A Small Town Christmas Part 68

Joy's White Chocolate Shortbread

The original shortbread recipe called for 4 cups of flour, but with that you wind up adding extra b.u.t.ter and/or a tablespoon of water to get the dough to hold together, so Joy just starts with less flour. If the dough feels sticky you can always add more flour.

3 cups flour 2 sticks b.u.t.ter (use the real thing, salted-no subst.i.tutes!) cup sugar 4 (1-ounce) squares white chocolate, melted Flaked coconut (optional) 1. Mix the flour, b.u.t.ter, and sugar together until it holds in a ball like pie crust, then divide into 3 b.a.l.l.s. Turn onto a large ungreased cookie sheet and flatten into circles about inch thick and 5 inches wide. Poke full of holes with a fork, then cut into pie wedge sections with a sharp knife. (This will make it easier to get the cookies apart once they're baked.) You should get about 6 wedges per circle.

2. Bake at 350 F. for 15 to 20 minutes or until lightly browned. Cut them again after you take them out of the oven and let them cool.

3. Melt white chocolate according to package instructions. Then frost the shortbread from the tip to the middle. If desired, you can top each cookie with a teaspoon of flaked coconut. Let the white chocolate harden completely before storing. Makes about 18 wedges.

Joy's Gumdrop Cookies

(In Loving Memory of Anne Bates, Who Died Way Too Young) cup shortening or margarine cup granulated sugar cup brown sugar 1 egg 1 tablespoon water 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 cup sifted flour teaspoon baking powder teaspoon baking soda teaspoon salt 1 cups rolled oats cup gumdrops, cut into small pieces Approximately 1 cups flaked coconut (optional) 1. Cream together shortening, sugars, egg, water, and vanilla. Beat until smooth. Sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add the dry ingredients and the oats to the egg-sugar mixture. Add cut-up gumdrops. Form into 1-inch b.a.l.l.s and roll in coconut, if desired.

2. Place on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake the cookies at 350 F. for 12 to 15 minutes. Makes about 2 dozen. (Joy thinks. It's very hard to get an accurate count when people keep snitching the dough and s.n.a.t.c.hing cookies the minute they come off the cookie sheet. She suggests doubling the recipe.)

Tiffany's s...o...b..ll Cookies

1 cup b.u.t.ter (can use half shortening) cup powdered sugar, plus additional for rolling cookies in after they are baked teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla 2 cups flour cup chopped walnuts Cream b.u.t.ter and sugar. Add salt, vanilla, flour, and walnuts and mix. Roll into 1-inch b.a.l.l.s and bake at 350 F. for 8 to 10 minutes or until lightly browned. (Watch these carefully. Don't overbake them.) Cool on rack. After they are cool, roll in powdered sugar. Makes 2 dozen.

Joy's Frosted Biscotti

(Adapted from a Recipe Courtesy of Susan Abbe) 1 cup pecans, lightly toasted 1 cup dried cranberries 2 eggs cup sugar cup vegetable oil 2 tablespoons grated orange peel 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/8 teaspoon ground allspice 1 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon vanilla teaspoon orange extract teaspoon salt 2 cups flour 6 (1-ounce) squares white chocolate, melted 1. Toast the pecans by placing them on a lightly greased baking sheet and into a 350 F. oven for about 15 minutes. Stir the pecans at the end of each 5 minutes of baking time. Take from oven and set aside to cool.

2. Place the cranberries in a bowl with hot water to cover and let stand for 10 minutes. Drain and set aside.

3. In a large bowl, combine the eggs, sugar, oil, orange peel, cinnamon, allspice, baking powder, vanilla, orange extract, and salt. Blend. Add the flour, pecans, and drained cranberries and stir into a stiff dough. Turn out onto a heavily floured surface and knead until smooth, counting your kneading turns. Knead about 20 turns. Add more flour if needed to reduce stickiness.

4. Divide dough in half. Form each half into a 2-inch-diameter log with a slight hump going down the middle. (These actually look a little like mini bread loaves.) Put them on a large cookie sheet greased lightly with cooking spray and bake them at 350 F. for about 30 minutes or until golden brown and firm to the touch. Let cool for 10 minutes. (Make sure you cool them for the full 10 minutes or they won't cut well!) 5. With a spatula, carefully transfer the logs to a cutting surface. Using a serrated knife, cut them on the diagonal into -inch-thick slices. Return the slices, cut side down, to the baking sheet. Bake until brown at 350 F. about 20 minutes more. Cool on wire racks. When cool, melt white chocolate slowly in a heavy pan and dip one whole side of each biscotti in the chocolate, sc.r.a.ping off the excess as you remove each from the pan. Return the biscotti to wire racks and let them stand until chocolate is hardened. Makes 16 to 24.

