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A Muse at Advent, December 19: Laughter Needs No Translation
Watching movies in a foreign language is a take it or leave it kind of thing for a lot of people. Not everyone likes to read subtitles and others find dubbing disconcerting. I don’t mind either. Although I distinctly remember the time Robert Redford sounded as if the river that ran through it was the Seine.
Door number 19 is a hoot.
December 19, 2025
When I was a kid, one of my favorite party games was telephone. If you’ve never played, someone thinks of a phrase and whispers it to the person next to them and so on until it reaches the last person in the group. It’s fun to watch the confused looks as the message begins to change with each iteration. Finally, the last person announces what he has heard. It’s usually not even close to the original phrase. The more mangled the phrase, the more fun it is. While studying French, I realized that translation has the potential to become a game of telephone.
My brother, John, and I experienced this phenomenon back in the 80s. He was studying chemistry as a postdoctoral researcher on a Fulbright Scholarship in Zurich, Switzerland. Being the generous big brother that he was, he enrolled me in a French language program in Fribourg where he had become fluent in German the summer before. It was the experience of a lifetime for me, but when we’d reminisce about it, one particular memory always got us laughing.
During one of my weekend visits to Zurich, Monty Python’s And Now for Something Completely Different was playing at the theater near John’s apartment. It was shown in its original English with French and German subtitles. We were both big Python fans and it was fun to watch a film that wasn’t dubbed. Mostly because John spoke German and I spoke French which meant one of us would have to whisper the plot to the other. Let’s just say, we’d done that and it wasn’t ideal.
We arrived at the theater early and bought our snacks. It was a small auditorium and there weren’t too many people there yet. We had our choice of seats and sat in the middle. Eventually, the room filled, the lights dimmed, and the movie began. As it went from sketch to sketch, John and I were laughing almost nonstop. The people in front of us kept turning in their seats to look at us. We thought we were laughing too loud. We tried to stifle it. That only made it worse. We looked behind us to find those patrons were also looking at us. Some were laughing, but we could tell they were laughing at us. How was it that we were the only two people in the theater to find this movie funny?
Then light dawned. We read the subtitles. John read the German, and I read the French. Turns out the translations were literal. “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?” translated in each language to “If I told you you had a beautiful body, would you be offended?” Every pun, quip, and punchline was translated verbatim, with no nuance or attempt to find a humorous equivalent. If you had to read this movie, it was deadly boring. The only hearty laughter elicited from all in attendance came from the physical comedy sketches.
Outside, after the film, my brother and I were approached by some of our fellow moviegoers. They obviously knew the subtitles were faulty and wanted to know what they missed. We explained some of the funnier jokes to our new friends. And then we asked them why they stayed for the whole film when it obviously wasn’t enjoyable for them. One couple said we were funnier than the movie. Apparently, we would poke each other as a good joke was coming and then our laughter was hilarious in and of itself. It was clear we had the script memorized. A woman told us that she enjoyed watching us enjoy ourselves. In spite of our antics, they all said they preferred English language movies that were dubbed. Completely understandable.
John and I had a lot of fun together that summer. We hiked in the Alps and Jura mountains. We spent a weekend on the Riviera. We traipsed through a botanical garden in Germany. But the most remarkable thing we did was to be the only two people in a movie theater to find Monty Python funny. And we kept laughing about it for years.
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A Muse at Advent, December 18: A Star to Wish Upon
Behind Door number 18, a star is given.
December 18, 2025
I look forward to decorating the Christmas tree every year. This love was instilled in me by my mother. When my siblings and I were little, she would buy us each a Christmas ornament so that we’d have our own collections when we fledged. Each of us had a box with our name on it. On the side of the box was a sheet of paper with a list of the ornaments and the year it was added to the collection. It was a great idea that helped us remember Christmases past as we grew up.
Every year I got a new “favorite” ornament. Until the year I got the ornament that would never lose the title.
Antique Czech glass star ornament. My first Christmas as a newly minted teenager, my mother decided I was old enough to collect ornaments that were more fragile than the wood, metal, and fabric ones in my box. I opened a small package, and to my delight this star ornament lay carefully swaddled in the tissue. I was entranced. My mother told me she had found it in little shop while she was antiquing one day and knew I’d love it. That was an understatement.
