It’s all fun and games until someone ends up dead. Oh, wait, that’s a tagline for my books. J
 
Christmas is my favorite holiday, but when I read recently that the most dangerous part about the holidays was a Christmas tree, I was surprised. Christmas tree fires are some of the most deadly fires. According to the National Association of Fire Protection, “These fires caused an average of 7 deaths, 19 injuries, and $17.5 million in direct property damage annually. ”
 
It got me to wondering. How dangerous is Christmas? So below, I offer the Top 5 (slightly facetious) dangers of Christmas
 

1. Death by Family. I doubt you’ve heard of this rare syndrome, but forced and prolonged contact with family you only see once a year is rife with danger.  Prolonged conversations with the uncle who can’t hear, the aunt who spouts your latest bad news at the top of her lungs, the sibling who won’t let you forget the time you put gum in her hair when you were four, and the constant rub of old hurts and insecurities. Beware. Herein lies the biggest emotional danger of Christmas.
2. Death by Chocolate. I know what you’re thinking. Totally worth it, but this holiday danger goes beyond chocolate. There are the requisite baked goods from the neighbors, the goodies your coworkers bring to the carb-coma table, the box in the mail and the stuff in your stocking. It is a slippery, calorie filled slope, my friends.
3. Death by Music. A local radio station starts playing Christmas music beginning November 1. We haven’t even had snow yet, and some chipper DJ wants me to listen to Christmas music for the next two months. Such behavior could induce seizures ... or at least the desire to wear earmuffs.
4. Death by Light Display. The need to keep up with the Griswolds has us climbing onto a slippery roof to staple strings of lights around the rim and along the roofline. We plant yard art, put wreaths and lights in every window, and display our tree in the front window for the one time a year we actually want our neighbors to peek inside. If we survive the fall off the slippery roof, we still risk electrocution, lead poisoning (apparently that’s a thing), and a utility bill that will give us heartburn for the New Year.
5. Death by Stress. The holidays are the most stressful time of the year. The snow-packed streets are ice rinks, the malls are jammed, and the joyful crowds are often less than joyful. We worry about finding the perfect gifts, cooking the perfect meal, and having the most beautiful decorations. That kind of perfectionism leads to an ulcer. And a strong urge for a stiff drink in the middle of the day.

 
You shouldn’t take the risk. Stay home. Read a good book. :)

There's a pot roast cooking in the crock pot, which makes my daughter a little peeved. There's nothing traditional about a Yankee Pot Roast--at least for our family--and somehow this college kid thinks that turkey and G's cranberry sauce is it. "THE" Thanksgiving tradition.

But for me, the tradition has been to spend hours cooking the turkey for the kids to eat in ten minutes and leave me with more hours of kitchen cleaning. So I didn't ask, I just did. We're having roast. IN a crock pot (easy clean up). Although, somehow, the "what?" exclamations led me to add the fixings: stuffing (with roast?), mashed potatoes (what about the ones cooking with the roast?), yeast rolls, Mac n cheese, green bean casserole, and pie.

Oh, snap. What do you mean no pie?

Because the kids' childhood was spent every other holiday with their father--home for Thanksgiving every other year and Christmas on opposite years--meant we didn't build much in the way of traditions. At least not the kind my mother would have made.

She did it all. Turkey that she baked in a brown paper grocery sack (something about keeping it moist) that she basted and cooked for hours. The biggest kettle filled with potatoes we were conscripted into peeling. Ten pounds maybe more, depending on who she invited. There were always invitations to those without family, and room for everyone at Mom's table. She didn't go for the green bean casserole, but there was always two or three vegetables, making sure our favorites showed up on the table. Buttered cabbage for me. Stuffing, gravy, rolls, and Mom's fresh fruit salad when we had the money. Multiple kinds of pies. And the knuckle killing mess of Mom's Orange Cranberry Relish. Sometimes, all this for our family and dozens of others who didn't have a family or table of their own. That was Mom's best tradition.

Of course, in later years, she'd beg to go out to eat rather than stay in and cook, "but what about leftovers" and the Thanksgiving prayer, and the circle of "what are you Thankful for this year?" so that she never really got to go out to eat on the holiday. Guilt will sometimes do that to moms, which is why I added the "fixings" to our pot roast.

We started our day earlier than my mom would have put in her turkey, because my college freshman daughter didn't fly into Denver until the early morning flight Thanksgiving morning (and is leaving Saturday evening). Since I had the roast in the crockpot by 5:30 am, I thought about other traditions. What would we DO other than eat?

