By Popular Demand

Back in the days of little boys in short pants and little girls in crinolines, Mrs. Hall remembers many a Christmas eve spent propped on a cushion and pushed up the big people's table, starring down a bowl of the inevitable first course to what seemed then like the Meal That Lasted At Least Two Days.  Forced to endure this annual ritual, it generally involved listening to a flock of elders drone on endlessly, then dawdle over stripping the table, washing every dish in the house and then sometime about oh, midnight or so, decide that perhaps we might just let the little ones open those pesky Christmas presents after all.  And the opening salvo to this supreme tantalus of an evening was always a steaming bowl of sauerkraut soup.

  Some foods come naturally to a child, like ice cream and birthday cake. Others have to sidle up slowly to their little senses, and after much wooing and pleasant talk, eventually make nice with the infant's tastebuds and a new favorite is born.  The giant mushrooms floating atop the sauerkraut soup like grisly lilypads on a murky pond did not come to be on Mrs. Hall's list of Happy Anticipations by any of those routes; they were imposed, as things often were in those days, abruptly and absolutely by martial law.  Despite however, these rough beginnings, the glorious heady broth and winey aftertaste (if perhaps only by repetition) finally wore their way into her heart.  And yet another generation grew that could not imagine a Christmas eve going by without a family around the table, impatience and anticipation intertwined and the saying of Grace over an beloved bowl of sauerkraut soup.
Mrs. Hall's phone rang last week and it was Master Ian calling from Okinawa, Japan.  He was hoping Mrs. H. could wrap up a jar of her sauerkraut soup and ship it out to him for the holidays.  When asked about Christmas, Erick remarked last weekend that the one thing he was going to miss this year was having that wonderful soup at the beginning of the meal, and just Tuesday afternoon, as the Halls drove out to join family for dinner, Colleen texted Mrs. H. that she too was dining with friends, but it wasn't the same without the soup.  The circle will not be broken.


(Editor's Note: In case the Gentle Reader would like to inflict tradition on a brand new generation of innocents, the recipe for Sauerkraut Soup can be found here.)

Tis the season

Killer purred contentedly.  Her ample proportions filled her new kitty bed completely, and lulled to sleep with visions of feckless vermin running through her head (and considerable catnip coursing through her system) she managed a tidy fifteen hours of bliss a day.
Mr. Hall glanced over his shoulder at her behind the couch and adjusted his pillows.  Mrs. Hall had given him the complete series of "Frasier" on DVD for his birthday, and even with all the disciplined rationing he could muster, he still seemed to be devouring the episodes like peanuts.  There were thirteen episodes to a season and he was on the third season already.  "What gets me, " Mr. Hall muttered, as he settled in comfortably with his soda and snacky chips within reach for the fourth show that afternoon, "is how that cat can just lay there for hours in the same position, day after day."  Mrs. Hall opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it.
Birthdays come but once a year, and although Mr. Hall had insisted on no fuss, no party, no cake- Mrs. Hall knew there had to be at least a smidgen of pomp and ceremony.  She promptly came up with a solution.  "Make a wish, darling, and blow out the candle!" said Mrs. Hall.   "I've already got my wish," he said, smiling. "Erick's coming out this weekend for a visit and I can hardly wait to see him!"

Mr. Hall's son Erick came in on the late flight from Seattle Friday evening.  Pestering him for any news from the homefront and plying him with considerable homemade chili until late into the night, they finally let the poor fellow lie down and get some rest.
The next morning an unseasonable overcast marred an otherwise beautiful day as the little band trotted out to check out some of the suburban hotspots.  Erick was familiar with the highlights of the Strip, but the outlying areas had seen significant growth since his last visit, and the Halls enjoyed playing tourguides to the outer rim diversions.  After a brief stop at Tivoli, they ended up at the sports book at the recently renovated Red Rock Casino; the boys checking the spread on some basketball games, Mrs. Hall perfecting her trifecta skills.
 A lively dinner at their favorite mexican restaurant, washed down with a few pitchers of margaritas to celebrate their winnings and the weekend seemed rounded out very nicely indeed.
Time always seems to fly by in a blur when company comes, remarked Mr. Hall sadly, as he ferried his son back to the airport Sunday morning. "At least you're leaving with a profit- I always think that's the best way to vacation."  Hugs were served all around, and Erick sped off back to work.

