to get an onion out, he bit her.

My grandfather told us that when my dad was young, just one elf came to watch him and his siblings. My grandfather said he still sometimes got letters from that elf, who knew the three elves that traveled to our house each year.

So sucessful were my parents in keeping up this story, that we never touched the elves. Even when they were within reach, we didn't touch them. Once, a friend of mine dared me to touch Spencer. She did, poking him quickly and jumping back, but I was too afraid to touch him. If we touched them, they would stay in their clay figurine state forever, and surely Santa would hear that we'd been bad.

When I got home this year, the elves were already there. Of course, now I see them for what they are: hand-painted ceramics. Gentleheart had a chip on his nose.

They stayed in the same spot day after day. Maybe they got too old to move around each night. I can reach them no matter where they are now, since I am taller than my father. But my brother and I never touch them, even now. While the belief in Santa is long gone, the elves still hold their power. Maybe because they were our elves while Santa belonged to everyone. No one else we knew was special enough to have elves come watch them, except for our dad when he was young.

Picking them up seems impossible. You simply can't: humans can't touch elves. To touch them would break their magic.

Snow Photos

Trees at the train station.




Trees out my living room window.

My back porch.

Boink

Just what I need for my corduroy digestive tract.

For those with patriotic credit cards, Boston.com has suggested some toys made in the USA that the little tyke in your family might enjoy this Christmas. A Harry Potter costume, a plastic playhouse. But one suggestion stood out as belonging squarely in the what-the-@#&! category. I give you: Felt Raviolis.

Introduce your little chef to haute cuisine with felt ravioli from Nico & Zoe. All they need are an imaginary side of broccoli rabe and pretend light sage butter sauce. Why hasn't someone come up this sooner?

Is there really that much of a demand for cloth pasta? Apparently so. The felt raviolis are -- you guessed it -- sold out.

Dropping the Ball

Just after I got back from India, we learned that my brother's apartment in Asbury Park, NJ had burned down overnight.

My mom said, "I was so busy praying for you to get back safe from India that I dropped the ball on praying for your brother!"

(He's fine and luckily the semester is almost over anyway.)