Carol's Figgy Pudding

(Formerly Mrs. Moyle's Figgy Pudding; In Loving Memory of Florence Moyle) 1/3 teaspoon baking soda (I know. Who uses 1/3 of a teaspoon of anything? My mom. And this recipe is so good I honestly didn't want to tamper with it.) 1/3 teaspoon salt 1/3 teaspoon cinnamon 1/3 teaspoon nutmeg 1/3 teaspoon allspice cup flour cup sugar 1/3 cup each of raisins, candied fruit mix, cut up figs, and dates 1/3 cup grated apple 1/3 cup grated carrot 2 tablespoons melted b.u.t.ter 1 egg, beaten 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1. Sift dry ingredients together and mix with dried fruits. Add grated apple and carrot. Add melted b.u.t.ter and egg and stir in lemon juice.

2. Steam in the top of a medium-size double boiler for about an hour or so. The pudding will remain a little moist, but just be sure the center is a little bit firm. It will firm up a little more when it cools. Wrapped in foil, it will keep well for several weeks in your refrigerator.

3. To serve, heat the pudding in the top of a double boiler. Should be served hot. Makes 6 to 8 servings, depending on how much they eat.

Old-Fas.h.i.+oned Pudding Sauce

1 heaping tablespoon softened b.u.t.ter 1/3 cup flour 1/3 cup sugar Salt teaspoon nutmeg 2 cups boiling water Lemon juice (optional) In a small saucepan cream together the b.u.t.ter, flour, and sugar. Add dash of salt and the nutmeg. Pour in a small amount of hot water to make a paste, then slowly add 2 cups boiling water to make a sauce of the desired thickness. If desired, add lemon juice to taste. Serve hot with the pudding. Serves 6 to 8.

Happy Holidays and Happy Eating!

Acknowledgments.

I'd like to thank my friend Kema Bohn for helping me get my cancer facts straight. You beat the disease with grace and dignity-you're an inspiration. Thank you also to the Port Orchard Brain Trust: Lois Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, Patty Jough-Haan, Krysteen Seelen, Susan Plunkett, Kate Breslin, Susan Wiggs, and Anjalee Banerjee. Your insights were always appreciated. I also want to acknowledge my amazing agent, Paige Wheeler, and my wonderful editor, Rose Hilliard. Where would I be without you two? (I don't want to even try to imagine.) Thanks, too, to all those great cooks whose recipes have added richness to my life and pounds to my hips. Speaking of recipes, thanks, Marliss, for helping me make some of those old family recipes make sense. And last but not least, thanks to my long-suffering husband, Robert, who said to make sure I spelled his name right, for helping me with my football terminology. (So, did I get the name right?) Happy holidays to every one of you! May your stockings be filled with all the good things you deserve and may the Sugarplum Fairy make the calories vanish from every Christmas cookie you eat.

THE NINE LIVES OF CHRISTMAS.

Sheila Roberts.

FOR RUTH.

ONE.

When a guy is in trouble he starts making deals with his Creator, and Ambrose was dealing like crazy. Vicious teeth snapped at him, and his whole life (actually, all nine of them) flashed before his eyes. If this dog got him it was all over.

Becoming dog food looked like a distinct possibility, as the tree Ambrose had chosen was small and the particular branch he was perched on was a flimsy twig barely capable of holding a kitten, let alone a mature cat. And the big, black beast below seemed to have springs on his paws.

I'll do anything, Ambrose yowled. Anything! Please, let me live a little longer.

This was life number nine. He knew he wouldn't get any more but he'd settle for a longer one in which he could finish his days in comfort. Under the circ.u.mstances, it would be a miracle if he survived to see that happen. But he'd seen people stringing up colored lights on their houses just the other day, which meant Christmas season was about to begin, and wasn't Christmas supposed to be the season of miracles? Not that Christmas had ever been good to Ambrose. That was when he usually managed to meet his end.

So he wasn't surprised at what was happening to him now. That didn't mean he had to like it, though. What a horrible way to go! Pulled from a tree and brutally murdered by a bloodthirsty mongrel. All these houses and there was not a single human around to help him on this cold, gray morning. No surprise, really. Humans bought houses and then rarely stayed in them ... until they got old, and by then, like Ambrose, their days were numbered.

Below him the dog showed his fangs again and growled. Needing a miracle here. Soon!

Not that he deserved one. He thought of little Robbie, who he'd scratched many a time in his seventh life, and poor Snoopy the beagle, who he had tortured in his eighth life. He shouldn't have made the dog's life so miserable but he'd been getting bitter by then. How he had enjoyed driving old Snoopy crazy by jumping on him and riding him around the house with his claws dug into the dog's back. Hee-hee. That had been ...

Bad, very bad. He would never do anything like that again.

Why oh why hadn't he picked a tall, st.u.r.dy tree to climb instead of this immature maple? What had he been thinking? The answer to that was easy enough. He'd been thinking, Run!

It started to rain-fat, freezing pellets that dug under his fur, and an angry winter wind pushed the tree, making its branches sway. Noooo. Ambrose dug his claws deeper into the bark. I'll be a good cat and earn my keep here on Earth. Just send me some help and I'll prove it.

Now the dog was up on his hind legs, pus.h.i.+ng against the tree and reaching for Ambrose like he was some kind of doggy chew toy. Determined not to go down without a fight, Ambrose hissed at him and took a swipe with claws unsheathed. That only made the beast more berserk.

