Boxing Day

Santa Claus was very liberal at this house.  Now the dust has settled and I finally have time to admire my wonderful gifts.  In the "kitchen slave" category, John gave me more high quality knives that are too good for me. I think he just likes to buy them, not to mention, keep the food production line going. He also gave me a box of gourmet cooking salts and a collection of perfumed Dead Sea bath salts, all the finest in the world, and he said not to get them confused.  

And more!  Opera tickets to La Boheme in the spring, music CD's and opera DVD's and the latest generation Ipod.  If that wasn't enough, delicious foods, unique cute presents and other generous gifts from family near and far.  Thank you everyone, we are blessed in this house.

Here's a poem for Boxing Day that doesn't apply here, but it's funny.  It was written by one of my favorite poets, Adrienne Rich. 

Gifts that Keep on Giving

You know when you unwrap them:
fruitcake is notorious. There were only
51 of them baked in 1917 by the
personal chef of Rasputin. The mad monk
ate one. That was what finally killed him.

But there are many more bouncers:
bowls green and purple spotted like lepers.
Vases of inept majolica in the shape
of wheezing frogs or overweight lilies.
Sweaters sized for Notre Dame's hunchback.

Hourglasses of no use humans
can devise. Gloves to fit three-toed sloths.
Mufflers of screaming plaid acrylic.
Necklaces and pins that transform
any outfit to a thrift shop reject.

Boxes of candy so stale and sticky
the bonbons pull teeth faster than
your dentist. Weird sauces bought
at warehouse sales no one will ever
taste unless suicidal or blind.

Immortal as vampires, these gifts
circulate from birthdays to Christmas,
from weddings to anniversaries.
Even if you send them to the dump,
they resurface, bobbing up on the third

day like the corpses they call floaters.
After all living have turned to dust
and ashes, in the ruins of cities
alien archeologists will judge our
civilization by these monstrous relics.