At Mom's we would have listened to Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant." Ronnie, the oldest brother I was raised with, was nearly a generation apart as my parents had us kids all 4+ years apart, and he was the definition of the hippie generation right down to the pot-smoking and protest songs. Ronnie's the brother that ran away to join the Carnival (not a joke), and Mom had some guilt over that, so she typically acquiesced to his request. We listened to this song when Ronnie was there because he liked the song, and when Ronnie wasn't there...for much the same reason. It brought Ronnie back to us.

Which worked well for my childhood family, but what about my kids who've had a splintered holiday and rare traditions?

Well, the one thing we did as a family was go to the midnight showings of Harry Potter movies, which often came out in the month of November. In fact, my pseudo birthday for the movie theater club is in November, because one November the newest Harry Potter movie came out and I didn't have $$ for popcorn. But movie club members got free popcorn. :)

So while others were just waking up and shoving a turkey into the oven, we headed straight to the movie theater and the latest Harry Potter flick (Wizarding World, really, the newest Fantastic Beasts movie). Popcorn and movies is a tradition I could get behind, but even as we headed home, the kids were talking new "traditions." They want to go shopping (kill me now) after we digest our food (still no pie).

I vote for Scrabble, a game I always played with my mother, and card games. A true family day (although I think I'm going to lose the vote for shopping, but as long as I have to go out to shop, I'm getting my mom's wish and stopping for pie afterwards). My daughter wants to decorate...for Christmas. My son looks at her like she's lost her mind. "It's a tradition," I tell him before realizing he's only seen it...every other year, and the last time we'd been in the middle of moving, so we hadn't had a chance to decorate.

Traditions are strange, I'm thinking now. I've been deployed over Thanksgiving. Other times, post-military, I worked retail so I didn't get the "traditional" meal. I've eaten with friends when my kids were with their dad, or stayed home and binge-watched Christmas movies. Since Mom died, there hasn't really been a constant, and I see the same with my friends. I have one friend who still goes to her father's...with her adult children who are starting their own families. I have another who is finished with the home and hearth, and choosing to eat dinner with her boyfriend and his kids. Another who is grieving for a lost parent. A half brother who is older than my mother would be if she were still alive. And he's alone most days; someone who would have been welcome at my mother's table if he'd been local (and that's even if he weren't related).

My daughter is napping and my son is off to the gym. I'm worrying about traditions, and how to bring them home as they head off into college, and soon adulthood. How do I bring them home for the holidays when we haven't established definitive traditions? How do we establish them now?

After we eat and clean, we listen to "Alice's Restaurant" while playing Scrabble. We talk of Mom and Ronnie, my other brother Mike. We talk about college and future plans, the pot head who lit a joint in the gym earlier in the day, and my son stakes the claim for making a Turducken next year. A friend surprises us by bringing a pound cake for dessert.

And later, we'll head to the Black Friday sales (ugh), but afterward, we'll enjoy coffee and pie at a local cafe.

Sounds like the start of something good. God willing, even if we have to keep cooking and eating the typical Thanksgiving dinner (or a Turducken next year), we can start a new tradition. Pie at a cafe.

​Anyone know if Alice's Restaurant is still around?

​It’s all fun and games until someone ends up dead. Oh, wait, that’s a tagline for my books. J
 
Christmas is my favorite holiday, but when I read recently that the most dangerous part about the holidays was a Christmas tree, I was surprised. Christmas tree fires are some of the most deadly fires. According to the National Association of Fire Protection, “These fires caused an average of 7 deaths, 19 injuries, and $17.5 million in direct property damage annually. ”
 
It got me to wondering. How dangerous is Christmas? So below, I offer the Top 5 (slightly facetious) dangers of Christmas
 

1. Death by Family. I doubt you’ve heard of this rare syndrome, but forced and prolonged contact with family you only see once a year is rife with danger.  Prolonged conversations with the uncle who can’t hear, the aunt who spouts your latest bad news at the top of her lungs, the sibling who won’t let you forget the time you put gum in her hair when you were four, and the constant rub of old hurts and insecurities. Beware. Herein lies the biggest emotional danger of Christmas.
2. Death by Chocolate. I know what you’re thinking. Totally worth it, but this holiday danger goes beyond chocolate. There are the requisite baked goods from the neighbors, the goodies your coworkers bring to the carb-coma table, the box in the mail and the stuff in your stocking. It is a slippery, calorie filled slope, my friends.
3. Death by Music. A local radio station starts playing Christmas music beginning November 1. We haven’t even had snow yet, and some chipper DJ wants me to listen to Christmas music for the next two months. Such behavior could induce seizures ... or at least the desire to wear earmuffs.
4. Death by Light Display. The need to keep up with the Griswolds has us climbing onto a slippery roof to staple strings of lights around the rim and along the roofline. We plant yard art, put wreaths and lights in every window, and display our tree in the front window for the one time a year we actually want our neighbors to peek inside. If we survive the fall off the slippery roof, we still risk electrocution, lead poisoning (apparently that’s a thing), and a utility bill that will give us heartburn for the New Year.
5. Death by Stress. The holidays are the most stressful time of the year. The snow-packed streets are ice rinks, the malls are jammed, and the joyful crowds are often less than joyful. We worry about finding the perfect gifts, cooking the perfect meal, and having the most beautiful decorations. That kind of perfectionism leads to an ulcer. And a strong urge for a stiff drink in the middle of the day.

