It’s baking time Under a Red Roof: spritz cookies, pumpkin bars, mint sandwich cookies, sandies, and walnut fudge, yum, yum! It’s a lot of work, but like the jazz on the hi-fi during it all, there is a certain pleasure and flow in the mixing, rolling, tasting (just a little), and packaging. It is endlessly satisfying, especially when I think about someone I care about enjoying bite after bite.
It also reminds me of one of my favorite holiday pastimes, reading Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory aloud with the hubster. It is a magical time when I am transported, via the power of the word, to a place I have never been but know as intimately as my own home. Buddy and his cousin are there, rolling the wicker buggy with Queenie trotting along side. We dream, explore, hide our money in a coin purse under the floor boards, and make fruitcakes and high flying kites. It is the purest form of love.
Just as much as I love the story, I love the act and rhythm of the reading. The hubster and I sit on the sofa, impossibly close, and I begin, my voice as clear as the sky on that first morning, until it isn’t, and the tears come. He smiles and wordlessly takes the book from me, taking up where I left off, continuing until the tickles in his throat signal it is my turn again, beginning the cycle over: clear words, tears, exchange, clear words, tears, exchange. Then it is over, and I marvel at the distance traveled in twenty-nine pages.


Oh, John Le Carre, you are good, very, very good. I am terribly sorry that this program doesn’t let me make accent marks, for it is not a lack of caring that your name is unadorned. You are a stellar writer, and I wish I could give you your due by spelling your name properly. I should also add that I love making accent marks. Besides, after twelve years of French, I know when they are necessary. When to use the plus-que-parfait, well don’t ask. I was always better at accents, by voice or a pen.
Rather unlike the films I associate with spies, even ones I like (Jason Bourne, anyone?), and the reason I hadn’t thought to read the books before, the story is utterly lacking in flash. There are no violent car chases, spies with super powers, or romantic liaisons among the rock hard ab crowd. Quite the contrary, they cough from too many cigarettes, have grey hair, paunches, and failing marriages. Where they do not fail is in their utter brilliance, patience, and attention to detail. These are the men and women I want on my side in a crisis. They are extremely dedicated to the service (save one) and work long hours in hardly glamorous conditions to meet that end.





















