All I Want for Christmas

"What do you want for Christmas?" I asked Hiromi the other day.

"Nothing." And then by way of lavish explanation he added, "Save money." I wasn't surprised. He wasn't surprised either with my question actually coming after Christmas. I had suggested earlier that we host our children's families sometime around New Year's Day and do our gift giving to them at that time. If our children objected, they kept it to themselves, so we're planning for them to be here for Sunday dinner and then to stay throughout the afternoon and evening. Well ahead of 5:00, we'll haul out the many veggies that need preparation for sukiyaki and gyoza and prepare the meat for those dishes. At some point we'll defrost the mochi and set up an assembly line for filling and pinching the gyoza wrappers (for dumplings). It will be New Year's Day, after all, and Hiromi's sister and family are coming for the annual New Year's Day feast of Japanese food. Chee is making and bringing the maki sushi.

Hiromi's sister has announced that she's too old to host these events. We've been taking turns, but no more, apparently. It's OK. She's twelve years older than Hiromi, but is not as fortunate as we are to have three helpful sons, each with a very helpful spouse. She also had three children, but none of them have ever helped with food preparation for these events. Her son, the only one who really loved all the Japanese foods, died in his late 40s.

**********************

Hiromi is actually a generous gift giver. While I'm still looking for a band to fix my old watch, he comes home with a new watch for me. If, while I'm looking at a large used and reasonably priced set of Ecko Eterna Bastille flatware on ebay, I make wistful noises about the old and mismatched flatware we've always used for everyday, he says, "Get it." (I knew I liked that kind because my mom had given me a few pieces, and I noticed that they felt good in my hand--balanced, comfortable handles, no sharp edges--except on the knife blade where it was supposed to be that way. They were also very heavy and sturdy--no danger of bent fork tines and spoon handles as sometimes happens with cheap stamped flatware.)

Hiromi usually does not particularly associate gift giving with special occasions. That is where we differ. I'm not overly generous at any time, or attuned to what others need, and I really benefit from a special event to jog my memory into pondering the needs of others. Having grown up learning to do without, I often have a hard time identifying and acting on supplying my own needs, let alone those of others.

The controversies about exactly how gift giving commercializes Christmas largely pass me by. Memory jogs are not fraught with moral implications, as I see it.

I'm not above handing out a few memory jogs of my own, so I spelled it out for Hiromi the other day. All I want for Christmas is for someone to move the treadmill up from the downstairs into Grant's old bedroom. Then I'd like equipment set up in there so that I can listen to CDs and watch DVDs from The Teaching Company. We already have everything needed to make that happen, except manpower and vision--and wide enough doorways to allow the treadmill behemoth to pass through intact. Two courses on writing are begging for my attention. I also have stored calories in the form of adipose tissue begging for attention. My proposal is the perfect solution to both.

Another thing I want for Christmas is the chance to play a proper game of Scrabble. Dig or Take One are not the same for me--too focused on speed and five-and-ten-cent words--not contemplation and interesting words. Hiromi's generosity does not extend to playing Scrabble with me. I understand. I wouldn't do so well in a Japanese-language crossword game, so he gets a pass on an English one.

**********************

Today we're off on a shopping trip to Wichita. Not to Kohl's or Sam's Club or thrift stores, as others talk of doing. We're hitting Asian grocery stores, and perhaps finishing up at one of the Dillons deli/cafes that sell sushi. I'm still finishing up the hand stitching on the binding of the small comforter-style playmat I'm giving Tristan, so I'll take that along to do on the way. And I'll take the Rural Roots booklet and a highlighter to mark corrections that need to be made before we print the second edition. As always, an embarrassing number of such things shows up--several in the introduction, which I wrote. "Progress--not perfection." (Flylady)