11: Baby, where Christmas comes from

Day 11 in Advent photos, and continuing on that most sentimental of road trips to the magical German town where Christmas comes from.

First Santa I see tonight.  

Seiffen is a little town in the Ore Mountains of Saxony near the Czech border. The residents of Seiffen produce the most incredible wooden Christmas ornaments imaginable. I don't know what kind of juicy blackmail dirt Santa Claus has on these guys, but my research indicates that his toy sweatshop isn't in the North Pole as previously claimed, but actually here in Seiffen.

A star is made. 

Little wooden wonders from Seiffen and the surrounding region are exported worldwide. In fact, one of my favourite childhood Christmas ornaments was from here: a beautiful wooden angel, who perched joyfully atop the tree every year, blowing a trumpet towards the sky. Of course it's only with hindsight that I recognise the distinctive style. Back in my youthful Decembers, I'd never been to Germany or heard of Seiffen. I didn't know that my little wooden angel was actually born in the epicentre of Christmas.

I wish I might have the toys I wish for tonight. 

Light in darkest December has curative powers, thus the seasonal emphasis on candles, stars, fairy lights, luminarias (more to follow shortly) and suchlike. Sieffen at night (above) is an abundance of light—much like a lit Christmas tree in pure dark, and almost as beautiful as the Milky Way.

10: Gingerbread 2, the over-budget sequel

Day 10 in Advent photos, day two in gingerbread terms. As you can see, the infinitely wise Grandma included not one, but a handful of cookie buttons on the calendar.

 Sugar squared. 

The aforementioned baking mission is complete. This house is fully stocked with gingerbread individuals, every one of them a person of (toddler) interest.

Ample opportunity.

Ampelmann, by the way, is someone I met back in the carefree BC days, while hanging out with my lovely sister, Tanta, in Berlin. He is the old East German pedestrian crossing guy, who narrowly survived takeover by the very boring West German walk/don't walk dude, and is still hard at work on the streets of Berlin today. Ampelmann is not only an Ostalgie superhero, but the quintessential Berliner (and no relation to jelly doughnuts). Tanta gifted me a pair of Ampelmann cookie cutters last Christmas. Now with a house full of sugary Ampelmenn, I suspect I will doze off this Christmas Eve with visions of Mitte dancing in my head. 

9: Political gingerbread gone mad

Day 9 in Advent picture terms, and I find myself up against a gingerbread ceiling.

Gingerbread formerly known as man.

There are a gazillion ways to serve up Christmas sugar. Most of them are included in the American cookery bible, 'The Joy of Cooking'. Papa and I received a copy as a wedding present, and it has lived, much-loved and very food-spattered, in our home ever since. The cookbook's status as the yankee kitchen manual of choice obscures what is, to my mind, the greatest joy of the book: its thorough eccentricity. For instance, in my 1997 edition, there is a reduced fat (a joyless 90's fad) recipe not for gingerbread, or gingerbread men, but for 'gingerbread people'. There is a handy illustration of a 'gingerbread person' to drive the baking appropriateness point home in case you were too busy making/consuming cookies to ponder their inherent gender-neutrallity. 

Walk gingerly and carry a big stick. 

There are a hundred other delightful oddities contained in the book. More on this later, since I don't currently have time to dissect it recipe by recipe in the manner of Julie Powell and Julia Child (or The Joy of the Joy of Cooking, a blog on a similarly ambitious and thorough foodie mission as the Julie/a's). Instead I offer you Berlin's answer to the gingerbread person: the Ampelmann cookie cutter (see above). I plan to make a full-fat batch of Ampelvolk today and I expect the whole family, girls and boy alike, will be much more joyfully ample after eating them. 

8: White

This is the 8th day of Advent photos and my first submission to The Gallery (a lovely idea, thank you Sticky Fingers).

Two years BC (before children), Papa and I took a road trip in Germany with Onkle and Tanta. We drove from an unusually snowy Berlin (my favourite city) to an icy Dresden, then onwards into Saxony-Switzerland and the whitest Christmas I can remember.

Pre-snowflakes. 