The ornament is made of tubes of glass strung on wire to form the star. Colorful glass beads decorate the center of the star and the end of each point. My mother explained that all she knew about it was that it was old, eastern European, and very fragile. I have since learned that it was made in the 1930s in Gablonz (Jablonec nad Nisou) in what is now the Czech Republic. Her thoughtful gift sparked a lifelong interest and an extensive collection of antique glass ornaments that I maintain to this day.
Our Christmas tree looks like a magical, explosion of colored glass. I’ll share photos of it another time. For now, I want to focus on this beautiful interpretation of the Christmas star from so long ago. The star that let the world know that a child lay in a manger. The star that led sages across a desert. The star that would herald salvation. My star may not be as significant as its inspiration, but it did, in turn, inspire my love for beautiful, handmade things.
Every year when I carefully unwrap my star, I think of the person, long ago, who carefully wired the glass rods and beads and bent them into the star that I hold today. As I hang it on the tree, I am thankful for my mother who loves me like no one else.
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A Muse at Advent, December 17: Tools of the Trade
When I make a mistake while writing, I can delete and start over like nothing happened. When I sew, however, the sewing machine does not have a backspace button. It has a backstitch button, and that makes the mistake even worse. So, what do I do when the stitches don’t come out right? Well, I make a date with Jack.
Door number 17 is coming apart at the seams.
December 17, 2025
Those of us who sew, as I do for my day job, need to unpick stitches for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is to undo an egregious boo-boo. Accompanying the error is colorful language, exasperated sighs, and a reflexive reach for the tool that any sewer, sew-er, sewist, or whatever you want to call us, keeps close at hand and hopes never to use again: a seam ripper.
Portrait of Jack as a red seam ripper. In order to sew, it helps to have a sense of humor. It’s almost a requirement. Sewing is immensely rewarding, but it can be intensely frustrating. Anyone who’s ever set the left sleeve into the right armscye or pieced quilt blocks in the wrong order knows what I mean. You laugh it off else you’re announcing your arrival through a hole in the sewing room door with an axe. Or, in our case, with scissors, rotary cutters, or seam rippers. And because that sense of humor we share is a bit twisted, we all call our seam ripper Jack. Yes, that’s right. Jack the Ripper. Dark, I know.
If you sit in on a sewing class or follow sewing groups on the socials, sewists will cheerfully report that they have a date with Jack. There was no swiping right to get this date. It means their project went sideways. The cheer may be forced, but the announcement is always met with enthusiastic commiseration and tales of past dates with Jack. Jack gets around and no one minds that they’ve all had a date with him. There is, however, universal agreement that Jack is a tool.
While a seam ripper is primarily used for correcting mistakes, it’s important to note that Jack helps repair and create things as well. A seam ripper takes out a broken zipper or opens a buttonhole after its sewn. There’s a fine line between erring and repairing. A date with Jack teaches us that there is no shame in undoing something we’re unhappy with and starting again.
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A Muse at Advent, December 16: Tea for 252
2025 and 2026 are big years for commemorating the beginning of the American Revolution. If you live in the Boston or Philadelphia areas, many reenactment events dot the calendar. Here in Boston, one event in particular is faithfully revisited every year, not just in the round number years.
Door Number 16 spills the tea.
December 16, 2025
252 years ago, a feisty group of American colonists dumped an obscene amount of tea from the cargo holds of docked ships into the icy water of Boston Harbor. Revolution was officially brewing. The grievances of the colonies were many and varied, but that’s not the story I want to tell today. A guy named Ken just released a documentary that covers all that.
Every year the Boston Tea Party Ships and Museum partners with Revolutionary Spaces to reenact the Meeting of the Body of the People at Old South Meeting House on December 16, 1773. That’s the night when the resolution not to accept the tea that waited on ships in the harbor was passed. Upon entering the Meeting House, audience members are given a slip of paper that reads “loyalist” or “patriot.” Everyone is encouraged to join in the haranguing of the speakers according to the party they were assigned. It’s a blast!
