Bleeding Fiction

So, today's Christmas. At least here in the States. In the world of Eastern Orthodox Christianity Christmas won't be until January 7th. The last of the "Twelves Days of Christmas," as it were. I've always wondered where that "Twelve Days" thing comes from, and I've often had a sneaking suspicion that Mary was in labor for 12 days before she gave birth to Jesus. Apparently that's not the case, which is probably for the best.

So, I got a bunch of presents. I keep telling my parents they don't need to get me presents anymore, but in all honesty I'm happy they haven't been paying attention. The stuff I really want is always impossible to find in the mall, so instead Christmas ends up as a sort of "stock-piling" holiday for me - a chance to build up my collections of stuff. This year I was pleasantly surprised to get the Ian Fleming and Raymond Chandler novels I asked for, though, so that was cool. Still, most of the stuff I really want, like the Borges collection or the Journey to the West, I'll have to get for myself.

The best part of this Christmas, though, was that my grandmother made Death Cookies, which she hasn't done in about three years. Marc calls these things "Powdered Death Slugs," but in Greek they're "Kourabiedes," which (according to my grandmother) translates into "Butter Cookies." In simplest terms they're butter, flour and eggs mixed together and covered with powdered sugar. They dissolve into a paste when you put them in your mouth and if you try to eat more than, say, one of them at once you're basically going to choke and die; hence the nicknames. It's worth noting that every recipe I've been able to find online, calls for brandy, cognac or orange juice in the mix and several call for cloves. I've seen them made with chopped walnuts, too. But my grandmother doesn't use any of that. Just butter, flour, eggs and sugar.

I'm going to Ogre's tomorrow, though, and I only have a plate-full, not a whole tray, so they'll likely be gone by the end of the night. Ah, pity.