 
You shouldn’t take the risk. Stay home. Read a good book. J

​The number one rule of Christmas dinner? It’s going to get messy.
 
The first time I cooked a turkey, it came out raw inside. I had left the slimy little packet of gravy and gizzards tucked inside. There were witnesses of course, because no great act of stupidity is complete without an audience. I was in the Air Force and it was the first time I hadn’t gone home for Christmas. For reasons I still don’t comprehend, I thought it would be easy. Well, not easy, but... okay. I didn’t expect seven hungry people waiting in my living room for hours!
 
Mom made it look easy. She had four kids, but that was never enough. She invited all the single people from her work, old family friends, new family friends, and the occasional oddball. More than occasional, really. We had some very eclectic holidays, but the food was always excellent. The turkeys came out browned like something out of a commercial. The homemade cranberry sauce sparkled in the crystal dish we used for holidays. The cold food was cold and the hot food was hot. And there were enough dirty dishes to fill a dishwasher three times over. Messy, but easy.
 
My first Christmas dinner didn’t go well, so writing An Untouchable Christmas was a little bit about redemption. Come on. If anyone could pull off a perfect dinner, it would be Sofia Capri. She once faced down a mob boss and went hand-to-hand with his lieutenants. After that, dinner with Logan’s family should be a piece a cake. Sofia is convinced it’s going to be a mess:
 
EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT:
 
God, what was wrong with her? No part of her life had prepared her for a traditional Christmas dinner with a real family. Sofia braced her arms on the sink and leaned over; afraid she might puke. She’d only met his family once, and now she was suddenly inviting them to Christmas dinner. That meant his parents, his sister and her family, plus two of Logan’s friends, and two from the book group. Thirteen with Eli, Logan, and Sofia.
 
The moment he grabbed her from behind, a jolt spiked her nerves. She let out a squeal and half jumped into the sink, knocking her knees into the lower cabinet. “You scared me.”
 
Logan’s sigh ruffled her hair as he wrapped warm hands around her waist. “I can’t wait for the day you don’t jump every time I touch you.”
 
“I don’t.” Her back stiffened. She couldn’t help herself. Holiday meal planning had her nerves strung tight, and she couldn’t shake the dread that something worse was coming. No matter that the men who kidnapped her son were dead and gone, evil still existed. The mob didn’t go away.
***
Sofia and Logan’s first Christmas together doesn’t exactly go according to plan, but one this is certain: This holiday is one she’ll never forget.

​Writing the chaotic dinner scene in An Untouchable Christmas, I channeled the Christmases from my childhood. Christmas was a big deal growing up, with my mother doing everything in her power—even when money was tight—to give everyone a “perfect” Christmas; occasionally going into debt to make everything just right. Stockings were filled with ginormous oranges, nuts, and chocolate. I remember doll clothes and Barbie dolls and my very own diary with a lock and key, because heaven knows what kind of saucy secrets a second grader has.
 
As an adult, I took after my mom, going a little crazy at Christmas. The rest of the year might be red beans and rice with a controlled budget, but Christmas, well Christmas meant pulling out all the stops and occasionally the credit cards. I had tub after plastic tub filled with Christmas decorations, lights, and music. The kids had more presents under the tree than that Dursley kid in the Harry Potter movies. And then I got divorced and my tubs of holiday cheer stayed behind while I moved back to Colorado where I grew up.
 
The first Christmas I pretended it wasn’t Christmas until the kids came home and we could celebrate together. By the second Christmas, I didn’t even want to pull out the tree I’d found on clearance. Money was tight, and unlike my mother before me, I didn’t have a magic wand to make a Christmas Spectacular out of crayons, glue sticks, and Dollar Store wrapping paper.
 
Enter our Christmas Fairy Godmother. My mother—the kids called her G—invited us to spend a week with her. I didn’t want to go. That’s the thing I remember, because I wasn’t in a holiday mood and I suppose I didn’t want the shadow of failure to follow me to my mother’s front door, but G insisted, so we went to visit her in Oklahoma. She made all our favorite foods and showered the kids with gifts. She watched the kids while she sent me off to get a pedicure. We went to kids movies and had the kind of Christmas I remember from childhood. It was literally the perfect Christmas because that’s what G excelled at providing.
 