Reenactors in the audience encouraged heckling and cheering. After the resolution is passed, a chorus of “To the harbor!” erupts, with periodic interjections of “Huzzah!” The assembled body then follows the cry to the street and begins walking in a parade of sorts from the corner of Washington and Milk Streets to Congress Street which leads straight to the harbor. Huzzah!
Walking behind a gentleman in his tricorn down Congress St. The walk is a little more than a half mile, which is one way to keep warm on a cold night. The route is peppered with reenactors dressed as groups of Red Coats, patriots, and loyalists. Barbs are thrown back and forth along with more cheers and further encouragement to get to the harbor.
Once the crowd reaches the Harborwalk area across the channel from the museum where the replica ships are docked, the second part of the reenactment begins: the destruction of the tea! 116 men tossed 342 chests into the harbor on that fateful night. The reenactors do make it look like a lot more fun than it probably was the first time.
The destruction of the tea. Huzzah! As you go through your day today, keep the spirit of 1773 in the back of your mind. Make a big deal out of not drinking tea. Shout “Huzzah!” periodically. If asked where you’re going, reply “To the harbor!” Propose a toast to revolting Bostonians. Explain yourself if you must, but it’s a lot more fun if you don’t.
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A Muse at Advent, December 15: The Splendid Icicle
Bostonians have a unique sense of humor. We vigorously embrace sarcasm and irony. Our saving grace is that we don’t take ourselves too seriously. We can dish it out and take it in return. Verbal sparring matches are good sport, and no one is safe. Even our local heroes can fall victim to our collective, acerbic wit.
Door number 15 reveals a legendary observation.
December 15, 2025
During the winter months, which coincides with baseball’s offseason, my husband reminds me that apples are less than ideal and to leave them off the grocery list. He’s not a fan of “Disney-fied” fruit. That is, fruit kept in cold storage. His comparing the storage of out of season apples to cryogenics is the kind of humor we embrace in Boston. He’s not from these parts, but as a naturalized citizen of Massachusetts, his humor regularly goes yard. He’s a keepah.
Today, while crunching a fresh, Honeycrisp apple, I suddenly remembered cryogenic apples which, in turn, brought to mind the funniest thing I’ve ever heard on Boston sports radio.
Boston is a huge sports town. We have two talk radio stations devoted to our professional sports teams. It’s an excellent way to eavesdrop on the way we talk to each other. The dry, New England sense of humor flies like snowflakes in a nor’easter on these stations as folks call in from all corners of the region to discuss what they would do if they were the manager/coach/owner/player in question of Team X. It’s auditory gold.
Last February I was in my car listening to my favorite sports radio show when the hosts announced it was time to go to the phones. The first caller introduced was Bob in the Truck. Bob wanted to talk about the Red Sox; a hot-button topic every offseason that was sure to keep the call board lit up. They break our hearts one year and then take us to the pinnacle of baseball greatness the next. There’s been a lot less of the latter lately, but there are enough sparks of encouragement to keep us showing up at Fenway Park.
Bob in the Truck also lamented the heartbreak. He added that the ownership group are cheapskates and are only interested in their investment portfolios. He then moved on to the manager, coaches, and players. In classic Bostonian form, he put the situation into a context that every one of us could understand:
“Ted Williams’ frozen head could do better than these bums.”
One of the hosts laughed like a hyena. Without missing a beat, his co-host agreed and speculated about who they could call to check The Splendid Splinter’s head out of cryogenic storage. The studio crew and subsequent callers agreed that Williams still had more talent in his frozen cranium than the current room temperature roster. I was wheezing.
A visitor to this strange land might find this conversation disrespectful. For locals, it was a reverent acknowledgement of a rare talent. Help us, frozen head of Ted Williams, you’re our only hope.
Welcome to Boston. To know us is to laugh with us.
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A Muse at Advent, December 14: I Dig It
Packaging can make or break a product. Some things are tricky to unpack, and we just have to deal with it.
Door number 14 has the scoop.
December 14, 2025
I majored in chemistry, not archeology, but every few weeks I open a new container of protein powder and begin an expedition to locate the Lost Scoop of the Breakfast Smoothie. The journey of discovery begins by unsealing the cannister whose contents have remained untouched since it was packed last month in the Valley of Processed Food.