 Mr. Hall settled down into his favorite spot on the couch and queued up another "Frasier" episode.  He looked over at his empty glass and turned to Killer.  "Oh, don't get up- I'll get it."  Killer emitted a low yawn, rearranged herself on the couch and covered her head with her paw.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Mrs. Hall arranged the Christmas cards on the bookcases and sighed.  Noticing her wistful state, Mr. Hall came over, smiled and gave her a warm hug. "What is that delicious aroma you're wearing?" he asked.
  "Well, it depends," she moped. "If it's redolent of rosemary and mint, it's that lovely shower gel I order from that glorious spa in New York.  If it smells like Old Spice©, then it's my anti-perspirant from Walmart."
  Mr. Hall sensed there might be some discord in her soul. "It's just that I was thinking of all the things we'd be doing if we were back East," she said.  "Right about now, Oakwood Crematorium would be having their yearly cocktail party after work.  We'd stroll on over after filing a death certificate or two, have a short one with the boys and remark on the state of the business, admire the sextant's landscaping and toddle on home.  They always have such a nice buffet; although I understand the chef they use is famous for his barbecue.  Darling, why do you suppose they never have it on the menu?" Mr. Hall smiled gently at her. "I'm guessing they try to steer clear of anything smoky at those functions."
  "I miss the holiday dinner at Coleman's Irish Pub." she continued on dreamily. "The bar decorated to a faretheewell and the parking lot a sea of black Cadillacs. All the old faces we'd see there- Scottie Kerr from Batesville and Bob Atkinson from Wilbert Vaults, all talking business over the hors d'oeuvre and desserts.  Ah- good times!" Mr. H. nodded as he slipped on his coat to retrieve the afternoon post.
  She was still sulking on the couch when he returned with a handful of colorful envelopes.  "You'll have to put aside your homesick pout for another day," he informed her after perusing a brightly colored missive that had been taped to their front door.  "We've been invited to a neighborhood mixer tomorrow night. Fetch a shiny bow from the giftwrap and see if there's a bottle of that cheeky Beaujolais left in the cooler." But he looked around to discover he was talking to himself; all that remained in the room was a whiff of mint and musk- Mrs. Hall was already nose deep in the Christmas ribbon.