When I wrote An Untouchable Christmas, I channeled that time in my life, because Sofia has gone from trauma and drama to normal, and she really doesn’t know how to handle normal any more than I knew how to handle Christmas on my own. Sofia is overwhelmed by Logan’s family taking over her kitchen, and the one thing that grounds her is making her grandmother’s cranberry sauce, which is really G’s recipe. Putting her recipe into my Christmas novella is like giving her a piece of immortality. She may be gone now, but every time I boil cranberries for her cranberry sauce, she is with me, helping me to make a perfect Christmas out of crayons, glue sticks, and last year’s wrapping paper.
 
In An Untouchable Christmas, Sofia’s holiday starts off marginally better than my sad-sack Christmas, until a mysterious phone call before dinner threatens her new security. One this is certain. This is one holiday she will never forget.
 
I hope you enjoy Sofia and Logan’s encore appearance as much as I enjoyed writing it.

What’s the one Christmas you can’t forget...for all the wrong reasons?

Memory is a tricky thing. Bad memories filter to the top while good memories settle to the bottom of a very deep well and we struggle to keep them alive. The key is to replace the bad memories with good—or drown the bad in that well, whichever works. I’m a violent sort, so I’ll be drowning those suckers. J
 
Christmases in our house growing up were always good, but that means I have only this vague recollection and warm, fuzzy feelings for the holiday. Well, all but one. The year I turned five, my father was recovering from a major car accident. Money was tight and we ultimately lost the house and Dad’s business to medical expenses.
 
That was the year someone adopted us. Just for Christmas presents that is. We were the little angels on a Giving Tree. The night before Christmas, a group of men brought what seemed like a truckload of presents for four kids and two adults. They deposited them under the empty tree just like Santa. I bounced on my toes in sheer joy at the mass of goodies. Too young to read, I didn’t know which presents were mine, but my older brother pointed out a ginormous and awkwardly wrapped present labeled “girl, aged 5.” It was bigger than me and taller than my teenage brother. It was mine, mine, mine!
 
As the men left to bring another load of goodies, I scooted closer to that funny shaped present. I may have poked the side and heard the wrapping crinkle. The finger may have—accidentally of course—punched through a spot in the wrapper. Come on, I was five. What would you do? I looked.
 
Inside was something soft, brown, and fuzzy. Fur! I couldn’t see the face, but I pictured a smiling bear face on this wonderfully massive gift. After the elves disappeared, Mom noticed a trail of white stuff all over the family room floor. Not just a few drops, but copious amounts of tiny white Styrofoam balls. Everywhere. She followed the trail to that awkwardly wrapped gift where, sure enough, a hole in the toe and wrapping caused it to bleed out all over the house.
 
She didn’t know I had seen and loved and coveted that fluffy, loveable, stuffed bear, because that would have meant admitting that I’d peeked. So she did what any mother would do. She waited until I went to bed.
 
Come Christmas morning, there was no awkwardly wrapped giant bear to unwrap. It had disappeared overnight. There were other presents under the tree for “girl, aged 5;” hats and gloves and girlie things, but what I remember most is that giant bear that could have been mine if he hadn’t leaked a trail of stuffing all over the family room floor.
 
That long ago Christmas may be why I’m a bit fanatical about making Christmas special for my kids. And why I wrote the not-quite-perfect Christmas story for Sofia and Logan. Don’t get me wrong, Logan’s trying to create good memories to drown out the bad of Sofia’s former life, so when the presentfest begins, Eli is in for a giant surprise:
 
EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT:

With a squeal, Eli leaped from the table and ran for the tree. Wrapping paper flew as he shredded into the first present, a plastic dinosaur the size of a football. Holding her phone out, Sofia hunkered on the floor and snapped pictures. Dumbfounded by the wild activity, Logan perched on the floor against the sofa. Eli unwrapped several dinos before hitting the jackpot with a dinosaur sanctuary straight from the movies. The delight in his screams lit the house more than the Christmas lights. “Mom.”
 
“That one is all Logan.”
 
The boy’s eyes grew larger. “Thanks, Logan.”
 
“Couldn’t you find something bigger?” Sofia mocked.
 
“No.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Eli’s joyful face. “But I did try.”
 
“How long did you spend in the toy store?”
 
This time, he did turn to her. The teasing glint in her eyes and the lightness on her face hadn’t always been there. He’d done that, he thought, and it was a gold-medal moment. Making Sofia smile was his new goal in life. She deserved all the smiles she could get. “Blake and I might have spent two or three hours in the toy store,” he admitted. He pointed to Eli trying, and failing, to open the sanctuary box. “It was worth it.”
***
Christmas morning starts off perfect-ish in their house, but a mysterious phone call before dinner threatens more than their holiday celebrations. One thing is for certain. This holiday is one she’ll never forget.