At one point we happened upon the most perfect, untouched field of snow this side of heaven. We couldn't leave it that way, so we jumped from the car and tore through it like a pack of rabble-rousing kids. I made so many snow angels that the back of my head grew numb. We played until we were cold and tired to the bone, then piled back in the car and reverted to adulthood.

Footprints in the snow.  

The snow that day was the lightest, freshest powder imaginable: the consistency of icing sugar and twice as delicious. When my kids make me feel old, just thinking about that snow makes me feel like a kid again.

7: Light

Day 7 of December in pictures.

Star of wonder. 

Wonderful things are born in the darkness of power outages—new children are dreamed up and the children already with us discover candlelight.

Beauty bright. 

6: Warm inside

Day 6 in the Advent photo calendar.

Winter warmer. 

Binge chocoholic.

5: Evergreen

Day 5 in the Advent photo calendar.

Tiny Tannenbaum. 

Sapling.

4: NHS bear hug

Day 4 in Advent.

Can't bear paracetamol. 

I can unreservedly recommend my local hospital for minor kid emergencies. For instance, if your child slips into stealth-mode and commandeers a full bottle of Calpol, then triumphantly returns it to you emptied, the nice A&E people will let you in out of the cold with a smile. They won't even criticise your shoddy baby surveillance skills and rubbish cap-securing ability. Your snowflake might then flail about wrathfully, shouting Babish obscenities like something out of 'The Exorcist' while the nurse tries to draw blood to ascertain paracetamol levels. Said nurse will remain calm, simultaneously offering a cute teddy to your teeth-gnashing minion, and comforting words to a blubbering you. The blood test might confirm that, while your devil in disguise created a Calpol Jackson Pollock on the carpet, she actually ingested nil. The nurse will convey this news tactfully, and will probably not even point and laugh at you for all the flapping about.

Angel in disguise

People don't always have nice things to say about the NHS. And I know some hospitals are better than others. But all I have to say to my local is: thank you; you are awesome.

Christmas patchwork

When I was a girl my family began December with an Advent calendar, as many do. But ours was special: a beautiful Christmas tree wall hanging made by my mum. Each year my sister, brother and I pulled treasures from the red felt pocket and snapped them into place on the tree: teddy bears, stockings, stars, snowflakes, angels—the flora and fauna of Christmas.

The given tree.  

Last week the postman brought us a special package from Grandma: a handmade Advent calendar, crafted in the style of the beloved one from my childhood. The girls tore through the wrapping, then spent the afternoon inspecting all the advent treasures in hushed, studious awe. Grandma has always been a talented quilter with an eye for detail. When I rang to thank her, she told me that it took her years to collect all the right buttons.

Adele of Mila's Daydreams has inspired me with her Advent photo calendar idea. So, although I am a little late starting this, I will post one of Grandma's charms each day for the rest of Advent, plus an accompanying wintertime picture.

The snowman is first up on the tree, followed by my favourite snow dude from last winter.

Buttons made of coal. 

Frosty the grillman. 

White pre-Christmas

Ana likes to sing 'Frosty the snowman was a jolly holiday'. In her mind Frosty and Mary Poppins, both heroes around these parts, are fused. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's the hat.

Every morning for weeks now Ana has gone running to the window to watch expectantly and whisper 'it's snowiiiiiiiiing!' But it hasn't been. Until now. 

When frosty holds your hand, you feel so grand. 

Ana is in heaven. On our pre-school walks she takes huge bites from snowy hedges, shrieking 'just like chickeeeeen!' and 'tastes like puuuuuding!' Which makes me wonder if my cooking is really that gobsmackingly bland. But it also makes me warmly remember the spine-shiveringly delicious snow ice cream of my girlhood winters gone. Just a simple bowl of snow, splash of whole or condensed milk, dash of powdered sugar, cap of vanilla or sprinkle of nutmeg and voila: frosty magic. 

Snowgirl

I admit that when nobody's looking, I'm out there eating snow off the hedges too. Foolishly, both Ana and her childish mama are desperately hoping for a desperately snowy winter, just like the last one. 

Photographing snow: a fool's wonderland.