Unlike my archeological cohorts in the field, my dig site is delivered to my door by a guy with a smile on his blue vest. I’m grateful for not having to labor under the hot desert sun and the proximity of indoor facilities. I’ve also never had to outrun a rolling boulder or keep company with a duplicitous capuchin monkey. Overall, my experience is unremarkable, but I find that adventure is in the heart of the beholder.
Rather than a pick and a soft-bristled brush, the tool of my trade is a salad fork. Its tines are shorter than the dinner variety which helps in the confines of the plastic tub. One would expect that a spoon would be a more effective tool for digging. The first discovery I made as a kitchen archeologist is that a spoon is effective at launching the fine powder all over the counter when the scoop encounters resistance from its densely settled surroundings. The best way to avoid that booby trap is to use a fork, into which the scoop may slot. A gentle wiggling motion while simultaneously lifting results in a clean extraction. Breakfast is but a few blender pulses away.
Whatever your day holds, I hope you see the adventure that lies just beneath the surface. A sable fedora and a bullwhip aren’t required to set off on an adventure. Adventure is a state of mind. For me today it’s heading to the grocery store on a snowy Sunday morning to stock up on snacks for the football game. I need to get the honey mustard pretzel braids before the enemy spies find them and escape through the sliding doors just as they close. And, of course, I’ll safely stow the pretzels in my reusable shopping bag.
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A Muse at Advent, December 13: Flush with Excitement
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of a job well done, especially when it’s a job that no one expects you to do.
Door Number 13 takes a walk on the DIY side.
December 13, 2025
I enjoy do-it-yourself projects. If you ask my husband, I probably enjoy them too much. I consider painting, moving furniture, and fixing stuff fun. I find yard work immensely satisfying. If I have to pick a favorite project, though, it’s plumbing. Installing a new faucet in the kitchen or bathroom instantly spruces up the place. But it’s also a good skill to have when the garbage disposal breaks or the toilet leaks.
Speaking of which, earlier this year I replaced a toilet. I’ll spare you the gory details by saying it was time. Our house is an older build, meaning the fancy new porcelain shapes don’t fit our 10″ rough in distance. Fortunately, the box store had a model that fit and was also attractive. You know you’ve a got a DIY problem when you’re standing in the toilet aisle looking at the various models and, “Ooh, that one’s nice!” escapes your lips.
Unboxing the toilet. Guaranteed not to go viral. It felt like Christmas came early as I unpacked the gleaming white tank and bowl. It actually came with the flush and fill valves already installed in the tank. I was beaming. Vitreous china is a girl’s best friend.
A lot of people find toilets intimidating. It’s not hard to understand why. But they are remarkably simple devices with very straightforward mechanisms of action. Once you understand how they operate, the intimidation is gone forever.
The most common question I get is if removing and disposing of the old toilet is disgusting. Just clean it before you remove it and you can plunk the bowl into the box the new one came in. Although, in doing so, you’ll miss out on how enormously satisfying it is to toss a toilet into a dumpster. Shouting a celebratory “Opa!” as it breaks is optional, but cathartic.
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A Muse at Advent, December 12: Flight of Fancy
With our unpredictable weather, the seasons can be slippery in New England. Spring is notoriously tardy in these parts and winter has the bad habit of showing up unannounced at inconvenient times. Nonetheless, the flora and fauna of the region manage to keep a tight schedule.
Door Number 12 is for the birds.
December 12, 2025
The arrival of fall is a busy time for the inhabitants of New England. Humans are rushing to coffee shops in search of pumpkin spiced brews, the wildlife is preparing for the long winter ahead, and birds are migrating to and from the neighborhood. Avian migration isn’t something everyone associates with fall. The birdwatchers and the hunters do, but for the rest of us, migration means a mad dash to Florida or to the thermostat. For those interested in avian goings on, migration is as exciting and beautiful as the fall foliage is to leaf peepers.