Special Delivery

"Five ounces or six?" she murmured, to no one in particular.
Mrs. Hall stood poised in the aisle of the Williams Sonoma at the outlet mall; in her hands she weighed the relative merits of two different cappuccino mugs.  As so often happens in the case of new purchases, the acquisition of a tiny new espresso machine for the guest room had created more problems than it solved.  None of Mrs. Hall's dainty espresso cups had proved large enough for the "lungo" setting on the maker, leaving her puzzling as usual, over size versus aesthetics.
Mr. Hall, himself so consumed with the problem at hand, found the best way he could address it was to park himself in front of a massive television monitor displaying random sports events in the promenade, and there remain to ponder the infinite. The ringing in her ears (she thought the result of mental exertion) turned out to be her cellphone, and Mrs. Hall answered more curtly than usual.
"They've been trying to deliver a package to your house three times now, and you haven't been home."  The voice on the other end sounded familiar, yet Mrs. Hall struggled to place it- "Where are you and when will you be home to receive it?"  Her faculties penetrating the fog, Mrs. Hall finally determined that Mrs. Iltsch (whose husband to whom Mr. Hall had entrusted the management of the funeral home) was trying to deliver a perishable item to them, and apparently having some difficulty about it.
 Even with Winston's inestimable abilities and the blessings of the Nevada Highway Patrol, they were a good hours' drive away.  "We'll be there by four, for sure," she replied, and leaving the quandary of the cups aside, scooped up Mr. Hall and took off.
Shortly before four, the bell rang and Mrs. Hall swung open the big door while moving deftly to hipcheck Killer before she made a break for freedom.  When she looked up, she let out a squeal that brought Mr. H. running.  "We thought you'd never get home!" laughed Mr. and Mrs. Iltsch, when Mrs. Hall finally finished hugging the stuffing out of them.  "Sorry about resorting to calling.  We had a choice of flying to Florida or here- and Pam said 'Vegas!' so here we are!"
The Iltschs always travel in style, and while they planned on spending some time with the Halls, they had booked luxury accommodations at the Palazzo downtown.  After a quick stop to investigate the sunken living room in their suite, the little band hurried on to a show.  Penn and Teller put on a marvelous act at the Rio, and upon Mr. Iltsch's insistence, they stopped and had their pictures taken with the stars immediately following the show.
The Halls implored them to stay for the Thanksgiving holiday, but the Iltschs had places to go and people to see.  They had to leave soon but it was agreed they would all go see the David Copperfield show their last night.
 After a perfectly mesmerizing hour of wizardry, Mr. Copperfield came back out for a last call. Large inflatable silver balls were thrown out into the audience, bounced about while the music played, and when it stopped, whomsoever was holding a ball was asked to come up. The music ceased; one of the balls was directly in front of Mr. Hall; he reached forward smiling and handed it over his head to Mrs. Hall.
As an encore, the random guests chosen from the audience were to disappear right on stage. Mrs. Hall, holding the ball high above her head joined the lucky attendees on the stage.  There was a few scurried moments as the unsuspecting group was shuttled onto the platform, and then before they knew it, the curtain was over them, a bit of cursory shaking was involved and the little band appeared at the back of the room mysteriously unscathed and to great audience applause.  After receiving an autographed picture from Mr. Copperfield himself, Mrs. Hall rejoined her little group. They floated happily around the casino for little while longer, but then it was time to part.
"If only we could make this a yearly tradition," Mrs. Hall sighed, as they waved goodbye to their friends. "They are such a breath of fresh air."  Mr. Hall agreed entirely, as he fired up Winston for the return trip home.

The Wild Blue Yonder

   Quarters were still a bit cramped in the hanger at the Hall (due to some unpacking procrastination on the part of Mrs. Hall) but since Winston had been spending so little time in there anyway, it mattered very little.  Serendipitous random dialing on the car radio provided them with news of a huge airshow at Nellis Air Force Base over the weekend and the Halls were off again.
     If Mrs. Hall ever manages to bottle the pungent aroma of diesel fuel and black smoke, there won't be a pilot around that could resist her.  Mr. Hall strained at the bit like an old fire horse, and it was all Mrs. H. could do to keep up with him as he sprinted from the shuttle.  The program was well padded; from the national anthem onward, the day never lagged or wore on.  For nearly five hours, the sky was alive with aerobatics and song and despite the unseasonably chilly temperatures, there seemed to be nothing but smiles and exuberant faces in the crowd.
  Several stationary displays enlivened the show, and at one point, Mr. Hall looked over and spied a

small child, having mastered the intricacies of working a mortar, zeroing in on the MIG parked just across the way.  "Just a minute," replied Mrs. Hall. "I'll handle this-" and she picked up a rocket launcher.  The usual hilarity ensued until Mr. Hall intervened and soon they were back on their way.

Thrilling displays, patriotic zeal and lots of fresh air can really build an appetite, and as the Halls sped home, Mr. Hall announced that the only thing that would cut the chill in his bones was a strong infusion of that tonic known as tequila.  They laid in a course for Tivoli Village to check out the opening of the new Cantina Laredo.   Syracuse's revamping of the old Carousel Mall into Destiny USA included a Cantina Laredo, and they had attended that opening in September; so it was truly surprizing for them to meet the very fellow that had served them there, in Tivoli.   Handshakes and well wishes were given all around, and after a complimentary round of drinks, the Halls strolled, happily sated, back out into the cool night air.