Where was a dogcatcher when you needed one? Help! Is anybody listening?

Out of nowhere, appearing as suddenly as the rain had come, Ambrose saw a man wearing what humans called jogging clothes. He ran up to the dog and yelled, "Go on, get out of here."

Between the man's aggressive clap and that big, canine-like growl of his, he not only scared away the dog, he almost gave Ambrose a heart attack.

The beast loped off down the street and the man said, "Okay, guy, looks like you're safe."

Safe, the best word in the world. Ambrose peered down at his rescuer. The fur on top of the man's head was what humans called blond-not as handsome as Ambrose's orange coat, but a shade that humans admired greatly, and his eyes were as blue as a Siamese kitten's. He was large, which meant he probably had a s.p.a.cious, comfy lap. The friendly smile he wore showed the man was a kind person. Something about that face looked familiar. Where had he seen this man before?

"You're on your own now," he said to Ambrose, who was still clinging to his branch. "I know you can get down anyway. You aren't going to want to stay out in this weather any longer than me," he added, and then jogged off down the street.

Ambrose could hardly believe he was safe. Wet, uncomfortable, and hungry, but safe. The freezing rain was letting up now and the angry clouds began to drift away, ashamed of all the misery they'd caused. It was going to be a good day after all. He settled down to give his racing heart a chance to calm.

One last gust of wind wooshed past him with a whisper: Remember what you promised.

Of course Ambrose remembered. And he would be a better cat. When the opportunity presented itself. There was no hurry, really.

He made his way down the tree and was halfway across the lawn when he caught sight of the same dog loitering on the corner. The dog saw him, too.

Yikes! Time to scat. Ambrose darted into the street.

A screech of brakes, a spray of water, and an angry honk of a horn made his lives flash before his eyes once again as Ambrose barely dodged the huge metal monster. Once more the wind whispered. This time it said: Last chance.

Okay, okay, he got it. The time to atone for his wicked past was now. But how, exactly, was he supposed to do that? Where to start, and with whom? The storm had pretty much scrubbed the street of living creatures. Except for the murderous dog and that big man.

Helping the dog with anything was out of the question. That left the man, which made sense. A life for a life.

He set off at a run. His rescuer had a head start but Ambrose had four legs, which evened things considerably. He caught up with the man in time to see him enter a house on a quiet street. It was a large house, much the same as Ambrose's old home, freshly painted and blue as a robin's egg, and it had a chimney. That meant a warm fire on a cold day. Not a bad place to land.

It took patient camping under the bushes by the porch but finally Ambrose was rewarded and the door opened to reveal the same man, this time wearing different clothes. He stepped out of the door and Ambrose rushed in. Oh, delicious warmth.

"Whoa," said the man, "what's this?"

What? He couldn't tell? Ambrose refused to dignify such a silly question with a response. Instead he began to prowl the front hall of his new home. Interesting. Wood floors, a stairway on one side, and off to the other an arch opening onto what humans referred to as a living room. The house felt old and it hummed with memories, like the one his last owner, Adelaide, had lived in. That had been such a cozy home. Her horrible offspring hadn't cared about the memories, though. All they'd cared about was putting the place up for sale.

Put it up for sale, indeed! Just where had they thought Ambrose would live if they sold the house? Of course, he'd soon found out and that was why he'd run away.

"Whoa there, Tom," said the man, scooping Ambrose off his feet.

Tom? What an insult! Did he look like a common cat? His name had never been Tom. Never! He was Cupcake-Tiger-Morris-m.u.f.fin-Macavity-Blackie-Toby-Claus-Ambrose-Ambrose, of course, being his latest moniker.

"This isn't a hotel for cats," the man informed Ambrose as he opened the door. He stepped back outside and shut the door behind him, then plopped Ambrose on the porch. Back out in the cold. Of all the nerve!

Ambrose watched, tail twitching as the man strode down his front walk, got in a s.h.i.+ny, black car, and drove away. If this inhospitable human is the key to keeping my ninth life I am in the doghouse.

He could almost hear Adelaide saying, "Be patient, Ambrose dear." (Something she always told him when he was half starving and rubbing against her legs while she poked around opening his cat food can.) Good advice now, though. He could be patient.

The man would be back. Humans went away to work, whatever that was, but they eventually returned, and when this one did he and Ambrose would settle this misunderstanding. Ambrose crawled back under the bushes and settled in to wait.

Zachary Stone returned home from working his forty-eight-hour s.h.i.+ft with his eyes feeling gritty and his head muzzy. People thought firefighters just sat around and watched TV or slept when they weren't putting out fires or helping with medical emergencies, but they were always busy at the station. This s.h.i.+ft had proved to be no exception. On Wednesday, Zach, Ray, and Julio had spent the day cleaning equipment and swapping out batteries on two-way radios and heart monitors. They'd gone out on two emergency calls during the wee hours of the night and then Zach had to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for a school visit the next morning. When he'd returned to the station he'd had to clean the kitchen. The oven was a disaster thanks to Stevens, who couldn't cook anything without making a mess and who never seemed to be on the schedule when kitchen day rolled around.