I began to notice fewer birds as October waned. Then November brought the first of the flock of bluebirds that winters in the neighborhood to our bird feeder. Now that December is ensconced, those who will stay for the duration have marked their territory and settled in. It’s like college move-in week in Boston without all the abandoned mattresses on the sidewalks and trucks jammed under bridges on Storrow Drive. The population has turned over and the neighborhood is more settled.
I marvel that so many birds come down from Canada and stay here until spring. Then it occurred to me, for what we spend on top-shelf bird seed, we could probably put them through college. I sometimes wonder who’s the real birdbrain. But the tuition-like fees for seed, mealworms, and suet pay joyful dividends when flashes of blue streak by the windows, the tree branches are decorated with soft, blue plumage, and little puffs of grey, reddish brown, and beige bounce around the greenery in the window boxes, hiding seeds and looking for a place to sit for a moment.
Three bluebirds, a blue jay, and a starling at the buffet. With the winter solstice nine days away, the promise of snow grows. The cardinals, blue jays, and bluebirds paint a canvas of white with colorful pomp and circumstance. We’ll continue, eagerly, to buy them more high-end sustenance to reward their decision to winter here. As the old, silent film queried, what price beauty?
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A Muse at Advent, December 11, 2025: Giving Side Egg
Memories are curious things. We carry them with us everywhere we go. Most of the time they are silent passengers in our hearts and minds. Sometimes we don’t even recall them until we hear a certain song, smell a particular aroma, or see something that awakens them to our conscious mind.
Door Number 11 opens into a very fond memory, indeed.
The holiday season is in full swing. I attended the holiday potluck brunch for my quilt guild this morning. We had a great time showing off recently completed quilts, playing games, and eating. There were so many great dishes and desserts. The first thing I noticed were the two plates of devilled eggs. That made me smile.
Last year, when I started to write in Advent calendar form, I was inspired by reading my grandmother’s recipe for devilled eggs. They symbolized the kickoff to the holiday season. Seeing them on the buffet tables at brunch this morning made me happy. Little yellow spots of sunshine, each one a memory of a holiday season with Nana. A delightful, early Christmas gift.
Devilled Eggs a la Nana with an enthusiastic sprinkle of smoked paprika. I thought it only appropriate to share a picture of the devilled eggs I made from my grandmother’s recipe. Bonus content: the platter is on top of a quilted table runner I made. I highly recommend the devilled eggs. And if you can, learn to quilt and join a guild. Quilters really know how to throw a party.
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A Muse at Advent, December 10: Seasonal Impressions
Everyone has a favorite season. Here in New England, however, we’ll find something to complain about in every one of them. Mother Nature just rolls her eyes and ignores us.
Door 10 opens to my favorite season.
December 10, 2025
We have four, distinct seasons in New England. I like to joke that they are Slushy potholes, Sweaty Potholes, Leafy Potholes, and Winter. For reasons that most people around here won’t listen to, winter is my favorite season. Not just because the potholes are filled with ice and snow for a smoother ride, but because it snows.
Snow is magical.
I don’t really need to say more than that. But I know that a decent percentage of you think I need to explain myself. I give you Exhibit A:
I took this photo at the top of my front stairs. It’s a record of activity on the stairs since I left the house before it snowed. A bird walked across the top step and apparently took off from the edge of the step. The mail carrier trod up and down the stairs in his boots to leave a package. I was the last to arrive, leaving the print with all the circles. I would never have known that any of this happened in my absence without the snow. The package would’ve been a dead giveaway that the mail carrier had visited, but I wouldn’t know what kind of footwear he had chosen for the day. The snow left a record of the day’s events on the stairs. Magical.
Another magical property of snow is the way it dampens sound. The hush after snow blankets the landscape is the most peaceful sensation. The magic part is that this silence makes it possible to hear things I normally wouldn’t: the wind breathing through the tree branches; the call of a distant hawk; children’s voices drifting through the cold air as they play in the snow. It is all muted yet simultaneously amplified by the magical properties of snow. Magical
The next time snow is in the forecast, after you internally groan at the effect it will have on your commute, think about the magical properties of snow and be transported to that peaceful, hushed landscape. And it wouldn’t kill you to be grateful for the snow-filled potholes that save you a couple hundred bucks on a new tire. Magical.
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